#even the days where i feel down at the end are good days. My feeling sad/anxious/depressed doesnt mean i had a bad day. even if it feels bad

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Of Spilled Drinks and Spilled Truths (H.S One Shot +18)

General Masterlist

Summary: A weekend getaway with friends was supposed to be a break, but for Y/N and Harry, it becomes a turning point. After years of friendship riddled with unresolved feelings, some heated arguments gives way to confessions neither of them expected.

A/n: Hello, my loves! Here’s a smutty one shot with some good friends to enemies to lovers plot, i hope you all enjoy this!

Word count: 9.2k

Warnings: Smut, spitting, some confrontation between friends.

You needed a break—a well-deserved one. So when the group chat lit up with the message, “Roadtrip to Willowmist!” your eyes widened with excitement. Your 9-to-5 office job had been grinding you down, inch by inch, to the point where you’d even started contemplating quitting. But there were bills to pay: rent, groceries, your beat-up car, and a never-ending list of expenses that wouldn’t magically disappear.

Every year, you and your friends planned a road trip. And every couple of years, that road trip led to Willowmist—the cozy cabin owned by Eliza’s parents, who were generous enough to let your group use it whenever you needed an escape and the timing was perfect: it was May. The weather sat comfortably between warm and cool, ideal for hiking, swimming, and late-night bonfires.

Your friend group was a patchwork of personalities, a collection of memories, and an unshakable bond. Four girls and three boys: Aurora, Eliza, Harper, and you; Theo, Jasper, and Harry rounded out the crew. You’d been inseparable since high school. Even as life pulled you to different colleges and jobs, you’d stayed close, bound by shared histories and inside jokes that no one else could ever understand. At this point, you all knew too much about one another to ever drift apart—let alone become enemies. Normally, the trip always included all seven of you—plus the occasional “I’m seeing someone, can they come?” that inevitably added a new face to the mix.

You remembered how Aurora’s heart had been broken a dozen times (and how she still threw herself into love with reckless optimism), or the time Theo tripped and landed face-first in mud on the way to prom. Then there was Harper and Jasper’s ill-fated kiss—a spur-of-the-moment thing that had ended with Harper nearly gagging because, as she later admitted, she was into girls. None of you had known it at the time, but looking back, it made perfect sense.

And then there was you and Harry—the “typical friends” who, back in high school, everyone loved to tease about how cute of a couple you’d make. But that idea never quite stuck with either of you. After Aurora, Harry was the one you were closest to in the group. He was the friend you’d call and put on speaker whenever an Uber driver seemed a bit too sketchy. He was also the one who knew exactly how stubborn and moody you could get—and somehow, he never seemed to mind. Until recently. Lately, you and Harry had been clashing more often—not full-blown fights, but tense discussions that always seemed to end with you sighing, "I don’t really want to talk about this anymore," just to avoid things escalating into something worse. You weren’t entirely sure what had changed, but lately, Harry seemed irritated by almost everything you said. If you shared a funny video, he’d roll his eyes and mutter, “That’s lame. How can you even think that’s funny?” Or there was the time he showed you a picture of a redhead, casually mentioning, “This girl winked at me the other day,” to which you snapped back, “And? Like that means anything?” It was like every little exchange between you two had turned into a spark waiting to ignite.

The rest of the group had definitely noticed the growing tension between you and Harry. Whenever one of your “discussions” started, they’d jump in to ease the mood, steering the conversation before it could get too heated. Still, you couldn’t deny that you missed the late-night calls with him—those moments when you could rant about things that felt too personal or odd to share in public. But then again, you were stubborn. And giving in first? That just wasn’t your style.

Aurora: WILLOWMIST??? I’M IN!

Harper: I’m still seeing Becca. Can she come?

Eliza: Yes, of course! We have my car and Theo’s, but he’s bringing Cassie plus the food. I think we might need another car just in case.

Harry: Mine’s available too.

Theo: That’s settled then. Let’s meet at my place on Friday to arrange everything—rooms, cars, food, etc.

Aurora: YAY! I’m so excited!! You were excited. You always had a great time on the annual road trip. Now all that was left was to ask your boss for vacation time, and in three weeks, you’d be enjoying margaritas with the girls while the boys attempted their best backflips into the lake—or whatever crazy stunt they wanted. You just needed a break.

When Friday arrived, you all gathered at Theo’s apartment, greeted everyone, and slid onto the couch next to Harry.

“What’s up, idiot?” he said, nudging your shoulder.

“What’s up, arsehole?” you replied with a smile.

This banter was your usual rhythm—teasing and familiar—but somewhere between these playful jabs and the more serious arguments, the line was starting to blur.

“Okayyy, here it is,” Eliza announced, passing around a sheet of paper. She was crazy organized when it came to the annual trip—laid out in neat detail were all the meals, groceries, how much each person would pay, gas expenses for each car, liquor—everything.

“This looks better than ever,” Jasper said. “What about the cars? Which one am I in?”

“You’re with most of the food—Cassie and Theo—in his car,” Eliza replied. “I’m with Harper, Aurora, and Becca. And Y/N goes with Harry in his car.”

Everyone turned to look at both of you with unreadable expressions. You and Harry exchanged glances, then looked back at the group.

“What?” you both said in unison.

“Nothing,” they murmured, and you frowned, sensing they knew something you didn’t.

As everyone agreed on Eliza’s plan, the group scattered—grabbing beers and drifting into conversations about everything and nothing. You found yourself in the kitchen with Harper, listening to Aurora ramble on about some new guy, laughing every time Aurora made one of those hopelessly smitten faces.

“Why don’t you just invite him?” you asked.

“Oh no, we’re not there yet,” Aurora replied. “BUT WE WILL BE.” And there was that face again.

“Rori… get a grip,” Harper said with a chuckle, taking a sip of her beer.

Aurora made a mock glare at Harper and sighed. “Are you sure you want to ride with Harry? I can switch spots with you.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” you asked, confused.

“You two have been fighting a lot,” Harper said.

“Yeah, well, he’s been annoying lately. But if he can manage to not be annoying for four hours, I think I’m good,” you said with a casual shrug, as if it was no big deal.

“Right…” Harper said, smirking. “You both just need to shut up for four hours.” She chuckled, then flinched as Aurora playfully pinched her arm.

“Hey!” Harper protested.

“Girls,” you said, waving off the tension, “I swear it’s fine. Yeah, we’re not getting along like we used to, but that’s okay. We’re not going to kill each other in four hours.”

Harper laughed. “Well, if you say so. Just don’t come crying to us when you two end up yelling at each other halfway there.”

Aurora rolled her eyes but smiled. “Honestly, I think you guys need this trip more than anyone. Maybe some fresh air will remind you why you’ve been friends all these years.”

You glanced at Harry across the room, who was chatting quietly with Jasper. Despite the tension, you could still see that familiar spark in his eyes—the same one from all those years of friendship.

“Yeah,” you said, taking a deep breath. “Maybe this trip is exactly what we need.”

The thought made you feel a little lighter. For now, you pushed the worries aside and joined the others, ready to enjoy the night.

The night was winding down, and the group was slowly saying their goodbyes. You and Harry ended up together by his car, the quiet tension between you still lingering.

“Want a ride home?” he asked, opening the door for you.

You nodded and slid into the passenger seat. As he started the engine, there was a brief silence before he glanced over and said casually, “So, maybe after this trip, you’ll finally admit I was right about everything.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Aurora’s voice came through the open window from where she was standing nearby.

“I think I’m taking Y/N home tonight. Don’t want you two turning a simple ride into a battlefield,” she said, opening your door.

Harry shot her a quick look, a half-smile tugging at his lips, and you let out an angry breath as his car left the driveway. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch places with me?” said Aurora going to her car “I’m sure, i’ll just get distracted with music or maybe i’ll sleep” you said

🌷

The morning of the road trip was crisp and buzzing with excitement as everyone gathered at Jasper’s house. The driveway was a chaotic blend of backpacks, duffle bags, and coolers being shuffled between the cars. Harper and Becca were already snapping pictures by the front steps, while Eliza checked her meticulously detailed list for what felt like the tenth time.

“Alright, everyone, let’s make sure we’re not forgetting anything,” Eliza called, waving the list like a baton. “Food? Packed. Gas? Topped up. Harry?”

“What about me?” Harry asked, lugging a box of snacks toward his car.

“Just making sure you’re actually listening" Eliza teased, earning a small chuckle from Jasper.

“Y/N, have you met Becca yet?” Harper called out, motioning you over while Harry busied himself adjusting something in the trunk.

“Not officially,” you said, walking over.

“This is Becca, my girlfriend,” Harper said, her tone warm with pride. “Becca, this is Y/N, one of the best people I know, though a little too stubborn for her own good.”

You laughed and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Becca. Anyone who can put up with Harper’s karaoke marathons gets my respect.”

Becca chuckled, shaking your hand. “Nice to meet you too. I’ve heard plenty about this trip—it sounds like a blast.”

“Oh, it will be,” Eliza  chimed in as she passed by, lugging a cooler. “Especially once we start roasting Theo at the bonfire. It’s tradition.” Across the driveway, Cassie leaned over to Aurora with a sly grin. “Hey, is it just me, or is there something weird going on between Y/N and Harry?”

Aurora raised an eyebrow but didn’t look surprised. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know,” Cassie said, glancing toward Harry, who was now arguing with Theo about fitting a cooler into his car. “It’s like... charged, you know? Are they a thing?”

Aurora laughed, loud enough to catch your attention for a second before she waved you off. “Harry and Y/N? Please. They’ve been like that since high school. It’s their love language—bickering and driving each other insane.”

Cassie smirked. “So they’re not a thing?”

“Nope. They are now in an “i hate you” mood but give it time,” Aurora said with a wink before walking off to join Eliza.

Back by Harry’s car, he closed the trunk with a loud thud and looked at you expectantly. “Ready, or are you going to keep bonding with Harper’s girlfriend all morning?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m all yours for the next four hours. Try not to cry from excitement.”

Harry smirked, opening the driver’s side door. “Trust me, I’ll manage.”

“Alright, people!” Theo’s voice boomed as he clapped his hands together. “Let’s hit the road before Eliza has a heart attack over her schedule.”

Everyone laughed as the final bags were loaded and doors slammed shut. As you buckled up, you heard Aurora shout from across the driveway, “Remember, no fighting! Or at least wait until we’re all out of earshot!”

The group chuckled as the caravan of cars started rolling out. You couldn’t help but glance at Harry, who had a small, knowing smile on his face.

This was going to be a long drive.

The morning sun was starting to peek over the horizon as Harry’s car merged onto the highway. The steady hum of the engine filled the silence between you, and for a while, neither of you said a word.

You stared out the window, watching the trees blur by. Harry tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road. The silence was heavy but not unbearable—at least, not yet.

“You want music or something?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Sure,” you said, reaching for the aux cable. You scrolled through your playlist, finally settling on something upbeat to lighten the mood. The opening chords of a pop song filled the car, and Harry let out a dramatic groan.

“This? Really?” he said, glancing at you with mock disapproval.

“What’s wrong with this?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s just… basic,” he said with a smirk.

You scoffed. “Coming from the guy who listens to dad rock like it’s still the ’80s?”

“Excuse me, dad rock is timeless,” he said, and for a moment, the tension lifted as you both chuckled.

A few minutes later, he glanced over at you. “So, are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” you said, feigning ignorance.

“The fact that we’ve can’t get along for weeks now,” he said bluntly.

You stiffened in your seat, not expecting him to bring it up so soon—or at all. “I didn’t know there was anything to talk about,” you said, keeping your tone light.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know what I mean. It’s like… everything I say pisses you off lately. And everything you say—”

“makes sense?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended.

He glanced at you briefly before turning back to the road. The silence returned, heavier this time. The song ended, and the playlist moved on to another track, but neither of you made a move to acknowledge it. After a while, Harry spoke again, softer this time. “Look, I don’t want this trip to suck because we can’t figure out how to talk to each other anymore.”

You looked at him, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the dashboard lights. “Me neither,” you admitted quietly.

It wasn’t an apology, not yet, but it was a start.

🌷

Eliza’s car was buzzing with chatter and laughter as they sped along the highway. Aurora was leaning back with her feet propped up on the dashboard, while Harper and Becca were cozied up in the backseat. Music played softly in the background, but the main soundtrack was their conversation.

“So,” Aurora began, twisting in her seat to look at the others. “Is it just me, or is something definitely brewing between Y/N and Harry?”

Harper chuckled, resting her head on Beccar’s shoulder. “Brewing, as in tension so thick you could cut it with a knife? or brewing as if they are probably becoming the biggest enemies ever?”

“Exactly!” Aurora exclaimed, waving her hand dramatically. “They’ve been at each other’s throats, but like… there’s something there, right?” 

Harper rolled her eyes but smirked. “Oh, totally. Y/N swears it’s just because Harry’s being ‘annoying,’ but she gets so worked up over it. You don’t react like that unless you care.”

“Or unless he’s genuinely annoying,” Becca teased

Eliza, who had been quietly listening, finally chimed in. “Okay, okay, but hear me out—I might know something.”

All three of them turned to her, eyes wide with curiosity.

“What do you mean ‘know something’?” Harper pressed, leaning forward in her seat.

“Well…” Eliza hesitated, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Remember last year’s trip to Brighton?”

“Yeah?” Aurora said, practically bouncing in her seat.

“I overheard Harry talking to Theo one night,” Eliza said, glancing at the others for dramatic effect. “He said something like, ‘It’s frustrating how she doesn’t see it.’”

“See what?” Aurora gasped, clutching her chest as though this were the most scandalous thing she’d ever heard. “”She” as in Y/N?”

“That’s the thing—I don’t know!” Eliza replied, laughing. “But he sounded serious. And you know Harry never talks about his feelings unless he’s pushed to the brink. AND, who would he be talking about to Theo?

Harper’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, that’s interesting...What if he’s into her and just doesn’t know how to deal with it?”

“That would explain why they’ve been so weird lately,” Becca added. “It’s like they’re trying to keep things normal, but it’s not working.”

Aurora clapped her hands together. “This is better than a rom-com. I’m calling it now—they’re either going to kill each other or finally kiss on this trip.”

“I’m betting on the kiss,” Eliza said with a knowing smirk.

“Should we meddle?” Harper asked, half-joking.

“Absolutely not,” Eliza said, shaking her head. “They need to figure this out on their own. Besides, the fireworks are way more fun to watch from the sidelines.”

The car erupted into laughter as they all imagined the chaos that might unfold, their gossip making the drive pass in no time.

🌷

The hum of the car engine filled the silence between you and Harry. The tension was palpable, like a balloon stretched too tight, ready to pop at the slightest provocation. Both of you seemed acutely aware of it, navigating this territory of forced civility.

“So,” you started, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket. “Eliza’s car looked packed. Wonder if they’ll even have room for their bags once they hit the liquor store.”

Harry let out a dry chuckle, his eyes focused on the road. “Knowing Eliza, she’s already calculated the exact cubic inches of trunk space available.”

You smiled slightly but didn’t laugh. “Yeah… probably.”

Another beat of silence.

“Did you, uh, bring anything for the cabin? Snacks or whatever?” Harry asked, his tone deliberately neutral.

“Yeah, a couple of bags of chips and some candy,” you said. “Not that it’ll matter with Aurora and Theo around—they’ll eat it all by day two.”

“True,” he said with a faint smirk. “I brought some stuff too. Protein bars and trail mix.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Trail mix? Are you eighty?”

Harry shot you a look, his brow arching. “Excuse me for being practical.”

“I’m just saying, nobody ever gets excited about trail mix,” you said, trying to keep your tone light but failing to hide the underlying edge.

“Yeah, well, nobody gets excited about chips for the fifth year in a row, either,” he countered, his voice a little sharper than he probably intended.

You both fell silent again, the air in the car thickening.

This was it—the moment you both knew could spiral into yet another argument. But instead of pushing further, you bit your tongue, staring out the window.

Harry exhaled heavily, gripping the steering wheel. “This is stupid.”

You glanced at him, your brow furrowing. “What is?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Tiptoeing around each other, trying not to say anything that’ll set the other off. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Well, maybe if you didn’t always have to have the last word—”

“There it is,” he interrupted, Harry’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. He pulled the car off the road into a small clearing, gravel crunching loudly under the tires. The sudden stop made your body jerk forward slightly

“What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, your voice rising with the frustration that had been bubbling beneath the surface.

Harry turned to face you, his green eyes sharp and stormy. “I’m tired of this, Y/N. I’m tired of the constant bickering, the walking on eggshells, the... whatever this is!” He gestured wildly between you both, his voice rising in exasperation.

You blinked, taken aback by his outburst, but your own stubbornness flared up. “Oh, so this is my fault now? You’re the one who’s been acting like everything I say is a personal attack!”

Harry scoffed, running a hand through his curls in frustration. “Maybe because half the time it feels like one! You can’t even make a joke without it sounding like you’re trying to one-up me.”

You glared at him, heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, please. You’ve been nitpicking everything I do for weeks, Harry! And for what? To make yourself feel better?”

“I’m not—” he started, but then stopped himself, taking a deep breath. His jaw tightened as he looked away. “I’m not trying to make myself feel better, okay? I just—”

“What?” you pressed, your voice softer now but still firm.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, restarting the car and merging back onto the road.

You were mad, but with an hour still left in the drive, you decided against saying anything else. Exhaustion was setting in, and all you wanted now was a bit of calm before reaching the cabin. 

The silence stretched between you and Harry for the rest of the drive, thick with unspoken words. Neither of you tried to break it, too stubborn or too tired to make the first move. Outside, the trees blurred by, but inside the car, the tension was almost suffocating.

Finally, the cabin appeared, surrounded by tall pines and the quiet sounds of nature. One by one, the other cars pulled into the gravel driveway, laughter and chatter filling the air.

Aurora was the first to jump out, her bright smile unaware of the mood between you two. “We’re officially here, and we all are alive and ready!” she called cheerfully.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you quickly opened the door, stepped out, and headed straight for the cabin, slamming the front door behind you.

Aurora froze, then gave an awkward laugh. “Well… almost,” she said, glancing at everyone, who looked just as uncomfortable

Harry sighed heavily, resting his head on the steering wheel before looking over at Theo, who met his gaze with quiet understanding. Theo knew what was wrong—and so did Harry.

The group exchanged uneasy looks, the happy arrival now tinged with tension no one quite knew how to ease.

Aurora caught the look Harry gave Theo and immediately picked up on the unspoken message. She bit her lip, nodding subtly to herself as if filing it away for later.

She stepped back from the group, pretending to check her phone but really watching Harry’s car. Something was definitely off.

As everyone started unpacking, the usual buzz of activity returned. Jasper and Theo carried most of the groceries inside, while Eliza directed who should bring what where. Harper and Becca helped organize bags and handed out snacks and drinks. Laughter and chatter floated through the air, easing some of the earlier tension.

Aurora lingered nearby and after a moment, she quietly excused herself from the group and headed your way. She knocked gently on the door before stepping in.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face but your frustration was still evident.

“Hey,” Aurora said softly. “You okay?”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Just needed a minute.”

Aurora gave a small smile and sat down beside you. “If you want to talk or need anything, I’m here.”

“We had an argument…again” you said “I know…about what this time?” Aurora said coming near you and sitting on the bed next to yours “About everything, nonsense stupid stuff…” you said sighing “i really think this is it..this is were our friendship comes to an end”

Aurora’s eyes softened as she looked at you. “Hey, don’t say that. Friendships go through rough patches all the time. You two have been through so much together—this can’t be the end.”

You shook your head, feeling the weight of it all. “It just feels different now. Like we’re not even on the same page anymore. Every little thing sets us off.”

Aurora reached out and gently squeezed your hand. “Maybe you both just need some space to breathe. Sometimes distance helps clear the fog.”

You looked down at your hands, considering. “Maybe… but it still hurts.”

“I get it,” Aurora said softly. “But you’re not alone in this, okay? We all want this trip to be good—for you, for Harry, for everyone.”

You let out a shaky breath, grateful for her presence. “Thanks, Rori”

Aurora gave you a reassuring smile before standing up. “Come on, let’s get out there. Eliza’s schedule says today is a free day—no planned activities. Perfect chance to just relax and breathe.”

You nodded and followed her out of the room, the tension in your chest easing just a little. Downstairs, the others were unpacking and settling in. The cabin already smelled like pine and wood smoke, a comforting scent that reminded you why this place was special.

Some of the group were organizing groceries, laughing as they juggled bags of snacks, drinks, and supplies. Theo was stacking firewood near the porch while Jasper and Harper were debating which music to play first.

Eliza was busy organizing the kitchen, checking off items on her meticulously planned list, while Becca was chatting animatedly with Cassie near the windows.

You found yourself drifting outside, the fresh air filling your lungs. Aurora stayed close, leaning against the railing beside you. For the first time in days, things felt a little lighter. Across the door, you caught Harry’s eye for just a moment. He looked away quickly, and you did the same, neither of you daring to break the fragile silence.

No words were exchanged between you two — just a shared glance heavy with everything left unsaid. The tension lingered, but for now, it stayed unspoken as the day slowly unwound around you.

In the Kitchen Theo grabbed Harry’s arm gently but firmly, pulling him aside near the pantry “Harry, man, what the hell…,” Theo said quietly, locking eyes with him. “Look, I get it — things with you and Y/N have been rough lately. But this silence, the cold shoulders, the snappy comments? It’s killing whatever’s left of you two.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt mixing on his face. “It’s complicated, Theo. I don’t even know how to fix this. Every time I try to talk, it just ends up worse.” he whispered

Theo shook his head slowly. “That’s exactly why you have to try. If you don’t say what’s on your mind, what’s really bothering you… you’re just building a wall between you two that only gets higher. You risk losing her forever.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “What if I say something and it backfires? What if it’s too late?”

Theo’s gaze hardened a bit, but his tone stayed calm. “Then you deal with it. But at least you’ll know you tried. Because not saying anything? That’s giving up without a fight. And you’re not that kind of guy. God, do you really like her? go on and fix this mess”

Harry sighed deeply, looking over at the cabin where you were. “I just don’t want to make her feel worse. She deserves better than the mess I’ve become.”

Theo placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “None of us are perfect. But being honest — that’s how you show you care. That you’re willing to be vulnerable. You owe it to her, and to yourself.”

Harry nodded, swallowing hard.

Night had finally fallen over the cabin, the sky a deep navy blanket speckled with stars. Inside, the group had gathered around the large wooden table in the living room, the soft glow of lanterns and fairy lights creating a cozy atmosphere.

Eliza brought out an old, well-loved board game she’d packed—a classic everyone enjoyed. The clatter of dice and the occasional burst of laughter slowly chipped away at the day’s lingering tension. Harry and you found yourselves sitting across from each other, the game forcing a casual proximity neither had expected. For a while, the conversation was light—teasing jokes about who was the worst at strategy and who always made the boldest moves.

As the game progressed, the distance between you started to shrink, the walls built by earlier arguments slowly softening under the shared moments and friendly competition.

Occasionally, your eyes met across the table, and though neither said a word.

But then

Harper rolled her eyes and said, “It’s not fair! I should be the one winning — you’re all just ganging up on me.”

You and Harry both blurted out at the same time, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be so bad at it.”

Everyone froze for a second, surprised by the identical replies. Jasper laughed and said, “Alright, alright, no team-ups! Let’s keep playing.”

The group quickly moved on, throwing dice and debating moves, but Harry and you exchanged a lingering look, the unspoken tension hanging in the air between you. Just as the moment stretched, Jasper, laughing too hard, accidentally knocked over his beer. The amber liquid splashed right onto your lap.

“Oh no, sorry!” Jasper exclaimed, reaching for napkins.

You stood up quickly, brushing at your pants. “Classic Jasper, I'll go clean this up,” you said, trying to keep your frustration in check.

Theo caught Harry’s eye from across the room and gave him a meaningful look — one that said, Go check on her. Harry immediately stood up and went to the kitchen, where he found you pressing a damp cloth against your shorts, trying to clean the stain. He stood there for a moment, saying nothing. The nerves were building up inside him—so this was it, he thought. Gathering his courage to speak, he was surprised when you beat him to it.

“Go ahead,” you blurted out. “You can say I look like I pissed myself.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” he replied softly.

“Sure you weren’t,” you said, rolling your eyes with a hint of sarcasm.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

“Talk? Like the talk we had on the way here?” you shot back.

“No, I mean…” he sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Okay, then. Let’s just not talk. Just hear me out.”

“And why would I want to hear you?” you challenged.

“Please? Just… give me two minutes, and then you can even slap me if you want,” he pleaded.

The silence between you was thick, broken only by the faint laughter and chatter from the living room. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at Harry with a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.

“Two minutes,” you said sharply. “Go.”

Harry nodded, exhaling deeply as he ran a hand through his hair. His nerves were on edge, and for a moment, he looked like he might bolt instead of speak. But then, he met your eyes, his jaw tightening as if steeling himself.

“I know I’ve been an ass,” he began, his voice low. “I know I’ve said things that hurt you, and I know I’ve pushed you away—probably more than you deserved. But it’s not because I hate you, or because I don’t care.”

You raised an eyebrow, your arms tightening across your chest, but you stayed silent.

“It’s the opposite,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he looked back at you. “I’ve been pushing you away because I started to feel… things I wasn’t ready for. Things I didn’t know how to handle. And instead of dealing with it like a normal person, I acted like an idiot.”

“Harry,” you said softly, unsure of where this was going.

He took a step closer, the weight of his words visibly pressing on him. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I thought if I could keep things the way they were, if I could just bury it, we’d be fine. But I can’t anymore. Because somewhere along the way, I started falling in love with you.”

The words hung in the air, his confession knocking the wind out of you. Your breath hitched, your mind scrambling to process what he’d just said. You searched his face for any hint of hesitation or insincerity, but all you saw was raw, unfiltered honesty.

“You…” you began, your voice trembling. “You’re in love with me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving yours. “And I know I’ve done everything wrong. I know I’ve hurt you, and I don’t expect you to feel the same way. But I couldn’t keep it in anymore. You deserved to know.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the walls you’d carefully built around yourself cracking under the weight of his confession. A part of you wanted to lash out, to throw his words back at him for all the hurt he’d caused. But another part—the part that had always held a soft spot for him—wanted to believe he was telling the truth.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your arms falling to your sides.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly. “I just needed you to hear it. To know that everything I’ve done—even the stupid, hurtful stuff—came from a place I didn’t understand until now.”

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the moment. Theo’s voice called out, “You two alive in there? The game’s getting intense, and Harper’s threatening to flip the board.”

Harry gave a faint smile, his eyes still locked on yours. “We’re fine,” he called back before lowering his voice. “I’ll give you space if that’s what you need. Just… don’t shut me out completely. Please.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his confession settling over you as he stepped back, giving you the room to breathe.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension between you wasn’t suffocating. It was heavy, yes, but there was something else there now—a flicker of possibility, of hope.

You returned to the living room, the hum of chatter and laughter greeting you as you stepped inside. The group was still gathered around the board game, arguing playfully over the rules. It all seemed normal, like nothing had changed—but for you and Harry, everything had.

Aurora caught your eye first, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed the look on your face. You quickly glanced away, not ready for questions. Sitting back down in your spot, you tried to blend back in, but the weight of Harry’s confession was impossible to ignore. Harry followed a few moments later, taking his seat with a small, relieved exhale. He avoided looking directly at you, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to have eased ever so slightly.

Theo, ever perceptive, glanced between the two of you. His lips quirked into a subtle, knowing smile before he turned his attention back to the game.

Harper noticed something too, narrowing her eyes as she pointed her game piece accusingly at Harry. “You’ve got that look,” she said teasingly. “Like you just got away with something.”

“What look?” Harry asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he avoided the trap.

“The smug one,” Jasper chimed in, grinning. “But then again, you always look like that.”

The group laughed, and you used the moment to ground yourself, focusing on the lighthearted banter. The tension wasn’t gone, but it had shifted. Instead of anger and frustration, there was now a strange, unspoken understanding between you and Harry—an acknowledgment that something had cracked open.

Aurora leaned over slightly, her voice low as she nudged you with her elbow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Just tired.”

She didn’t press, but her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer before she shrugged and joined the game again. The evening wore on, and the atmosphere gradually lightened. Drinks were poured, jokes were made, and for a moment, you almost forgot the storm swirling in your mind. Almost.

Across the room, Harry caught your gaze. It wasn’t intentional—just a fleeting moment when your eyes met. But in that split second, everything he’d said in the kitchen came rushing back. You could see it in his expression: the relief, the vulnerability, and maybe even a flicker of hope. You looked away quickly, your stomach twisting into knots. The rest of the group might not have known what had happened between you two, but they could sense the difference. It was subtle but undeniable, a shift in the air that no one dared to point out directly.

For now, the game continued, the laughter grew louder, and the night pressed on. But beneath it all, the conversation in the kitchen lingered, an unspoken thread tying you and Harry together in a way that neither of you could ignore.

The cabin had finally quieted down for the night. The distant sound of crickets outside the window filled the room, a gentle reminder of how far removed you were from the chaos of the city—and the chaos of your own thoughts. Lying on your bed, you stared up at the wooden ceiling, replaying the conversation with Harry over and over again. His words were etched into your mind, the way his voice cracked slightly when he confessed: “I started to fall in love with you.”

Your chest tightened at the memory, a cocktail of emotions swirling within you. Anger, confusion, disbelief—but above all, the undeniable realization that you felt something too.

You squeezed your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself. After all the fights, the snide comments, the years of stubbornness between you two, how could it have come to this? But the truth was impossible to deny: somewhere along the way, you had fallen for him too. You hated admitting it, even to yourself. It felt like losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Yet, there it was—the tug in your chest whenever he looked at you, the way your heart raced during those rare moments when you weren’t at each other’s throats.

A soft knock on the door broke your thoughts.

Your heart jumped, and for a moment, you froze, staring at the shadow under the door.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice was quiet, tentative.

You sat up slowly, your pulse quickening. For a second, you debated ignoring him, pretending to be asleep, anything to delay the inevitable. But deep down, you knew you couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Yeah?” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause before he replied. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. Taking a deep breath, you managed to find your voice.

“Okay.”

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He stood there for a moment, as if unsure what to say or do.

“I know it’s late,” he started, his voice soft. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about… everything.”

Harry stood just inside the door, his hands in his pockets, looking more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. His usual confidence was absent, replaced by a quiet uncertainty.

You nodded toward the chair by the window. “Sit.”

He hesitated for a moment, then moved to the chair, dragging it closer to the bed but not too close. He sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and you could see the tension in his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he started, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything. For pushing you away. For being such an idiot half the time.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in his tone.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the floor. “I don’t know when it happened, or how, but somewhere along the line, I stopped just… seeing you as my best friend. And I got scared, Y/N. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I kept messing things up.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“All those fights, the stupid things I’d say—it wasn’t because I hated you. It was because I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. And I thought maybe if I pushed you far enough away, I could stop feeling like this.” He looked up at you then, his green eyes searching yours. “But it didn’t work. It just made me miserable. And I know I’ve probably ruined everything, but I had to tell you. You deserve to know.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. For once, there was no sarcasm, no walls between you two. Just Harry, laying it all out there.

“I don’t even know what to say,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “This—this changes everything, Harry.”

“I know,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “And I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I just—I needed you to know. Whatever happens next, it’s up to you. I just couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

The room fell into silence again, the weight of his confession hanging in the air.

“I hated you,” you said suddenly, your voice trembling. Harry flinched, but you shook your head. “Not really. But I wanted to. It would’ve been easier if I did. Because the truth is, I think I’ve felt the same way for a long time. I just didn’t want to admit it either.”

His eyes widened, hope flickering in them.

“But you drive me insane,” you continued, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. “And I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that you and I could never work that I don’t even know where to start, and maybe that’s why i wanted to be right all the time”

“We can figure it out,” he said, his voice steady now. “I know I’ve been an ass, but I want to try. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You stared at him, the sincerity in his voice breaking down the last of your defenses.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay?” he repeated, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Harry’s grin softened as he looked at you, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. The air between you shifted again, the tension returning but of a completely different kind. It was warm, electrified, as if the room itself was holding its breath. He stood slowly, moving closer to where you sat on the bed. His eyes never left yours, searching for any sign that you might change your mind or pull away.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice low and cautious, like he was treading on fragile ground.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned forward, quickly, closing the space between you in a movement so instinctive it surprised you both. When your lips met, it was hesitant at first, a testing of boundaries, but that hesitation didn’t last long. Harry’s hands cupped your face, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a release of everything unsaid, every argument, every stolen glance, every moment of yearning that had gone unspoken until now.

Your hands found their way to his hair, tugging lightly, and he groaned against your lips, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His touch was gentle yet demanding, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real but wasn’t about to let it go.

When you broke apart, breathless and flushed, his forehead rested against yours, and his eyes fluttered open to meet your gaze.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice hoarse, the vulnerability in his eyes unmistakable.

Instead of answering, you tugged him back down, your lips meeting his again with more urgency this time. You shifted back on the bed, and Harry followed, his weight pressing down on you in a way that felt grounding, solid, and intoxicating all at once.

His kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck, leaving a path of warmth that made your skin tingle. Your hands moved restlessly, exploring the breadth of his shoulders, the curve of his back, as if trying to memorize every part of him.

“Y/N,” he murmured against your skin, his voice laced with reverence and restraint.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your breathing uneven. “Harry,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. In one swift motion, you pulled your shirt over your head, leaving your chest bare. You had never been a fan of wearing a bra to bed, and the soft glow of the moonlight cast an intimate light over your exposed skin.

“Fuck,” Harry murmured, his voice low and rough as his gaze fell to your bare chest. His eyes darkened, and his lips parted slightly as he took in the sight before him. A wave of desire coursed through him, his body responding instinctively. Without hesitation, he leaned down, his lips capturing your left nipple. His tongue swirled over the sensitive skin, drawing a sharp gasp from you. At the same time, his hand slid up to your other breast, his fingers kneading gently yet firmly. “Are you sure?” he mumbled against your breast “If you ask me again, I swear…” you murmured, your voice already breathless and tinged with pleasure.

Harry paused, his fingers teasingly slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts. His voice was steady but laced with restraint. “I need vocal consent,” he said softly, his eyes searching yours. “I need to know this isn’t just out of lust.”

Your body ached with anticipation, and your frustration spilled out in a desperate plea. “Harry, I swear, if you don’t fuck me right now—”

A grin tugged at his lips. “That’s good enough,” he whispered before crashing his mouth against yours, his kiss igniting every nerve in your body. Harry tugged at the elastic of your shorts, and you quickly wriggled out of them, your hands already moving to his shirt. You broke the kiss just long enough for him to pull it over his head, and your eyes lingered for a moment, taking him in. His well-built frame, the tattoos scattered across his skin, and… the undeniable bulge straining against his pants. You’d always known he was big—years of seeing him in wet swim shorts that left far too little to the imagination had made that impossible to ignore.

Before you could dwell on it, Harry’s lips found yours again with an urgency that made your head spin. His kiss was intoxicating, almost desperate, as though he feared you might disappear if this was nothing but a dream. One of his hands kneaded your ass, pulling you impossibly closer, while your fingers tugged at the waistband of his trousers, eager to free him of the last barrier between you, Harry quickly pushed his trousers and briefs down in one smooth motion, letting his throbbing cock spring free, the tip flushed and glistening as it slapped against his abdomen. The sight made your breath hitch, a mix of nerves and anticipation pooling in your stomach. “Fuck!” he groaned, closing his eyes and quickly looking away.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, frowning as you held onto his shoulders.

“I don’t have condoms,” he admitted quietly.

“I don’t either,” you said, the realization hitting you. “Theo might have some—he’s here with Cassie,” you added desperately.

“I can’t just ask him for condoms now. What am I even supposed to say?”

“Fuck…” you breathed out. “I’m clean, I swear. Haven’t gotten laid in the last six months, and my last screen came back clean.”

“I’m clean too. I can show you—I have it on my phone,” he said, looking around for his phone. But before he could reach for it, you cupped his face in your hands.

“I trust you,” you said softly. That meaning more than just trusting him on that specific thing. “I’m on the pill as well.”

He hesitated for a moment, then muttered, “Are you… fuck,” before snapping, and crashing his lips onto yours again.

One hand wrapped around his length, pumping slowly at the base, while the other found the damp fabric of your thong. Tugging it aside, his fingers quickly became slick with your arousal, making you whimper softly at the sensation.

“Shit,” he breathed, pushing two fingers slowly inside you. A small moan escaped your lips. “You’re a fucking dream,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “Look at me,” he whispered as he continued pumping his fingers in and out of you.

“I need you,” you gasped, voice trembling with need.

Harry’s eyes darkened with hunger as he withdrew his fingers slowly, bringing them to his mouth to taste you. “Fucking sweet” he whispered against your skin.

He positioned himself carefully, lips trailing hot kisses down your neck, each touch setting you aflame. Every second stretched, filled with raw, aching anticipation, dragging his tip through your folds, slowly “Harry” you whimpered

And he finally entered you, slow and deliberate, you both froze for a moment, breathing each other in, hearts pounding in unison.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he groaned, moving with growing intensity, every thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. “So fucking tight.”

You moaned at the feeling of him inside you, stretched perfectly, hitting every needy spot. “Yes… fffu—” your voice grew louder until he placed a hand gently over your mouth.

“As much as I want to hear those delicious sounds you make,” he murmured, pumping slowly, “we’re too close to Aurora and Eliza’s room.” You cursed silently, desperate to scream out in pleasure. You knew you were loud, so keeping quiet was going to be a real challenge. He began thrusting into you faster, filled with urgent need, feeling every inch of you. “You’re perfect... so good for me,” he groaned. “Fuck me harder,” you mumbled against his hand.

“Harder? That’s how you like it, love? Hard?” he asked, driving his thrusts with more force.

“Yes… yes, I like it hard,” you managed to say, but before you could say more, he slid two fingers into your mouth.

“Suck,” he commanded, locking his gaze on you, and you gladly obeyed “Look at me” he said still lost in pleasure “you look amazing like this” He pulled back, leaving you gasping at the sudden emptiness, your lips still tingling from the contact.

“Turn around,” he murmured, his voice low and urgent, as he gently helped you shift. His gaze raked over your curves, lingering on your ass for a moment before he delivered a sharp, teasing spank. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tugged your thong aside again, exposing your swollen, puffy core that ached with need. Without hesitation, he spat a warm drop of saliva onto you, the wetness spreading and glistening under the dim light. Then, with a powerful thrust, he sank back inside you, filling you completely once more.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding each deep, powerful thrust as he set a relentless pace. You bit your lip to keep from crying out but some moans escaped your mouth, the heat and pleasure crashing over you in waves.

“God, fucking pussy all mine,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. His mouth found your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses while his hips slammed into yours.

You arched back, your fingers digging into the sheets as he stretched you perfectly, hitting every sensitive spot. The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin and your shallow breaths.

“Harry,” you gasped, barely able to hold back, “please, don’t stop.”

He smiled against your skin, a rough, hungry smile. “Say it again” looking down at where your bodies merged

“Harry…” you whispered, voice trembling, eyes fluttering shut. Your hips began to lift involuntarily, matching his rhythm as waves of pleasure started to ripple from deep inside you. “i’m….i’m about to” you moaned His hand slid from your hip to grip your waist tightly, anchoring you as your body tensed, muscles clenched.The heat in your core became unbearable, a delicious pressure pulsing and tightening until it felt like you were about to shatter. Your breath came in short gasps, your heart pounding so loud it felt like it would burst through your chest. “Come…come all over my cock” he murmured against your skin, voice rough but steady. And then—release. A shudder tore through you, your muscles spasming around him as waves of bliss crashed over your body. You cried out softly, the sound muffled by the pillow, your entire being consumed by pleasure. He kept moving, slow and sure, prolonging the moment, grounding you as you rode out the tremors of your orgasm. Still buried deep inside you, Harry’s own control snapped. With a low, guttural groan, his hips jerked harder, driving into you with desperate need. His breath hitched, and his grip on your waist tightened as the tension built to an unbearable peak.

“Fuck—” he gasped, his voice rough and raw, before his body tensed and he spilled inside you, every shuddering thrust fueling the powerful release. You felt him fill you completely, hot cum now drenching your insides, warmth spreading through you as he held you close, grounding both of you in that intense, intimate moment.

Slowly, his movements softened, and he collapsed gently beside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily, connected and utterly spent.

You stayed still for a moment, your breaths mingling in the quiet room. The tension that had hung so heavily between you felt like it had finally begun to melt away. Harry’s heartbeat was steady against your skin, grounding you in the here and now.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You looked up at him, your eyes shining with a mixture of relief and something softer—something hopeful. “Me too,” you admitted, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

He smiled, a tired but genuine curve of his lips. “Maybe this is the start of figuring things out. Together.”

You nodded, leaning into him, feeling warmth spread through you—not just from the moment you’d shared, but from the possibility of what could come next.

🌷

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the cabin windows as everyone bustled around the kitchen, the smell of coffee and frying bacon filling the air. Plates clattered, eggs sizzled, and casual chatter floated through the room, but there was an unspoken agreement—no one was quite ready to bring up what had happened the night before.

You and Harry sat a bit apart on the sofa, exchanging shy smiles and quiet giggles, both pretending to focus on the morning but clearly still wrapped up in your own bubble. Last night was still a secret between both. Or so you thought.

Suddenly, Aurora appeared in the kitchen frowning “Thanks, Theo and Cassie, for fucking so loudly last night,” she said loudly, teasing. “I couldn’t even mute the sounds with my noise-cancelling headphones.”

Everyone froze, exchanging confused glances. Cassie blinked, genuinely puzzled. “We didn’t fuck last night. I was too tired—I fell asleep pretty quickly,” she replied, her voice calm.

Everyone was confused, if Theo and Cassie didn’t fuck and Aurora was certain he heard a male and female voice then…

All eyes swung toward you and Harry on the sofa.

“They’re looking at us” you said whispering

“They are stupid don’t worry” he said making you giggle

In fact, they weren’t, they immediately knew everything.

Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

[jburrgf]

CRAVE, MATT REMPE.

pairing: !ny rangers¡matt rempe x !pr girl¡reader

summary: forced proximity, coworker paring, fake dating,

description: you’re a personal assistant working behind the scenes in the NHL world — organized, focused, and determined to keep things strictly professional. But when you cross paths with Matt Rempe, everything starts to unravel. What begins as tension and irritation slowly turns into something far more complicated: stolen glances, blurred boundaries, and a possessiveness that neither of you are ready to face.

word count: 7.4k

You meet Matt Rempe for the first time on a Tuesday.

It's raining — not enough to be romantic, just enough to ruin your hair and smear your eyeliner in the reflection of your cracked phone screen. You're fifteen minutes late to the morning media meeting because the subway stalled, your umbrella flipped inside out, and someone spilled iced coffee on your blazer. It's one of those days where everything feels like a dare from the universe.

You burst into the media room at Madison Square Garden with damp shoes and an apology on your lips, and that's when you see him.

Him.

Six-foot-seven. Hockey gear is halfway off. Hair curled damply at the nape of his neck. Legs stretched so long that you're almost offended by them. And his most irritatingly amused expression as he watches you stumble through the door, breathless.

"Oh," he says, eyebrows lifting. "You must be the new PR girl."

You blink—PR girl.

"I'm the media relations coordinator," you correct flatly, trying to shrug off your coat with what's left of your dignity.

He grins, slow and lazy like he's already won something. "That's cute."

Cute.

You seriously consider quitting right then and there.

You don't get far.

Before you can even find a seat, your boss, Richard — salt-and-pepper hair, tired eyes, Mets mug always in hand — waves you over from the head of the table.

"Good, you're here," he says, flipping through a packet of printed media notes. "I need you to focus on Rempe this week."

You blink. "Me?"

Richard nods. "He's a walking headline lately. Fights, interviews, that whole clip of him saying he wants to 'punch the moon' or whatever? It went viral again last night. We need to soften his image. You're going to shadow him for content and prep him for interviews."

You glance over.

Rempe's now poking the sharp end of a pen into a Gatorade bottle. For fun.

You turn back to Richard. "I'm sorry. You want me to clean that up?"

Richard sighs. "He's not as dumb as he looks. But he is chaotic. You'll figure it out. Get him to post something sweet. Please give him a dog, or a grandma, or something. Make him charming."

"Can't we just… let him talk less?"

"Too late," Richard says, flipping the page. "He talks. Make it work."

The next few days are… not smooth. Matt was making everything more challenging for you. First, you try to get him to film a "Day in the Life" TikTok. Second, he misses his Lyft, saying that he got a stained sweater. And then he shows up twenty minutes late, unshaven, wearing mismatched socks and a Shrek hoodie.

"Are you seriously wearing that?" you ask.

He glances down. "What? Shrek's a style icon."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "You're ruining my life."

He smiles, teeth flashing. "C'mon, PR girl. Admit it. You love the chaos."

You do not. Except maybe — just maybe — you do.

Later, when you finally get him to sit down for a short interview clip, he leans forward and goes: "Hi, I'm Matt Rempe, and my favorite pregame ritual is headbutting a locker until I see stars."

You stare at him. He smirks. And then, you roll your eyes for the 60th time just that day.

"I'm kidding," he says, eyes sparkling. "Mostly."

You and Matt don't go very far with the content. You record half of a video with the camera, and as you walk down to your car, you find weird selfies from Rempe on your phone. And on that afternoon, you badge in Richard's office—hair a mess, zero patience.

"I can't do this," you say.

He doesn't look up from his computer. "What happened now?"

"He called me PR Girl again. He refused to stop juggling pucks while I was trying to interview him. He ate two protein bars at once and choked mid-sentence. I had to edit out a Heimlich maneuver."

"Sounds like a productive day."

You glare.

Richard sighs. "Look, I know he's a lot. But he likes you."

You scoff. You cannot believe in that. "He does not."

"He does. I've never seen him listen to anyone, Y/N. And you got him to show up to something that wasn't optional andstay the whole time. That's a miracle in itself."

"He licked the mic, Richard."

"Baby steps."

[...] 

On Friday, after practice, you catch him stretching near the edge of the rink. He's sweaty, flushed, laughing at something Trocheck said, and you hate that he still manages to look stupidly good even when he smells like a locker room. That was almost impossible. But there was him.

Strangely handsome.

You approach with your phone already recording.

"Okay, last try," you say, holding it up. "Three questions. Answer them like a professional, and I'll buy you lunch."

His head tilts. "You're bribing me?"

"I'm desperate." You have to say. 

He grins. "I'm in."

You hit record.

"What's one thing fans don't know about you?"

He pauses, thoughtful. Then: "I can play the piano. Badly."

You raise an eyebrow. "Seriously?" That could never be serious. He was… Matt Rempe! Matt didn't do cute things. Right?

He shrugs. "A couple of years of lessons when I was a kid. I learned the Titanic song for a girl once. It didn't work."

You laugh — genuinely — and his eyes flicker like he wasn't expecting that sound from you.

"Next question," you say, voice a little softer. "What's something you'd be doing if you weren't playing hockey?"

He hums. "Probably teaching gym class in Saskatoon."

"Saskatoon?"

"Big dreams."

You smile. "Last one. What's your favorite thing about game day?"

There's no pause this time. "The crowd," he says, voice lower now. "It's loud. Messy. Feels like everything matters."

You stop recording—something in the air shifts. You clear your throat. "That was… good. Thank you."

"No problem," he says, and for once, there's no teasing in his tone.

You turn to walk away, grabbing your bag on the floor and ready to go.

"Hey," he calls after you.

You glance back.

He's still sitting, lacing up his shoes now, but his gaze is steady. "You're good at this. The media stuff. The wrangling thing."

You blink. "Thanks."

He grins. "Still gonna call you PR girl, though."

You roll your eyes. But you're smiling as you walk away.

Later that night, Richard texts you.

"Great clip, Y/N! You're onto something. Keep pushing him. Let's make this work.

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard, and then tuck it away without replying. Because for the first time since you took this job, you're not just thinking about how to manage Matt Rempe's image.

You're thinking about him.

The fact that he didn't seem to be the monster that he looked like.

And that? That might be the real problem.

[...]

You don't hear from him for three days.

This is annoying because, technically, you're the one who's supposed to reach out first. You're the one scheduling clips, organizing posts, coordinating with digital, and trying to make the Rangers' wildest rookie seem less like a cryptid who wandered onto the ice by accident and more like an actual human being. But for some reason, ever since that final clip on the edge of the rink — the piano thing, the Saskatoon thing, the look — you've hesitated to press send.

And, of course, that's when your boss decides to show up at your desk.

"Big idea," Richard says, clapping his hands together like you're not drinking coffee out of a chipped Stanley cup and scrolling through Matt's Instagram to see if he's posted another blurry picture of his feet.

You blink. "That's terrifying."

"You and Rempe," he says, ignoring you, "are going off-site."

You stare. "I'm sorry?"

"Media day. But casual. The internet loves authenticity. We're setting up a video shoot in Brooklyn — an ice cream truck, a dog rescue, and a couple of kids from the youth hockey league. You'll be shadowing."

You narrow your eyes. "You want me on camera?"

"No," he says with a dismissive wave. "But you'll be there. And people will see you. Which, frankly, isn't the worst thing. You're sharp. You're organized. You're good with him. I wouldn't mind the internet knowing who's behind his PR glow-up."

You hesitate.

Because it's one thing to be near Matt, it's another to be next to him — under the same lens, the same spotlight, the same curated chaos.

"I'm not trying to be a face of anything," you say carefully.

Richard shrugs. "You're not. But proximity sells. Especially when he looks at you the way he does."

You freeze. "Excuse me?" What was he even talking about?

He arches a brow. "You haven't noticed? He does everything you say to him to do it."

You have. And you don't want to talk about it.

"I'll book the car," you say, standing too fast. "If I'm going to survive a dog shoot with that man, I need caffeine and a sedative."

[...] 

The shoot is set on a quiet block in Williamsburg, just off the water. The ice cream truck is painted pale pink. The dogs are chaotic and too cute to be real. And Rempe — God help you — shows up in a navy blue beanie and a soft-looking hoodie that makes him look like the hot guy in a Hallmark movie who fixes antique clocks and only cries once.

You hate him.

"PR girl," he says as he approaches, a dog already climbing up his leg. "Didn't know you were making a cameo."

"It's not a cameo," you say, gently tugging the leash. "It's supervision."

He smirks. "You love babysitting me."

You give him a flat look. "You ate chalk last week because you thought it was candy."

"It was pastel!" he protests. "Who makes candy that isn't edible?"

You open your mouth. Close it again.

"Point is," he adds, smiling widely, "I missed you."

Your stomach does a thing. It's a stupid, fluttery, PR-inappropriate thing.

"Try not to lick anything this time," you mutter.

The cameras start rolling.

It's chaos — but good chaos. Matt holds a Chihuahua in one hand and a vanilla cone in the other. The kids from the hockey league swarm him like he's a giant jungle gym. At one point, someone throws a tennis ball, and four dogs and Matt all chase after it.

You stay off to the side, managing the handlers, the photographer, the digital team — but you notice the way he keeps glancing over at you between takes like he's checking if you're still there.

Like you matter.

And that's… dangerous.

Because this isn't a friendship.

This isn't flirting.

This is work.

And getting close to a player — even Rempe, who seems incapable of subtlety — is not part of your job description.

But then it happens.

You're crouching to help one of the kids tie a skate when someone calls Matt's name, and he turns too fast, tripping over a leash, a cone, and his own ridiculously long legs.

You don't see it coming until he crashes into you.

You land on the sidewalk hard.

And he lands on you.

Full body. Heavy. Hands braced on either side of your head, face inches from yours, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon.

You blink up at him.

He doesn't move.

And neither do you.

Somewhere, a camera clicks.

You hear laughter. Whistles. Someone yells, "GET A ROOM!"

And suddenly — so suddenly — it's not funny at all.

Because his eyes are on yours.

And nothing is teasing in them this time.

"Sorry," he breathes, voice rough.

You shake your head, barely. "It's… okay."

He doesn't move.

You don't ask him to.

[...] 

The clip goes viral within three hours.

You're not even back in Manhattan when your phone starts vibrating like it's possessed. The Rangers account posts it with the caption: "Just two people, falling for each other." You want to scream. Or throw up—or both.

By the time you return to your desk, the clip has garnered 2.1 million views, and you are trending.

Not him.

You.

"I'm going to die," you whisper, staring at the screen.

Richard walks by and casually says, "You're welcome."

You turn to him, horrified. "You planned this?"

He shrugs. "Not the fall. But I'm not mad at the result."

"It's inappropriate," you snap. "He's a player. I'm staff."

"You're not kissing him," he says, then pauses. "Yet."

You shoot to your feet. "Richard—"

"Relax," he says, raising both hands. "Just keep it clean. And keep it going. The internet's obsessed. He's finally marketable."

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

Because you know he's right.

And that's what terrifies you most.

That night, your phone buzzes with a message.

Matt Rempe: Still thinking about the fall?

You stare at it.

Please ignore it.

Try to sleep.

Fail.

Because you are thinking about it.

And the worst part?

You don't want to stop.

[...]

You're barely through the doors when you feel him watching you.

The charity gala is precisely the kind of thing you dread — overly formal, stuffed with people who care more about who'sseen supporting the youth hockey program than actually donating to it. You've been prepping for weeks, building storyboards, syncing schedules, and coordinating influencer coverage. But nothing prepared you for what Matt Rempe looks like in a suit.

Or, more specifically, what it feels like when he sees you in a dress.

Because the second your heels hit the marble floor, his eyes find you. And they don't leave.

Not when he's talking to the GM. Not when the team photographer calls for group shots. Not even when one of the donors pats him on the back and says something about "rising stars" and "young blood."

You try to pretend you don't notice.

You fail.

"What are you even doing here?" he murmurs when he finally sidles up next to you at the champagne bar, voice low enough that it makes you shiver. "I thought PR types hated events like this."

"I do," you reply coolly, adjusting your badge. "But someone has to make sure you don't go viral for eating all the hors d'oeuvres."

He grins. "I only did that once."

You arch a brow. "You stole a shrimp tower."

"I rescued it."

"From a child."

"She didn't even like seafood!"

You roll your eyes and sip your champagne.

"You look nice," he adds after a beat. It's casual, almost throwaway — but the way he says it makes something hot bloom low in your stomach.

You glance over at him. "Thanks."

"Like, really nice."

You narrow your eyes. "Are you flirting with me at a team-sponsored event?"

He shrugs. "I flirt with you everywhere."

You nearly choked on your drink.

The situation worsens when the press arrives.

There's a freelance reporter — tall, polished, confident — who sidles up to you near the silent auction table and immediately starts laying it on thick.

"You handle the Rangers' social?" he asks, leaning a little too close. "That explains the tone shift. It's gotten sharper. Funnier."

You shrug modestly. "We're trying new things."

"Like the Rempe stuff," he says, smirking. "Smart angle. He's the goofy rookie with a PR handler who dislikes him. It's got tension."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

He grins. "It's obvious. You're always trying not to smile in the videos. Feels kind of charged."

You step back, heart racing. "We're professionals."

"Sure," he says, clearly not buying it. "But the internet's rooting for you. I mean, the fall? The way he looks at you? Come on."

You're about to snap when a hand lands on your waist.

And not just any hand.

Matt.

"You okay?" he says, looking only at you. His voice is low. Firm. Different.

You nod.

The reporter raises an eyebrow, amused. "Speak of the devil."

"Funny," Matt says, not smiling. "Didn't realize this was an interrogation."

"Just a conversation," the guy replies, unbothered. "But maybe I'll circle back."

He walks away. You exhale.

Matt doesn't move his hand.

"You didn't have to do that," you say, avoiding his gaze.

"I know," he says softly. "But I wanted to."

You finally look at him, and what you see makes your stomach flip.

Because for the first time, it feels like the flirting isn't a joke.

It's something else.

Something real.

You don't leave together. You don't even talk much after that. But when the storm hits Manhattan just past midnight and all the bridges close, you realize two things.

One: You're stuck in the gala hotel.

And two: so is Matt.

You find him in the lobby, hair damp, jacket slung over one shoulder.

"We're snowed in," you announce, stating the obvious.

He looks up. "Yeah."

"We're not allowed to leave."

"I noticed."

You hesitate. Then: "Do you have a room?"

He nods slowly. "Do you?"

You do. But it's a double. And it's cold. And you're too wired to sleep.

So when he says, "Wanna hang out until the power comes back?" — you nod.

And follow him upstairs.

His room is dim, lit only by the warm yellow glow of a desk lamp. He pulls off his jacket and throws it on the bed. You hover awkwardly by the window, watching the snow swirl.

"I can sleep on the chair," he says.

You turn. "What?"

He nods toward the armchair by the TV. "If it comes to that."

"I'm not staying the night."

He grins. "Sure you're not."

You scowl, but your cheeks go warm.

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. For a moment, the only sound is the wind outside and your heartbeat inside your ears.

"I meant it, by the way," he says quietly. "What I said earlier."

You blink. "Which part?"

"You look nice. And that I missed you."

Something in your chest tightens.

"You don't even know me," you whisper.

He stands.

Steps closer.

"I know you don't let people in easily," he says. "I know you're too smart for half the idiots in this building. I know you roll your eyes when you're flustered. And I know the only reason you're pretending not to like me is because you think it's safer that way."

Your breath catches.

"I'm not trying to make this complicated," he adds. "But it already is. So, if you want me to back off, say the word. But if you don't…"

He doesn't finish, and you don't need him to. Because you're already stepping forward, and for one heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Then, suddenly — finally — he does.

And the distance between you disappears.

[...]

You wake to the sound of silence.

Not the sterile kind that fills your apartment after a long day. This is something softer. Sleep-heavy. Still. The type of quiet you don't notice until you've been wrapped in it for a while.

Your eyes blink open slowly. The room is pale, with morning light filtering through thick snow-draped curtains. For a second, you're disoriented. This isn't your bed. This isn't even your hotel room. It's—

Your head turns.

Matt.

He's on the other side of the bed, turned slightly toward you, one arm bent beneath the pillow, lashes casting faint shadows on his cheek. His mouth is parted just a little. His hair's a mess — flattened on one side, ruffled on the other — and his long legs are tangled in the comforter.

He looks peaceful.

You don't.

Because the second your brain catches up, everything from last night crashes over you like a wave.

The gala. The flirting. The hand on your waist. The room. The way he looked at you like you were the only person on the planet.

You didn't sleep together — not in that way.

But you'd shared a bed.

And the intimacy of it somehow feels more dangerous than anything physical ever could.

You sit up slowly, carefully, trying not to disturb him. Your feet hit the carpet. You tiptoe to the window, and the snow hasn't let up. Manhattan is a postcard in grayscale — all blurred edges and icy stillness. You let your forehead rest against the cold glass.

You should leave. You should go back to your room, drink the bad hotel coffee, and put all of this into a box labeled 'mistake.' But then you hear the sheets shift.

You turn.

"Hey."

Matt's voice is low and rough from sleep. He squints at you, then rubs a hand over his face. "You okay?"

You nod. "Yeah. I just… woke up early."

He sits up, the blanket pooling at his waist. His bare chest is broad and freckled and unfairly distracting. He stretches his arms over his head with a groan.

"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to take over the whole bed."

"You didn't."

He looks at you for a moment.

And just like last night — and the night before that, and every time he's gotten too close — it feels like the air shifts.

He runs a hand through his hair. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

You roll your eyes, but you're too tired to fight him. "I just… don't know what this is."

His expression softens. "It doesn't have to be anything. Not yet."

You stare at him. "But it feels like something."

"Yeah," he says. "It does."

There's a long pause.

And then, quietly: "I'm not gonna push you. I know this is complicated. Work, and optics, and… us. But I meant what I said last night."

You feel your heart climb slowly into your throat.

"I like you," he says.

And somehow, that's the most terrifying thing of all.

Later that day, the snow starts to melt, but your sense of control doesn't.

You'd made it back to your room. Showered. Dressed and gathered yourself like armor. You even slipped Matt a sheepish "thanks for not kicking me out" text before heading back to the arena.

By the time you're at your desk, you've almost convinced yourself that maybe—maybe—no one will find out.

And then it happens. You're staring at your inbox when your phone buzzes once.

Tracy (Social team)

— omg, have you seen this???

Attached is a video. Shaky, dimly lit. Filmed from across the hotel lobby.

You hit play.

And freeze.

It's you and Matt from last night. You're standing too close. He's got his hand on your lower back. You're laughing—not professionally, not distantly. Softly. Like you're used to him touching you like that.

Which you're not.

But the video doesn't care about the truth.

It ends with the two of you stepping into the elevator. Alone.

Tracy

— girl, it's going viral on hockey Twitter

— "Enemies to lovers, snowed-in edition" LMAO

Your blood turns to ice. Seconds later, your office door opens.

Your boss steps in — tablet in hand, expression unreadable.

"We need to talk," she says.

[...] 

The meeting isn't a disaster. But it's close.

They don't accuse you of anything directly. Just ask a lot of questions — about professionalism, boundaries, and player access. You answer carefully, voice even, nails digging crescents into your palm under the table.

You explain that nothing inappropriate happened. You explain that you were snowed in. You explain that, yes, maybe there's chemistry, but you've done nothing to compromise the integrity of your role.

They don't say you're fired. But they do say this:

"We need to get ahead of it."

This is how you end up in Matt's apartment that evening, pacing in front of his kitchen island while he watches you like you're about to detonate.

"So let me get this straight," he says. "They want us to pretend we're dating. To explain the video."

You nod. "Just for a few weeks. Until the story cools down."

He blinks. "But we're not dating."

"Obviously."

"Yet," he mutters.

You pretend not to hear him.

He leans against the counter. "So what's the plan? Just hold hands at games and pretend we're each other's favorite people?"

You give him a look. "You already are my least favorite person. That part will be easy."

He grins. "You sure about that?"

You don't answer.

Because you're no longer sure about anything.

Except for this: the more time you spend with Matt Rempe, the harder it's getting to remember what you're supposed to be pretending.

[...]

It starts with your hand in his.

Not for any real reason — not at first. Just that you're getting out of the Uber together, and there are photographers outside the foundation gala venue, and Matt turns to you with a look like Ready? And you, despite every nerve screaming otherwise, nod back.

And then he takes your hand.

And doesn't let go.

The sidewalk is slick with leftover snowmelt. The cameras start flashing as soon as the two of you step into the light. You know, the moment the shutter clicks that, it'll be everywhere by morning.

Rempe. And the team's media manager. Hand in hand.

You tell yourself it's a strategy. Optics. It's a clean narrative.

But that doesn't explain the warmth of his palm against yours. Or the way his thumb brushes yours when he thinks no one's looking.

It doesn't explain why your heart stutters when he leans in to whisper in your ear.

"You okay?"

You glance up. He's in a suit. Navy. Perfectly fitted. A tie that matches your dress — coordinated because the PR team insisted you look "believably coupled." He smells like cedarwood and sharp winter air and something distinctly Matt.

"Yeah," you breathe. "Just a little overwhelmed."

He squeezes your hand gently. "You look beautiful."

You blink. That wasn't part of the script.

"Thanks," you say because it's the only thing you can think of that won't give you away completely.

The event itself is a blur.

There are sponsors and speeches and passed hors d'oeuvres, and every time you drift more than a foot from Matt, someone catches your eye with a knowing look. You're suddenly no longer the quiet girl behind the camera or the press release. You're his date.

You.

The most frustrating man you've ever met is now holding open doors for you, getting you champagne, and resting his hand on the small of your back like it's always belonged there.

You're too busy pretending to be in love to realize how natural it feels.

Until the photo.

It's taken near the end of the night against a branded backdrop. One of the foundation's social team members calls you both over.

"You two look amazing," she says. "Give us something sweet. Come on — just one for the team!"

You freeze.

Matt doesn't.

Without hesitation, he steps behind you, hands resting lightly on your waist. You tense as he leans in, but instead of kissing your cheek like you expect, he whispers into your hair.

"This okay?"

Your throat is dry. "Yeah."

You don't look at the camera. You feel him smile against your temple.

Later, you see the photo.

It's devastating.

You're tucked into his chest, both of you slightly out of focus behind a shimmer of falling snow. He's looking at you like you hung the stars. You're looking at nothing — stunned, maybe, by how easy it is to forget what's real.

Or by how badly you want it to be.

Later in his apartment, you're barefoot in his kitchen, holding a glass of water as if it might anchor you. The dress is off. His tie is draped on the couch. And neither of you has said a word in fifteen minutes.

It's not awkward. It's not quite comfortable, either. It's something else — the space between rehearsed affection and something you can't name yet.

Matt breaks the silence first.

"You were amazing tonight."

You glance over your shoulder. "So were you."

He leans against the doorframe. "I didn't hate pretending."

You look away. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Say things like that. It's not fair."

He doesn't move. "It's not pretend for me."

Your breath catches.

"Matt…"

He steps closer, slowly, as if you're something fragile. "I don't care about the cameras. Or the stories. Or what anyone thinks. I just… I like being with you even when we're arguing. Even when you glare at me like I'm the worst person alive."

"You are," you whisper, but your voice is trembling.

He smiles. "Then I guess I'm your problem."

His hand brushes your arm. You close your eyes. "Say something," he says.

You turn to face him. And for once, you don't have anything to say.

So you kiss him.

It's not fireworks or slow-motion magic. It's messy, honest, and a little desperate. It's like you've been holding it back for too long and finally let it slip through the cracks. He kisses you back like he's been waiting. One hand at your waist. The other is in your hair. He kisses you like he's not acting anymore.

Because he isn't.

Neither are you.

When you break apart, he doesn't say anything. 

You don't know how long you stand there, forehead to forehead, letting the silence hum between you like it's trying to say something neither of you can.

Your lips still tingle. Your heart won't settle. Matt's breath ghosts across your skin, and suddenly, the space between pretending and something real disappears completely.

He's the one who leans in again, and this time, you don't hesitate.

You kiss him like you mean it now. No script. No audience. Just you and him in his dimly lit kitchen, your dress hanging off a chair, his tie forgotten, and the tension that's been building for weeks finally breaking open.

His mouth is soft but hungry like he's trying to memorize every part of this. Of you.

You drop the water glass on the counter without looking. It lands with a soft clink that neither of you notices. All you feel are his hands — one curling around your waist, the other sliding up your back, fingers splaying across your spine like he needs to keep you close or he might lose you.

You press into him without thinking.

Your body fits against his like it's meant to. He's tall — too tall — and you're always a little aware of it, but here, now, it doesn't matter. You like the way you have to tiptoe to meet his mouth. You want him to bend to reach you as if it's second nature.

His hands skim the edge of your ribs.

You gasp — barely — and feel him pause.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are heavy, his jaw clenched, and he's breathing like it's taking everything in him to stay in place.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice low, rough around the edges.

You nod.

Then, because you want to be sure he knows, you say, "Yeah. It's more than okay."

The smile that pulls at his mouth is crooked and boyish, a little stunned as if he can't believe this is happening. You can't, either.

His lips find yours again, more deliberate now. He kisses like he thinks this might be the last time — like he doesn't want to waste a second of it. The kitchen counter digs into your hip. Your hands slip under the hem of his button-down. His skin is warm and solid, and he shudders when your fingertips drag across his stomach.

You feel him tense.

Then he pulls away, just barely, and looks at you. Not down at your mouth or your body, at you.

"Do you wanna go to my room?"

It's not rushed. Not cocky. Just quiet. Honest.

You could say no. You know he'd back off in an instant. But you also know this isn't just about tonight. Not really. It's about all the almosts. All the things you haven't let yourself want until now. 

You reach up, slide your hand into his hair, and whisper, "Yeah."

He kisses you like thank you.

He doesn't rush.

That's the first thing that surprises you.

For a guy who usually barrels into everything like he's too big for the world — too loud, too impulsive, too much — Matt is soft here. Careful. Patient.

He shoves you backward until your spine hits the door, and you don't even flinch — your fingers already tugging at the collar of his shirt, frantic to get him bare. But he's faster.

Matt grabs your wrists with one hand and pins them over your head, holding them there like it's nothing. You gasp, breath catching in your throat.

You step into his room and barely have time to take in the simple, masculine chaos of it — dark sheets, one lamp on, a worn Rangers hoodie on the back of the chair — before he turns to face you.

And then you're kissing again. But this time, it's deeper. Messier.

His mouth slants over yours with a hunger that's been simmering for weeks. You feel it in the way he breathes, in the way he fists the back of your dress and pulls you in like he's starving.

Your hands go to his chest, then lower, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, yanking it out of his pants. His skin is warm under your palms, a mix of hard muscle and softness in all the places you had imagined.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and tosses you on the bed. Your back bounces against the mattress, legs falling open without hesitation. He stares down at you — messy, panting, wet — like he's starving and just found his fucking feast.

You groan against his mouth when he bites your bottom lip.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw tight, voice low and wrecked:

"Tell me to stop, and I will."

"I don't want you to," you breathe, and then he's on you again.

You feel it in the way his hands finally touch you, like he means it — one sliding up the back of your thigh, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. And then, he's kissing down your neck, sucking marks into the skin like he's claiming you.

"Fuck," he mutters into your collarbone, voice thick. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

You do it because you've wanted it, too.

You moan when his hands tug at the zipper on your dress, and he pauses, just for a second, to look at you again.

"You sure?"

Your answer is a breathless "Yes. Matt. Please."

He swears under his breath as the dress hits the floor. And when his eyes rake over you — bare skin, underwear, all of you laid out and open in front of him — his breath catches like he's never seen anything so fucking perfect in his life.

"Jesus," he says, stepping closer. "You're gonna ruin me."

You tug him toward you by the waistband of his pants.

"Then let me."

His kiss is punishing. Teeth. Tongue. Possession.

"Fuck, I knew you'd be like this," he growls, mouth dragging down your neck. "All bratty and loud until I get my hands on you."

"Matt—" you whimper.

He smirks darkly. "Still got something to say, baby?"

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and tosses you on the bed. Your back bounces against the mattress, legs falling open without hesitation. He stares down at you — messy, panting, wet — like he's starving and just found his fucking feast.

"Take that shit off," he says, voice low. "Now."

You scramble to obey, peeling off your top. You're left in nothing but your panties — soaked through — and he groans when he sees the wet spot.

"Look at you," he mutters, dropping his jeans. His cock springs out, thick and hard and already leaking. "You're fuckin' dripping for me, and I haven't even touched you yet."

Your mouth goes dry.

He kneels between your legs and drags your panties down with one hand, the other already sliding up your inner thigh. His fingers brush over your slit, and his grin turns cruel.

"This wet for me already?" he says, pushing two fingers in without warning.

You cry out, hips jerking — but he doesn't slow down.

Matt pumps them hard, deep, curling them inside you like he's trying to make you scream. Your hands fist the sheets. He watches every twitch of your body like a man possessed.

"Fuckin' knew it," he mutters. "Knew you'd take my fingers so pretty. Bet your pussy's even better."

You're already spiraling, moaning, back-arching. But right before you come, he pulls his fingers out.

"No—Matt—!"

He grabs your jaw with his wet hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips part.

"Open."

You do without thinking, and he shoves his fingers into your mouth.

"Taste yourself."

You moan around him, licking eagerly, and his eyes roll back like he's losing it.

"Jesus Christ."

He jerks your legs wider and lines up his cock without warning — not even grabbing a condom. And for a second, you blink.

"Wait—Matt—"

He pauses, eyes flashing. "You on the pill?"

You nod, barely able to breathe. "Yes."

"Good," he mutters. "Because I'm not fucking pulling out."

And then he slams into you.

You scream — not from pain, but from the stretch, the force, the overwhelming fullness. He's big, but more than that, he's brutal. He doesn't give you time to adjust. Don't ask if you're okay. He just fucks into you like he owns you.

"God, yes—fuck—Matt—"

"You like that?" he pants, one hand grabbing your hip so tight you'll feel it tomorrow. "Like getting your cunt ruined by me?"

You can't even speak. You nod, crying out with every thrust.

He fucks you hard and fast, grinding so deep your legs go numb. His hips smack into yours, the headboard slamming the wall in rhythm. Your nails rake down his back, your moans getting louder, rougher.

He growls, low and primal.

"Say it," he snaps. "Say whose pussy this is."

"Yours," you whimper. "Yours, Matt—!"

"Say my fucking name when I fuck you."

"Matt—fuck—Matt—please—!"

You're seconds from falling apart when—

Your phone rings.

Shrill. Loud. The vibration buzzed across the nightstand. You freeze. Matt doesn't stop. He grins and leans down, biting your lip as he grinds in deeper.

"Answer it."

"What—?"

He thrusts again, harder.

"Fucking answer it."

You fumble for the phone with shaking hands, your vision going blurry from pleasure. The screen flashes:

"Richard (Office)"

Your boss.  You look at Matt, panic rising.

He slows but stays deep inside you, not backing off an inch. "Put it on speaker," he orders.

"Matt—"

"You wanna come, baby?" he breathes against your neck. "Then you're gonna answer it. While I fuck you."

You're soaked, trembling, lightheaded from the way he fills you — and you know you'll say yes to anything he says—your thumb slides over the screen.

"Hello?"

Richard's voice comes through, sharp and tired. "I've been trying to reach you for the past hour. We have a problem with the roster for tomorrow—"

Matt thrusts deep. You gasp.

Frank pauses. "Are you—okay?"

You force a breath. "Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. I—uh—was asleep."

Matt fucks into you again — hard — and you bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

Frank sighs. "We need you to resend the updated sponsor deck tonight. Can you handle that or not?"

Matt grabs your throat, not choking, just holding you there, and you can barely think.

"I—yes," you stammer, breath hitching. "I'll send it in twenty."

"Good."

He hangs up.

Matt doesn't even let the call finish clicking off before he pulls out and flips you over like you're nothing, dragging your hips back until your face is pressed into the sheets and your ass is in the air.

"Twenty minutes," he growls, lining up again. "Guess I better make this quick."

He slams into you from behind, and you swear you see stars.

You can't even breathe. He's fucking you like an animal now, grip bruising, pace vicious, filthy praise spilling from his mouth.

"Such a fuckin' good girl," he pants. "Letting me use you while your boss is on the phone. Letting me ruin your fucking cunt. You love it, don't you?"

"Yes—Matt—fuck yes—!"

Your orgasm hits so hard that your vision goes black.

You scream his name, your whole body shaking, and he doesn't stop — he keeps going until you're sobbing, overstimulating, and twitching. And then he comes.

With a growl, Matt slams into you and stills, cock pulsing deep inside, filling you up. He stays there, breath heavy on your neck, hands gripping your hips like he never wants to let go.

Neither do you.

You don't rush out of Matt's room. You don't bolt for the door like you're trying to escape some mistake because this wasn't a mistake. Not even close.

Instead, you lie there for a long moment, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his steady breaths. The bed dips where he's still half on top of you, warm and heavy, his fingers tracing lazy, featherlight patterns along your spine as if memorizing every inch of your skin.

The silence between you feels like an electric current — thick, potent, and humming louder than any words could be. It's not awkward. It's not uncertain. It's just this — two people tangled in a moment that's theirs and theirs alone.

You lift your head to look at him, the way the soft light casts shadows over his jaw, the slight curl of his mouth when he catches your gaze. His eyes—dark, raw, unguarded—hold a kind of fire that makes your stomach flutter and ache all at once.

"Not running," he says quietly, his voice low and rough from what you just did to each other.

You smile, breathless. "No. Not running."

He presses a kiss to your temple, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking gently. It's a touch so different from the roughness before, soft and careful, like he's holding something precious — you.

You close your eyes and lean into it.

For a while, you stay there, wrapped up in the aftershocks of everything that happened. The way his skin feels against yours, the lingering heat in your veins, the slow fade of that wild, rough hunger giving way to a quiet, intimate calm.

Matt's lips find yours again, softer now, almost hesitant, like he's discovering a new language. You melt against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there's no space left between you.

"You good?" he asks after a moment, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod. "Yeah. Better than good."

He grins that crooked, dangerous grin that made your knees weak earlier. "Good. 'Cause this?" He gestures between the two of you, the messy sheets, the way your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, finally found. "This isn't a one-time thing."

You laugh softly, breath hitching. "I was hoping you'd say that."

He sits back just enough to look at you properly, eyes sharp but warm. "I mean it. You're not just some girl I fucked and forgot about. You're mine"

You feel that. The weight of it. The promise wrapped in those words.

"Neither are you," you admit, heart pounding with how real it all feels.

Matt reaches over to the bedside table, grabs his shirt, and starts pulling it on without a word. You follow suit, slowly slipping back into your clothes, still savoring the lingering heat between your legs, the ache that's both delicious and familiar now.

As you stand to leave, Matt catches your wrist, tugging you back down beside him.

"Wait," he says, voice low and serious.

You look at him, curious. He leans in close, so close you can feel his breath against your skin.

"I want you. Not just tonight." His hand tightens slightly on your wrist. "More. You get that? I want you since the first time I saw you."

You nod again, the words caught in your throat.

"Good."

And with that, he presses a rough kiss to your neck, then lets you go. You step out into the hallway, the cool air hitting your skin like a shock after the heat of his room. You don't look back.

Because you don't have to, Matt Rempe just made it very clear — you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

[elryuse]

Her Latest Addiction Pt.6

Ryujin X Male Reader

Tags : Teasing, Mischievous Ryujin, Dirty Talking, Blowjobs, Handjobs, Public

Words : 4,726 Words

A Continuation Of Her Latest Addiciton Pt.5 & A Lovely Commision Work For My Friend @Pizza_anon From Ko-Fi. Hope Y'all Enjoyed the Story.

The drive to Ryujin’s hometown was a long one, but the air between us was electric. We’d barely been in the car for an hour, and already she was up to her usual mischief. Her hand rested lightly on my thigh, her fingers tracing idle patterns that made it impossible to focus on the road. I shot her a warning look, but she just smirked, her eyes glinting with that familiar playful defiance.

“Eyes on the road, Mr. President,” she teased, her voice low and husky. “Wouldn’t want you getting us into an accident.”

“Then maybe you should keep your hands to yourself,” I retorted, though my voice lacked any real bite. God, she knew exactly how to push my buttons.

She leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. “But what if I don’t want to?”

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but I kept my gaze fixed on the highway ahead. “Ryujin…”

She laughed softly, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Relax, baby. We’ve got all summer. I’m just warming up.”

Warming up. Those two words alone were enough to make my heart race. What did she have planned?

By the time we pulled into her neighborhood, the tension between us was palpable. Her hometown was quaint, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else, and the streets were lined with cherry trees in full bloom. It was a stark contrast to the bustling campus life we were used to, but something about it felt… intimate.

Ryujin’s house was at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, a modest two-story home with a welcoming front porch. Her parents greeted us warmly, her mom pulling me into a tight hug and her dad clapping me on the back.

“It’s so good to finally meet you,” her mom said, her smile warm and genuine. “Ryujin’s told us so much about you.”

I glanced at Ryujin, who was grinning like the cat that got the cream. “All good things, I hope.”

Her mom laughed. “Of course! Though I’m sure there’s plenty she’s left out.”

Ryujin rolled her eyes. “Mom, stop embarrassing me.”

We spent the rest of the evening settling in, unpacking our things in the guest room that would be ours for the summer. As soon as the door closed behind us, Ryujin turned to me, her eyes dark with mischief.

“So,” she purred, stepping closer. “Just you and me. All summer long.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening. “Ryujin… your parents are right downstairs.”

She smirked, her fingers trailing up my chest. “They’re not paying attention. Besides, you’re not going to let something like that stop you, are you?”

I caught her wrist, my grip firm but gentle. “Behave.”

She pouted, her lower lip jutting out in that way that always made it impossibly hard to resist her. “You’re no fun.”

I leaned in, my voice a low murmur. “Oh, I’m plenty of fun. But we’ve got all summer, remember? No need to rush.”

Her eyes flickered with something—challenge, desire, maybe both. “Fine. But you’re going to owe me.”

I chuckled, releasing her wrist. “I’m sure I will.”

The days that followed were a strange mix of relaxation and tension. We spent our mornings exploring the town, visiting little cafes and shops, and afternoons lounging in the backyard under the shade of an old oak tree. But no matter where we were or what we were doing, there was always that undercurrent of something more, something simmering just beneath the surface.

It was during one of those lazy afternoons that Ryujin decided to test my limits. We were lounging on a blanket in the backyard, the sun casting dappled light through the leaves above. She was lying on her stomach, her chin propped on her hands, her eyes half-lidded as she watched me.

“You know,” she said, her voice casual but laced with something else, “I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?” I asked, though I had a feeling I already knew.

She grinned, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the blanket. “About how long it’s been since I’ve had you all to myself. No school, no students, no interruptions…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

She nodded, her gaze never leaving mine. “Mmhmm. And I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time to make up for lost time.”

My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my expression neutral. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

She laughed softly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Both.”

Before I could respond, she shifted, moving so that she was straddling my hips. Her hands rested on my chest, her fingers splayed against my shirt.

“Ryujin,” I warned, my voice low.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against my ear. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m just… teasing.”

Her words were punctuated by the lightest nip at my earlobe, and I couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through me.

“You’re playing with fire,” I murmured, my hands settling on her hips.

She smirked, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. “And you love it.”

I did. I couldn’t deny it. But I also knew where this was heading, and if we weren’t careful, we’d be caught in a very compromising position.

“Ryujin,” I said again, my voice firmer this time.

She sighed, but there was a glint of mischief in her eyes as she slid off me, lying back down on the blanket. “Fine. But don’t think I’m done with you.”

I chuckled, though my pulse was still racing. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the backyard in a warm golden glow, I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the summer had in store. With Ryujin, it was always something unpredictable.

And as her fingers brushed against mine, her touch light but deliberate, I knew one thing for certain: this was only the beginning.

The dining table was set with care, the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting through the air as you and Ryujin sat down, the atmosphere warm and inviting. Ryujin, ever the wild card, lounged casually in her seat, her head resting in your lap as she scrolled lazily through her phone. Her dark hair spilled over your thighs, and her presence was both comforting and electrifying. You ran your fingers through her silken strands absentmindedly, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket.

“You comfortable down there?” you teased, your voice low and soft.

She smirked, her eyes never leaving the screen. “Mhm. Best seat in the house.” Her tone was playful, but there was a glint of something else in her gaze—something that made your heart skip a beat.

Then, suddenly, she gasped, her body tensing in your lap. You froze mid-stroke, your hand halting in her hair. “What’s wrong?” you asked, concern lacing your voice.

She sat up abruptly, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. “They’re on their way home,” she said, her voice a mix of shock and excitement. Her eyes met yours, wide and unreadable.

“Who is?” you asked, though you already had an inkling.

“My family,” she clarified, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “They’re coming back. Like, now.”

Your heart leapt, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling in your chest. “That’s great,” you said, genuinely happy. But before you could process the news fully, Ryujin’s expression shifted, her smirk deepening. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “We’ve got maybe 20 minutes.”

Your breath hitched. “Ryujin…”

She didn’t let you finish. In one swift motion, she slid under the table, her face now level with your lap. Her hands rested on your thighs, her fingers lightly trailing up and down your inner legs, sending shivers up your spine. Her eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering, and you knew there was no stopping her.

“Ryujin, we can’t—” you started, but she cut you off with a low, throaty laugh.

“Oh, but we can,” she purred, her fingers curling over the hem of your pants. “And we will.”

Her touch was electric, the heat of her hands searing through the fabric. She unbuttoned your pants with practiced ease, her nails lightly scraping against your skin as she pulled the zipper down. You opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat as she leaned in, her breath hot against the sensitive skin of your abdomen.

“Shh,” she murmured, her voice a seductive whisper. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

Her lips brushed against the edge of your boxers, and you groaned, your hands gripping the edge of the table for support. Her fingers hooked into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose the hard length of your arousal. She glanced up at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of mischief and desire, before she licked her lips and leaned in closer.

The sound of the front door opening in the distance made your heart race, but Ryujin didn’t falter. If anything, she seemed to thrive on the risk, her movements growing more deliberate as she teased you with the tip of her tongue. Her hot breath against your skin sent jolts of pleasure through you, and you bit your lip hard to keep from moaning.

“Ryujin, they’re here,” you hissed, your voice strained.

She smirked, her lips curling wickedly. “So?” She didn’t stop, her tongue leaving a wet trail along your length as she took you fully into her mouth. Your hips bucked involuntarily, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay quiet.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the house, growing louder as her family approached the dining room. Ryujin’s pace quickened, her mouth working you with a skill that left you trembling. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, watching your every reaction with a satisfied gleam.

“Ryujin, we—oh god—” you choked out, your hands tangling in her hair as she took you deeper, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of your cock. The heat of her mouth, the way she sucked and teased, was driving you to the edge, and you could feel yourself losing control.

The footsteps were just outside the door now, the muffled voices of her family growing clearer. Ryujin didn’t stop, her movements unrelenting as she pushed you closer and closer to the brink. Just as the door creaked open, she pulled back, leaving you throbbing and on edge. She adjusted your pants with a sly smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief, before sliding back into her seat as if nothing had happened.

Her mother entered the room first, a warm smile on her kind face. “Oh, there you two are! I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

Ryujin grinned, her expression innocent. “Not at all, Mom. We were just waiting for you.” Her foot brushed against your leg under the table, and you had to fight to keep your composure.

Her father followed, his friendly demeanor putting you at ease—or at least trying to. “Good to see you again,” he said, clapping you on the shoulder. “Glad you could make it for dinner.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Thanks for having me.” Your voice was steady, though your heart was still racing from Ryujin’s little stunt.

As the meal began and the conversation flowed, Ryujin’s foot continued to trail along your leg, her touch light but deliberate. You shot her a warning look, but she only smirked, her eyes daring you to make a move. Her hand slid onto your thigh under the table, her fingers tracing circles that made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else.

“So,” her mother said, glancing between the two of you with a knowing smile, “how’s school been? Ryujin tells me you’re the student body president.”

You blinked, trying to gather your thoughts as Ryujin’s fingers inched higher. “Uh, yes. It’s been… challenging, but rewarding.”

Her father chuckled. “I bet. You’ve got your hands full with this one, don’t you?” he said, nodding toward Ryujin.

You laughed nervously, your grip tightening on your fork as Ryujin’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. “You could say that.”

Ryujin leaned back in her chair, her expression the picture of innocence. “What? I’m not that bad,” she said, her tone teasing. Her fingers brushed against your length, and you had to bite back a groan.

Her mother smiled warmly. “We’re just glad she’s happy. And it’s clear you make her happy.”

You nodded, your voice strained. “Thank you. I… try.”

Ryujin’s hand moved again, her touch growing bolder as she stroked you under the table. You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure as her family watched you with curious eyes. Her foot pressed against your calf, her touch insistent as she continued to tease you, her every movement designed to drive you mad.

“So,” her father said, leaning forward, “what are your plans after graduation?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Ryujin’s fingers curled around you, her thumb brushing against the sensitive tip. Your breath hitched, and you struggled to form a coherent thought. “I, uh…”

Ryujin leaned in, her voice sweet. “He’s thinking about grad school. Right, babe?” Her hand tightened ever so slightly, and you had to fight to keep from groaning.

“Right,” you managed, your voice tight. “Grad school.”

Her mother’s smile widened. “That’s wonderful! I’m sure you’ll do great.”

You nodded, your jaw clenched as Ryujin’s fingers moved faster, her touch relentless. Her eyes met yours, and there was a challenge in her gaze—a dare to see how long you could last before you completely lost control. Her thumb swirled around the sensitive head, and your hips jerked involuntarily, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Are you okay, dear?” her mother asked, her brow furrowing in concern.

You forced a smile, though your entire body was tense. “Fine. Just… a little warm.”

Ryujin’s smirk deepened, and her fingers tightened around you, her pace quickening. You gripped the edge of the table, your knuckles white as you tried to keep from groaning. Her foot pressed against your leg, her touch demanding as she drove you closer and closer to the edge.

The conversation continued around you, but you could barely focus, your entire world reduced to Ryujin’s hand moving under the table. Her fingers were relentless, her touch maddening, and you could feel the pressure building inside you, threatening to explode. Just as you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Ryujin leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Don’t you dare make a sound.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, and you clenched your jaw, your entire body trembling as she brought you to the brink. Her fingers moved faster, her touch unrelenting, and you could feel yourself losing control. The pressure built, and then.

As soon as her parents disappeared into the kitchen, Ryujin’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a firmness that sent a jolt of electricity through you. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, and yanked you to your feet. Her eyes were dark, hungry, and before you could even process what was happening, she had you pinned against the wall, her body pressing into yours with a fierce urgency.

“You’ve been teasing me all night,” she murmured, her voice low and dripping with desire. Her hands moved to your belt, fumbling with the buckle before she tore it open, her fingers sliding down to unzip your pants. Her breath was hot against your neck, her lips brushing your skin as she whispered, “I need you. Now.”

Her words sent a surge of heat through you, and you groaned, your hands gripping her hips as she ground against you. You could feel her arousal through her jeans, the wetness seeping through the fabric as she pressed herself against your hardening cock. Her movements were frantic, desperate, and you could tell she was just as wound up as you were.

“Ryujin,” you growled, your voice thick with need. “Your parents—”

“Fuck my parents,” she interrupted, her teeth grazing your earlobe as she spoke. “I don’t care if they walk in. I need you to fuck me. Right here. Right now.”

Her words were like a match to gasoline, igniting the fire that had been smoldering inside you all evening. You grabbed her by the waist, lifting her easily as she wrapped her legs around your hips. Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you into a searing kiss as you carried her across the room, pressing her back against the wall.

She moaned into your mouth, her tongue tangling with yours as she rocked her hips against you, her need palpable. You could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of her jeans, and it drove you wild. You needed to be inside her, to feel her tight, wet heat around you, to claim her in the most primal way possible.

With a growl, you broke the kiss, your hands moving to the button of her jeans. You ripped them open, shoving the fabric down her hips as she kicked them off, her panties following soon after. She was bare before you, her body trembling with anticipation as you freed yourself from the confines of your pants.

“God, you’re so wet,” you murmured, your fingers sliding between her legs to find her already soaked. She gasped, her hips bucking as you teased her, your fingers sliding through her folds before plunging inside her.

“Fuck, yes,” she moaned, her head falling back against the wall as you pumped your fingers in and out of her, her body clenching around you. “Please, baby, I need you. I need you to fuck me.”

Her words were like a drug, fueling your desire as you withdrew your fingers and lined yourself up with her entrance. You gripped her hips, holding her steady as you thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying yourself to the hilt. She cried out, her nails digging into your shoulders as you filled her completely, her walls stretching to accommodate you.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” you groaned, your hips snapping against hers as you began to move, setting a relentless pace. She clung to you, her legs tightening around your waist as you drove into her, each thrust sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you.

Ryujin’s moans filled the room, her voice rising with each thrust as you pounded into her, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing off the walls. Her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you into another desperate kiss as she rocked her hips against you, meeting your thrusts with equal fervor.

“Harder,” she gasped, breaking the kiss as her head fell back, her eyes rolling as you slammed into her. “Fuck me harder, baby. I need it. I need you to fuck me senseless.”

Her words spurred you on, and you tightened your grip on her hips, slamming into her with a force that had her crying out in pleasure. Her body quaked beneath you, her walls clenching around you as she teetered on the edge of orgasm.

“You like that?” you growled, your breath hot against her neck as you continued to pound into her. “You like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes,” she moaned, her voice trembling as she clung to you, her nails digging into your skin. “God, yes. Fuck, baby, I’m so close. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Her words were like a command, and you redoubled your efforts, driving into her with a brutality that had her screaming your name. Her body tightened around you, her orgasm crashing over her in waves as she came undone, her walls milking you as you continued to thrust into her.

“Fuck, Ryujin,” you groaned, your own release building as her body convulsed around you. You could feel it, the pressure coiling in your gut as you fucked her through her orgasm, her moans growing louder with each thrust.

“Come for me, baby,” she whispered, her voice hoarse as she clung to you, her nails raking down your back. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

Her words were all it took, and with a groan, you buried yourself deep inside her, your release exploding as you emptied yourself into her, your body shuddering with the force of your orgasm. Ryujin whimpered, her body trembling as she felt your warmth filling her, her own pleasure intensifying as you both rode out the waves of ecstasy together.

You stayed like that for a moment, your bodies pressed together as you struggled to catch your breath, the heat between you still crackling with intensity. Ryujin’s hands roamed over your back, her touch gentle as she traced the marks she’d left on your skin.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice soft but laced with possessiveness as she pressed a kiss to your neck. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the sound of footsteps approaching the dining room made your blood run cold. Ryujin’s eyes widened, and she quickly slid down your body, grabbing her jeans and yanking them up as you hurried to zip your pants, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I hope you saved room for dessert,” her mother’s voice called out, her footsteps growing closer as you both scrambled to compose yourselves.

Ryujin shot you a wicked grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear. “Round two later?” she whispered, her voice dripping with promise.

The dining room was quiet, save for the soft clinking of silverware against plates. Ryujin’s mother hummed a gentle tune as she brought out a tray of dessert, her warm smile lighting up the room. “I made your favorite,” she said, setting a slice of chocolate cake in front of you. “I hope you’ve saved room.”

You managed a polite smile, though your mind was elsewhere. The air between you and Ryujin crackled with unspoken tension, her foot grazing yours beneath the table. You shot her a glance, but she only smirked, her eyes never leaving yours as she took a deliberate bite of her cake. Her foot pressed harder against yours, sliding up your calf in a slow, deliberate motion.

“So, how’s campus life treating you both?” Ryujin’s father asked, his voice warm and conversational. He leaned back in his chair, his strong build relaxed as he sipped his coffee. “You’re still the student body president, right?”

You cleared your throat, forcing your attention away from Ryujin’s wandering foot. “Yes, sir. It’s been busy, but rewarding. Lots of projects this semester.”

“That’s great to hear,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “And Ryujin, you’ve been staying out of trouble, right?”

Ryujin flashed him a grin, her lips curving into that familiar, mischievous smirk. “Of course, Dad. I’m a model student now.” Her tone was light, but her foot traced a slow circle up your leg, her toes brushing against the inside of your thigh. You stiffened, clenching your fork a little tighter.

Her mother chuckled, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve been a handful for him,” she teased, her eyes twinkling. “But you two seem to balance each other out.”

If only she knew, you thought, your jaw tightening as Ryujin’s foot climbed higher, dangerously close to teasing the edge of your self-control. You shifted in your seat, trying to focus on the conversation, but her touch was relentless, a constant reminder of the unspoken promise she’d made earlier.

“Balance is key,” Ryujin said smoothly, her voice carrying a playful edge. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at you. “Right, babe?”

You met her gaze, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Something like that,” you replied, your voice steady despite the heat simmering beneath your skin.

Her mother beamed, clearly pleased. “Well, I’m just glad to see you both happy. And who knows, maybe one day we’ll be celebrating something even bigger,” she added with a wink.

Ryujin’s foot froze for a moment, her eyes widening slightly before she recovered with a laugh. “Mom, don’t start,” she said, though her cheeks tinted pink. Her foot resumed its exploration, this time sliding higher, her toes brushing against the growing bulge in your pants.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your grip on the fork tightening as you fought to keep your composure. Ryujin was playing a dangerous game, one that was increasingly difficult to ignore. Her eyes lingered on you, her smirk widening as she took another bite of cake, her lips wrapping around the fork in a way that was far too deliberate.

“So, any plans for the rest of the weekend?” Ryujin’s father asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Not much,” Ryujin replied, her voice smooth despite the tension she was creating. “Just relaxing, maybe exploring a bit. Right, babe?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “Yeah. Relaxing sounds good,” you managed, your voice slightly strained.

Her mother smiled, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “Well, don’t forget to enjoy yourselves. You both work so hard.”

Ryujin’s foot pressed harder, her toes teasing the seam of your pants as she leaned back in her chair, her expression innocent. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll make sure to enjoy every moment.”

The conversation continued, Ryujin’s parents chatting amiably about their plans for the weekend, but you could barely focus. Her foot was relentless, tracing patterns up your leg, her touch light but maddeningly effective. You shifted again, trying to subtly adjust yourself, but she only pressed harder, her smirk widening as she caught your discomfort.

Finally, dessert was finished, and Ryujin’s parents began clearing the table. “Why don’t you two relax in the living room?” her mother suggested. “We’ll take care of this.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Ryujin said, standing gracefully. She shot you a look, her eyes dark with promise, before heading toward the living room. You followed, your heart racing as you tried to keep your composure.

The moment you stepped into the living room, Ryujin turned to you, her back against the wall as she crossed her arms. “So,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “Enjoying dessert?”

You stepped closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re playing with fire, Ryujin.”

She tilted her head, her smirk widening. “Maybe I like the heat,” she countered, her eyes never leaving yours.

You moved closer, your hand resting on the wall beside her head as you leaned in. “Careful,” you warned, your voice low. “You might get burned.”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Promises, promises,” she murmured, her hands sliding up your chest.

Her touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine as you fought to keep your composure. “Ryujin,” you muttered, your voice strained. “Your parents—”

“Are in the kitchen,” she interrupted, her tone playful. “And we’re in here.” Her hands slid higher, her fingers tracing the edge of your collar as she leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding as her words sent a jolt of heat through you. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, your hands gripping her waist.

She laughed softly, her breath warm against your skin. “And yet, here you are,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “Still can’t resist me.”

You leaned in, your lips hovering just above hers. “Maybe I don’t want to,” you admitted, your voice low.

Her eyes sparkled with triumph as she closed the distance, her lips capturing yours in a searing kiss that left you breathless. Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as she deepened the kiss, her body pressed against yours in a way that made it impossible to think.

When she finally pulled away, her lips curved into a satisfied smirk. “Guess I’m not the only one who can’t resist,” she teased, her voice playful.

You groaned, your forehead resting against hers. “You’re going to be the death of me, Ryujin,” you muttered, though there was no real heat behind the words.

She laughed softly, her fingers tracing patterns on your chest. “Oh, I’m just getting started,” she murmured, her voice low and promising

.

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ rules . . . matt sturniolo

where . . . matt wants to treat you to one of your favorite pastimes; shopping. but when you show him the cutest lingerie set, he can't wait a moment before getting you into a changing room and showing you just how much he likes it

contains . . . smut, public sex, unprotected p in v, praising, slight mirror sex, sugar daddy!matt, sugar baby!reader, non-mentioned age gap, fluff at the end

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #3

Three hours. Three whole hours the two of you had spent shopping. That's it.

Well, to be fair, it was the beginning of summer, a need for new outfits and bathing suits, and as much as you loved shopping, Matt loved spending his money on you, showering you in anything you wanted. A shopping spree was the perfect date for today.

You'd already browsed swimwear along with dresses, getting yourself a few bikinis that already had Matt adjusting himself in his pants just thinking about you flaunting your tanned little body in them near his pool and fucking you before even letting you touch the water.

And even after saying you were good for the day, you just couldn't help yourself the moment you saw a lingerie story, dragging Matt into it with you like you had with all the others, making him hold your bags and any clothes you'd spotted on the way to go try them on.

"Oh my gosh! Matt! Look at how cute this one is!" You practically squealed, holding up a gorgeous baby blue lingerie set against your chest, the lace designs so beautifully intricate, you couldn't help but feel bad knowing Matt would tear it off of you within seconds if you actually got it.

His eyes looked up from his phone with a raised eyebrow, before they widened, a soft whistle leaving his lips as he stepped closer and brought a hand out to gently touch the set, the fabric so soft between his fingertips. "Shit, angel... That's fuckin' gorgeous," He breathed out, biting his bottom lip at the already forming thoughts of you wearing it.

"I think it'd look amazing with the sundress, don'tcha think?" You asked him with a giddy smile on your lips, and just those words had him nearly busting in his goddamn jeans like a hormonal teenager.

Changing room. He needed to find you a changing room now.

It didn't take long for that to happen, and it didn't take any longer for Matt to make sure the coast was clear before sneaking into the changing room with you, closing and locking the door the moment he stepped in.

You giggled as he snuck in, watching as he sat down as if an audience here to watch you, and as he encouraged you to start trying on your outfits, you didn't waste a second more before stripping out of your clothes.

You picked up the lingerie set, smiling at yourself through the mirror, before putting it on, the baby blue fabric looking absolutely delicious on your delicate skin, as if a meal prepared just for Matt to sink his teeth into. Then, you'd grabbed the sundress you'd had in one of the bags from one of the previous stores you'd been through earlier, slipping into the white, flowery fabric, the spaghetti straps showing off your shoulders and collarbone flawlessly.

"God I love this dress, I'm so happy we got it," You smiled as you twirled in it, watching the flowy skirt spin in front of the mirror, but as Matt's eyes stayed on you, he couldn't help the way pure and utter desire coursed through his body, fueling the tent in his pants that twitched and throbbed.

“There's a little thing I wanted to check out, angel,” He cooed before stepping up from his seat, a surprised squeak leaving your lips as his hands gripped at your hips through the sundress, his touch sending shivers up your spine as you leaned forward into the wall, your hands coming up to hold yourself against it.

“Matt…” You whimpered out, biting your soft, glossy lip as his hands slid to then grip your ass, before they slid down the backs of your thighs and tugged up the skirt of your sundress, lifting it up and over the panties of that lingerie set he’d gotten you to try on, which, thank fuckin’ god.

"Look so fuckin' pretty, making me get all worked up just watching you dress up for me," He purred in your ear, his hips slowly grinding against your plush ass. You whined softly at the action, looking back at him with pretty doe eyes and the cutest pout that had him nearly buckling at the knees.

"Gotta fuck this sweet pussy, angel, I can't help it," Matt groaned softly, a whimper leaving your lips at the loss of his hands on you, but the sound of his belt and zipper coming undone made up for that, making your panties soaked from excitement and slight anxiousness due to where you two were.

"Matt, we can't, we're in public. What if we get caught?" You protested, your tone holding hardly any true worry about if the two of you got caught or not.

"Then I guess you just have to be quiet, baby," Matt whispered into your ear from behind, nipping at your earlobe to make you shiver, and as you felt his fingers hook into the band of your panties before pulling them down, all of your words fell flat as if you'd never said them.

You shuddered at the air against your sopping entrance, before you felt Matt's fingers slowly run through your folds, gathering your juices on his fingertips before bringing them up to his lips, licking them clean with a soft, needy moan.

"Y' always taste so fuckin' good, angel. Making me addicted to this pussy," He chuckled, gripping at his thick, leaking cock whilst his other hand gripped your hip. He held you steady as he dragged his tip through your folds in a similar motion, mixing your leaking juices together before the head of his cock notched at your entrance, gently pushing in and earning a breathy moan from both of you.

"Fuuck, baby–" Matt groaned out as he slowly sheathed himself inside of you, holding himself back from cumming right on the spot at how warm and wet your sweet cunt felt around his thick cock, the way your walls clenched around him as a needy little whine left your lips.

He slowly started rocking his hips, eyes screwed shut with his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist so tightly, he was sure there’d be bruising in the same place by tomorrow. Just the thought of it made his possessiveness over you flare up.

You felt as he slid one of his hands up underneath your dress whilst his other held onto your hip, his fingers teasing over your skin before he cupped one of your breasts, palming it through the thin fabric of the lingerie bra you had on. His breathing was becoming harder against your skin, feeling as his teeth grazed your neck before biting at a sensitive spot that had you moaning out.

"M-Matt-" But your cry was muffled as quickly as it came out, his other hand now cupped over your mouth to keep you quiet, your head turning back to look at him with furrowed brows at the pleasure.

"What did I say, baby? You gotta follow the rules," He teased in your ear, his hips picking up speed as his hand slid back down from your breast to your hip, keeping you steady as your own hands clawed at the wall. "Be quiet."

Sloppy sounds emitted from your coupling, a noise you knew was probably almost as loud as your noises, but you willed yourself to believe it was hardly noticeable. You felt the way the tip of his cock reached deep inside you, making your thighs start to shake.

You turned your head to the side a bit, your eyes catching the mirror on the wall next to the two of you that you'd practically forgotten about. You watched the way Matt fucked you, nice and deep, his pace quickening and getting a little harder — a clear sign of his impending orgasm. The way your pretty sundress was raked up around your waist and your panties were down at your ankles.

You couldn't help the way you moaned loudly, albeit muffled by his palm, your eyes fluttering in ecstasy at the sight.

"Mmm– Mmff–" You whined behind Matt's hand, one of your hands moving from the wall to grip onto his arm, your legs starting to tremble as you felt that familiar burning sensation in your tummy, that pleasure building up more and more within you.

"Fuckin' shit– M' gonna cum, baby. You gonna cum with me?" He panted in your ear, grinning breathlessly at the way you frantically nodded you head, noticing your glossed over eyes and the way you were gripping onto him for dear life. "C'mon baby, give it to me. Give it to me, please, angel— Oh my god—"

Suddenly, you felt your orgasm hit you like a truck, your back arching beautifully, your nails digging into his skin and the wall, and your pussy gushing all over his cock. Your mind went fuzzy as you heard him groan before spilling his warm load into you, painting your walls with his seed as his hips rutted against you.

After a few more moments of riding out your highs and collecting as much as you could of yourselves, you felt as Matt released you mouth, before tugging your head towards him and capturing your lips in a passionate, deep kiss. The moment you parted, saliva connecting your lips before breaking, panting fell from both of you, chests rising and falling in near unison.

"So fuckin' pretty... prettiest little thing, even when your fucked out.." Matt murmured sweet nothings to you, making you weakly giggle as he peppered your cheeks and neck with kisses, anywhere he could press a kiss, he did.

"M' gonna buy you this, no ands, ifs, or buts," He explained, chuckling softly at your adorable giggles, his kisses brushing over your shoulders and the back of your neck. "Then we'll go get anything else you want. Anything, angel."

"M' done with shopping... wanna go home now..." You murmured back with a tired smile, clearly worn out not only from that amazing fuck, but also from the full day of shopping.

"Whatever you want, baby. We'll go home, get all cozy, and put on a movie. How's that sound?" He whispered softly into your ear, his voice so full of love and adoration for you.

"Do I get to pick the movie?" You asked with a little smile on your lips, earning a chuckle from Matt as he pecked your lips with a sweet kiss.

"Yeah, you can pick the movie, angel."

☆ : (they're actually so cute, wtf-) he totally had to pay the workers there for compensation. they were NOT quiet at all 😋 sorry if this one seemed a little rushed, I'm really exhausted from a 4 hour long grad party 😭 but I hope you guys enjoy!! <33

taglist 🏷️

[tojisteddy]

how do you think Simon would react to reader safewording? But in a context where reader broke many ‘rules’ or something? Like just made Simon actually really really pissed and he’s actually mad and so how do you think he would react to reader safewording then?

I love your work!! Lots of love 💗🫶

I think if blackcat!reader safeworded in a situation like this, I feel like there would be just a split second of hesitation and it’s nothing but a worried filled moment. He’s praying he didn’t push you off the deep end. But hes not the type to let that fester, you need reassurance above all else, to know that it’s okay. He’ll scoop you up, and give you a bath.

And there’s an uncomfortable silence between the two of you.

You try, but you fumble with your scratchy throat, “Simon- I-“

But he’s quiets you, not rough- softly, “Let’s talk in the mornin, yeah?”

It settles you both for the time being. It’s like a parent reprimanding their child though, you can’t help but feel the nervousness and the unease that’s floating above you. Despite how I write him as an asshole, he’s not the same asshole as he was in his 20s who’d probably be more of a dick and leave for a week without a word and then reappear and you’d just have to shrug it off. He’s gotten more patient as he’s gotten older, especially while he’s been with you, communicate in his gruff manner but learn the in and outs of you. What works and what doesn’t it, and he’d rather talk to you even with the fresh wound than to have to do this a week or then some down the line.

You’re not the same. It’s much easier to run, but Simon won’t let you, so if he wasn’t immediately on you the morning after, you’d drive yourself (somehow even further) into a corner. But he beckons you out the soft way.

There’s a hot cup of tea in your favorite mug sitting next to a muffin when you make it downstairs. It’s early, the suns peeking through the kitchen windows. It isn’t like you to wake up early but when you’re nervous around Simon, at a loss for words, you follow him like a shadow, treading lightly just incase. Small, quiet.

He’d most likely ask you why you said your safe word the night before. If you were scared of him above all else. But you’re not, it’s just—

“I- was scared that you’d hate me, i messed up too much, and I felt- I don’t know- I couldn’t fix it. I wasn’t good and there wasn’t anything I could do to fix it.”

And he wants to roll his eyes because it’s fickle to him. Again, another problem he has. Brushing aside your concerns— its insecurity. But he asks himself, why you always dig a hole for yourself, you fumble and then don’t try to get up. You’re like a cat that’s been drenched but won’t let someone dry them off, you just hiss until someone grabs you by the nape. That’s why the rules are in place, to give you a guide. To make you better and for you to let him take care of you. You’re quiet about it, but you always wanted reassurance, he’s stupid for not giving it to you more often. It makes his heart clench at the state of you. His lovely girl. He sighs, scratches his neck, setting his tea down.

“I could never hate you [+]. Not even if you went a set the house on fire, not if you went and keyed my fuckin car, and not when if you make some mistakes.” He speaks, his voice is stern, deep and loud. This is as soft right now as it’ll get, he wants you to understand.

“I care about you more than anything on this earth. I’m not asking you to be perfect. Theres never a day I’ve been perfect. But when you feel like it’s too much, you should lean on me, yeah? Trust in me. You’re mine to take care of arent you?”

You bite the inside of your lip, giving him a slow nod.

“You could make a mess a thousand times and I’d clean it up every chance I get. You’re my baby, I- …Just think about it for me. Yeah?” And he places a kiss to your head, walking off into the house and leaving you alone in the kitchen.

I think Simon, let’s you off with that. Let’s you think about his words for a couple days, leaving you to your own devices while he lets his anger simmer and completely evaporate. It’s not your fault, something like this would never be your fault. It’s on him at the end, but he wants you to trust in him so he can be a better man for you.

And then when you’re ready, you come and wrap your arms around him from behind. He brings your hands to his lips, holding them in his large ones and kissing them gently.

“You’re a good girl kitten, just need some help.”

a/n: idk if this is good or bad or not, lmk what you guys think. Thanks for reading bubs. more meanie!simon and safeword here <3

most recent masterlist

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱<3: @bruisedfig @tessakate @sevikasblackgf @mocha-the-muse @nightfwn @mims900 @lillybunni

[gyugraphy]

psyche (2)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 6k+ ?

masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6

⋆˙⟡

The next day crawled by.

You told yourself it was just another shift: just stitches, scans, the usual rhythm of organized chaos. But every time you passed a window or a shadow flickered across the sterile ER light, your gaze drifted outside.

Around 4:30, Christine caught you doing it.

She slid up beside you at the nurse’s station, holding a clipboard she wasn’t reading. "You keep staring out there like you’re waiting for a spaceship.”

You didn’t look at her. “I’m not.”

Christine leaned, squinting toward the street.
“Mmhm. Because the tall guy in the hoodie across the street is just loitering for fun?”

You froze. Just for a half-second.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Christine—”

“No, no, I’m just trying to understand,” she said, hand raised like she needed physical stability. “You, brilliant trauma surgeon, have a potentially world-ending crush on New York’s most unstable demi-god.”

“I do not—”

“He looks like a kicked puppy,” she mused. “Kind of cute, in a ‘please don’t vaporize me’ way. You’re into that?”

You checked the clock sitting in the wall beside you before you turned to her, unamused. “I’m going outside.”

“What if he is a danger?” she called after you, mock-dramatic. “Blink twice if you need Thor!”

You flipped her off without looking back.

“I’ll take that as a maybe!”

Bob Reynolds was easy to spot.

He stood awkwardly by a lamppost outside the Starbucks on 8th and Greenwich, hoodie low over his face. But subtle? Not a chance—he was massive, twitchy, and radiating tension like a downed power line.

As you approached, you spotted them: two men in dark suits, sitting at opposite corners of the café patio. One had an earpiece. The other had a jacket bulge too square to be anything but a weapon.

“They with you?” you asked quietly.

Bob hesitated. “They’re with them. Standard protocol.” He raised his wrist, showing you a sleek black band, barely wearable tech. “If I go red, they move in.”

You nodded. Quietly. Then opened the door.

Inside: burnt espresso, the hum of capitalism, and ambient indie pop. A universe away from the void in Bob’s head.

You both got drinks. His had more sugar than coffee.

You took a seat by the window. Light sliced across the table in gold strips. Outside, the bodyguards watched without moving. You could feel the hum of tension under the table— his, not yours.

Bob stirred his drink with a shaky hand.

“So,” you said. “This the part where you tell me why you wanted to meet?”

He didn’t answer immediately. When he looked up, his eyes were unreadable.

“I wanted to try again. With the mind stuff. But not today. I thought we could just... talk. Like people.”

You sipped. “Talking’s a good start.”

“They don’t trust me,” he said. “Not really. Not even the Thunderbolts.”

“You’re wearing a tracker.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “They call it a proactive risk mitigation device. Translation: ‘please don’t explode in public.’”

You snorted. “We love euphemisms in medicine.”

His smile flickered, but dropped fast. “I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

You studied him. Not nervous, but frayed. Like a person unraveling thread by thread. The kind of damage you recognized from trauma wards. Combat. Survivors.

“I read your files,” you said gently. “What you were. What you did. You’re still here, Bob. That has to mean something.”

He looked away. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t.”

Silence fell. Not awkward. Heavy.

“I don’t want to be the Void,” he said. “Or the Sentry. I just want to be someone else. I don’t know who that is yet.”

You nodded. “That’s what I’m here for.”

His gaze lifted. Really looking at you, for the first time since you’d sat down. "You think you can fix what’s in my head?”

“I’m not here to fix you,” you said. “I’m here to help you understand yourself. There’s a difference.”

Something broke in his face. Just a crack. A shift.

“That’s the first thing anyone’s said that didn’t sound like a warning.”

You slid a leather notebook across the table.
“Homework. Dreams, thoughts, stuff that doesn’t feel like it belongs. Write it down. We’ll use it to map the next entry point.”

He stared at the notebook like it might vanish.

Then nodded. “Okay.”

Across the street, Yelena sipped black coffee and grimaced.

“Why does this taste like regret?”

“Because you’re drinking Starbucks,” muttered the agent next to her—Jones, ex-SHIELD, now Ross’s clean-up crew.

She ignored him.

Through the café window, she watched Bob Reynolds fiddle with his cup like it might explode. The doc leaned in slightly, listening, not prying.

Bob was still. Still. Not hiding. Not unraveling.

Yelena almost smiled.

“What?” Jones asked.

“Nothing,” she lied. Then, “Actually— yeah. You ever seen him like that?”

Jones snorted. “You call that calm?”

“For Bob? That’s borderline sedated.”

She watched as Bob gave a shy smile. The doctor responded with something gentle. Grounding.

Then Torres’s voice crackled through her comms:
“Okay, hear me out... what if they start dating?”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Please. She’s way out of his league.”

“Bob cleans up okay,” said Mack. “Give him a haircut and some therapy? That’s boyfriend material.”

Yelena snorted. “You’re all insane.”

“Maybe,” Torres said. “But admit it. You’re rooting for them.”

Yelena didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, every HUD alarm screamed red.

Incoming.

“Status?” she barked, already moving.

“Not Bob,” said Jones. “Tracker’s green. Pulse steady. Elevated, but stable.”

"Unidentified extraterrestrial just entered the atmosphere. Heading straight for their position.”

Yelena didn’t curse. She didn’t need to.

She ran.

⋆˙⟡

The light outside bent.

It wasn’t metaphorical. The air warped like heat off asphalt, and for a moment it felt like the world forgot how to hold its shape.

Your cup stopped halfway to your lips.

Across the table, Bob froze. His fingers clenched tight around his drink, knuckles paling, breath caught in his throat. That buzzing tension under his skin, the one you’d noticed before. It was like static before a storm.

Then the glass behind you rattled. A soft, eerie tremble—barely a whisper at first.

You turned, instincts kicking in. “What was that?”

Bob’s eyes were wide, locked on something past you, out the window. His voice dropped.

“Something’s here.”

The sky cracked.

It wasn’t lightning. It was a sonic boom tangled with the shriek of tearing metal and the roar of something wrong.

The front windows blew inward.

A wall of noise hit first—glass exploding, tables flipping, people screaming. You flinched, a hand half-raised—but before you could think, Bob grabbed you, yanking you behind the counter in one rough, desperate motion.

Heat. Noise. Dust.

The air became smoke and rubble. You ducked low beside him, back against the cabinetry, breath coming hard. Shouting filled the room—fear, confusion, that unmistakable pitch of panic.

Somewhere to your right, a child screamed. One of the agents in suits launched over a table, shielding them with his body.

Bob didn’t speak. He was crouched in front of you, shielding you with his frame like instinct, not decision.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

The quiet intensity in his voice chilled you more than the chaos outside. He was calm, yes—but in the way a loaded weapon is calm, seconds before it fires.

You opened your mouth to ask—what the hell was happening, what was that thing—but didn’t get the chance.

The ceiling groaned.

Something outside detonated. A deep, thud, followed by a ripple of force that knocked over chairs and sent another cloud of dust into the air. Bob pulled you back again—closer this time—just as a support beam buckled.

CRACK.

Concrete fell.

The café was coming apart. You stumbled backward, disoriented, heart hammering in your chest. And then—

You were separated.

A massive slab of ceiling crashed down between you, the impact deafening. You staggered, coughing, eyes stinging. “Bob!”

No response.

You dropped low, crawling under dangling wires and fractured drywall. Your knees scraped against broken tile. Somewhere, espresso machines were hissing steam like dying engines.

You turned a corner of twisted debris, and—

Something moved.

A shadow in the smoke.

Bob.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, and in the next heartbeat he pulled you hard— arms locking around your waist, both of you diving behind a half-toppled support column.

Another blast hit.

The place where you’d stood was now a crater of pulverized flooring and fire-scorched plastic. Bits of light fixtures rained down like sparks.

His grip lingered.

You were pressed against him, your heartbeat hammering loud enough to drown the world. His breath hitched. Not fear, but something else. Focus.

Your eyes met, just for a second, and the world went still.

Then the ceiling gave way.

A roar above. More concrete. More fire. More sky where a roof should be.

“Clear a path! I want eyes on them now!”

Yelena’s voice, sharp and slicing, cut through the wreckage. Outside, chaos reigned—sirens, screaming, dust thick as fog. The world had gone full warzone. Agents swarmed like a coordinated blur of movement.

The Starbucks was gone.

Torres tossed a Wakandan pulse drone into the wreckage. It zipped into the mess, scanning. Vibrating pulses hummed through the air like sonar. Yelena didn’t wait for the readout.

“There!” Torres called. “Two signatures—beneath the west column!”

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She ducked low, slid under twisted beams and broken glass, ignoring the cuts on her hands. Concrete crunched under her boots.

And there you were.

Bob was crouched over you, arms braced around you like a shield, his body tense, face streaked with blood and soot. His shoulders were curved like he could hold up the sky if it meant keeping you safe. His eyes were still glowing. Not fully. Not yet.

You looked up at Yelena, dust in your lashes. Your breath came in short, controlled bursts. Your calm wasn’t fake. It was survival.

Yelena knelt beside you, unfazed. “You two look cozy,” she said, voice breezy, like the world wasn’t actively caving in around her.

Bob jolted. You cracked a smile despite yourself.

Yelena extended a hand. “Come on, lovebirds. Time to go.”

He didn’t let go of your hand.

Even as rubble was lifted. Even as the agents tried to separate you to assess your leg. He just kept holding it, fingers tight around yours like a lifeline.

Even when Torres offered to carry you, Bob’s voice dropped low. “I’ve got her.”

He didn’t just say it. He meant it. With everything in him.

As you ran, above you, the sky burned red.

The alien creature that had crash-landed glowed like a dying star—jagged limbs, twisting light, moving in ways your mind rejected. A walking contradiction. Massive. Impossible. Real.

Sam Wilson dropped from the clouds.

“Target locked,” came his voice over comms. “Thunderbolts, keep it away from civilians. Hit it hard and fast.”

The street became a war zone. Red Guardian hurled slabs of debris like baseballs. Yelena loaded shock rounds into her gauntlets. Bucky’s rifle lit up the sky.

And still—Bob hovered just outside the line.

Not running. Not fighting. Just... watching. Fists clenched. Breathing shallow.

Watching you.

You’d found cover behind a crushed table, trying to triage a broken ankle and keep your head low. Every explosion shook your ribs.

“Bob!” you called. “We can’t stay here!”

He was already looking at you when you spoke—like he hadn’t looked away once.

Then something above groaned. Concrete shifted.

You looked up—

Too late.

A mass of steel and stone broke loose from a ruined rooftop, plummeting fast—too fast.

Bob moved.

No hesitation.

He tackled you, dragging you behind a broken pillar. You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs. Concrete exploded behind you.

“You good?” he asked, voice tight, scanning you.

You nodded. “Thanks.”

The next explosion came even closer.

“We need to move,” you said, pointing toward a side alley. “Now.”

You led. He followed.

You made it three steps.

BOOM.

Something struck the building next door. The shockwave tore through the wall. Debris separated you again. A fireball lit up the alley behind you.

“BOB?!” you screamed.

“I’m here!” His voice, rough, coughing—but he was out of view.

You turned—only for a pair of arms to grab you, yank you behind another wall of rubble.

It was Bob. Again.

He was shaking. Glowing faintly. Breathing like he was holding back a hurricane.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t think. Just—reacted.”

You gripped his arm. “We need to regroup. Now.”

He nodded, jaw clenched.

But then—the ground beneath you gave out.

A creaking groan. Then collapse.

The floor dropped. You both fell.

The impact hit like a body slam. You gasped, stunned, pain flaring through your hip and shoulder as you landed in a pitch-black corridor—half-collapsed, filled with rubble and smoke.

“Where are you?” you croaked.

“I’m here.” He coughed. Shifting sounds. A grunt. “You okay?”

“Fine, just bruised. ”

He was already moving, trying to shove a slab off his shoulder. Muscles straining. Gold flickered in his eyes again—dangerously bright.

“Wait,” you said, but he wasn’t listening. He pushed harder, jaw tight, that pressure building inside him like a bomb with no safety.

The slab didn’t budge.

His breath shuddered. He clenched his fists. Power hummed, dangerously close to breaking free.

Then—he stopped.

Backed off. Shook the glow from his eyes. Swallowed hard.

“I can’t,” he said. “Not here. Not now.”

Footsteps above.

A mechanical whir.

Then—a hand reached through the wreckage.

Vibranium.

Bucky.

You exhaled for the first time in minutes.

“Got ‘em!” Bucky’s voice rang out. “They’re down here!”

With practiced coordination, the team sprang into action. Red Guardian cleared a path through the rubble while Torres and Ghost dropped into the crevice, lifting debris with precision. You and Bob were pulled free in tandem—bruised, covered in ash and soot, but miraculously intact.

You coughed hard, blinking through dust. Bob stood beside you, silent, brushing grit from his sleeves. He looked… steady. Shaken, yes, but composed. Like a man who had just walked to the edge of something deep—and pulled back.

There was no time to breathe.

Above, the battle had escalated.

More of the creatures were falling from the sky, each more twisted and unnatural than the last—eyes that shimmered wrong, limbs that bent in impossible directions. The air itself seemed to ripple where they moved.

The Thunderbolts were already repositioning. Yelena, Red Guardian, Ghost, and Bucky formed a defensive line near the collapsed street, weapons at the ready. Sam hovered overhead, scanning the area, his voice crisp over comms:

“Eyes up! More incoming—big ones!”

The team exploded into motion.

Red Guardian charged one of the creatures, driving it through a rusted-out truck with a bellowing war cry. “How many of these things ARE there?!”

Ghost blurred into phase, vanishing through a wall and reappearing behind a snarling brute, jamming a destabilizer into its spine.

Yelena spun and flung an electrified disc; it latched onto a creature’s neck and detonated, staggering the thing back into the flames.

You and Bob kept low behind an overturned SUV. Every explosion drew a protective twitch from him—his hand would snap out instinctively to shield you, or he’d pull you tight against cover just before debris rained down.

He didn’t speak. But his body language said everything: You are not getting hurt again. Not on my watch.

His face was unreadable—no fear, no panic. Just tension. Like he was holding back a tidal wave with nothing but sheer will.

Another creature burst through a wall behind you—close. Too close. You spun, and Bob spun with you. The thing raised a jagged limb, lurching for your throat—

And Bob moved.

Something in him snapped.

His hand lifted on instinct. A golden wave of heat and force beamed from his eyes, raw and sudden, with a high-pitched pulse like a detuned frequency.

The creature didn’t even scream. It vaporized instantly—dissolved into dust and burning air.

Half the wall behind it disintegrated.

Silence.

The battlefield paused. Heads turned.

Bob stood frozen, arm still half-raised, breathing hard. His eyes glowed faintly now—not the full flare of the Sentry, but unmistakably not normal. Not just Bob.

Red Guardian ducked behind a concrete slab, blinking. “Okay. That’s new.”

Sam landed nearby, visor dark over his eyes. “Everyone saw that, right?”

No one answered.

Bob didn’t speak. He just stared at the scorched concrete, at the smoldering space where the creature had stood.

Then his gaze shifted—to you. Not proud. Not afraid. Just... frustrated. Like he'd tried so hard not to be this. And now it was too late to hide.

The moment passed.

Another wave of creatures screamed from above, dropping through the broken skyline. The Thunderbolts surged forward again. Sam took to the air. Ghost vanished into the ground.

Bob stayed close to you. He didn’t flare again—but the edge was there, humming just under his skin.

Minutes later, the battle was done.

The last alien fell, its corpse twitching as black smoke curled from its bones. The street was a crater of fire, shattered glass, and blood. The Avengers and Thunderbolts stood among the wreckage, battered but upright.

Bucky leaned on a crushed lamppost, dragging a sleeve across his face. Yelena holstered a sidearm, scanning the scene with sharp, methodical eyes.

And that’s when she noticed it.

The pattern.

These creatures—whatever they were—hadn’t attacked at random. It hadn’t been chaos. They’d been focused. At first, she'd assumed they were after Bob. The power signature made sense. The flare of energy would’ve drawn attention like a beacon.

But the timeline didn’t add up.

The creatures had zeroed in before Bob unleashed anything.

Her eyes flicked across the destroyed café, the alley, the cratered street where you had been pinned—over and over again. It was subtle. Too subtle for a civilian to catch. But she’d seen it.

They weren’t targeting Bob.

They were targeting you.

Yelena kept the thought to herself. No need to rattle the team yet. No need to rattle you. But a weight settled on her shoulders, colder than the blood drying on her gloves.

Why you?

As the team regrouped, Sam jogged over, shield on his back, scanning faces.

“Everyone accounted for?” he asked, voice firm but calm.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, nodding. “But we’ve got bigger problems.”

Yelena nodded once. Her expression was unreadable. “These things weren’t just here to cause mayhem.”

She didn’t look at you when she said it.

“They were after something. Or someone.”

A silence settled over the team—uneasy, thick with the realization that the worst might not be over.

⋆˙⟡

The soft whir of machines and the gentle clinking of medical tools filled the space. You stood beside the medical cot where Bucky Barnes sat, his shirt ripped and a gash just beneath his cheekbone still fresh and bleeding.

"Hold still," you muttered, dabbing antiseptic onto a cotton pad. Bucky flinched but didn’t complain.

Across the room, Sam Wilson stood with his arms crossed tightly against his chest, watching the activity with sharp eyes. Yelena Belova leaned against the far table, eyes narrowed, her mind clearly still deep in the chaos they’d just left behind.

"You saw how coordinated they were," Yelena said, breaking the silence. "That wasn’t random. That kind of attack—it wasn’t just some alien beast dropping into the wrong city."

Sam nodded. "They were tracking something. Or someone."

"They came straight for us," Bucky added, his tone more serious now. "But not just us."

Yelena looked at you subtly, not yet calling attention to what she suspected. "They didn’t make a beeline for Bob, though everyone assumed that’s who they wanted."

You looked up from cleaning Bucky’s wound, sensing the shift in the conversation.

"They weren’t after Bob?" you asked, voice low.

"No," Yelena replied, her gaze meeting yours briefly. "It looked like it. But they moved past him more than once. They weren’t focused on taking him out. They were circling around him."

"That doesn’t make sense," Sam muttered.

"It does if they weren’t after him at all," she added.

In the corner of the room, Bob Reynolds stood silently, arms folded. His posture was rigid, eyes flicking between you and the others. There was a tension in him, like a wire stretched too tight. Red Guardian sat nearby, bruised but still full of energy, watching Bob with a smirk creeping across his face.

"You’re sure?" Sam pressed. "Not the Sentry, not Bob—"

Yelena nodded. "I’m sure. The pattern was too consistent. Every time they moved, it was toward her position."

You froze briefly, your hands halting as you pressed a fresh bandage on Bucky’s cheek.

"What?" you asked, unsure if you'd misheard.

There was silence for a beat—until Red Guardian broke it with a teasing chuckle. "Looks like you’re more popular than you thought."

He nodded toward Bob, who had been watching you with an unreadable expression. Bob’s eyes flicked away immediately, his jaw tightening.

Alexei, catching the exchange, raised a brow. "You alright, Bob?"

Bob blinked. "Yeah. I’m fine."

"Because you’ve been staring a hole in the back of her head for five minutes," Red Guardian muttered with a laugh.

Before Bob could answer, Bucky turned to you, holding out his hand with exaggerated innocence. "By the way, I think I’ve got another wound. Somewhere around here…" he said, pointing vaguely to his neck with a smirk.

Without catching the teasing tone, you responded automatically. "Look this way."

Red Guardian leaned back, thoroughly entertained.

"You’re not subtle, Barnes," he chuckled.

As you worked, Yelena and Sam continued their conversation, now joined by Bob, who was still half-listening while glancing your way.

"This changes our strategy," Sam said. "If she’s the target, we can’t leave her unprotected. We got lucky this time. We won’t always be in position to respond."

Yelena nodded. "She stays here. Under our watch."

You finally looked up, uncertain. "Are you sure? I don’t want to get in the way."

"You’re not in the way," Sam said firmly. "You’re in danger. We don't ignore that."

Bob’s voice came quietly but with steel behind it. "He’s right. You’re not leaving until we understand what they wanted."

You met his eyes again—and this time, he didn’t look away.

⋆˙⟡

The tower had finally grown quiet. The adrenaline of the day’s battle had worn off, replaced with heavy silence and the low hum of the tower’s systems. Most of the team had either crashed in their rooms or were nursing bruises and silence on the far end of the hall.

You sat alone on the long couch, shoulders sore, a shallow cut across your arm that you'd ignored until now finally getting your attention. You held a small medkit on your lap, disinfectant pad in hand, phone tucked between your shoulder and cheek.

"Yeah, I’m okay," you said softly into the receiver. Christine Palmer’s voice crackled gently on the other end.

"Are you sure? You sound like you’ve been through a building collapse."

"I’ve been through worse," you half-laughed, wincing as the antiseptic stung. "But this was... different."

"You need rest. Let them help you for once, will you?"

"Trying," you murmured.

As you pulled a bandage tight around your arm, a glass of water was set down in front of you on the coffee table. You looked up to see Bucky, already turning to walk away.

"Get some rest," he said simply, no smile, just quiet sincerity in his voice.

You gave a soft, tired nod. "Thanks."

Across the room, Bob Reynolds had been lingering by the hallway, watching. He didn’t understand the feeling crawling up the back of his neck—wasn’t anger, wasn’t fear. Just... something uncomfortable when he saw Bucky looking out for you. He wasn’t even sure why it got to him.

He stepped forward, his hands in his jacket pockets, tone neutral.

"Yelena said I should show you to the room you’ll be staying in tonight. Said you shouldn’t be wandering around alone after... everything."

You nodded, standing slowly. Your body ached more than you expected. Bob noticed.

"You can take one of my hoodies, if you want. Tower gets cold at night."

You blinked. "Oh. Sure, thanks."

He nodded awkwardly, gesturing for you to follow him.

As you both walked down the corridor, your limbs heavy with fatigue, you didn’t catch the way Bob glanced your way now and then. He kept his thoughts to himself, but they were loud in his head.

Not romantic, not possessive. Just unsure. Something had shifted—and he didn’t know what it meant yet.

The door creaked open softly, revealing a modest but comfortable guest room. Neutral tones. A window that looked out into the city skyline. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed.

Bob stepped in first, flicking the light on. “It’s not much,” he said, his voice low, careful not to disturb the silence the rest of the tower had settled into. “But it’s safe. And... yours for now.”

You gave a tired nod, stepping inside behind him. The tension was subtle but present—like neither of you knew exactly what to say, or whether saying anything at all was the right call.

Bob held out the hoodie—navy blue, oversized, sleeves a little too long. “Figured you’d rather sleep in something that doesn’t smell like concrete dust.”

You gave a small huff of a laugh and took it. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded again, lingering in the doorway. “You sure you're okay?”

You paused, one hand tightening on the hoodie. “Yeah. I mean... I’m trying to be.”

He looked down at the floor for a second, his hands tightening into loose fists at his sides. “I wanted to—when everything was collapsing—I thought I’d be able to stop it. Or help. But I couldn’t. It’s like... I wasn’t fast enough. Or strong enough.”

You looked at him. “You still ran toward it. That counts.”

Bob let out a breath. “Maybe.”

Silence stretched again. Not awkward, just heavy with the kind of weight only shared danger brings.

You shifted, the soreness in your shoulder tugging at your attention. “You can go rest. I’ll be fine.”

He nodded slowly, stepping back toward the hallway—but hesitated at the doorway, his hand resting against the frame.

“If you need anything,” he said, not looking at you, “just knock on the door across the hall. I won’t be sleeping much anyway.”

You offered a faint smile. “Alright. Goodnight, Bob.”

“Night.”

He closed the door behind him with a quiet click. For a moment, you just stood there, alone in the quiet, holding the hoodie in your hands. It was warm.

You sat on the bed, pulling the hoodie over your head, staring blankly at the city lights beyond the glass.

Somewhere down the hall, Bob leaned against the doorframe of his own room, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, jaw tight.

Neither of you said it, but both of you felt it.

Something had changed.

⋆˙⟡

The sunlight filtered through reinforced glass, painting golden lines across the tower’s modern interior. A quiet hum of the building’s systems underscored the calm.

You stepped into the common room, still tugging one sleeve of Bob’s hoodie over your hand. Your own clothes were in a bag nearby, but you hadn’t changed yet — you weren’t ready to slip out of the safety of comfort.

Bucky sat at the island, quietly eating cereal straight from the box. Red Guardian was nursing a mug of something steaming and aggressively black. Sam was already in uniform, arms folded, staring at a holo-projection of last night’s wreckage.

Yelena was the first to notice you.

“Morning,” she said, leaning against the kitchen counter, half of a protein bar in her hand. “Sleep?”

“Eventually,” you replied. “You?”

She just smirked.

Bob was already there, tucked in one corner with a tablet in his hand, pretending to scroll through post-incident reports. His eyes flicked up at you briefly, then back down.

“Coffee’s over there,” Sam said without looking up, gesturing to the machine behind him. “You’ll need it.”

You nodded, padding quietly toward it.

As you poured yourself a cup, Sam continued. “We went over the footage again. The creatures — they weren’t targeting Bob. Not directly.”

That made Bob finally look up.

Bucky, still munching cereal, raised an eyebrow. “You think they were tracking someone else?”

Yelena’s gaze slid toward you.

Sam caught it. “That’s what we’re trying to confirm.”

You turned, coffee in hand, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why would they be after me?”

Red Guardian gave a grunt. “Better question — what are they?”

“We’re still working on that,” Sam replied. “Alien, definitely. But their energy signature doesn’t match anything on file from past invasions.”

“Great,” Bucky muttered. “Another mystery species that wants someone dead.”

Bob leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. “If they’re after her... we need to know why. Now.”

“We will,” Sam said. “But for now, safety comes first. That means sticking together. No solo walks, no wandering off.”

You nodded slowly. “So what now?”

Yelena looked at you with a serious expression. “We talk. About your past. Where you’ve been. Who you’ve seen. Anything strange happen before this?”

You hesitated, but then nodded.

You sat across from the team. A whiteboard filled with scribbled alien markings was in the background. Sam, Bucky, and Yelena watched as you recounted what you could, just strange dreams. As you spoke, Bob sat at the far end, arms crossed, brow furrowed — trying not to let the worry show on his face. But he wasn’t good at hiding things.

Eventually, your voice trailed off.

“That’s everything I can think of.”

The room went still. Then Bucky spoke.

“We need a bigger picture. SWORD should get a look at this. Maybe even Carol.”

Sam nodded. “Agreed. I’ll contact Fury. Meanwhile—” he looked at you, “—you’re staying here. Until we figure out what’s going on.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but stopped. You knew better. This wasn’t stubbornness. It was safety.

“Fine.”

Yelena pushed a bottle of water across the table to you. “We’ll figure it out.”

You glanced at Bob briefly. He didn’t say anything. But he gave a small nod.

As the meeting wrapped, Red Guardian nudged Bucky with his elbow and whispered, “Still think they were after golden boy?”

Bucky smirked. “Nope. But he sure wishes they were.”

They both looked toward Bob, who was walking beside you again — not too close, but never too far.

The room was dim. A soft hum came from the ventilation system, the faint buzz of the city below barely audible through reinforced glass.

⋆˙⟡

You tossed in the bed, tangled in blankets, face twisted in distress.

A low rumble echoed in your dream — buildings collapsing, eyes watching from a sky that wasn’t the sky, voices whispering your name in languages your ears couldn’t understand. Heat, shadows, pressure—

BOOM.

Your eyes snapped open.

You were drenched in sweat. Breathing hard.

A knock on the door came just as you sat up, pushing off the covers.

Tap. Tap.

Then a voice, quiet but concerned. "…Are you okay?”

You hesitated, running a hand down your face. “Yeah. Just—bad dream.”

The door cracked open a bit, and Bob stepped in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy like he’d been half-asleep too. His expression was unreadable at first — not too soft, not too intrusive — but his eyes flicked briefly to the bed, to you, then back.

“You were… yelling.”

You looked away, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and exhaustion. “Did I wake anyone?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just me. My room’s down the hall.”

A beat of silence passed.

He stepped a little closer, careful. “Was it… the creatures?”

You nodded.

“They weren’t chasing me in the dream,” you murmured. “They were talking to me. Or maybe warning me. I couldn’t tell.”

Bob didn’t respond right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over. “Whatever it is… we’ll figure it out.”

You gave a tired nod.

Then— DING.
An alert chirped through the comm system in the corner.

Bob frowned, already rising. “That’s from the hangar.”

Sam was already there, pulling a jacket over his shoulders as the doors to the hangar slowly opened with a hydraulic hiss.

A tall figure stepped through, flanked by two S.W.O.R.D. agents.

The eye patch, long coat, and no-nonsense aura were unmistakable. It was Nick Fury. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, which probably meant he had slept exactly that much.

“Morning, Wilson,” he said, already walking past him.

“It’s 2 a.m.”

“I don’t care.”

Fury’s eyes swept the space until they landed on Bob and you stepping in from the far corridor. You were still in Bob’s hoodie, eyes bleary.

Fury gave you a long, calculating look.

“You,” he said.

“…Me?”

He nodded once. “We need to talk.”

Bob immediately shifted, almost stepping between you and Fury instinctively.

Fury raised a brow. “Relax, Sentry. Not an interrogation. Just a conversation.”

You looked at Bob, then nodded. “It’s okay.”

Fury led you somewhere empty, just down the hall. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at you.

You awkwardly stood in front of him, nerves just beneath your skin, trying to hide them.

“I’ve seen a lot of strange things,” Fury began. “Gods falling from the sky. A teenager fighting purple aliens with Legos. But those creatures last night? They weren’t here for Bob Reynolds.”

You swallowed.

“You felt that, didn’t you?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Fury leaned in slightly. “Then we need to figure out why you’re suddenly on some cosmic radar. Because if something’s coming — something big — I need to know whether you’re the beacon, or the fuse.”

The lights buzzed faintly overhead.

“Either way,” Fury said, pushing off the wall, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The same morning, you found yourself in the sword facility. Nick Fury being the reason. The walls buzzed faintly with electromagnetic hums. You stood in the center of a circular analysis chamber surrounded by tall pylons, each pulsing with light as scanners passed up and down your body.

On the other side of the reinforced glass, Fury stood, arms folded, eye focused like a laser beam. Analysts typed quietly behind him, data flickering across screens in shifting colors and graphs.

One tech murmured, “We’ve got something unusual.”

Fury didn’t look away from the glass. “How unusual?”

“There's a layer of dormant energy under the surface-level readings,” the analyst replied. “It’s not active, but it’s there. Deep. Consistent. Like a compressed node of potential—genetic, maybe. Or quantum.”

Fury’s jaw tightened. “Translation?”

“She’s carrying something that hasn’t activated yet. Not mutant, not enhanced tech, not alien symbiote. It’s internal. Part of her.”

Another analyst leaned over. “It might be tied to the energy spike from yesterday. Her body registered a surge milliseconds before the Sentry moved. She didn’t react to danger—something inside her did.”

Fury turned to them, voice calm but sharp. “You saying she’s sitting on a trigger?”

“More like... a locked door,” the tech answered. “And something is rattling the handle.”

Few moments later, you sat across from Nick Fury in a small debriefing space, white walls and a large screen behind him showing your recent scan data. He didn’t speak at first, just studied you with that familiar, unreadable gaze. Then...


“You ever feel like something’s been following you your whole life?”

You blinked. “Is that a question or a metaphor?”

Fury smirked faintly. “Little of both.”

You shifted in your seat. “I’ve had... moments. Things I couldn’t explain. Like my instincts were two steps ahead of me. I used to write it off as adrenaline.”

“It wasn’t adrenaline,” he said simply. “And it wasn’t luck. Our scans show something inside you—something we’ve never seen before. Not alien tech. Not radiation. Not even magical. It’s part of you. Deep in your cells. But it’s sealed.”

“Sealed?” you repeated.

He nodded. “Locked. Like your body’s been holding it back. But something triggered it to stir. Maybe proximity to other enhanced individuals. Maybe stress. Maybe just time.”

You looked at the display screen. Complex waveforms danced across it in patterns you didn’t understand.

“I’m not dangerous,” you said, more to yourself than him.

Fury didn’t challenge you—but he didn’t confirm it either.

“I don’t think you are,” he replied. “But whatever this is? It might not care what you want. And from the looks of it, it hasn’t even started yet.”

A pause.

“You’re not under arrest,” he said, standing. “And you’re not a threat. But until we understand what’s inside you, I’m keeping you close.”

“Because something might want it?” you asked.

He looked at you over his shoulder.

“No. Because something might want to wake it up.”

⋆˙⟡

The halls were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that comes after chaos, when everyone’s pretending things are back to normal but the walls still hum with tension.

You stepped out onto the upper level’s balcony with your phone in hand. The view below showed the sleek hangar bathed in blue-white lights, equipment being reset, weapons being cleaned. Normal… if you didn’t know better.

Christine picked up after two rings. “Hey,” you greeted, voice low.

“Well if it isn’t S.W.O.R.D.’s latest mystery case,” she replied dryly. “How’s the new life in a top-secret concrete bunker?”

“Still figuring out if I’m a guest or a lab rat,” you muttered with a tired smile. “Fury offered me a job. Officially. Said it was smarter to keep me here. Let me work. Said it gives them a reason to monitor me without making it feel like surveillance.”

“You took it?” she asked.

“Yeah. Better than sitting in lockdown. And… I need the money.”

Christine was quiet for a moment. “You’re sure?”

“No,” you admitted. “But this way, at least I’m doing something. They give me medical clearance. I patch up soldiers, field agents, whoever. But really... they just want me close in case something happens again.”

“And you?” she asked. “Do you think it’ll happen again?”

You didn’t answer that.

The front doors hissed open — a familiar sound now — and in walked the returning squad. The team looked beat to hell. "I'll call you back," you quickly told Christine on the phone right before you ended the call. You looked at the team, mud, torn gear, and exhaustion in every step. But your attention snapped to Yelena the moment you saw the blood seeping through her sleeve.

“Seriously?” you said, already pulling gloves on.

“Missed you too,” Yelena grumbled, lowering herself onto the med cot.

You peeled back the material. A long gash ran down her upper arm — not deep enough to panic, but deep enough to sting like hell. You worked quickly, disinfecting and stitching.

“Did the mission go sideways?”

“Not really. Just messy,” Yelena replied through gritted teeth. “Things don’t like being detained by ex-Russians with attitude problems.”

She glanced at you, studying your face. “You’re still here.”

You met her gaze. “Still under observation. But working now.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Of course Fury would find a way to turn this into employment.”

You finished wrapping her arm, then asked, “You talked to Bob lately?”

That got a pause.

“No,” she admitted. “He’s been... distant. Quiet. More than usual.”

You nodded, already peeling off your gloves.

“I’ll check on him," you said as you hurriedly set everything aside.

You strided down the hallway, stopping on your tracks as soon as you arrived at his door. You knocked once. No answer.

When you cracked the door open, Bob was sitting near the window, half in shadow, half in the flicker of a desk lamp. His gaze lifted slowly, as if it took effort.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You up for company?”

He nodded once. No smile, but no resistance.

You stepped inside and closed the door behind you.

“You’ve been quiet,” you said, settling into the chair across from him. “Even more than usual.”

Bob looked down at his hands, then back at you. “I’ve been… sorting things out.”

“Mind if I help?” you offered.

He hesitated — but didn’t say no.

You leaned forward slightly. “We could mindwalk. Nothing deep. Just... see where things are now. Since everything’s shifted.”

Another pause.

Then finally, a quiet, “Okay.”

You both sat on the floor, hands lightly pressed together. The air between you almost hummed with something unspoken.

The world rippled. The sterile quarters vanished.

You opened your eyes to a darkened dreamscape. Still, but not empty — like standing at the edge of something massive and unseen.

You were in Bob’s mind.

But this time, the space didn’t resist you. It welcomed you in, cautiously — like a door cracked open instead of slammed shut.

The world around you flickered — jagged fragments of thought floating in open air. Hints of memory, color, sensation. But there was no center. No order.

Bob appeared beside you, more present than in previous walks. His features were clearer, steadier.

“You’ve changed,” you said softly.

“So have you,” he replied.

You felt it, deep in your chest — a weight, a quiet pull. Not romantic. Not even emotional, exactly. But connected. As if that strange, shared chaos — the panic, the aliens, the energy — had woven something between you both.

He looked at you.

“There’s something inside you,” he said. “Something more than we thought.”

You nodded.

“I know.”

And in the quiet void of his mind, you both sat — not analyzing, not pushing. Just existing. Connected in ways neither of you fully understood yet.

The storm had passed.

The quiet stretched between you.

Then, gently, you spoke. “Can we go further?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched the flickering fragments suspended around you — jagged shapes, drifting pieces of thought, a few holding faint images that shifted the longer you looked.

You noticed one — a memory shard glowing faintly blue, pulsing like a slowed heartbeat. You stepped toward it, and Bob followed.

The closer you got, the more it formed a scene: a wide-open snowy field. A younger Bob stood in the distance, shoulders hunched against the wind, clutching something in his hands — a photograph? A name tag?

When you reached out, your fingers brushed the edge of the fragment, and it dissolved like smoke.

The scene around you shifted instantly.

Now you stood inside a steel corridor, dark and claustrophobic. Lights blinked red. You heard shouting. Bob’s voice: younger, panicked. Soldiers running past. An explosion shaking the ground. Then silence again.

It snapped back to the blank mindscape.

Bob’s jaw was tight. “That was... the first time I lost control.”

You didn’t press. You just stood next to him.

He turned toward you slowly. “Do you ever feel like something inside you is… coiled? Like it’s waiting?”

You nodded. “Especially after that day.”

He gave a faint breath of agreement. “Same.”

He raised his hand slightly, and a wave of thought — warm, golden — expanded around you. The fragments around you drew closer together. They began arranging themselves, as if pulled by invisible thread. Patterns began to emerge — not perfect, but purposeful.

“You’re organizing,” you observed.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted. “But you’re making it easier.”

You felt something shift again — a pulse underfoot, like the ground in his mind was waking up.

You stepped forward, into a newly-formed corridor. Unlike the earlier chaos, this one was quiet, clean, strangely peaceful. Memory doors lined the hall.

Bob hesitated, then opened one.

Inside: a soft scene. A garden. A sunny day. He was laughing — not the man you knew now, but younger, freer. Someone before the pain.

You looked at him. “This is you too.”

“I forget sometimes,” he said.

You stayed in the memory a while — not invading, just existing. Letting him feel what it was like to be seen, without expectation or force.

Eventually, he spoke again. “You’re different from the others.”

You tilted your head. “Because I walk in your mind?”

“No,” he said quietly. “Because when you do… you don’t judge what you see.”

You both stood in the center of the quiet mindspace, not speaking for a moment. The air around you shimmered — not from him, not from you, but from the strange alignment between you both.

Maybe it wasn’t just the aliens that triggered what happened that day.

Maybe it was the two of you — together — that woke something up.

And in that unspoken realization, the mind around you expanded — vast, open, no longer chaotic.

Like something was waiting there.

Still quiet.

Still buried.

But no longer hiding.

⋆˙⟡

A/N sorry for the late update! will be uploading third chap today as well (or tomorrow... or later idk)

— taglist. @asteria33 @witch-of-letters @avylanchce @stillinracooncity @venus-armote @jeanietales @faithxyu @ivedonemywaiting13 @natasha887 let me know if u wanna be tagged on the next!

[barnesonly]

Half-return

dad!bucky barnes x reader (implied)

trope: absolute angst.

summary: your daughter skips school to visit Bucky’s — her father’s — grave.

word count: 1499

A/N: Oh gods, I actually made myself cry while writing this. I imagine this happening in 2010’s, reader was pregnant when her and Steve fell into ice. I might write part two one day, let me know what you think! Also this is heavily inspired by this song.

The cemetery was quiet that morning.

No birdsong, no wind. Just the gentle crunch of gravel under small, determined footsteps. Her backpack bounced against her spine with every step, heavier than usual — not because of books, but because of the secret folded in the front pocket.

A homemade card. Pink construction paper. Crayon hearts. A little drawing of a man she never met.

She hugged her hoodie tighter around herself as she walked between rows of graves, her sneakers brushing against wildflowers that hadn’t been cut back yet. The sky hung low with heavy clouds, soft and gray, like the world was holding its breath.

She knew where he was.

She didn’t need help finding it anymore.

James Buchanan Barnes.

1917 — 1945.

Beloved friend. Cherished soldier. Never forgotten.

The letters on the stone were starting to wear a little. She ran her fingers across the name like she always did, just to feel it. She imagined his hand might’ve felt rough like the stone, big and strong and warm if she ever got to hold it.

She glanced around — empty. No one saw her. No one followed.

“I skipped school,” she said quietly, her voice too small for the sky. “I’m not supposed to. But I needed to see you.”

She sat down cross-legged in front of the headstone, brushing some leaves away from the base. Then she opened her backpack and carefully pulled out the card, like it was treasure.

“I made this at school,” she whispered. “Everyone was making cards for their dads. And I didn’t know what to do at first… but then I made this for you.”

She set it down gently against the headstone, the crayon hearts already smudging a little from the mist in the air.

“I just wanted to come alone this time… Without mommy… I wanted you to myself today.” She smiled, just barely. Her chin trembled.

She picked at a thread on her sleeve, then leaned forward like she was telling a secret.

“They gave us this math test yesterday,” she said, nose wrinkling. “I didn’t do so good.” She frowned for a second, like she was scolding herself. Then she glanced up at the headstone and shrugged.

“But… I think you wouldn’t have minded. Mommy says you weren’t great at math either.”

There was a small pause, and she plucked a piece of grass, twisting it between her fingers.

“My teacher, Miss Carr, she’s always talking about heroes. She says we’re supposed to write about one for this essay thing. I picked you.” She smiled again, a tiny, proud thing.

“Even though you’re not in any of the books at school. I had to ask Mommy a bunch of stuff so I could write about you right. I said you were brave and kind and that you protected people. And that you fell off a train ‘cause you were trying to save people. I think you would’ve liked that part.”

Her voice wavered a little at the end, but she pushed through it.

“They all picked people like Captain America… Or other Avengers… or firefighters. But I picked you. ‘Cause you’re my dad. Even if you’re not… here.”

She reached out and adjusted the card again where it leaned against the stone, like it needed to stand straighter.

“I think maybe you would’ve walked me to school. Or helped me with spelling. I bet you’d tell really funny jokes that made Mommy roll her eyes but laugh when you weren’t looking.”

A soft gust of wind blew her hair into her face, and she tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I see kids with their dads, and I wonder if you’d be like that. Or if you’d carry me on your shoulders even though I’m not that little anymore. Mommy says you’d love me so, so much.”

Her throat tightened.

“I think I’d love you too.”

She was quiet for a long time after that. Just sitting, legs curled beneath her, fingers tugging at grass. The wind picked up a little, brushing against her cheek like a hand that wasn’t there.

Then she spoke again, even softer than before.

“Uncle Steve told me you’d always protect him from bullies when he was younger…” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “I wish you were here to help me like that now. I’d really need it.”

She blinked fast and looked up at the sky, like maybe if she didn’t look at the headstone, the sting in her eyes would stop.

“There’s this girl at school who always laughs when I get answers wrong. She says I’m weird. She makes fun of my shoes, and my backpack, and one time she called Mommy weird ‘cause she always looks tired.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“I didn’t tell Mommy. I don’t wanna make her sad. She’s got enough worries. But I thought… if you were here, maybe you’d wait outside school for me. And if she said something mean, you’d just look at her and she’d stop.”

She smiled at the thought. A sad, flickering smile.

“Uncle Steve said you were like that. That no one messed with him when you were around.”

She traced the edge of the headstone with her finger again, slow and gentle.

“I really wish you were around.”

She sat still for a while, eyes locked on the card like it might fix everything just by being there. The crayon lines were running now — little streaks from the mist or maybe her fingers, she wasn’t sure.

Then suddenly, it hit her.

The weight.

The emptiness.

The truth.

Her lip trembled. She looked down at her knees, then back at the stone. And the words tumbled out in a breathless rush—broken, cracked, helpless.

“I don’t even know why I came here alone…” Her voice shook, barely holding on. “I always come here with Mommy but… I wanted to talk with you alone. I…”

Her small hands curled into fists against her jeans.

“I realized I don’t have a single memory with you. None.” Her shoulders started to shake. One sob slipped out before she could stop it.

“I don’t know your voice. Or your laugh. Or how your hugs feel. I don’t even know what your hands looked like.”

Tears spilled over now, hot and silent at first, then building until they came in waves.

“And I… I just really wanted to have one. Just one memory. Just you and me, Dad.”

She covered her face with her hands, sobbing into the quiet.

“I came here so I could pretend. Just for a little bit. That you’re here. That you’re real and you’re listening and… and that I’m not alone.”

The card fluttered a little where it leaned against the stone, caught in the wind like it was reaching for her.

She sniffled, dragging her sleeve across her face, and then — barely above a whisper:

“Mommy misses you so much.”

She didn’t look up. Just spoke into her knees, into the earth.

“She tries to be strong… but it hurts her. I see it.”

Another tear fell, but slower now. Heavier.

“She cries when she thinks I’m asleep. Sometimes I hear her say your name. Sometimes she just sits in the kitchen with the lights off.”

She looked up at the grave, eyes red and full of something bigger than a ten-year-old should ever have to carry.

“I don’t think she ever stopped loving you. I don’t think she ever will.”

She reached out again, touching the stone like it was his hand.

“Neither will I.”

She sat like that for a while — still, small, and hurting — until her legs began to ache. Slowly, she unfolded from the grass, stiff and heavy, like every part of her was tired.

She looked down at the card, bent from the wind but still standing. She knelt and adjusted it carefully, pressing a small rock against the corner so it wouldn’t blow away.

Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out something small — just a string bracelet, all crooked and uneven knots, the kind only a kid could make.

“I made this in art class,” she whispered, holding it in her palm for a second. “It’s not… very good. But it’s yours.”

She laid it beside the card, fingers lingering for a moment before pulling away.

Standing again, she looked at the grave, at the name carved so deep it would never fade. And even though her face was blotchy and red, her voice was steady — shaky, but trying.

“I have to go now.”

She hugged herself tightly.

“Mommy’s gonna be mad I skipped school. But I just… I needed this.”

A pause.

“I needed you.”

The wind rustled the trees above her, and she looked up, eyes shining.

“I’ll come back soon. I promise.”

She stepped back, wiped her cheeks one last time, then raised her fingers to her lips, kissed them and pressed them gently against his name.

“Bye, Dad.”

Then she turned. And walked away.

The bracelet stayed.

The card fluttered quietly.

And the empty grave watched.

[4barbatos]

✦ title: good girl syndrome

✦ pairing: albedo x fem!reader

✦ rating: explicit [18+]

✦ word count: 1.8k .ᐟ

✦ summary:

he breaks you down piece by piece, wrapping control in tenderness. you don’t know where pain ends and his love begins — only that resisting him makes him want you more.

✦ content warning:

dubcon, manipulative dynamics, reader is mentally ill, reader is in a foggy/dazed state, soft coercion, gaslighting, medication tampering (implication of non-consensual drug use), emotional dependency, psychological control, power imbalance, praise kink (“good girl”), possessiveness, nonverbal hesitation, consent confusion, somno-adjacent behavior (not explicitly asleep but mentally checked out), fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, aftercare with ulterior motives, albedo is not safe™

✦ author’s note:

wrote this for my wife @vvallent1ne :3

this is my very first smut (and honestly kinda my first fic ever). i’ve always been more of a reader than a writer, but after years of devouring other people’s work (lol), i wanted to try writing something myself 🥹

constructive criticism is super welcome — just please be nice, i’m fragile 😭💗

you wake up drenched, sheets clinging to your hips — twisted, damp, uncomfortably warm. sweat cools slow at the nape of your neck, sticky and thick, mixing with the haze of dreams you can’t quite hold onto. everything aches — like your body’s been moving without you, like your mind got left behind. your head feels foggy. heavy. like it’s been held underwater too long.

you try to move but the stiffness in your muscles reminds you how little sleep you really got.

this isn’t new. the nights have been like this lately — hazy, broken, your thoughts slipping away just as you reach for them. you never know if you took your meds before bed, or if you just forgot entirely. sometimes it’s hard to keep track of the days, the hours, yourself.

albedo has been there, always hovering somewhere near the edges of your fractured mornings. not just a friend, not quite something else, but something you don’t fully understand — someone who knows the parts of you that you try to hide even from yourself.

he’s not what you’d call gentle — more like pressure that never lets up. but he’s always there. steady hands, steady voice, steady ruin.

this morning is no different.

“morning” he says, his voice low, almost soft, but there’s an edge beneath it — a quiet warning hidden behind the tenderness.

his eyes catch the empty pill bottle on the bedside table without needing to ask, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

he slides onto the bed beside you, his fingers threading through your damp hair, tugging your face toward him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his breath is warm on your skin, and his gaze burns with an intensity that makes your chest tighten.

“you’re restless again” he murmurs, voice smooth like silk. “you don’t have to fight it. i’ll keep you steady.”

his hand slides down your ribs, settling possessively on your hip. you want to pull away—but your body won’t let you.

you don’t want to.

the haze clouds your mind — confusion folding into something darker, something sharper and far more dangerous.

he leans down, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ear, whispering, “i’m the only one who knows what you need.”

his fingers tighten slightly, claiming you like a secret.

you taste the salt of your own fear, mingled with something electric that leaves you trembling.

because you don’t remember the last time you said no.

his hand slips beneath the waistband of your clothes, fingers ghosting over the heated skin beneath. your breath catches — shallow, quick — your body responding before your mind can catch up, every nerve alive despite the fog clouding your thoughts. the pill bottle lies forgotten now — empty, just like everything else he’s taken from you.

he leans down, lips trailing along your jaw, a whisper against your skin. “you don’t have to hide from me.”

your body trembles, the haze swirling around your thoughts as his fingers press lower, tracing the delicate curve of your hip, sliding beneath the fabric. your breath hitches, a knot of want and hesitation tightening in your stomach.

you try to pull away, the last flickers of resistance burning like flames. but his touch is steady, insistent.

before you can find the words, his fingers part you gently, exploring with slow, deliberate pressure.

his fingers don’t stop. one slips inside you, slow and probing, and despite the fog curling in your brain, your body tightens around him — a reflex you don’t control. you try to pull away, a soft whimper escaping your lips. “albedo… please…”

his fingers don’t stop.

one pushes deeper, slow and careful, dragging along your walls in a way that makes your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. the resistance in your voice melts into something breathy, pleading — but not for him to stop.

“albedo… i don’t…” you try again, weak, words tangled in your throat.

he kisses the corner of your mouth, hand still working between your legs, fingers moving in a rhythm that makes it impossible to think straight. “you’re doing so well” he whispers. “your body always knows what it needs, even if your mind tries to resist it.”

he curls his fingers just right and your hips jerk before you can stop yourself. shame floods your chest.

“you don’t have to be scared” he murmurs, voice sweet and cruel all at once. “i’ll be gentle. i always am, aren’t i?”

you barely have the strength to nod.

the moment you do, he withdraws his hand — wet with you, glistening in the low light — and licks his fingers clean like he’s tasting something he made himself. like he’s savoring it. savoring you.

you blink up at him, dazed, and he’s already pushing your legs apart again, slow and reverent.

“good” he murmurs, unbuckling his belt, voice turning velvet. “let me give you more. let me make you feel full.”

you whimper, legs instinctively trying to close, but his hands hold you open with quiet, terrifying patience.

“you can take it” he says, lining himself up, cock brushing hot and heavy against your slick entrance. “you always do.”

before you can form a protest, he pushes in — slow, steady, relentless.

you gasp — he’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. your body betrays you, slick and ready in ways your mind hasn’t caught up with.

albedo moans softly at the feeling, burying himself deeper. “so tight” he breathes, like it’s a gift. “so perfect like this… molded to me.”

he bottoms out with a final roll of his hips, stealing the air from your lungs. you shake beneath him, too full, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to move.

his lips brush your temple. “that’s it. just like that. don’t fight it.”

and you don’t.

you can’t.

you press your palms weakly against his chest, barely a push, the last thread of protest in your body.

“albedo, stop…” you breathe, voice strained, watery, caught somewhere between fear and guilt. “this isn’t… it doesn’t feel right.”

he freezes for just a heartbeat. his expression barely shifts, but something flickers in his eyes — not guilt. not remorse.

control.

his hands slide to your waist, stroking softly, grounding you as he stays buried deep inside. he leans in close, forehead pressing to yours like a lover, lips ghosting over your skin with a tenderness that twists your chest into aching knots.

“you’re confused” he whispers, soothing, like he’s rocking you through a nightmare. “it’s just the meds, the exhaustion… you always get like this when you forget how much you need me.”

you shake your head, barely. “but i didn’t — i didn’t say yes—”

he hushes you, thumb brushing your cheek. “you didn’t say no, either. and your body… sweetheart, look at how you’re clinging to me.”

shame blooms hot and heavy in your chest. your walls flutter around him with every tiny shift, holding him in like you don’t want to let go. your thighs tremble, slick and open. even now, even through the panic, part of you aches for more.

he smiles — a soft, cruel curl of lips.

“there you are” he breathes, rocking his hips once, gentle but firm, and you gasp, back arching as he grinds against that sweet spot inside you. “you’re okay. i’m here. i’m the only one who’s ever taken care of you like this, remember?”

“good girl” he murmurs low, lips brushing your skin, voice thick with something possessive and proud. “you’re doing so well for me.”

you want to argue, scream, claw your way out — but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and your mind is a fogged-up mirror where your own thoughts can’t find their reflection.

“you don’t have to think anymore” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “i’ll do that for you.”

he starts moving again — slow and deep — like he’s sinking his name into you, like he’s making sure you never forget who you belong to.

and all you can do is cry his name.

his pace never falters. he fucks you like it’s a ritual, like every thrust rewires something inside you, slow enough to draw out the torment, deep enough to touch where you can’t reach. your nails drag across his back — not in pleasure, not quite in protest — just a helpless twitch, the last echo of whatever will you had left.

your climax hits like a betrayal. it takes you by surprise, your body clenching around him with a broken sob, muscles locking and trembling. he shushes you through it, praises you. tells you how proud he is. how sweet you feel when you give in.

he follows just after, burying himself as deep as he can, groaning low in your ear as he fills you, thick and warm and overwhelming. it’s too much — spilling out of you, seeping into the sheets, into the part of you that still remembers shame.

you don’t remember how long it lasts — how long he holds you down, whispering soft praises between thrusts, how long your body trembles beneath him until the air tastes like salt and heat and nothing else.

when it’s over, your limbs feel like lead. too heavy to move. your eyes sting. your throat is sore from whatever half-formed protests you made before your voice gave out.

he kisses your cheek, your temple, your jaw — treating you like something sacred he just finished breaking.

you’re still full of him when he pulls out, slow and careful, holding your hips still as your body twitches from oversensitivity. his cock slips free with a quiet wet sound, and you flinch.

he hushes you like a lullaby.

“shhh. it’s alright now” albedo murmurs, already reaching for a cloth to wipe between your legs, movements disturbingly gentle. “i know it was a little too much. you always get overwhelmed when you don’t take the right dosage.”

you blink at the ceiling, dazed. “i didn’t forget” you whisper, paper-thin.

he pauses — just a second too long — then smiles. “mm. must’ve mixed the bottles again. it’s okay. that’s why i keep track for you, remember?”

he moves your hair out of your face, fingers slow and careful, like he’s tidying up something he owns. “you’re so good for me. you did so well. you let me help you.”

his words are warm, loving even, but they feel like cotton stuffed in your mouth — suffocating in their softness.

you try to sit up, but your muscles give out. he presses you back down gently.

“don’t strain yourself” he says, adjusting the blanket over your bare skin. “you need rest.”

your hands tremble. “i didn’t want that.”

he stills.

for a moment, the air turns colder. sharper.

then he smiles again — softer this time — like he’s sorry for you, not for what he did.

“i know” he says, brushing his fingers down your cheek. “that’s why i had to do it. you weren’t thinking clearly. i had to help.”

you want to scream.

but you’re so tired.

so fucking tired.

he kisses your forehead like a reward.

and when he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your half-numb body close, you let him.

because your mind can’t fight.

and your heart’s already forgotten what safety feels like.

“sleep” he murmurs, holding you close. “i’ll be here when you wake up. i always am.”

and he is.

every time.

[markkiatocafe]

my beautiful markiattocafe the world is a sad place (there are no johnny fics) i call you to the rescue! something cute, established relationship, FLUFF!!

ive been sooooo in love with johnny lately its unreal😢😢😢

have an amazing day babeee🩷🩷

coffee

a short story with johnny of nct 127

𖠚 warnings: johnny is sick with a fever, johnny looks “dead” asleep, nothing much else but pureee fluffiness!!!!!

𖠚 synop: taking care of johnny wasn’t something he let you do often, but you were definitely never complaining when you could.

𖠚 pairing: gn!reader x nonidol!johnny

𖠚 w.c: 355

𖠚 a/n: my beloved j0h4nk4, i am happy to come to the rescue of the johnny drought!!!! i’m a firm believer in loser johnny, so pls enjoy this 355 word long drabble of practically only sick loser johnny and lovesick reader <3 if you want some more johnny drabbles, i have multiple in my 127 masterlist ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১💛 i hope you have an amazing day too, tysm for the support always!!! now, enough yapping, i hope you enjoy!!!!

“you’re sick. you’re not going into work, end of story.” you said firmly. usually, you weren’t the one that was like this with johnny, telling him what to do was a hard battle to fight. but this time, you were putting your foot down. he had a 103°F fever, you weren’t about to let him go and do labor!

he groaned leaning back into the bed, coughing slightly. “you’re over-paranoid, i’m fine.” he mumbled, his throat a bit hoarse. over paranoid? if only he could see himself right now. he was paler than usual, and you could tell just from the way he talked his voice hurt. you could practically feel the scratchy throat yourself. 

“and you’re stubborn, you’re gonna have to get use to that.” you shot back, which caused johnny to let out an impressed chuckle and mumble something along the lines of, “fair game,” as you started out the room.

“wait, pause, where are you going??” he asked, raising an eyebrow and sitting back up, leaning his back against the headrest of the bed.

“i’m gonna make you some tea, for your throat?” you replied like it was obvious.

johnny hummed, cocking his head to the side. “hmm, could you make me coffee instead? i need an energy boost, anyways.”

you let out a gentle laugh, nodding and walking to the kitchen, starting up the coffee pot. honestly, you weren’t even sure if coffee was that good for you while you were sick, but, you already denied johnny going to work, the statistics of him agreeing to no coffee were a 0% chance.

once you finished the coffee and came back, you walked in to see johnny looking almost dead, laying with one leg over the covers, body parts all kinds of tangled, and eyes closed. you smiled to yourself, walking over and placing the coffee on his bedside table, pressing a kiss to his forehead and rubbing his shoulder. as rare as these kinds of moments were, quiet and steady, contrary to the loud and chaotic (but fun) nature of your usual time together, you could never get enough of them.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I genuinely felt that Book 7 had a strong start. I didn’t know it could go down hill so quickly once the dreams started dragging out. Its pacing issues really destroyed any hype it established during the earlier parts. I think Book 7 was the strongest up until Silver confronted his inner turmoil. Idia’s dreams were also reasonable as well. Hopefully Malleus and Lilia get more screen time to compensate for their absence during the middle bulk of book 7.

[Referencing this post!]

IT’S SUCH A SHAME 😭 The first third of book 7 (parts 1/the start to 100ish/the end of Lilia’s dream) was SO good… and then as soon as hit the dreamventure portion, we crashed and burned OTL

Sometimes I’m generous enough to extend the part of book 7 I thought was good from parts 1-100 to parts 1-115 (the end of Idia’s flashback explaining how he had been woken up). I basically only think Idia’s dream was “meh, acceptable enough” because when experiencing it for the first time, I thought Idia’s dream was the ONLY one we were seeing in this capacity. I believed that Idia’s dream was getting this “special” treatment since we had also witnessed Ortho “waking” in a unique way. Both of them are the main “villains” from the previous book, so I thought this was book 7’s way of bringing them back to take down Malleus. It… technically was that, but I wasn’t expecting Idia to announce his “recruit everyone!!!1!” plan 2 parts later 💀 I expected, now that we had reunited with both Shroud brothers, there would only be like maybe 2-3 updates left for book 7 to account for strategizing, finding a way to truly wake up in the real world, and then kicking Malleus’s tail. BOY, WAS I WRONG ON THAT FRONT 🫩 (<- deeply traumatized, this is my OB origin story/j)

The pacing problems were but one of the many factors bogging book 7 down; I also dislike the inconsistent tone between dreams, lack of stakes/urgency, lack of learning anything new and meaningful, over-explanations, focus on fanservice and contrivances, lack of focus on relevant characters, frequent in-your-face declarations of character development, and the very obvious patterns set for every dream (meaning they were mostly predictable). It sucks specially for the OB boys because their segments are the longest, involve the “I have/will become a better person”/“my past self was pathetic” speeches, and have the most contrived scenes I have ever witnessed (such as everyone in their dorm having to use their UM at least once, even if it makes little sense to). And because everything drags on for SO long, they try to make the build-up super emotional to compensate. But it gets to the point where it feels insincere or unearned by the time we finally get to the “shouting as they wake up” part because the dreams are held together with painter’s tape… 🙂‍↕️

I’m only left feeling like I’m a rag doll that was tossed onto a roller coaster and jerked everywhere. It’s fun and makes my emotions run high in the moment, sure. But once I’m off that ride (I’ve consumed the content) and sat with the experience for a while, I reflect on it and realize I did not actually enjoy it and the roller coaster was shaky (from meh writing + plot holes) and about to collapse the entire time I was on it.

Malleus really got shafted hard in his own book too??? Like this man hardly shows up 😭 and Lilia is gone for 2/3 of a book where he should be relevant?? They honestly NEED a book 8 so they both have a Mouse Mandated excuse to come back and actually do something more. Malleus especially needs that because book 7 also did us the disservice of TWO time skips after his OB (one X days, another X weeks) and completely glosses over any complicated feelings or struggles he may face in the aftermath. We immediately jump to him when Malleus is at a point where he claims he understands what he did was wrong???? When that feels inconsistent with how he has previously struggled to understand these things? Some OB boys recognized the error of their ways automatically, but I find it a little hard to believe that Malleus (who failed to learn anything about humans in the 2-3 years he has spent at NRC in his Dorm Uniform vignettes) suddenly “gets it”. It feels like an easy cop-out for Twst to write themselves out of the hole they dug with Malleus’s character and now it’s on book 8 to follow up on that and patch up all the new holes 7’s writing creates.

[hawkinsschoolcounselor]

I think I have a theory about this scene:

People are debating that it could be Will getting powers or Will getting possessed again. But I kinda feel like it could be both, in a way, and it would all tie together with Henry.

Thanks, Homer.

Based on what I've read about The First Shadow, Henry entered Dimension X or whatever it was called when he was a child, younger than Will even. He changed while he was in there, developing powers and experiencing a change in his personality. Eventually, he would be sent by El back there, where he would encounter the Mindflayer, seemingly bending it to his will.

However, I think that's all been reversed. I think the Mindflayer is really the one pulling the strings here.

The way I see it, the Mindflayer wants out of the other dimension or possibly sees all dimensions containing life as something to consume. However, it cannot do much on its own, rather it brings all creatures it encounters into its thrall, creating a hive mind. Henry was presumably its first human victim, but it didn't seem to give him powers, exposure to the dimension did. However, the dimension itself could basically be the Mindflayer at that point, so it could be the same difference.

Years later, Will would also accidentally traverse into this dimension. This time it was the result of El accidentally breaching the divide while Brenner had her reaching through the Void in search of Russian spies (really in search of Henry). He spent a week in there, which is probably longer than Henry did. Curiously, he was not killed like other human victims of the dimension. Even more curiously, the dimension, soon referred to as the Upside Down, now appeared as a shadowy version of Hawkins as it existed on the day Will entered it.

However, Will did not seem to encounter the Mindflayer while he was in there, at least not directly, so he wasn't added to the hive mind. This may be a result of him hiding for so long and then being weak by the time the demogorgon found him. However, Will was ultimately saved, becoming neither victim nor thrall. I suspect this is when Brenner or Owens or someone at the Lab had a Soteria implanted into him, as they would have recognized Will's experience as being very similar to Henry's.

The Mindflayer would then come for Will a year later. Regardless of the original plans for him, whether it be a thrall, an incubator, or just food, he was now a human who was exposed to the dimension for a week. He'd likely have powers and be valuable. The Mindflayer would have another Vecna, for lack of a better term. Luckily, the power of love won out, and Will was able to fight back against the hive mind corruption.

I think The First Shadow, even with my limited understanding of it, is a good foundation for what we may see in season 5. Will may go through a similar path that Henry did in the play. It may also be similar to Luke's experience in Return of the Jedi, where he was tempted by the Dark Side, only to overcome it in the end.

Will is going to experience the full extent of his powers, and the corruption that comes with it. He's going to be seen as a potential threat, possibly one that needs to be put down for the greater good, only for love to win again. However, it will be a painful road, and he himself may believe himself to be too dangerous to let live. This is where I think Mike will play a critical role. While I do think that the love of his family and friends will help him stay grounded, I think it will be Mike who plays the difference maker. Will thinking that Mike would never love him will probably be how the Mindflayer tries to wear down Will's, er, will. Mike showing Will that he does love him will give him the strength to do what Henry couldn't.

[himasgod]

HIII I SAW YOU HAVE REQUESTS OPEN AND I WANTED TO REQUEST :>>

idon't know if your comfortable with this but can i request twst 2nd years (replace kalim with leona) and what they do if their s/o is gone?

their s/o is dead so i wonder how they would mourn, how they take care of their s/o's grave, and how they cope without them?

i don't know if you accept requests like these but if you do then THANK YOU SO SO SOOO MUCH IN ADVANCE 🙏💕

SECOND YEARS + LEONA X READER

Where you died

How the boys would live the mourning process, how they take care of your grave, and how they cope without your death, with a live without you

Warning: This is hard angst. If you're a very perceptive person who visualizes a lot or empathizes with what you read, be prepared for a bit of a tear.

Leona acts like he doesn’t care. At first. But deep down, he’s unraveled. He doesn’t cry in front of anyone. He shuts down. He sleeps even more, not out of laziness— because he can only see you in dreams now. There’s a rawness behind his eyes when your name is mentioned, but he covers it with silence. He avoids people because he hates how they look at him—with pity, like they expect him to break. He already did. Just not where anyone could see it.

Leona visits your grave late at night, always when no one's around. He doesn’t bring flowers. Instead, he sits in silence, talking to you about the mundane. “Ruggie got on my case again. Jack pissed me off.” Things like that. Sometimes, he brings pebbles from Savannaclaw and stacks them on your grave. Small tokens that only he would understand. He leaves when the sun starts to rise. Always before anyone can catch him there.

Leona tells himself it’s better this way—that he was only going to ruin you in the end. That you were too good for him. But that doesn’t stop the grief from choking him. He keeps something small of yours—a ring, a scarf, maybe a notebook with your handwriting. On bad days, he holds it so tightly his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t move on. He just becomes colder, harsher. Your loss is the scar he never lets heal.

Riddle shuts down entirely. He doesn't cry—not at first. He goes numb. Rules become his lifeline. Structure. Order. Anything but feeling. But when he finds the last gift you gave him, tucked in a drawer, unopened—he collapses. He screams into his pillow. Breaks a teacup in his hands. Grief terrifies him because it's messy—and Riddle was taught to fear mess.

Riddle brings roses. Red, white, and blue—each carefully arranged. He memorizes the upkeep schedule of your grave, ensuring it’s spotless at all times. He even files complaints if the groundskeepers neglect it. When he visits, he reads aloud to you—poetry, or books you once loved. His voice is quiet. On your birthday, he always brings your favorite tea and pours a cup beside your grave. He doesn’t drink. Just… waits, in case you’re still listening.

Riddle reverts into old habits—strict routines, harsh punishments, stricter rules. But Trey knows. He sees the way Riddle’s hands shake. Eventually, Riddle softens—just a little. He keeps your photo on his desk, and he sometimes writes letters addressed to you, even though he never sends them. He studies healing magic obsessively. Not because he wants to bring you back—he knows he can’t. But because he never wants to lose someone like that again. You were his exception. His rebellion. His first real love. And he never quite recovers.

Floyd doesn’t react the way people expect. He laughs when he hears the news—but it’s not happy. It’s empty. Then he gets violent. He wrecks an entire hallway, shattering windows and breaking anything that reminds him of you. Then… he’s just gone. He withdraws so deeply into himself that not even Jade or Azul can reach him. He stops showing up to class. Stops smiling. The spark in his eyes is just gone. He mutters your name to himself like a lullaby.

Floyd doesn’t go often. When he does, it’s erratic. One day he’s calm, sitting by your grave with seashells and pearls he found. The next, he’s yelling at the sky, sobbing, asking why you left him alone. He presses his forehead to your headstone sometimes and just stays there for hours. Then he leaves, mood unreadable, but always more exhausted than before.

Floyd changes. He becomes moodier, but not in his usual way. He loses interest in his usual chaos. You were the one who made the world interesting, after all. He keeps something of yours in his jacket—maybe your old hairpin or bracelet—and clutches it when he’s angry or lost. When people ask about you, he snaps: “Don’t talk about them. Ever.” Sometimes, though, he swears he hears your laughter. And for a fleeting second, he smiles like he used to.

Silver is devastated, and it shows. He’s always been calm and emotionally steady, but your death shakes him to his core. He loses his rhythm—his duty falters, his naps grow deeper and longer. He wakes up crying from dreams where you’re still alive, only to remember you’re gone. His voice is softer now, as if anything louder might shatter him. He carries guilt. “Why couldn’t I protect you?” is a question that haunts him endlessly.

Silver visits your grave with quiet reverence. He brushes fallen leaves off the headstone with his hands, tends to the flowers, and replaces them often with lilies or whatever blooms you once loved. He kneels when he speaks to you, as if he still guards you even in death. He reads aloud fairytales you liked, letting the wind carry his words to wherever you might be. Silver doesn't rush. He stays until the stars come out. And sometimes he sleeps there. It's the closest he'll ever get to falling asleep cuddled up with you again.

Silver keeps a locket with your photo, tucked inside his shirt near his heart. He often touches it absentmindedly when lost in thought. Lilia, Sebek and Malleus worry about him, and while he remains gentle with them, there’s a sadness behind his smile. Silver believes you’re watching over him—so he tries to live a life you’d be proud of. It hurts. But that belief keeps him moving, one step at a time.

Ruggie pretends he’s okay. He makes jokes, forces a grin, but those who know him well notice the cracks—he laughs less, steals less, works more. He throws himself into being useful cause if he stops moving, the grief catches up. The first time he’s alone after your funeral, he breaks down hard. Punches a wall. Screams into his jacket. It’s the only time he lets himself fall apart.

Ruggie doesn’t visit often at first—not because he doesn’t care, but because it hurts too much. When he does, he always brings something: your favorite snack, some charm from the Sunset Savanna, a scrap of cloth from a hoodie you loved. He never stays long. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, voice low: “Hey… bet you’re still yelling at me from wherever you are. I can hear it.… I miss it.”

Ruggie becomes fiercely protective of the few people he has left. He values life more now, but laughs a little less. He keeps your last voice message in Magicam saved and listens to it sometimes under the covers at night. When he sees something you would’ve loved at the market, he stops and stares for a moment—then keeps walking. The pain never really fades. But he carries it like everything else: close to his chest, never letting it show unless he’s completely alone.

Azul is shattered, but he tries to intellectualize it. He tries to convince himself that grief can be processed in logical steps, denial, anger, bargaining. But that doesn’t stop him from breaking down in private, clutching the edge of his desk until his knuckles turn blue, trying to breathe through the panic of a world without you. He continues running the Mostro Lounge like nothing’s wrong. His smile is still polished. But behind the scenes? Azul can’t look at your favorite seat in the lounge without feeling like he’s drowning.

Azul dresses impeccably every time he visits your grave. It becomes a ritual He brings white roses, and small trinkets he made with his own hands. He kneels, brushing dust from your name. Sometimes his voice breaks. Sometimes he just sits in silence and lets the tears fall.

Azul spirals into overwork. He tries to fill the void you left with achievements, contracts—anything. But nothing is enough. He keeps your photo in the drawer of his desk, opens it during long nights, and murmurs to it like you’re still there. Jade and Floyd know. They say nothing, but keep a close eye on him. Azul never quite recovers. He simply learns how to live with a heart that echoes where your voice used to be.

Jamil becomes frighteningly quiet. His grief is organized, sharp, disciplined—he doesn’t lash out, but everything about him becomes colder. Internally, he’s drowning in guilt. He feels responsible somehow. He replays everything over and over, looking for what he missed. He doesn’t cry in front of others. But late at night, he folds your old letters and clothes, tears soaking into his palms.

Jamil treats your grave like a shrine. Every week, he brings fresh desert roses, cleans the stone, and places small food offerings from his own cooking—your favorites, made exactly the way you liked them. He never talks to you there. Instead, he meditates in silence beside the grave. Maybe he believes the words are already in his heart, or maybe it just hurts too much to speak them aloud.

Jamil becomes obsessed with control—over his routine, his environment, his emotions. He starts studying harder, sleeping less, doing more. But it’s all a way to avoid facing the pain. He wears a bracelet you once gave him and never takes it off. On the anniversary of your death, he disappears from everyone for a full day. Only Kalim knows where he goes—and he never asks questions. Jamil's grief is silent, disciplined, and buried deep. But it never leaves him.

Kalim doesn't understand it at first. He smiles, thinking you'll come through the door like always, calling his name. The reality doesn't hit until days later—when your laugh no longer echoes, when your perfume fades from his robes. Then he breaks. Not in fury, in grief so raw it silences even him. He curls up in bed, weeping into your favorite pillow, begging for it to be a dream

Kalim visits every week, rain or shine. He brings lavish flower arrangements, little handmade crafts, and occasionally food—things he learned to cook because you liked them. He talks a lot while sitting by your grave. Sometimes he cries. Other times, he smiles while telling stories, like he’s making sure your spirit is still included in his life.

Kalim throws himself into making others smile. If he can’t be happy, at least someone else can be. But deep down, there’s a hollowness. He wears a ring you once gave him—tells people it’s “for luck,” but it’s really a promise he’s trying to keep: To never forget you. Jamil ends up watching over him more carefully than ever. Kalim still laughs, still shines, but there’s a sadness behind it that never quite goes away

Jade’s grief is clinical, almost surgical in how neatly he tucks it away from others. No one sees him cry. No one sees him falter. He mourns in silence, in isolation. He’ll continue his duties, serve in the Lounge, smile with those sharp teeth—but inside, he’s completely quietly broken. His calm becomes eerie because there’s no balance anymore. Not without you.

Jade visits your grave with ritualistic precision. Once a month, on the same day, at the same time. He brings rare mushrooms, a flower you loved... He speaks rarely, if at all. He stays until nightfall, then vanishes like he was never there.

Jade becomes more elusive. Even Floyd can’t always read him. Jade starts going into deeper and more dangerous places, almost like he’s looking for something he lost. He keeps your memory alive through action—keeping what you loved alive in the world. But he never talks about you unless someone dares to ask… and if they do, he just smiles. A sad, secret smile. “You wouldn’t understand.”

[artficlly]

hey art,

i hope you don’t feel so shitty anymore.

i want you to know that you can reblog and share whenever and however many fuckin times you want.

this is your page. this is your account. you have all the right to do what you want.

unfortunately, people aren’t so grateful, or at least considerate. and they think they can this for granted just because you’re giving out these masterpieces for free.

really, i love all of your work. i appreciate you, wholly.

xoxo

Hey lovely,

Thanks for this, you're so kind. I've been getting a few messages and stuff about this so I thought I'd just quickly pop in and clarify a couple things!

I am okay and no I'm not leaving Tumblr! That rude ask just came through at a really bad time for me. Not that it was the rudest thing I've ever received, far from it, it was more just the cherry on top of a lot of shit that has been building up the past couple months. I get a lot of lovely people reading my stuff, but unfortunately, a good percentage of it is just people demanding updates. I just got very overwhelmed and worked up about it so I'm taking a week or so away from Tumblr to reset.

I'm truthfully very busy at the moment, I have a bunch of assignments due for uni since the end of the semester less than a month away now. I've been pulling 12h days at my desk just to get some of my bigger projects wrapped up. On top of this, in true fanfic author curse style my mother has been sick for a while, so I've been helping my family where I can. I don't really want to go into details but everything is fine I just haven't really had a chance to even breathe the past week.

I have a fuck ton of notifications to catch up on, but I'll get around to it so prepare yourself I guess for a fucking onslaught on reblogs and asks. I'll be turning anon asks back on soon, I just really needed a break.

Oh, and Lessons in Lovemaking part 5 is about halfway complete. :) Between everything I've managed to get a good 5k words down.

[revelboo]

Thanks to you and other people, I now have a BLOKEES addiction and have so many BLOKEES while I sit here waiting for the next Defender Wave with Roddi and Shockwave (and most importantly, Soundwave with his favorite children). Just for that, you get a picture of my recent purchase of the Galaxy 07 Transformers One Wave two figures

~~and my undying wish and prayer that they make a blurr figure soon. I want my speedy boi~~

Ahhh! Mine arrived today, too! 💕

Hot To Go! Pt 1

Blurr x Reader

• Venting as Waspinator and Sky Byte begin loudly complaining about bots with organic altmodes being discriminated against, Blurr makes a note to cut the two of them off. Doubts Waspinator is overenergized enough to actually cause a problem, but Sky Byte isn’t as intimidated by everything as Waspinator is. They’ll either start something or just start singing karaoke. Which is as likely to start a brawl as anything else since neither one of them should ever be allowed to try to sing except as a means of psychological torture.

• Turning, he begins mixing a drink for Tankor, listening to the noise of the bar around him. Everything so slow after the war that it still doesn’t seem real, feels like he’s the only one at speed, the world around him standing still until he’s forced to slow down, too. No war, no danger. He’s proud of this place, but sometimes he thinks about racing again. About that sizzle of excitement and danger. Pushing himself past his limits to prove he’s the fastest. Knows there’s been talk about reinstating the Iacon 500, but there’s just as many against it as for it. Anything that’s too much a reminder of before, of something the Senate sponsored or approved of, makes everyone uneasy. Everyone finding a new normal and some wanting to go back to the way things had been, tensions high and only getting worse every day.

• Pain shreds you apart, eviscerating you alive until you can’t even scream. One moment driving, the next, agony so intense you can’t think, can’t breathe. And when that bright rending abruptly ends, you plop underwater and you really can’t breathe. Kicking to the surface, coughing and spitting, because this isn’t water, it’s viscous and glowing. Throwing your arms against the side of whatever you’re swimming in, you scrub at your burning eyes. And stare up at a big, blue robotic monster.

• Frozen, staring at the impossible little organic swimming in Tankor’s drink, Blurr glances at his nearest patron to see if you’re just a hallucination. No, Waspinator is gaping at you, mandibles spreading slightly. And you look at him, right in the optics with uncanny intelligence and your little face is so eerily Cybertronian. Watches you look around slowly, mouth trembling right before you screech at processor scrambling decibels. Shoving away from the edge of the glass and going under again, flailing and coughing when you resurface. “Everyone’s seeing this? Not just me? Good,” he mutters, dipping his servos into the glass to fish you out. And you weigh nothing as your terrified sputtering resolves into frightened chirping. You’re warm against his servos, little heart racing. What are you and where did you just come from? “Anybody know if organics teleport?” He asks and Sky Byte just shakes his head, mystified. ‘I’m not drinking something some nasty organic’s been soaking in,’ Tankor growls and he ignores the other mech, gently depositing you on his bar rag and he immediately has to catch you when you try to run straight off the edge of the bar in your terror.

• There’s giant, growling monsters everywhere. Pushing and squirming to try and get out of the blue one’s grip, you lean away when he grabs a rag and starts patting you dry, growling to a horrifying bug monster. Is the one sitting beside him a robot shark? Maybe you’re having a mental breakdown. Or dreaming. But you can taste the bite of whatever that glowing stuff you fell in was, smell the faintly metallic spice of the monster holding you and feel the warmth of his big hand. And you’re not that creative, your dreams never this detailed. Gasping as you’re lifted up to the blue robot’s face, listening his rough growling, you whimper. Because this can’t be real. He can’t be real. Realizing you’re chanting that, whispering ‘this isn’t real’ over and over as your heart races.

They’re making friends

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Beautiful Stranger

(7) I Think it's Finally Safe for Me to Fall

Mommy!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentine's Day needs to be special, but what could be more special than your baby girl being born?

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: Pregnancy-related body image insecurity, crying/emotional vulnerability, mention of past relationship neglect, mild romantic/affectionate intimacy, mentions of postpartum exhaustion, light reference to past emotional stress, implied estranged parental relationship, general parenting and newborn care struggles

A/N: These two hold such a special place in my heart and this is where I knew the end of this story would be since I thought of the idea. I'm glad it's finally completed and thank you all for being patient with this series.

February 14th, 2024

Your alarm went off before the sun even thought about rising, but you were already awake, too excited to sleep. This wasn’t just any day—it was your first real Valentine’s Day with Wanda. Not just your first with her, but your first ever with someone who loved you back. Someone who made you feel safe, adored, and wanted. You were determined to make it perfect.

You slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, pressing a gentle kiss to Wanda’s forehead before tiptoeing out of the room.

The boys were still groggy when you woke them up, but when you whispered, “It’s Valentine’s Day, and we’re surprising Mommy,” they both lit up instantly.

Bundled in jackets and fuzzy slippers, the three of you made a chilly early-morning run to the local florist. Billy picked a bouquet of red and pink tulips. Tommy, predictably chaotic, grabbed a bunch of mixed wildflowers and then added a single sunflower "because Mommy’s smile is sunny." You added a dozen classic red roses to the mix and snagged some baby’s breath to tie everything together.

Once home, you ushered the boys into the kitchen and set to work on breakfast. Billy was your fruit expert, carefully slicing strawberries and bananas (with close supervision), while Tommy took charge of arranging toast into the shape of hearts—he insisted. You whipped up heart-shaped pancakes, eggs, and bacon, sneaking chocolate chips into some of the pancakes just because you knew Wanda had a sweet tooth.

“Okay, final touch,” you said, wiping your hands and glancing at the clock. “Cards.”

You’d been working on yours for days—handwritten and heartfelt, folded neatly with a pressed flower tucked inside. Billy and Tommy had each made one too. Billy’s was covered in glitter and stickers, with “I love you Mommy” written in marker across the front. Tommy’s was... abstract, but full of love, with a popsicle stick flower taped inside and a big crayon heart.

With breakfast arranged perfectly on a tray, the three of you tiptoed down the hallway.

“Okay, ready?” you whispered, balancing the tray while the boys clutched their cards and flowers. They nodded eagerly.

You nudged the door open gently. Wanda stirred under the covers, eyes fluttering open as sunlight peeked through the curtains.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mommy!” the boys yelled in unison, bounding onto the bed.

Wanda blinked in surprise, a sleepy but radiant smile blooming on her face as she sat up. “Oh my goodness... what’s all this?”

You stepped forward, offering the tray with a grin. “Your very cheesy, very in-love girlfriend and her two partners in crime made you breakfast in bed.”

Billy thrust his card into her hands. “I made you this! Look! That’s me, and you, and Daddy, and Tommy. And those are hearts, not potatoes.”

Tommy handed over his popsicle-stick masterpiece proudly. “Mine’s got glue still drying, but I made you a flower that won’t die.”

Wanda chuckled, eyes misty as she looked from the boys to you. You handed her your card last, feeling oddly shy despite everything. She opened it slowly, her smile softening as she read your words.

“I love it,” she whispered, pulling you in for a kiss over the tray. “I love all of this. I love you.”

The boys cheered dramatically and rolled around on the bed, already eyeing the leftover strawberries on the breakfast tray. After a few bites and lots of syrup-covered fingers, they scrambled off the bed with their cards in hand, off to build something with Legos or stage a stuffed animal battle—who knew with them.

That left you and Wanda alone in the soft morning quiet. You took the tray from her lap and set it aside on the nightstand before crawling back into bed, pulling the blankets over both of you.

You were just about to make a teasing comment about her bedhead when you noticed the way she was looking down at the cards again, her fingers brushing gently over the glitter, the popsicle stick flower, your folded note.

“Hey,” you said softly, sitting up a bit. “Are you okay?”

Wanda nodded, but her lip trembled, and then a tear rolled down her cheek.

Your stomach dropped. “Did I—did I do something wrong?” you asked, voice low, worried you’d overstepped somehow. “Wanda, if this was too much—”

“No,” she whispered quickly, shaking her head. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t mess up at all.”

You waited, watching as she blinked more tears away and gave you a watery smile.

“It’s just...” She looked down at the cards again, clutching them to her chest for a moment. “Vision never did anything like this. Not once. He was kind, and he cared, but he didn’t... he didn’t think about things like this. About making me feel seen. Or cherished. He didn’t wake up early to buy flowers with the boys. He didn’t teach them how to crack eggs for pancakes or make space for messy glue hearts.”

She looked up at you again, eyes glassy and so full of something vulnerable it made your own heart ache.

“You did all of that. Without me having to ask. Just because you love me.”

You swallowed hard, your own eyes starting to sting.

“Of course I love you,” you whispered, reaching out to brush a tear from her cheek with your thumb. “You deserve to be celebrated, Wanda. Every day. Not just on Valentine’s.”

She leaned into your hand, then pulled you in for a long, quiet hug, burying her face in your neck. You held her tightly, running your hand slowly up and down her back.

“Thank you for loving me like this,” she murmured into your skin.

You kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for letting me.”

Outside the bedroom, the boys were already arguing over whose Switch controller was whose. But in here, wrapped up in the warmth of Wanda’s arms and soft morning light, everything felt still. Sacred. Safe.

And more than anything else—real.

Valentine’s Evening, February 14th, 2024

The rest of the day passed in a cozy blur—sticky chocolate fingers, the rustle of tissue paper, and quiet laughter from every corner of your little home. But as the sun dipped low, casting amber across the floors, you leaned in close to Wanda where she was curled up on the couch, kissed her temple, and whispered, “Go get ready, sweet girl. Your dinner reservation is at seven.”

She blinked up at you, startled. “You made a reservation?”

You nodded, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Of course I did. It’s our first Valentine’s Day, beautiful. You didn’t think I’d let the night pass without spoiling my best girl, did you?”

A shy smile pulled at her lips, but her hand instinctively went to her belly—round and heavy now. “I don’t even know if I can get ready,” she murmured. “Everything’s tight or itchy or makes me feel like a walking balloon.”

You dropped to one knee beside her, your palms resting gently on her stomach. “Darling,” you whispered, kissing the curve where your daughter had just kicked. “You’ve never looked more radiant. You’ve made a whole human in there. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her breath hitched. “You always know just what to say.”

“I just tell the truth,” you said, standing to press your forehead to hers. “Let me help. We’ll find something that makes you feel like you. And if you cry, I’ve got tissues, chocolate, and backup snuggles.”

She gave you a teary little laugh. “Hormones. I’m blaming everything on hormones tonight.”

“You can blame me too,” you grinned. “But only if I get to hold your hand the whole time.”

You walked her to the bedroom and carefully went through her dresses together. She hesitated when she touched a crimson wrap dress, but you helped her into it anyway, tying the sash beneath her belly. When she looked at herself in the mirror, you saw her lips part, her eyes flicking over her reflection with something close to awe.

“Look at you,” you whispered, standing behind her. “My gorgeous, strong, glowing girl.”

“You’re biased,” she said weakly.

“I’m also right,” you murmured, kissing the back of her neck.

The boys ran out in their pajamas just as Pietro arrived to babysit, both of them tackling Wanda in careful hugs and throwing their arms around your waist.

“Have fun, Mommy! Have fun, Daddy!”

You helped Wanda out the door, arm wrapped securely around her waist, hand protective and loving on the small of her back as you got her into the car.

Dinner was soft jazz and warm candlelight. A booth tucked in the corner, dim and cozy, like the world was built just for the two of you. The server brought her a cushion before you even asked. Your hands stayed tangled across the table, her thumb tracing over your knuckles as she smiled at you like you’d hung the stars.

You toasted with sparkling cider, laughing quietly when your glasses clinked awkwardly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mama,” you said, brushing your fingers along her hand. “You’ve made this the best day of my life.”

Her eyes went glassy again. “You say that like it’s easy. Like I’m easy to love.”

“You are,” you said simply. “You’re the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Loving you, loving our daughter… it’s like breathing, darling.”

Tears slipped free before she could stop them, and she laughed through them. “You’re going to ruin my makeup.”

“I told you I’d ruin it more later.”

“You’re lucky I’m too pregnant to tackle you.”

You winked. “I live dangerously.”

And later, when you came home and the house was quiet—boys asleep, the fireplace low—you tugged Wanda into your arms in the living room. Your phone played soft music in the background as you swayed slowly, her belly between you and your palms cradling her like she was the whole world.

“You feel okay?” you whispered.

She nodded, resting her head on your chest. “More than okay. This has been the best day. And... Vision never did things like this. Not even close.”

Your arms tightened instinctively, protectively. “Sweet girl…”

“No,” she said gently, looking up at you. “I’m not sad. I’m just realizing how much more I feel with you. How much better it is, being seen. Being loved like this.”

You cupped her face, your thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You deserve all of this. Every card, every flower, every silly little heart-shaped thing.”

She smiled, and you kissed her softly—slow, steady, full of promise.

“I love you, Mama,” you breathed. “Forever.”

“I love you too, Daddy,” she whispered. “And she will too. The moment she meets you.”

And under the twinkle lights, with your heart against hers and your daughter just days from entering the world, it felt like the universe had finally gotten it right.

Late Night, February 14th, 2024

The bedroom was dim, painted in the amber glow of the nightstand lamp. Wanda had changed into one of your oversized shirts, the hem barely stretching over her belly, and you were already in bed, propped against the pillows with a hand outstretched to welcome her in.

She climbed in carefully, letting out a soft breath as she settled beside you, her head resting on your chest. Her hand found yours over the swell of her stomach, fingers lacing together naturally.

“Mm,” she hummed as you brushed your lips against her hairline, “this is the best part of the day.”

You smiled, your voice quiet and full of warmth. “You always say that.”

“Because it always is.” Her fingers rubbed lazy circles against your palm. “Dinner was amazing. The boys were so cute. But this? Just us? I need this the most.”

You tilted your head, resting your chin atop hers. “Me too, sweet girl.”

There was a long, comfortable silence. Just her breathing. Just the weight of her body melting into yours. Then, a little kick beneath your joined hands.

“She’s active tonight,” you murmured, pressing your palm flat against her belly. “Are you keeping Mama awake in there, huh?”

Wanda smiled sleepily, her eyes still closed. “She always does this. Every time I try to relax.”

“She’s just excited. Probably wants to come out and see how pretty you are.”

A quiet laugh slipped out of her. “Stop,” she murmured.

“I’m serious. You should see yourself right now. Hair all messy, my shirt barely holding on, that sleepy smile on your face. You’re a dream, beautiful.”

She let out a breath that sounded like she was trying not to cry again. “You’re gonna make me emotional again.”

“That’s okay,” you said gently, tightening your arm around her shoulders. “You’re allowed to feel everything. I’ve got you.”

Another pause. Another flutter of movement beneath your hands. Wanda shifted just slightly, burying her nose into your neck.

“Do you think I’ll be a good mom?” she whispered.

You blinked, surprised by the question. “What?”

“I mean it,” she said. “I know I already have the boys, but… this time it’s different. It’s you and me and her. And I want to do it right. I want her to grow up knowing how loved she is, every single second.”

You turned and kissed the top of her head, letting the moment settle into the silence. “Darling,” you whispered, “she’s going to know. From the moment she sees your face, from the way you hold her. From every lullaby and cuddle and boo-boo you kiss. You’re already doing it right.”

Wanda’s eyes finally met yours. Glossy, soft, open.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For today. For everything.”

You cupped her cheek and smiled. “Always.”

She melted into you again, her breathing evening out slowly, sleep finally starting to take her. But before she drifted off completely, her voice reached you one last time, barely more than a whisper.

“Goodnight, Daddy. I love you.”

You leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“Goodnight, sweet girl. I love you more.”

And as the snow fell softly outside and your daughter kicked gently between you, the world felt impossibly quiet. Like it was holding its breath. Like everything sacred was wrapped up in this moment—warm skin, soft sighs, and the calm before your whole world changed again.

February 17th, 2024

The house was quiet, save for the hum of the dishwasher and the occasional creak of old wood settling. Outside, the snow had mostly melted, turning into slushy puddles on the sidewalks. Inside, though, it was soft and warm and filled with a kind of tension—like the air was holding still, waiting.

You came down the hallway to find Wanda in the nursery again.

She was standing by the crib, folding and refolding a tiny onesie that had already been placed in the drawer hours ago. Her brows were knit in quiet concentration, her belly resting against the edge of the changing table as she stared down at the little lavender sleeper.

“Sweet girl,” you murmured from the doorway, “that’s the fourth time you’ve folded that today.”

She looked up, sheepish. “I know. I just… I don’t know. Nesting, maybe? I keep thinking there’s something I forgot.”

You walked over and slipped your arms around her from behind, resting your hands low on her belly and pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “We’ve got the bag packed. Car seat’s in the car. Clothes are washed. Bottles are sterilized. Hospital paperwork’s filled out. Everything’s ready, beautiful.”

She leaned into you with a sigh, finally letting the little outfit drop back into the drawer.

“I feel like I should be doing something.”

“You are doing something,” you said, your voice soft against her ear. “You’re growing a whole person. Our girl. That’s more than enough.”

She turned in your arms, letting her forehead fall against your chest. “I think I’m nervous.”

You kissed her crown. “Me too.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if something goes wrong?”

You held her tighter. “Then we’ll handle it. Together. You are not alone in this, Wanda. Not for one second. I’ve got you. And I’ve got her.”

She exhaled slowly, wrapping her arms around you. “Okay.”

A beat.

“Also,” she added, “I swear if you cry before I do when she’s born, I’m going to hold it over your head forever.”

You chuckled, rubbing her back. “No promises, darling. You’ve already got me crying over sonograms and baby socks. I’m a lost cause.”

Later that Night

Wanda couldn’t sleep.

She kept shifting in bed, trying to get comfortable. At first, you thought it was the usual late-pregnancy discomfort—restless legs, pressure, too many bathroom trips—but around 3:00 a.m., she sat up with a sharp inhale and grabbed your arm.

“Hey—hey. Something’s… something’s happening.”

You sat up instantly, all grogginess gone. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think… I think it’s starting.”

She winced as her hand moved to her lower belly.

“Contractions?”

“Maybe. It’s different from Braxton Hicks. This one really hurts.”

You were already out of bed, grabbing your phone, checking the time. “Okay. We’ll start timing them. Want to sit on the ball?”

She nodded, letting you help her up and shuffle slowly to the living room. You guided her down onto the exercise ball, rubbing her lower back gently while she leaned forward over the couch cushions.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered, breathy.

“You’re more ready than you think, beautiful.”

“But I’m scared.”

You crouched in front of her, took her hands, and kissed her knuckles. “I know. Me too. But we’re in this together. Every single moment.”

Wanda looked at you, eyes wide and wet, then down at the bump between you.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

You reached for your phone again, stopwatch open.

“Alright, sweet girl. Let’s meet our daughter.”

February 18th, 2024 Labor and Delivery

The drive to the hospital was quiet—tense, but not chaotic. Wanda gripped your hand the entire way, breathing through each contraction like you’d practiced. The windows were fogged from your shallow breaths and the heater, and the GPS voice felt absurdly calm for the way your heart was thundering.

The boys had already been picked up—you ran next-door, banging on your parents door, your dad had come to answer and immediately got dressed, all warm chuckles and gentle assurance. Your mother hadn’t said much—just a clipped “Good luck” before she walked out, but you hadn’t expected more. The important thing was that the boys were excited. Your dad had promised them donuts in the morning and Nerf battles in the afternoon, already calling them “his little squad.”

Wanda had told Vision what was happening. You didn’t ask how that conversation went. She didn’t offer.

Now, you were wheeling her down the sterile hallway of the maternity ward, her hand in yours, her jaw tight as another contraction rolled through her.

“You’re doing so good, darling,” you murmured, brushing her damp hair away from her forehead. “Almost there.”

She just nodded, squeezing your hand so tight it made your knuckles pop.

Room 308 – 7:42 AM

Wanda was 6 centimeters when they checked. You were at her side through every breath, every position change, every low groan of discomfort. She didn’t yell or scream, but the pain showed in the way she held herself—in her trembling fingers, in the way she rested her head against your shoulder and whispered “I can’t” more than once.

Each time, you held her tighter. “You can. You are. I’ve got you.”

She opted for the epidural, her voice shaking as she told the nurse she couldn’t do it anymore. You helped her stay still while they inserted it, kissed her temple as tears slipped quietly down her cheeks.

“You’re not weak,” you whispered. “You’re brave. The bravest person I know.”

When it kicked in, she slumped back, letting out a trembling breath. You brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed her softly.

“I love you,” you told her, hand resting on the swell of her belly. “You’re almost there, sweet girl. Almost.”

11:36 AM

“She’s fully dilated,” the nurse said. “It’s time to start pushing.”

Everything blurred after that—flashes of movement, the beeping of monitors, the sound of Wanda’s breath catching as the pressure built. Her grip on your hand was brutal.

“You’re doing so good, beautiful,” you kept telling her, over and over, even when your own eyes were glassy and your heart felt like it was going to burst. “I’m right here. Just a little more.”

She was exhausted—sweaty, pale, shaking—but her determination never wavered. She pushed with everything she had, roaring out her effort when her daughter crowned, tears streaming freely now as the nurse counted down each push.

And then—

A wet cry.

A sharp, tiny scream that shattered the whole room open like sunlight.

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth as the doctor lifted your daughter up.

“She’s here,” someone said. Maybe you. Maybe Wanda. Maybe the nurse. It didn’t matter.

She was placed on Wanda’s chest, pink and squirming and perfect. Wanda sobbed openly now, her arms trembling as they curled protectively around the tiny body.

You kissed her hair, your own tears falling freely now. “She’s beautiful,” you choked out. “God, Wanda. You did it. She’s here.”

Wanda looked up at you, mascara smudged, eyes shining, and whispered, “She’s perfect.”

You couldn’t stop touching her—Wanda’s face, her hair, your daughter’s tiny hands. You swore your heart had grown three sizes in a single second. You weren’t sure how to breathe around the feeling of it all.

“Hi, baby girl,” you whispered to the newborn, brushing your finger across her cheek. “Welcome to the world.”

February 18th, 2024 2:14 PM — Recovery Room

The world had quieted.

Wanda had finally drifted off, exhausted but glowing, her fingers curled protectively around the soft pink edge of the baby blanket. You were sitting beside her in a low rocking chair, cradling the little bundle of warmth that had changed your entire life in the span of a single cry.

Liliana was wrapped snug, her cheeks rosy and her tiny mouth moving softly in her sleep. You couldn’t stop staring—at her little nose, at the smudge of dark hair on her head, at the way her fingers curled so tightly around yours when she stirred.

You had never known love like this.

A soft knock on the door pulled you from your reverie. Wanda blinked awake just as the nurse opened it and peeked in. “The family’s here, if you’re ready for visitors.”

Wanda nodded sleepily. “Send them in.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as the door opened wider and your dad came in first, the boys at his side—Tommy practically vibrating with excitement and Billy holding a handmade card in both hands.

They rushed in, their eyes going wide when they spotted the little bundle in your arms.

“She’s so tiny,” Billy whispered.

“Can we see her?” Tommy asked, bouncing on his toes.

You smiled and knelt a little so they could peek at her.

“Boys, this is your baby sister,” you murmured, watching their faces light up in pure awe.

“She looks like Mommy,” Billy said.

“She’s wrinkly,” Tommy added, grinning.

“She’s perfect,” you replied simply.

Your father hovered behind them, misty-eyed as he placed a hand on your shoulder. “You did good, kiddo,” he said, voice thick.

Then Wanda’s mother stepped forward. Iryna’s hands were clasped over her chest, her eyes shining as she approached the bed where Wanda now sat up a little, reaching to touch her daughter’s hand.

“She’s beautiful,” Iryna breathed. “Have you… have you chosen a name?”

You looked at Wanda and she looked at you, that tired, radiant smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

You nodded and stood, adjusting your hold on the tiny baby in your arms.

“We did,” you said softly. Then you looked right at Wanda and smiled, full of all the love you carried for the woman who’d just made you a mother.

“We decided on the name Liliana. Liliana Iryna Maximoff-Y/L/N.”

For a second, the room was silent.

Then Iryna gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth as tears immediately welled in her eyes.

“You named her after me?” she asked, voice cracking.

Wanda nodded, emotion rising in her own eyes. “Of course we did. You’ve always been there for me, for us. You love our boys, and I wanted her to know she comes from women who are strong.”

You took a slow step forward, offering Iryna the baby.

“Would you like to hold your granddaughter?” you asked gently.

Iryna nodded quickly, her hands trembling as you carefully passed Liliana into her arms.

“Oh…” she whispered, tears falling freely now. “Hello, krasivaya malen'kaya devochka…”

The boys crowded around her legs, peeking up at their new sister. Your dad handed over his phone to start taking pictures, wiping his own eyes behind it. And for a long, perfect moment, the room was filled with nothing but soft voices, laughter, and the overwhelming warmth of a family that had just grown by one tiny heartbeat.

February 19th, 2024 3:17 AM — Maternity Ward, Room 308

The lights were dim, the hospital room quiet but not still. Machines beeped rhythmically in the background, and Wanda lay half-asleep in the bed, her eyes fluttering open every few minutes to check on you both.

You stood barefoot in the middle of the room, Liliana cradled in your arms, swaying gently side to side. She’d woken up with a fussy little cry, her face red and scrunched in the telltale way that let you know something was definitely happening in her diaper.

The problem?

You hadn’t done this before.

Wanda had tried to get up, but you’d shushed her quickly and kissed her forehead. “No, no, sweet girl. You just made a whole human being yesterday. Let me try first.”

Now, with Liliana squirming and grunting softly against your chest, you glanced toward the hallway, debating whether to risk waking the nurse or fumbling through it on your own.

Just then, as if summoned by your panic, a soft knock came at the door and one of the night shift nurses peeked in.

“Everything okay?” she asked in a hushed voice, glancing between you and the baby.

You gave her a sheepish look. “I think she needs a diaper change, and… I don’t want to mess it up.”

The nurse smiled kindly and stepped in. “New parent?”

You nodded.

“Would you like me to walk you through it?”

“Yes. God, yes,” you said, exhaling in relief.

She helped you get everything set up—laid a fresh diaper on the little rolling bassinet, opened the wipes, and showed you how to gently undo the onesie without waking her too much. Liliana made a tiny squawk of protest, her limbs flailing in slow motion.

“Okay,” the nurse said softly. “Wipe front to back, be gentle but quick. Fold the front of the new diaper over and make sure the tabs are snug but not too tight. Watch out for—”

Just then, a tiny stream of pee arced up toward the ceiling, and you yelped and jumped back like you’d been hit with a hose. The nurse caught the edge of the diaper just in time, laughing under her breath.

You stared, wide-eyed. “She’s so small—how did she do that?”

“She’s efficient,” the nurse chuckled. “Welcome to parenthood.”

Wanda was giggling quietly from the bed, barely able to keep her eyes open but clearly entertained by the whole thing. “You okay over there, darling?”

You glanced over your shoulder at her with a grin. “I think I just earned a badge or something.”

Once Liliana was clean, dry, and dressed again, the nurse patted your shoulder. “You’re a natural. You’ll both be pros in no time.”

She left you alone again in the quiet, and you gently lifted Liliana back into your arms, cradling her close to your chest. She settled quickly, cheek against your collarbone, her tiny body warm and perfect.

You walked her slowly to Wanda’s bedside and leaned in to let her see.

“Look who’s back in fresh pajamas,” you whispered. “No casualties.”

Wanda smiled sleepily, her hand reaching out to stroke your daughter’s head. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For all of this.”

You kissed her forehead gently. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Then, as Liliana let out a soft sigh and nestled deeper into your arms, you settled into the chair beside Wanda’s bed—your daughter safe against your chest, your wife drifting peacefully to sleep beside you—and you let your eyes close, heart full to bursting.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t quiet. But it was perfect.

February 22nd, 2024 Home – Day 5

You were tired. No—beyond tired. This wasn’t just lack of sleep. It was full-body, soul-deep fatigue that had started the moment you brought Liliana home and hadn’t let up since.

She was perfect. Absolutely, heartbreakingly perfect. But also very loud. And very hungry. Constantly hungry.

You were back in school now—online classes mostly, but they didn’t care if you were running on ninety minutes of sleep and coffee that had long since gone cold. Wanda had tried to insist you take time off, but you’d wanted to keep at it. You didn’t want to fall behind. You wanted to prove you could do this—be a parent and still keep your promises to yourself.

So you studied with a baby asleep on your chest. Wrote essays one-handed while bottle-feeding. Attended Zoom lectures with your camera off and Liliana’s soft snuffles just barely out of mic range.

And Wanda? She was somehow holding the whole house together.

She worked from the couch or the dining room table, muted on calls while rocking Liliana in her lap. She took breaks between emails to prep dinner, or pack lunches, or fold laundry that somehow never ended. Her hair was always up, her bathrobe perpetually stained with something—spit-up, milk, the remnants of someone’s breakfast.

You kept trying to take things off her plate. But she always met you with that tired, knowing smile.

“We’re both in it,” she’d murmur. “We’ll get through it.”

The boys had adjusted better than you expected. Tommy was always eager to help—bringing diapers, holding bottles, announcing when Liliana needed a “code red” diaper change. Billy was quieter, softer, always the first one to offer to sit beside her when she cried.

And practice helped. It gave them a break, gave them space to be kids still. Your dad had been helping with pick-up and drop-offs, and you were grateful—because you didn’t think you could handle one more drive on two hours of sleep.

That Friday night, the house was finally still. The boys were asleep after practice and pizza. Liliana had been fed and changed, and you had managed to get her to drift off in her bassinet beside the bed.

Wanda was already half-asleep, curled on her side in bed in an oversized T-shirt that had once been yours. You dragged yourself from the bathroom, face washed, finally in pajamas, and slid under the covers beside her.

She blinked slowly at you, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion but warm.

“You made it,” she whispered.

“Barely,” you murmured, brushing your knuckles along her cheek. “You should’ve seen the math quiz I turned in today. I may have answered in lullaby lyrics.”

She snorted softly, snuggling into your chest.

“I miss you,” she admitted.

You frowned, pulling her tighter. “I’m right here, beautiful.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But… everything’s moving so fast. I feel like we’re barely catching up.”

You kissed the top of her head, your voice quiet. “We’ll slow it down. Find little moments.”

“I just want to hold you for longer than ten minutes before someone starts crying.”

You smiled tiredly. “That someone better not be me this time.”

She chuckled against your collarbone, and for a long moment, neither of you moved.

Liliana stirred in the bassinet with a soft whimper. You both froze.

Then… nothing.

Wanda sighed in relief. “Okay. Maybe we’ll get an hour tonight.”

“An hour sounds like heaven.”

You looked down at her, studying the curve of her cheek, the way her lips parted as she drifted closer to sleep.

Even in the chaos—especially in it—you’d never loved her more.

March 1st, 2024 Home – Late Evening

The house was finally quiet.

Tommy and Billy had gone over to Visions for the weekend. Wanda had just slipped out of the shower, hair damp, cheeks flushed, wearing one of your hoodies as she curled into the corner of the couch beside you.

Liliana was asleep in your arms, her tiny fingers curled around your thumb, her soft breaths the only sound between you for a moment.

You looked down at her—your daughter. The little girl who had turned your world inside out in the best possible way. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, her warm weight nestled against your chest like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Wanda reached over to tuck a loose blanket corner around the baby, her fingers brushing yours. She leaned her head against your shoulder, and you turned just enough to press a kiss to her hairline.

“I don’t know how we’re doing this,” you murmured.

Wanda gave a soft, sleepy smile. “Me neither.”

“But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

You sat there for a long while in the quiet, letting the moment soak into your bones. Letting the joy and the exhaustion settle together, hand in hand.

Nine months ago, you never would’ve imagined this—here, with Wanda, with Liliana, with two incredible boys who called you Daddy and a woman who had become the heart of your entire world.

And yet… you remembered it all so clearly.

The day she told you she was pregnant.

Her eyes had been filled with uncertainty, lips trembling as she held the test in her hand. You hadn’t hesitated—not for a second.

“We'll figure something out. Whatever it is, I'll be here for you, Wanda.”

You weren’t even together then. Not really. Not in the way you were now.

But looking back, maybe you’d already known.

That moment felt like yesterday and a lifetime ago, all at once. A beginning wrapped inside of fear and hope. And now, you were here—still figuring it out, still learning—but surrounded by love.

You looked at Liliana again, her tiny chest rising and falling against yours. Your daughter.

The past nine months had been the most beautiful, terrifying, exhausting, incredible months of your life.

And somehow, you knew…

The best was still to come.

[littlelamy]

🤗 anon here with another ideeaa! or suggestion, whatever youd like to call it!

you should do a small part two to your anxious reader blurb having a panic attack, maybe like- her explaining what actually happened to rafe, n then after a few days she finally gets the courage to see the pogues again and she starts to apologize :( even though it wasnt her fault- and then it all ends up in a good, happy ending teehee

a/n: 🤗 anonie, i hope you like it!

“it was stupid,” you say, already looking down, chewing your thumbnail raw. “i don’t even know why it hit me like that, it wasn’t anything big, just—”

“hey.” rafe’s voice cuts in, his hand finding your knee through the blanket you’ve wrapped yourself in like armor. “stop..don’t do that thing where you act like your brain betrayed you on purpose.”

you glance up, looking at him on the edge of the couch, close but still giving you space, even after two days of sleeping beside you.

“jj said something,” you finally whisper. “not even in a mean way. just some dumb joke about how i’m always the one who has a plan, and what would they do without me freaking out about everything first.”

you pause, biting the inside of your cheek. the knot in your chest tightens.

“it wasn’t even mean,” you repeat. “but i’d already been..off, all day. tired, i guess, or just…” you wave a hand at your own head, “you know. like that.”

rafe’s thumb draws circles on your knee, watching you look at him—his brow creases, like he’s feeling it in his own chest now.

“and it just hit me,” you say, quieter now. “like—i’m too much. even when they love me. even when they don’t mean it like that. i’m still the mess. the burden.”

rafe doesn’t say no right away. he lets the words sit there for a second, because you both know brushing them away too fast would only make you retreat again.

then he leans in, elbows on his knees, eyes locked to yours. “you are not a burden,” he says, slowly, like he needs you to feel every syllable. “you are a human being with anxiety. and those assholes—who, for the record, worship the ground you walk on—are lucky as hell to have you even when you’re falling apart.”

“i know they didn’t mean it,” you murmur. “i know. i just couldn’t stop spiraling. and then when i left, i felt like such a fucking idiot. i didn’t want them to see me like that. not again.”

rafe exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “i’ve seen you like that. i’ve seen every version of you. and you know what i thought the whole time?”

you raise an eyebrow, unsure you want to hear the answer.

“i thought, holy shit, she’s still fighting even when she thinks she’s losing.” he leans closer. “so fuck what jj said. and fuck the panic, too. you’re not broken. you just got hit harder that day.”

you’re quiet again, blinking fast. it’s hard to hear it like that. “i wanna go see them,” you say after a second. “i want to explain. i wanna..apologize.”

“no.” rafe’s voice is firm. “you can explain. that’s fine. but you’re not apologizing for your mental health like it’s a spilled drink.”

“but i scared them,” you say. “i just walked out. jj called me four times before i even realized my phone was vibrating. they were probably worried sick and didn’t know what the hell happened.”

“then tell them what happened,” he says gently. “tell them what it felt like, what set it off. but if any of them tries to make you feel like you owe them a sorry for being overwhelmed, i swear to God, i’ll drown them in that fuckin’ marsh.”

you snort, covering your mouth. “that’s very sweet of you.”

“i try.”

you go three days later. you’ve texted them first—jj, kiara, john b, and pope. 'hey, can we talk? i wanna explain.' they’d responded immediately, full of “yes please” and “we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

you’re shaking by the time you reach the chateau. your hands won’t stop fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie. rafe drives you there but waits outside, sprawled on the hood of his truck with a cigarette.

when you knock, the door swings open too fast and jj’s there, all wide eyed. “you came,” he breathes. leaning to the side, you see kie there too—pope and john b behind her, all looking like they don’t know whether to hug you or let you lead.

you step inside. your chest is tight but you’re breathing—that counts.

“i’m sorry i disappeared,” you say first, and rafe’s voice echoes in your mind—don’t apologize for the panic. so you correct yourself. “i wasn’t okay. i had a panic attack. i should’ve told someone, but i didn’t want to ruin the mood.”

jj’s face crumples. “you didn’t ruin anything. i was such a dick, i didn’t even think—”

“no, no, you weren’t,” you rush to say. “you made a joke. i just wasn’t in a place to laugh at it. that’s not your fault.”

pope sits beside you on the couch. “is there anything we can do next time? like if it happens again?”

your throat tightens. you nod. “just..let me step out if i need to. don’t chase me. just give me a second. and maybe..check on me a couple of minutes later?”

“always,” kiara says instantly. “you don’t ever have to hide that stuff from us. we’re your people.”

jj finally steps forward and hugs you, a little too hard. “you’re not the mess. pogues gotta stick together.”

you blink hard, clutching him back. outside, rafe leans against the truck, watching through the window. you give him the smallest nod, and he smiles back, mouthing 'i love you'.

❤︎‬ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @st8rkey