#have a good day/night/whatever time it is

[literallyaflame]

i made this post with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek. i am, alas, both guarded and blasé about my profession. but every few weeks, i scroll through this thread to read all of the new stories. they’re mesmerizing to me.

the thing is, i am not the sort of person who gets to play hamlet. i’m a trans guy from rural texas who grew up in a trailer in the woods. i have the body of a ballerina, the personality of a court jester, and the backstory of a wattpad bad-boy. to this day, i feel strange about my relationship to—let’s be real—an art form with a steep and costly barrier to entry, one which i frankly had no business attempting to climb

so, in the spirit of vulnerability, i am going to take my tongue out my cheek and tell you all about my actual experiences playing hamlet

the pre-show featured the last minute addition of a stuffed penguin. the director wanted me in pajamas for the opening “claudius is king and hamlet is clearly pissed about it” sequence, but decided that the costumer’s efforts didn’t make me pitiful enough, so he handed me a stuffed animal. in the original pre-show, i was moping around the stage, rolling on the floor and watching the audience file in. i decided that the best use of the penguin would be—naturally—to have it mope with me. every time i adjusted myself on the floor, i adjusted the penguin alongside me. sometimes, i stopped to stare at it intensely. the audience fucking loved this so much—every night—which i was not expecting, but obviously leaned into. it did an effective job of depicting hamlet as unsettlingly calculated, but vulnerable

someone brought a little girl (6, maybe 7) to see one of the first few performances. she sat in the front row. during act one, i made a show of looking around at the (overwhelmingly adult) audience before leaning down to ask her—“am i a coward?” she, of course, laughed at me. the next line was an affirmative “‘swounds, I should take it,” which felt like a fitting response to being laughed at by a little girl

another little kid story—someone brought their 11 year old, who seemed a bit bored at first. by the end of act 1, he was on the edge of his seat, and during intermission, he moved down to the front row. i cannot help but humor children, so i (of course) looked directly into his eyes to say the “very witching time of night” speech as though i were telling him a ghost story. he lit up like crazy. (his guardians were obviously a bit confused by his enthusiasm, but pleased! so that’s good)

that kid wasn’t the only one who caught wise to my audience shenanigans. we sold out before opening night, but there were usually a handful of open seats—a lot of the reservations were for groups/clubs/whatever that didn’t end up filling every spot. people would avoid the first row for act 1, but invariably, act 2 would see it filled with eager participants, lol

on opening night, i was playing through the sequence where—spoilers—hamlet and horatio confirm that claudius killed king hamlet through the power of shenanigans and, in an exercise of pre-meditated audience interaction, went up to a girl in the front row (who seemed really into it) and asked for a high five. she paused in shock, so i begged “come on!” in my most encouraging voice and, of course, she did. the entire audience lost it

the audience (for obvious reasons) perks up in recognition for “to be or not to be.” i decided to lean into it, which was very fun for me. i would always start the speech and immediately flick my eyes across the audience to catch people gasping and (in some cases, hilariously) mouthing along with the words. as soon as i made eye contact, they’d snap back into the scene with me apologetically. one night, someone gasped loud enough that their friend shushed them

i could keep going, but those were the fun ones. here’s a picture of me with my penguin:

love shakespeare. did a hamlet run tonight, looked someone dead in the eye to say “am i a coward?” during a speech and the fucker shrugged and nodded

[bakugoswifee]

Bakugo k. hc's losing his girlfriend .

Warning- none

angst, that's mainly it. + Bring tissues .

1. He Becomes Quiet & Withdrawn – The loud, brash, explosive Bakugo everyone knew is gone. He doesn’t yell anymore, doesn’t argue, doesn’t snap at people the way he used to. He just… exists.

2. Stops Hanging Out with Friends – Kirishima, Mina, Denki, and Sero try their best to get him out, but he refuses. When he does show up, he barely talks. Just sits there, eyes unfocused, lost in his own world.

3. Blames Himself – Even if it wasn’t his fault, he convinces himself that he could’ve done something. That if he had just been stronger, faster, better—he could have saved you. It eats him up inside.

4. Still Talks to You – Late at night, when he’s alone, he’ll talk out loud like you’re still there. Telling you about his day, the stupid things his friends did, how much he misses you. He hates how quiet the house is without you.

5. Wears Your Stuff – Keeps one of your hoodies in his closet, still smelling like you. He won’t admit it, but he sleeps in it sometimes. If you had a necklace, bracelet, or ring, he either wears it or keeps it in his pocket.

6. Keeps Your Room/Side of the Bed the Same – He doesn’t change anything. Your clothes stay where you left them, your favorite mug is still in its spot, and he refuses to move your pillow. It’s like he’s waiting for you to come back.

7. Gets Lost in Memories – Sometimes, he catches himself smiling at an old picture of you two before reality crashes down. Other times, he zones out completely, trapped in memories of your laugh, your voice, the way you used to roll your eyes at him.

8. Still Cooks Your Favorite Meal – Every once in a while, he makes your favorite dish, but he never eats it. Just stares at it for a while before pushing it aside. He just wants to feel like you’re still around.

9. Sleeps on the Couch Instead of the Bed – He can’t sleep in your shared bed without you. It’s too big, too empty. So he crashes on the couch most nights, pretending it doesn’t bother him.

10. Loses His Temper in Fights – On the battlefield, he’s reckless. Fighting harder, pushing himself past his limits, because what does it matter anymore? He’s angry—at the world, at himself, at whatever took you away.

11. Can’t Stand Hearing Your Name – If someone brings you up, he tenses. He either shuts down completely or storms off. He wants to talk about you, but it hurts too much.

12. Refuses to Cry in Front of People – He keeps it together around others, acting like he’s fine. But late at night, alone in the dark, the tears come. And he hates himself for it.

13. Talks to Your Grave – Whenever he gets overwhelmed, he visits your grave, sitting there for hours. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he just sits in silence, staring at your name, gripping the headstone like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

14. Doesn’t Celebrate His Birthday Anymore – He used to love it when you planned surprises for him, made him a cake, gave him your dumb little handmade gifts. Now? He doesn’t even acknowledge it.

15. Keeps His Phone on Do Not Disturb, But Still Scrolls Through Your Messages – He won’t respond to anyone, but he rereads old texts from you, listening to your voice memos over and over again, just to hear you one more time.

16. Doesn’t Know How to Move On – Everyone tells him you’d want him to be happy, to live his life. But he doesn’t know how. Because to him, life without you doesn’t feel like living at all.

Extra :

People just didn’t get it.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many times his friends told him he should "try to move on," Bakugo couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He already had the love of his life, and the world ripped you away from him.

So when Kirishima—the dumbass—thought it would be a good idea to introduce him to someone new, Bakugo already knew how this was gonna go. "Hey, man, I just want you to meet her," Kirishima said, rubbing the back of his neck. "No pressure, just—" "I ain’t interested.". "You don’t even know her yet!".

"And I don’t need to."

But before he could walk off, the girl was already there, all smiles and nervous energy. "Hi, Bakugo! I’ve heard so much about you." He barely glanced at her. "Tch. Good for you?". Kirishima nudged him hard in the ribs. "Dude, be nice." Bakugo clenched his jaw, his patience already wearing thin. "So," the girl tried again, "your friends tell me you’re a pro-hero. That must be exciting!". He didn’t answer. Just exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "Uh… I was actually hoping maybe we could—". "Fuck off." The table went dead silent. Kirishima sighed like he knew this was a bad idea. The girl’s face fell, but Bakugo didn’t care. He wasn’t about to sit here and pretend to entertain the idea of someone else.

He turned on his heel and walked off without another word, hands stuffed in his pockets. The ring he still wore on a chain around his neck felt heavy, like it was reminding him who he really belonged to.

It was you. It would always be you.

Dividers! - credits @junabuggy 🤍

Sorry this took so long, I really needed a break and was stressed out. But I hope you enjoyed it!

[catbolt]

— SYLUS HEADCANONS PT 3.

part 1, part 2 - more headcanons for the loml (fluff)

drinks his morning coffee standing out on the porch like a dad

this man will 100% leave messages for you in the condensation on the mirror after he takes a shower. whether it's a "you look beautiful", a cat drawing, or a smiley face with "have a good day", he makes sure to leave a silly little doodle to put a smile on your face in the morning

always back hugs you and rests his chin on top of your head, which is easy to do because he's so much taller (i headcanon he's 6'4/193cm and istg i am right about that)

i think sylus is an EXPERT flower purchaser. the bouquets he pulls together are genuinely works of art. no supermarket flowers from this guy considering he has a florist on retainer to provide regular fresh flowers for his house and for your weekly bouquets that always incorporate your favorite flower.

he's so self-assured. he literally has no doubt about exactly how and when he can get something done and he's right every single time. it's not cockiness or arrogance exactly, except when he's joking around, just a calm and deep-seated confidence that exudes in everything he does. he also just knows himself really, really well, and if he can't do something he admits so easily, never over-exaggerating his capabilities. "i don't know how, but i'll learn" is his attitude— especially when you're the one asking.

sylus has a modest little wood cabin in the forest outside the city for private vacations whenever he needs a break from being the leader of onychinus. he brings mephisto so he can play with the wild crows and birds for enrichment. it's his most private space, so it took a long time for him to bring you there, but now you spend weekends there together regularly.

despite having a refined palate and infinite opportunities to experience fine dining, sylus 100% has a junk food guilty pleasure and will absolutely never say no to a late night drive thru run

always says he's not interested in reality tv but consistently ends up standing behind the couch when you're watching *insert trashy reality show* intensely invested. acts like he doesn't care but then later that night he's lying in bed ranting to you like "i can't believe brad is going to the altar with veronica after he led britney on for the past four episodes"

he honestly just loves staring at you. not in a creepy way, but he does love to watch whatever you do, whether it be working, getting ready for a night out, sleeping, even just sitting around scrolling on your phone. he isn't a chatty guy and truly enjoys the moments where he gets to silently admire you in your natural state.

he always ensures you feel genuinely comfortable with whatever you two are doing. he's good at reading you and is exceptionally aware of when you're placating or people-pleasing: "tell me what you really want," "i can tell when you're lying, sweetheart," "i need you to be honest with me, baby. it doesn't make me happy when you try to tell me what you think i want to hear." whether you like it or not, he always knows when you're lying and pushes you to speak your mind.

[pretentious-blonde]

confidence

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: a few cocktails and an evening with Robin reveal a new side to your boyfriend, one you really didn't see coming

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, scars, alcohol consumption (reader does not partake), graphic descriptions of sex, oral f receiving, p in v, cocky steve, condescending steve (ikr!! just trust me), all around filth here, steve has one too many cocktails and runs with it

a/n: this was so fun and is my treat for putting you through all the angst (and there will be more trust me) but hey, consider this part a catharsis. we also needed to get robin involved for what comes next so this is what you get. tipsy steve is WILD you have all been warned.

series masterlist

You scramble around your flat, tossing items from one surface to the next, desperate to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything crucial. Keys, check. Purse, check. Chapstick, check. 

Whatever you have on your vanity table feels like it’s winking at you, reminding you that, no, you’re still not quite ready. But you can’t let yourself fuss any longer because outside, through your window, you catch the glare of headlights and hear the impatient beep of a horn. 

Steve’s here—and he’s been here, and you should have been ready ten minutes ago, at least.

You’re still excited, even though you’re late, because tonight is special. Tonight’s the night you finally get to meet the Robin Buckley, the person who’s been such a staple in your boyfriend’s new stories. 

He was determined to pick the “nice bar” in the next town over, the one that apparently “played the good music.” 

You had to bite your tongue. His idea of “good music” usually lines right up with the biggest chart hits, but you figure hey, if he’s excited, you’ll go along for the ride. What matters is that this night is one of his design, and you find it completely endearing that he’s gone out of his way to make it special for you and Robin both. 

He can listen to Ace of Base as much as he wants... even if you have to stifle a fond snort whenever he’s not looking. 

He’s told you so many wonderful (and ridiculous) stories about her that you practically badgered him into setting this up. Tales you hadn’t been privy to before—now slowly unravelling as he let slip new, juicy details bit by bit.

Your big chance to meet the girl who’s shared so much of your boyfriend’s humour and history. And if tonight ends up being half as fun as the pictures you’ve conjured in your head, you’re in for a wild ride.

You snatch your bag and do one last mirror check—just a fleeting glance, making sure your dress is sitting just right and your hair hasn’t decided to rebel. This time, you went for something a little more daring: a flirty dress that shows off your figure in a way you know Steve won’t be able to ignore. 

On a good day, he could barely keep his hands to himself—let alone after last weekend. Taking things all the way had only cemented his need to be close to you, and now, whether in public or private, he always had to have some part of him touching you.

And in this dress? You knew his hands wouldn’t just wander—they’d roam.

Maybe, by the end of the night, you’d let them.

Finally, you rush out, keys jingling in your hand, and clatter down the stairs leading to your shop door. You lock up carefully, tugging the handle to ensure it’s secure—no matter how excited you are, you still need to be responsible—and you pivot on your heel and walk out onto the pavement.

Your steps falter as your eyes land on your boyfriend, casually leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking completely at ease—like this wasn’t a big deal at all, just another night to unwind. But even in that brief glance, you could tell he’d put in just as much effort as you had. 

He’d told you to dress up a little and clearly, he’d taken his own advice. The oversized jumpers and worn jeans were nowhere to be seen. 

This Steve was something else entirely. 

And Jesus, he knew how to clean up well.

He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt, the kind that clings just enough to hint at every plane and angle of his torso. Over it, a sleek black suit jacket, open in front, sleeves rolled just enough to conceal the marks, but also revealing his toned forearms.

It’s like some casual afterthought, but you know him better than that. Every detail is deliberate. The jacket’s tailoring is perfect, nipping in at the waist and broad across his shoulders. It gives him a certain sharpness, a polished edge that you’re not used to seeing in his typical laidback outfits. 

And by God, does it work—too damn well, if the heat creeping up your neck is anything to go by.

His sunglasses perch on the bridge of his nose, not because of one of his migraines—you’d recognise that look a mile away—but purely to complete the aesthetic. They’re modern, minimalist, and do nothing to hide the playful smirk curling at the corner of his lips

The glint of something metal at his wrist (a simple watch) catches your eye, and then your focus is back on his face, following the neat slope of his hair. It’s perfectly styled, golden-brown waves shaped in that signature swoop, but smoother, sleeker—like he spent real time in front of the mirror, carefully combing each strand into place until it sat just right. 

By the look on his face, he knows you’re staring—knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

He watches you approach, eyes dragging over you slowly, drinking in the sight of you just as shamelessly as you’re doing with him.

You step toward his car, face warming at the sight of your date. He lowers his sunglasses in one exaggerated motion, revealing the hint of mischief in his eyes. A slow whistle slips from his lips, just as corny as you might have expected—and somehow twice as charming.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, letting his gaze travel over you from head to toe, “you walk up to me looking like that, we might not make it to the bar.”

Heat seeps into your cheeks, and you roll your eyes in a halfhearted attempt at nonchalance. It’s near impossible to pretend you aren’t melting under the weight of that gaze. 

“I could say the same,” you counter. “What happened to Mr. Harrington, huh? Thought you were all about faded jeans and paint covered nikes.”

He throws back his head with a laugh, then glances at his watch, pretending to read the small face. 

“We might still have time for me to swing home and change if it's—”

You bat his wrist down before he can so much as move. 

“Don’t you dare,” you warn. Because right now, he looks so sinfully delicious you can hardly keep your focus.

“Really—it’s no problem,” he jokes, though the playful glint in his eyes betrays him. His hand slides behind your neck, warm and sure, and your breath hitches at the teasing sensation of his touch.

“It’s gonna be hard to concentrate on anything coming out of your mouth tonight,” you admit, pulse jumping when his thumb brushes a circle over your skin. Pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head, nudging some stray hair off his forehead. 

“Good,” he says, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I’m alright with being your eye candy.” 

He leans down, kissing you in a way that makes your toes curl and your mind fog over. On instinct, you try to deepen it, hands sliding to his lapels, but he draws back with a soft chuckle.

“Whoa there, angel,” he murmurs, his voice playful. “We’ll get to that soon enough.”

You pout, bottom lip pushing out a fraction. Instantly, he shakes his head, one brow lifting. 

“Hey, don’t go getting all pouty on me.” He brushes your lower lip lightly. “You’re the one who’s been on my ass about this whole thing.”

He had a point there. 

Damn him. 

“Fine, fine, you’re right,” you relent. “But you’ve got to make it up to me when we get home.”

The shift in his expression is downright wicked as he leans in. 

“Honey, with that dress?” He tongues the inside of his cheek in a way that sets fire to your nerves. “I’ll be more than making up for it.”

The bar is chic in that slightly pretentious way—low lights, plush seating, a neon sign glowing over shelves stacked with rainbow-coloured bottles. The bass of some popular track flows through the speakers. 

You can’t help but grin when Steve, ever the gentleman, strides ahead to pull open the heavy door for you. He gives you a playful nod as you step inside, his hand warm against your back. It’s reassuring, filling you with the same confidence he seems to be sporting tonight.

“After you,” he teases, voice low, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you pass him. Even though it’s cheesy, there’s an endearing sincerity beneath his grin.

Once you’re both settled at the bar, he presses a kiss to your temple before glancing at the bartender. 

“What’ll it be?” he asks, tipping his head toward you.

“Just a tonic water,” you say as he frowns.

“You sure?” he drawls, leaning in. There’s an irresistible tilt to his lips, a look that says he’s perfectly fine with either choice as long as you’re happy.

“Yup.” You nod. “You go crazy, though—it’s your night out.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your night out too,” he points out, turning his body to face you more fully.

“Ah, yes, but I have to make a good first impression,” you shoot him a knowing smile.  “Remember?”

He slides a hand around your waist, squeezing you into his side. There he goes with the full on physical affection. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he shrugs as his fingers trace your shoulder. “If I’m anything to go by, Rob’s got questionable taste in friends already.”

Your laugh escapes in a soft huff, and you lean your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, savouring his comforting heat. 

“We’ve gotta work on your self-deprecating humour,” you mumble into the fabric of his suit jacket.

He snorts, pressing another quick kiss to your temple. 

“I told you, angel, I am working on it.”

When he lifts his arm to catch the bartender’s attention, you let your gaze trail over him: the lean lines of his shoulders, the way his hair curls just so. You feel a stir of something low in your stomach at how ridiculously good he looks in the dim, moody lighting. 

Watching him come out of his shell was absolutely delectable—seeing him navigate a crowded room with such ease felt like witnessing a victory in real time, a step forward that was physical proof of progress.

He places the order—your tonic, his own cocktail—and is about to make another witty remark when there’s a gentle tap on his arm.

You glance over to see a brunette woman with an explosive grin, practically vibrating with excitement. She’s dressed up just enough for the night—high-waisted black trousers that elongate her frame, paired with a silky button-up in a deep, jewel-toned shade, the sleeves casually rolled to her elbows.

Her face is alight as she meets Steve’s eyes, and she looks moments away from flinging her arms around him—though she’s clearly checking herself, as if aware of exactly how he handles the unexpected. When he spins, and his entire face brightens in recognition.

“Hey, you made it!” he exclaims, wrapping her in a hug that’s enthusiastic. She squeaks as he squeezes a bit too tight.

“Oof—yeah, I did,” she laughs, patting his shoulder. “Yep—alright—good to see you too, maybe let’s not crush me to death?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says sheepishly, releasing her. Straightening up, he glances back at you, a hint of a blush crawling across his cheeks. 

This is it—the moment he’s been waiting for. He’s known you for a few months, but somehow, it feels like so much more. This is the event he’s imagined over and over, finally introducing you to his closest friend. 

The idea of bringing a romantic partner into this part of his life had once felt so far out of reach, but now that he can? 

That’s exactly what’s fueling his confidence tonight.

“Uh, so… this is—this is who I’ve been telling you about. This is my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

He pauses, savouring the word like it’s something that delights him every time he says it—because it does. 

His eyes flick to Robin, and he can tell there’s something on the tip of her tongue as she takes in his expression. He knows how proud he must look, how transparent his feelings are, but for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

He steps aside for you two to be introduced properly. Her eyes are bright as she takes you in, a wide smile stretching across her face.

“So, you finally asked her?” she asks him, but she’s already beaming at you like an old friend. The excitement in her voice makes your own heart feel more at ease.

Steve’s flush deepens. “Yeah—yeah, I did.”

The girl doesn’t hesitate. She engulfs you in a hug, and the warmth of her personality radiates through every second of contact. 

“Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes, pulling back just enough to look at you but still keeping her hands on your arms.

You can’t resist flicking your gaze at Steve over her shoulder, your lips curving into a playful smile. 

“Really?”

You didn’t expect any less. 

“Oh absolutely, who do you think he called after every date you guys had?” She steps back to give you a little breathing room. “You should’ve heard him. He was like—”

“Hey, hey—no,” Steve interrupts, pressing one hand to his friend's shoulder. “Can we not share all the embarrassing details of my life right now?”

“Get a few more drinks in him, and you can ask him yourself.” She snorts, rolling her eyes at you. 

Steve laughs, feeling your eyes flick up to him. He doesn’t need the drinks to loosen his tongue—he’s already so hopelessly smitten with you. That much was obvious.

Still, he’s eager to get the night started, to show you off the way he’s been dying to.

“Alright,” he says, finally breaking that little reverie, “I got the drinks, you two go find a seat.” He turns to Robin. “Rum and Coke?”

As always.

“Ugh, yes,” she says, linking her arm with yours. It’s easy, natural—there’s an immediate sense that you’ll get along just fine. As the two of you meander toward a free table, she leans in conspiratorially. 

“So… did he tell you about the ice cream uniform?”

“Oh my god, yes.” A flash of amusement dances across your face. “Please tell me there’s more?”

Her chuckle is mischievous. 

“Oh yeah, there’s a lot more where that came from.”

Time feels fluid as the three of you settle into conversation, the low thrumming pulse of the bar’s music weaving around your table, though not too loud to drown out your voices. 

It’s been a while since you first claimed your seats, and yet you barely notice the hours slipping by. Every story Steve and Robin launch into starts with them tossing playful jabs back and forth, only to pause mid-sentence and glance at you, beckoning you to weigh in. 

You find yourself giggling along, giving opinions on whether a certain scheme was more ridiculous than some ill-fated date night, or whether one of them was actually to blame for a mishap they still remember. They trade banter like it’s second nature, and you feel like you’ve been part of their duo from the very start.

At some point, the discussion circles back to their high school days—a topic they both seem to have endless material for. You’re practically on the edge of your seat, soaking in every detail they’re willing to spill. Robin leans forward, clutching her glass as she narrows her eyes at Steve with playful accusation.

“Well, this guy could have been hanging out with me a lot sooner,” she says, wagging a finger in his direction, “if he’d actually paid attention in class, that is. Did you know I sat behind him in history for a whole year? Yeah—a year.” She stretches out the word for emphasis. “Didn’t even remember it.”

Steve huffs in protest. 

“Hey now, that’s not entirely true—”

“Yes, it is,” she cuts in, her grin bright with triumph. “When we both started working together, he introduced himself to me. Honestly, like I didn’t already know who he was.”

“In my defense,” he insists, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I was trying to focus.”

“You were so not.” Robin snorts. “How many tardies did you get that year?”

He rakes a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. 

“I passed, didn’t I?”

“Barely.” She arches an eyebrow, and you laugh at the indignation blossoming on your boyfriend’s face.

“Yeah, well,” he shoots back, folding his arms across his chest, “how many times did you have to take your driving test, huh? What was it—three? And who was stuck chauffeuring you to band practice before class even started?”

Robin’s jaw drops in mock outrage. 

“That’s not fair, driving is hard!” She punctuates her point by thumping Steve’s shoulder, though there’s no real force behind it.

“Yeah, sure it is,” he snickers. “Especially when you shut your eyes at a junction because you’re scared to get on the freeway.”

She shoves him more firmly this time, but her eyes sparkle with affection. You can practically feel the fondness thrumming between them. Every playful jab is undercut with closeness, revealing just how much they trust one another. 

Steve is so at ease—practically glowing. There isn’t a hint of the anxiety you sometimes catch in his eyes, no shadow of the stresses he’s hinted at before. He’s all laughter and bright colours here, the multiple cocktails probably loosening him up even more.

Watching them, it dawns on you just how special his friend is. She’s watched him become the man he is, seen him through phases you’ve only heard vague references to. There’s a sweet, sibling-like bond between them that would have made you insecure if not for how purely platonic they obviously are. 

They’re too busy ribbing each other and finishing one another’s sentences to harbour any romantic tension. And the sincerity in their smiles, the way they drift into each other’s personal space—this is the foundation that’s helped him grow. As you observe the two of them, you feel nothing but gratitude towards her.  

Does he feel this way around you too? 

Or is this kind of bond reserved for someone who’s known him since high school, who’s seen him through everything.

You lean in closer, meeting his gaze as his expression softens. As you sip your drink, you catch the way his playfully annoyed look melts into something fonder—a small, boyish smile taking its place. 

He nudges your foot under the table, a quiet little gesture just for you, as Robin continues listing her many reasons for despising driving. When he shoots you a wink, you can’t help but hope that one day, you’ll share that same camaraderie—the kind that comes with knowing someone inside and out.

The conversation drifts into a lull before Robin suddenly pipes up again, leaning toward you with a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes. 

“Has he cooked for you yet?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows as if preparing you for some shocking revelation. “He better have with all the work I put in teaching him.”

“Oh, he has!” You nod eagerly, sipping your tonic. “I guess I have you to thank, huh?”

“You sure do.” She leans back with a self-satisfied grin, crossing her arms. “Should’ve seen him the first time I tried to get him into the kitchen—boiling an egg was apparently a herculean task.”

The boy groans in protest, shooting her a halfhearted glare.

“They cracked! That’s not my fault.”

Robin laughs, drink nearly sloshing over the rim. 

“Yeah, because you turned the heat too high.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” he defends himself. “They get hot and break.”

Bless him.

“Uh, no, Steve.” You try to stifle your own laugh, but fail completely. “It’s because the water was boiling too hard, they bang around in the pot.”

His brow furrows in puzzlement. 

“That’s what that is?”

Robin's expression matches your own, and both of you fall into giggles again at his earnest confusion. 

God, he’s sweet. 

“Seems like I have more work to do,” she sighs, taking another sip of her drink.

“Clearly,” you agree, throwing Steve a playful side-eye. He raises his hands in protest.

“Wow, okay—” he says, rolling his eyes, “so you’re both ganging up on me now?”

He sees how it is.

Typical. 

Robin props her elbow on the table, her head tilting back with a grin that’s gone a little hazy from too many drinks. 

“Yeah, well,” she begins, voice lilting with mischief, “you have gotten better. Remember when you basically refused to go into the meat aisle? You said it smelled like the tunnels, but I asked Dustin about it and he said that—”

She’s halfway through the sentence when Steve stiffens, his foot giving her a not-so-subtle nudge under the table. At once, the mirth drains a bit from her face, and she glances over at him, clearly realising she’s stepped onto sensitive ground. 

You perk up—another piece of information. But instead of clarifying anything, it only adds to the puzzle. 

A tunnel? 

Steve had never mentioned that before, but your brain immediately tries to slot it into the story you already know. Was there a tunnel at the old mall? 

It's possible.

But that wouldn’t make much sense in the context of meat. He worked at an ice cream shop, not a damn butcher’s.

“Sorry.” Robin whispers, looking apologetic. You know you were not meant to hear that apology and you couldn’t help your curiosity. 

“What?” Your eyebrows draw together. “What is it?”

Tell me. 

“It’s nothing, sweetheart.” He forces a tight-lipped smile, shrugging a little too casually. “Don’t worry about it.”

You want to be sad, but you can’t. And you certainly can’t press him on it, not here. Not when he was so excited about tonight, so eager to show you off.

You feel his hand resting on your thigh, but now there’s a tension in it that wasn’t there before. That shift, that change from the easy one he had just moments ago, is what makes the decision for you. There will be other times for this, other moments to piece things together. But not now.

You exchange a lingering look between them—Robin mouths out another apology, and he gives her a small, forgiving nod. 

You don’t dwell on the moment. Besides, you still have a new piece of the puzzle. 

That was better than nothing.

By the time you step out of the bar, it’s just past midnight, and the cool air rushes to greet you. Steve is practically attached to your side, his arm draped over your shoulder as though he might topple over without your support. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and you can’t help but find it adorable—his usual guarded composure replaced with an open, slightly wonky, grin.

And it's hilarious to witness.

“C’mon, Steve,” you coax, wrapping an arm around his waist for balance. “We gotta get back.”

He’s clearly not ready for the night to end as he opens his mouth to protest. 

“Nooo, we can stay,” he pleads, turning big eyes on Robin, who stands nearby with her own contented smile. “Rob, tell her we can stay. She got all dolled up for this, wouldn't be fair—”

You exchange a conspiratorial smile with her. Leaning in close so Steve can’t quite hear.

“Does he always get like this?” You whisper.

"When he drinks?" Robin stifles a laugh. "Oh yeah, big time—gets super sappy."

Then, turning toward the pouting grown man beside you, she huffs. 

"I told you to take it easy with the mojitos."

Steve was clearly not listening. 

“Pssh, whatever,” he interjects, only half hearing her. “I don’t have to be up tomorrow, and neither do you,” he says, pointing somewhat dramatically at Robin.

She lifts a hand, palm out to stop his rambling. 

“Yeah, well, if I go home to Vickie like that, she’ll have more than a few choice words for me.”

He tips forward in a woozy attempt at reassurance. 

“You can… you can blame it on me?” He offers, voice trailing off into a sweet but slurred laugh, like he can't even take himself seriously.

His friend just shakes her head, clearly endeared. 

“Nice try—but no.” She says before turning to you. “You alright getting him home?”

Glancing up at your boyfriend—his eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile hinting on his lips—you nod, your own fondness tugging at your heart. 

“I’m sure I can handle him,” you confirm with a tiny smirk. 

You’ve guided him through worse nights than this.

“Alright, Steve, let go of your girlfriend for a sec so I can say goodbye,” Robin says, trying her best to be stern. He frowns but reluctantly loosens his hold on you.

You slip away long enough for her to wrap you in a quick hug. Her voice is brimming with excitement as she pulls back. 

“We have to do this again. I haven’t even told you about working at the video store and his terrible sorting system—”

"Hey!" A spark of protest ignites in Steve's gaze. "I don’t wanna hear it, alright? It was superior to whatever—" he waves his hands in front of him, searching for the right word, "carnage you had going on."

“Alphabetical is far from carnage.”

He huffs, nose wrinkling in mock indignation, but even through his tipsy state, he can’t hide the affection in his eyes. He tugs Robin into a hug goodbye and you can feel the tenderness between them. 

And just like that, you’re left with a very happy, very tipsy Steve Harrington—who has promptly glued himself right back to your side.

You guide him, swaying on his feet, into the passenger side of his car. He flops in with a soft grunt, blinking as though everything around him is subtly moving. You close the door gently, careful all of his limbs are inside, before walking around the front of the car to slide into the driver’s seat. The interior still carries the faint trace of his cologne, a small reminder that—despite how he looks right now—he is, in fact, a put-together adult. 

Well, mostly.

“All right, Mr Harrington,” you say, scanning the dashboard. “Where’re your keys?”

He puts on an exaggerated, perplexed expression, patting his chest and shaking his head. 

“I dunno what you’re talking about…”

Rolling your eyes, you lean over, determined. 

“We are not going back in there,” you tell him, stern enough to make him give you a dramatic pout when he realises you won’t budge.

“Fine,” he mumbles, fishing around in the inner pocket of his blazer before finally producing the car key. He hands them over, and you give him a grateful smile, slipping them into the ignition.

“Seat belt?” you prompt.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sighs as though you’re asking the world of him. His voice is playful, edged with that mellow tone people get after a few too many drinks.

“You’re so bossy,” he continues in a tone that cannot be taken seriously. “Are you usually this bossy?”

“Well, sorry for caring about your physical safety,” you fire back, carefully easing out of the parking space.

“Always looking after me, aren’t you?”

He releases a soft laugh, leaning against the passenger door, his eyes remained fixed on you. 

“Someone’s gotta,” you reply, face softening as you glance over at him. “You feeling okay, or are things spinning?”

“What? I’m fine.” His eyes widen in mock indignation. “Do I not look like fine?”

You flick a wry smile his way. 

“You look drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he objects, though his lopsided grin and rosy cheeks tell a different story.

You look at him now—not as perfectly put together as when he picked you up, but somehow, he looks even better. 

His hair is no longer an art form, tousled and a little wild, and his posture has lost all its careful composure, slumped and comfortable. His eyes, softer now, lock onto yours, completely unguarded. 

He looks utterly relaxed—and for him, that’s something big.

It seems like the perfect time to test just how far gone he is, just a little fun—tease him while he’s in this gullible, blissed-out state.

"Good," you start, the drawl in your tone unmistakable, eyes flicking over him knowingly. "Because if you were, I would’ve stayed the night. Helped you through the hangover tomorrow."

“What?” His reaction is immediate. “You’re not staying?” He sits up straighter as if you’ve just admitted to murder.

You shrug with as much nonchalance as you can manage. 

“Not sure. I have a few things I need to get done tomorrow…”

"No—baby," he blurts out, sounding more pitiful than you’ve ever heard. "I’m so drunk, practically wasted here—can’t even see straight."

“Oh yeah? That bad, huh?"

"So bad," he nods vigorously, eyes wide with dramatics. "You gotta stay."

He tilts his head just enough to sell it. 

"C’mon, what if I wake up miserable and there’s, like, no one there to feel sorry for me?"

A laugh bursts out of you. His soulful, puppy-eyed expression tugs on your heart. For a moment, you feel a tiny pang of guilt for teasing him—but it was just so goddamn easy.

“All right, then,” you relent. “I guess I’ll have to stay—” you shoot him a sly smile, “just in case.”

His relief is obvious. A broad, boyish smile breaks across his face, and he exhales a dramatic sigh as he melts back into the passenger seat. 

By the time you park outside his place, he’s steadier on his feet—though still leaning on you for support, but you suspect it’s not from the drinks. His fingers trail along your waist and up your spine, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you for even a second. 

Once inside, you gently push the door shut behind you and help him shrug out of his blazer. He doesn’t flinch or resist—not a single indication of the usual tension that sometimes appears when his arms are exposed. 

Whatever self-consciousness he carries about his scars is nowhere to be found right now. As soon as the it’s off, his hands return to your waist, pulling you flush against him so he can bury his face in your hair.

“Steve,” you murmur, pressing a hand to his chest. “Let me get you some water.”

“In a second,” he groans, leaning down to brush his lips against your jaw. “I haven’t given you nearly enough attention tonight.”

“You’ve given me more than enough, trust me.” You laugh softly, sliding a hand up to his cheek to coax him back. “C’mon, water first, then bed.”

He lets you guide him into the kitchen, though he still can’t resist peppering little kisses along your shoulder whenever he can sneak them in.

At the sink, you fill two cups of water—familiar with where everything is kept by now—but the moment you straighten, he is behind you, his chin hooked over your shoulder, lips lightly grazing the side of your neck.

“Hey—nuh-uh," you chide, reluctantly. “We can’t right now. You’ve had a drink.”

No matter how much you want to.

“No—can’t do that to me.” He groans dramatically, pressing himself against your back. “Y'knew what you were doing with that dress. Been thinkin' about it all night…”

A flush warms your cheeks at his plea, you turn in his arms and hold out the glass. 

“Drink this, please?”

His frown is exaggerated, but he dutifully tips back the glass. Downing the water in a few large gulps, then setting it aside, blinking down at you with heavy-lidded adoration. You stifle a laugh and take a sip from your own cup while he keeps his gaze locked on you.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, voice thick with sincerity.

“Steve…” Your cheeks heat even more.

It's the drink talking.

“No, I’m serious—” He shakes his head, eyes soft. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw you tonight—was just… so excited to have you on my arm, for everyone to see.”

See how far he'd come.

The statement makes your heart thump, and when he lifts a hand to brush some hair off your forehead, you lean into his touch.

“You think she liked me?” you ask quietly,. A half smile curves on your lips as you probably know the answer, but you need the reassurance that you made him proud.

“Don’t think it’s possible for someone not to like you.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and your heart melts a little further.

“You’re real sweet when you’re drunk,” you tease.

“I’m sweet all the time.” His hands trail languidly down your arms, leaving your skin tingling in their wake. You nod, breath catching slightly. 

“Yeah, you are,” you admit, cheeks still flushed. His lips graze your neck again, sending a pleasant shiver through you.

“You gonna let me be real sweet to you?” he whispers, his breath tickling your skin.

You hum, gently pushing him back just enough to meet his eyes. He’s gazing at you so intently, smitten and serious all at once. The haze of alcohol may linger in his system, but the affection shining in his expression is crystal clear.

He looks down at you, catching the hesitation in your eyes. He knows exactly what it means—you won’t do anything unless he’s fully there, fully present in the moment. And that only makes him want you more. 

The fact that you’d wait for him, that you care enough to make sure he’s in the right headspace, has him feeling completely enamored.

But he’s right—he has been patient. And the cocktails? They aren’t clouding his judgment in any way that concerns him. He’s a little fuzzy, sure, but not intoxicated. Well—maybe by you. And if he’s being honest, he’s been itching to get his hands on you all night.

He drops a soft kiss to your lips, then pulls back. 

“I’m not drunk, angel,” he insists quietly. “Just a little tipsy.”

You still look unsure, and he sees it instantly. But Steve knows exactly how to sweet-talk you into trusting him—how to make you see that this isn’t the alcohol talking, that you're gonna be safe with him.

He's choosing this. 

"I want this, angel," he murmurs, nudging his nose against yours. "Not because I’ve been drinking—because it’s you. I've got you."

His fingers trace gently along your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. You're nearly there.

The final blow.

"So if you’ll let me… I’d really, really like to show you just how much."

You cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his warm skin. 

How on earth can you say no to that? 

“Alright, we can—”

You’re cut off by him letting out a triumphant breath and scooping you right up, hands slipping under your thighs to support you as he strides toward the bedroom. You squeal, clinging to him in surprise as you try to talk through the stream of nervous giggles.

“Steve!” you exclaim, your laughter echoing off the walls.

He just laughs in return, the sound rich and throaty, carrying you through the doorway as though you weigh nothing at all.

He practically tosses you onto the bed in his haste, eliciting a squeak of laughter from you as your back hits the soft covers. It’s immediately clear there’s something different in him tonight—he’s excited, charged, and looking at you with eyes that burn like embers. 

Before you can fully process his transformation, his mouth slants over yours in a desperate kiss that has you gasping into him. His palms roam over your body, broad and possessive, like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to touch first.

A startled giggle leaves your lips when he breaks away to mouth along your jaw. You tip your head back, giving him room, unable to stifle a grin at how single-minded he is.

“Eager, huh?” you tease, voice breathless.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, pupils blown wide with desire. His hair’s slightly mussed from your fingers, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. 

“Honey—if you knew half the shit I was thinking about at the bar,” he says in a low rasp, “you wouldn’t be teasing me right now.”

A shiver courses through you—filled with pure want. There’s a spark of mischief in your veins. Something about seeing him like this, so unguarded, emboldens you. 

“Big words,” you reply, cocking a brow, “for someone who still hasn’t touched me properly yet.”

He barks out a laugh—almost incredulous, the corners of his mouth quirking like he’s delighted you’d dare to challenge him. 

“Is that how you wanna play tonight?”

He doesn’t know what’s come over him. He wasn’t lying, he wasn’t drunk, but there’s a desperation bleeding out of every part of him, something hungry and entirely focused on you.

He feels confident—only spurred on by the way you’re pawing at him, the way you were looking at him all night.

Like you belonged to him.

For once, there’s no hesitation, no fear of disappointment when he will rid himself of his clothes. He knows you’ll like what you see, and that sends a realisation through his mind, tipping him straight back into King Steve territory—sure of himself and completely in his element with something he is verifiably good at.  

Judging by the way you arch up into him, the way your fingers grip at his skin like you need him closer.

You can feel it, too.

He gently gathers both your wrists, guiding them above your head, pressing them into the bed which sends a slow, delicious shiver down your spine.

He’s testing now, feeling out this new territory between the two of you. He feels you hold your breath and his grip stays firm—but never forceful. His strength is potent, but he wields it gently, a reassurance that you could break free at any moment if you wanted to.

He glances down at you, breath still heavy, eyes searching. His fingers squeeze yours once.

Are you okay with this? 

He waits, unmoving. 

And when your hands squeeze back, the answer is clear.

You’re allowing him to do this to you.

And fuck, that sends something primal through him.

He leans down, teeth grazing the juncture of your neck and shoulder in a teasing nip that has you keening.

“Careful what you wish for, baby,” he murmurs, moving his kisses along the curve of your throat. “I don’t do halfway.”

A thrill of anticipation flares in your belly at his words. This new side of him—so sure, so hungry—has you spinning. Each nip draws a gasp, your entire body stirring under the onslaught of sensation.

After one last kiss pressed into your collarbone, he releases your wrists and skims his palms down your torso, pausing at your hips. The shift of power jolts your heart when he slides off the bed, kneeling at the edge.

He wears a crooked grin as he grabs your thighs and unceremoniously yanks you closer, your lower half practically dangling off the mattress. Then he hooks a finger under the waistband of your underwear, his gaze dropping like he’s savouring every detail of you.

He runs the pad of his thumb over the thin fabric, right at the wet patch where you’re most sensitive, and your breath seizes.

He’s gonna have some fun with you. 

“You know,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, tantalising circles, “I could be mean… take my time, really make you work for it.”

You swallow.

Hard.

Where the hell did that come from?

Steve has flirted with dirty talk before, tossing out teasing remarks that left you flustered, but he’s never drawn it out like this—never tested your patience with such slow, deliberate cruelty.

It’s so different from the way he usually is, and his look tonight only amplifies it. His all-black outfit is still visible through the planes of your thighs, a monumental contrast to the flustered, second-grade teacher you stumbled upon all those months ago—the one who could barely string together a sentence to ask you out outside his classroom.

Now he’s like this—in control, commanding, completely reveling in the role he’s taken tonight.

It hits you all at once: how much he’s changed.

How much he’s grown.

You can hardly imagine that past version of Steve taking charge the way he is now, and fuck.

It’s beautiful.

It makes you want to give in completely, to relinquish yourself to him, to let him feel what it’s like to lead again—to call the shots, to take what he wants, to be the old him once more.

“You wouldn’t,” you manage to retort, but your bravado falters the moment you see his face.

He arches a brow, amused by your statement.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he chides as he runs a hand down your leg, “you know I would." He pulls himself closer to your core, never breaking eye contact. "Not just gonna hand it to you, not tonight—you’re gonna ask for it, real sweet for me, okay?”

You’re about to fire off another witty remark when he slips your underwear down your legs, the fabric disappearing in one swift motion. Goosebumps race over your skin at the cool air against your heated flesh. 

His eyes darken at the sight of how wet you are, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he fights to stay in control. You see his throat bob when he swallows, like he’s genuinely trying not to devour you on the spot.

A surge of embarrassment rises in your chest at how the exposure, but it’s overshadowed by the torrent of desire swirling inside you.

He settles in, nudging your knees apart, and plants soft, teasing bites along your inner thighs. The gentle scrape of his teeth makes you shudder. It’s maddening that he’s so close yet deliberately avoiding the place you need him most.

“Steve… please—”

You stop, voice cracking on the final syllable, unable to fully spit out what he wants. The vulnerability of wanting something so fiercely—of needing him so shamelessly—clutches at your chest. But he only smiles against your skin, smug and satisfied.

He's enjoying this.

“Mmm,” he hums “that’s a start, baby." His large hand presses lightly on your hip, keeping you still. "But you can do better than that, c’mon.”

Christ—he’s really doing it.

Making you earn it tonight.

His words shoot molten heat straight to your core, and your cheeks burn at how easily he’s backed you into this corner. You’re used to him being sweet, doting, bending to please you. Now he’s making you work for it.

A new wave of arousal slides through you, and your pride cracks under the tension. 

“Steve, fuck—” you grit out, “I need… I need your mouth on me.”

Your voice is so pitiful, so wrecked, that it makes him pause. Just for a second. Letting your request hang in the air between you. He tips his head back, eyes shutting as the pretty words sink in, echoing in his mind, wrapping around his ego like silk.

You always ask so nicely—so sweet, like you know he’s the only one who can give you what you need.

When his gaze drifts back down to you, his lips curl into a slow, wolfish grin, full of intent and promise.

You got it, angel.

“See?” he murmurs, voice buzzing with triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His fingers grip the underside of your thighs, the press of his thumbs guiding you to spread open for him. He’s so sure in his movements—like he’s found a new rhythm to the confidence that’s always been under the surface.

His eyes flick up, meeting yours, silently asking for every ounce of trust.

“Now,” he purrs, “be good for me and hold still.”

Your half-formed reply dies on your lips the moment his tongue flicks out in a slow, deliberate stroke, and every one of your senses sparks with raw heat as you gasp.

The slick sound of him feasting on you, the wet slide of his mouth and the soft, desperate little hums in his throat—it’s a rush of sensation you can’t possibly process all at once. Your breath hitches, eyes rolling back, and you grasp at the sheets for any sort of grounding.

He’s relentless, and your responses only spur him in more, bracing his arms under your thighs and pulling you closer as he licks you in languid, thorough passes that have you panting. 

You’ve felt his enthusiasm before, but never quite like this—he’s devouring you, every flick of his tongue precise, and he's barely even started. His nose nudges in precisely the right spot against your clit, sending another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.

You can feel his smile against you as you writhe beneath him, he knows exactly how good he is, and he’s revelling in it. And he doesn’t waste a second—doesn’t tease, doesn’t draw it out—just gives you exactly what you need, slipping a finger inside your walls slowly. 

He’s reading you like a damn book, tracking every little reaction, every shaky breath, every twitch of your body. And when he feels you clench down around his digit, a quiet, broken sound slipping from your lips, he looks up—just to see the glazed-over look in your eyes, the telltale sign that your mind has emptied of anything but him.

Perfect. 

Exactly where he wants you.

A strangled moan bubbles up in your chest, almost slipping free, but your reflex is to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the embarrassing sound. 

Immediately, he notices your movements. He stills, bites down on your thigh—not too hard, but with enough force to jolt you out of your pleasured haze—and you gasp, eyes snapping down to meet his.

“Oh no, baby,” he admonishes, voice reverberating against your skin, “none of that. If I’m makin' you feel good, I wanna hear it.”

Flustered heat floods your cheeks. 

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Oh, sweetheart, you were,” he cuts in with a smile that’s maddeningly confident. “But that’s alright.”

He reaches for your wrist, prying your arm away from your face. The gentle kiss he presses into your palm is so achingly tender it makes your breath stutter. Then, he guides your hand to the top of his head, tangling your fingers into his hair.

“Go on,” he murmurs, sighing when your fingers scrape against his scalp. “Keep me here. Let me finish what I started.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. Your grip tightens in his hair, trying to ground yourself against the swirling sensation of his mouth and hands. He groans in approval at the tug, the vibration sending fresh sparks of pleasure dancing along your spine. 

It’s overwhelming—the sloppy sound of him working, the heady smell of desire in the air, the blazing heat coiling in your stomach that’s already coiled too tight.

The pressure builds fast, almost too much. A litany of moans and half-formed pleas stutter from your lips, and your thighs clamp around his head, unconsciously trying to pull him closer. He doesn’t let up, his mouth so perfectly focused that you feel yourself hurtling toward the brink.

“Steve,” you gasp, voice cracking as you arch your back. “Please—I need you inside—”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your wild, pleading gaze. A cocky smirk paints his face, and you’re distantly aware of how your own arousal slicks the lower half of his jaw. 

He looks downright smug.

“So bossy,” he drawls, drunk on lust and repeating the earlier sentiment. He slips his fingers out, ignoring the needy tremor that wracks your body. “But you knew how this was gonna go—first you come on my tongue. Then you get my cock.”

Jesus.

Did he really just say that?

He dives back in without waiting for your reply. Shock ripples through you at the brazen filth coming out of his mouth, but it’s drowned by the delirious pleasure of his tongue lapping at you again. A strangled moan escapes you, and you tighten your hold in his hair.

The pleasure whips through you in dizzying waves, and you can’t hold on any longer—your voice cracks on a broken cry as you cum, your muscles seizing, back arching off the bed as he drinks in your release. The sensation is overwhelming, pleasure blooming hot beneath your skin. 

He groans, feeling your thighs quake around him, but he only slows when you start to whimper that it’s too sensitive. Gently, he eases the pressure, placing a series of soft, almost apologetic kisses against your shaking inner thigh.

He could get used to this new confidence.

Especially when you reacted like that.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still hooded and dark, chest heaving as he looks at you sprawled on the bed. A deep flush staining his cheeks, seeming almost in awe of you—of what he’s just done.

Of what he was capable of. 

“Fuck—” he breathes, voice ragged. “That was so fucking beautiful.”

And he’s gonna make you do it again. 

He leans back on his heels, gaze tracking over your trembling form. For a moment, all he does is toy with the hem of your dress, the fabric rumpled from all his manhandling.

“Dressed so pretty for me,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the material. “Should’ve been patient, taken my time peeling it off first.”

Your heart feels like it’s about to punch a hole through your chest. The desire in his eyes is thick—tangible enough that it makes every nerve in your body light up. You lift your shoulder slightly, desperate to be rid of the clingy fabric.

 “T-take it off—”

He huffs a low laugh and shakes his head, catching both of your wrists gently and pressing them back onto the bed. His grip is firm but never harsh, the contrast makes your pulse jump even higher.

“Ah-ah, sweetheart,” he chides. “Lemme enjoy it a little longer.”

You wore it for him, after all. 

Still fully clothed himself—his slacks pressing against your hypersensitive core—he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that has your head spinning. You can feel the rough fabric nudge between your thighs, stoking the heat that hasn’t subsided one bit since he first put his mouth on you.

His breath warms your neck as he breaks the kiss. 

“Begged so pretty for my mouth—how 'bout you tell me how bad you want my cock?”

His voice is all tease, dripping with amusement as he watches the effect his words have on you. He holds back a chuckle when you tug at his shirt. His impatient girl.

He knows what you want.

He’s not dumb.

He just likes watching how precious you are when you're needy.

“I swear—if you don’t—”

He grins, cutting you off.

“If I don’t what?” The low rasp in his voice vibrates through you as he finally lets go of your wrists to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, taking pity on you at last.

He doesn’t even register the scars covering his torso—you’ve already seen them, already traced them with careful fingers, already accepted them. Right now, that’s not what matters.

The only thing on his mind is you—how far he can take you, how much he can push with this new trust you’ve given him. He’s going to drag this out, drink up every second.

And later, when the night is over, he’ll revisit this moment again and again, replaying it until it’s burned into him,

Until it’s engraved into his eyelids. 

“You want me to take these off?” he drawls, glancing at your still mostly clothed figure, “What d'you think?” He pauses and pretends to contemplate his question. “Should I make you beg for that too?”

God no, you plead looking up at him. 

Your expression must be downright pitiful—eyes big, mouth parted—because after a few agonising seconds of letting you squirm, he exhales a soft chuckle. 

He’s not gonna be that mean. 

At least not tonight.

“Alright,” he says, voice warming, “waited long enough. Let’s get you out of this—before you tear it off yourself.”

Finally.

His hands move with purpose, helping you out of the dress in record time. The bra follows in one swift motion, baring your skin to the chilled air. The hunger in his gaze intensifies, and you instinctively cross your arms over yourself, but he gently pulls them apart with a soft, adoring look.

He might be all sharp tongues and teasing words, but he’s still your Steve—and it slips through the second he sees you like this, sees the softness in your naked body.

Every time, it wrecks him. Leaves him in awe, staring like he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He has to school himself, to remind himself why he’s here.

Not just to have you.

To make love to you.

Fuck you so good you forget your own name.

He stands to rid himself of his jeans and underwear, fumbling briefly with the button in his haste. The condom he grabs from the top drawer is on in a flash, and you can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes your lips.

“Were you planning this?” you quip, arching a brow.

He smirks, bracing a hand on the mattress as he crawls over you. 

“Wouldn’t call it planning,” he admits, “more like wishful thinking.”

He looks down at you, gauging every little reaction as he settles between your thighs, his mind spinning from the way you’ve handed yourself over to him tonight.

Every teasing thought that crosses his mind? 

He says it. 

Every slow, deliberate movement? 

He makes it. 

He’s always had a quick mouth, always had a knack for getting the last word, and it turns out that skill translates pretty well in the bedroom. 

From the way you’re responding—whimpering, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, he understands it's effect.

He drags his cock through your slick, soaking in the way you shudder, still sensitive from your last release. The broken little sound you let out nearly ends him right there. 

He almost slows down, almost stops to check in, almost asks if you need a second—

But then he sees it. 

That look in your eyes.

Like you’re seconds away from combusting. Like if he doesn’t fill you up right now, you might actually fall apart. That puts his mind at ease real quick.

You can take it. You can take him.

You always have, every curveball his fucked up life has thrown at you and now, this is your reward. 

His tough girl—so pretty, so pliant, and all his.

“You’re so worked up, baby,” he murmurs, rolling his hips just enough to have you sucking in a sharp breath. "Fuck—bet I could make you cum again before I’m even all the way in—"

Your body clenches at the idea, but a flicker of alarm crosses your features. He notices and offers a crooked grin, leaning down to press a comforting kiss to your cheek.

You can have him now. 

"Shhh—I'll be nice, promise.” He assures, sliding his hand to the back of your neck. "I know—let me give it to you, yeah? Just how you like."

He pushes inside with deliberate slowness, guiding himself until he’s fully sheathed, and the stretch is a sharp, blissful edge that has your toes curling into the sheets. Heat flares bright as you take him in, your breath catching in your throat at the way he fills you.

"Shit," he breathes, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering shut. "You—fuck, you have any idea what you did tonight?"

His mind flashes to the bar—how pretty you looked, how fucking dangerous you stared at him, all soft-spoken and sweet while chatting with Robin, while his brain was miles deep in the gutter.

"Had me losing my fucking mind, baby—kept looking at me like you wanted me to bend you over the damn table—"

Your cheeks burn, fresh embarrassment creeping up your neck. Sure, you were flirting with him—but not to that extent, right?

The way his eyes darkened whenever you brushed against him, the way his jaw tensed, like he was barely keeping himself in check. And now, hearing him say it out loud, knowing just how much it got to him.

Yeah. 

You don’t regret it one bit.

“I-I didn’t mean to—”

His hips flex, drawing a startled cry from you. 

“No?” he challenges, leaning down so his breath skates across your lips. “Then why're you squeezing me like this, huh? Feels like you wanted it real bad.”

A strangled moan rips from your chest when he adjusts his angle, the friction almost too exquisite to bear. Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints on his skin, and he seems to relish it. It only spurs him to thrust deeper, rolling his body in a fluid, deliberate motion that has you arching up into him.

“Can you feel how deep I am?” he rasps, pressing a broad palm over your lower stomach.

You nearly wail at the added pressure, your body tightening involuntarily. Every nerve feels overexposed, and the sweet ache is already coiling again, dangerously close to snapping.

"Yes—yes," you pant, voice breaking, eyes squeezing shut like it’s too much. "Fuck—fuck, I can feel it—"

His own breathing is ragged, that confident smirk never fully leaving his face. 

"Yeah—you do," he groans, voice cracking. "Fuck—stretching around me so fucking perfect—"

He pounds you into the mattress, each thrust driving sparks of ecstasy through your veins. The headboard knocks against the wall, but all you can do is cling to him, trying to keep your mind from fracturing under the overwhelming pleasure.

“Steve—Steve, I—,” you gasp, the tension in your core reaching a fever pitch, “I’m gonna—”

“Shhh, baby,” he croons, sliding a hand under your back to pull you closer, forehead pressed to yours. “It’s okay—I got you. Been so good for me tonight—go on, let go.”

Your body locks up, the orgasm tearing through you with near-blinding intensity, muscles clamping around him in a cascade of pleasure that leaves you sobbing out broken moans. His rhythm stutters, his eyes squeezing shut as he chases his own release.

“That’s it—” he mutters, voice cracking with urgency. “Fuck, I can’t—I—”

One more thrust and he’s lost, groaning low in his chest as he spills into the condom. The two of you ride out the final tremors together, foreheads pressed, breath mingling in the heavy air.

It takes a moment for you both to resurface after his release, his chest still heaving against yours. The pleasure in his eyes slowly gives way to something gentler.

He leans down, pressing a series of lazy, heartfelt kisses to your forehead, your cheekbones, the corners of your mouth—wherever his lips can reach. Each touch is imbued with care.

“Did so good,” he murmurs between kisses, voice affectionate. “So good for me, angel.”

You melt under the praise, letting your eyes drift shut as you soak in his breathless devotion. It contrasts how wild he’d been just moments ago—downright relentless—makes his current tenderness all the sweeter.

With a gentle grunt, he pushes himself onto his elbows, brushing back the stray hair that clings to your damp forehead. 

“I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move.”

In your blissed-out state, all you can manage is a drowsy hum of assent. He slips off the bed, and you watch through lidded eyes as he pads across the room, disappearing into the bathroom. 

You hear the tap running, the faint rustle of him disposing of the condom, then the soft swish of water in a washcloth. Your body feels utterly spent, a pleasant tingle still humming along your skin.

There’s a quiet care in the way he cleans you up. The washcloth is warm and soothing against your overly sensitive skin, and you shiver at the sensation. 

His gaze follows your every little twitch, making sure he hasn’t hurt you. You can feel his hand trembling ever so slightly—not from uncertainty, but from the flood of emotions surging through him.

“Hey,” he says, voice subdued, “that was okay?” His eyes lift to yours, a glint of worry in them. “I mean… you’re good, right?”

You let out a lazy, content laugh. 

Yeah, you're pretty fucking good.

“Think I’m gonna need a week to recover.”

“Yeah?” His eyebrows shoot up. 

“Definitely.” A mischievous curl graces your lips. “Now, come here and let me fall asleep on you.”

You really are bossy tonight. 

“Alright. Gimme a second.” He stands up, rummaging through a drawer for a pair of boxers. When he slips them on, you catch a glimpse of the faint lines of his scars, but he still doesn't seem bothered.

He fishes out a soft, worn T-shirt for you, returning to the bed to help you pull it over your head. The patience contrasts all of his previous actions.

“Better?” he asks, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

You nod, contentment seeping into your bones. He climbs in beside you, pulling the covers up until you’re both tucked in. He wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you close enough that you can press your face against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat lulls you, punctuating the silence.

You open your mouth to say something—maybe to tease him about how he just passed some imaginary line from shy to sweet to downright insatiable—but before you can form the words, you realise his breathing has already gone soft and rhythmic. 

The drinks and all the exertion apparently caught up to him, and he’s fallen asleep, mouth parted and face slightly smushed into his pillow.

“Good night,” you murmur, a fond smile tugging at your lips, even though you know he can’t hear you. You lean up to plant a delicate kiss on his jaw.

You knew he'd appreciate it if he was awake.

He mumbles something incoherent, shifting only to pull you tighter against him, and you let out a quiet giggle that he sleeps right through. Feeling his warmth, your own exhaustion rushes in, and you finally let your eyes flutter shut.

The hungover teacher stirred with a low groan, rolling onto his side as the dull ache behind his temples made itself known. His mouth felt tacky and dry, and he blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the morning light filtering through the blinds. 

Nine o’clock was the time displayed on his alarm—usually he was up before then, but after the night he’d had, it was hardly surprising.

Last night was fun.

Last night...

Last night.

Oh, God.

The realisation hit him like a jolt of caffeine. He cast a quick glance around the bed. The rumpled sheets on your side were cool to the touch, and his heart gave a lurch. He noticed right away that the clothes the two of you had tossed around last night were no longer strewn across the floor. 

His mind whirred with images of the previous evening: how he’d practically been glued to your side in the car, half-drunk and babbling. How he’d lost every ounce of self-consciousness once you got inside… 

And dear lord, that torrent of absolute filth that had poured out of his mouth.

He didn’t regret the closeness—far from it. But the specifics came rushing back, making him wince. 

He’d definitely gone too far, pushed some kind of boundary here. A flush crept over his cheeks at the recollection of the way he’d practically manhandled you, said things to you he hadn’t allowed himself to say in years. 

And the marks—no, not his—he vividly recalled leaving little reminders of himself on your skin. What if you were hurt or upset? Is that why you weren’t next to him in bed?

Fuck this is bad. 

So very very bad. 

Just as he was about to scramble out from under the covers to search for you, he heard the bedroom door creak open. His stomach flipped—and there you were, peeking in with a bright grin, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.

“Oh, Casanova has finally risen,” you teased, stepping fully into the room.

Relief flooded him so quickly he almost felt dizzy. You were still here. 

And you looked…

Well, you looked content. 

Happy, even?

You were practically glowing.

He stayed propped on one elbow, eyes roving over the fresh T-shirt you’d thrown on, a new one from the previous night, hair still mussed. He swallowed, trying to find words, but they didn’t come. He settled for a sheepish smile as you rounded the bed and set the cups on the bedside table before perching on the edge of the mattress, near his legs.

“How’s the head this morning?” you asked, tilting your head in concern.

“It’s, uh…” He shrugged a bit stiffly, still grappling with the residual embarrassment. “I’ll live,” he managed, realising only then how dry his throat was.

You leaned back, letting out a laugh, you couldn’t help it. He looked so frazzled in the low light of the morning. Your movement caused your hair to shift, and he finally noticed the marks he’d left on your neck. 

His stomach lurched. Guilt surging through him.

Crap. 

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, pushing himself upright. His hands slid over your shoulders, fingertips grazing the bruises with excruciating caution. “I swear, I never should’ve done that. Please tell me they don't hurt—are you hurt? I promise—”

You pressed a finger to his lips to stop his apologies spilling. 

“I’m fine,” you soothed.

He shook his head, eyes clouded with worry. He didn’t believe it, you were just being nice—too nice—like you always were. 

“Angel, you don’t have to lie to me,” he insisted, voice hushed. “I got carried away, I know I did. Just—just look at your neck. I—”

He never wanted to leave anything physical on your body. 

You batted his fussing hands away before he could delve into another apology. He felt you shift closer, sliding a leg over his lap and effectively straddling him. The contact made his heart thump in a way that was not filled with desire, but with reluctant relief.

If you were willingly crawling into his space like this, you couldn’t be too upset. 

Right?

“Hey,” you said softly, “look at me.”

He did, brown eyes trained on yours. The moment they did, he felt the tension in his chest loosen just a fraction. 

“Were you ever going to tell me where you learned to talk like that?” You teased, voice playful as you decided to steer the conversation in a new direction. 

You knew he’d be beating himself up—that’s just how he is. So, it was up to you to pull him out of it, to ease his mind from the intensity of the night before and steer him somewhere lighter, something more playful.

Also, you were definitely curious about where he got that mouth from.

A deep crimson spread across his cheeks. He remembered fragments of last night. The shamelessness of it all, the confidence, the raw desire that had him spouting every sinful thought crossing his mind. 

“… I don’t know!” He admitted, eyes shifting away but he knew you would not be satisfied with that answer. “Back in high school, I, uh… picked some stuff up, I guess. Whenever I just said what I wanted, reactions were… enthusiastic.”

“Reactions, huh?” You arched a brow. “Were you some kind of player?” You press further, leaning into him and watching him squirm. “I can imagine you had all the girls wrapped around your finger.”

Steve’s stomach knotted—he hated how this conversation was going, even if you punctuated it with a compliment. 

“I wasn’t, like, a player player,” he defended, lost as to how to word it right, “but I—fuck—I know my way around a woman, okay?”

“Way around a woman? So romantic.”

He groaned, planting his face in his hands in a thoroughly mortified gesture. 

“You know what I mean, God—” he mumbled, voice muffled. “You’re bullying me right now—this? This is bullying. Shouldn’t have introduced you to Rob, she’s rubbing off on you.”

With a grin, you gently peeled his hands away from his face, enjoying every once of embarrassment. 

“Call it payback,” you said, eyes dancing. “Because if this is bullying, I don’t know what to call your behaviour last night.”

He tried to retort, but ended up pressing his lips together. 

You got him there. 

He couldn’t bear it any longer, needed to put an end to this ruthless interrogation and wipe that cruel expression off your features. 

“Come ‘ere,” he said, voice still raw from sleep. Slipping his arms around your waist, he tugged you beneath him, rolling you onto the bed in a playful tumble. Your giggles filled the space, effectively silencing your questions.

When the laughter finally subsided, you stroked his cheek, a question in your eyes. 

“So I take it the hangover isn’t too bad?”

You’re finally done with torturing him.

“No, not too bad,” he shook his head, lips curving. “Told you I wasn’t that drunk.”

You gave him a dramatic eye-roll. 

“Yeah, alright,” you teased, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. “Hop in the shower. I’ll make us breakfast.”

His brows rose, something like hope glinting behind his eyes. 

“You’re not gonna have one too?” He tried to sound casual, but truth be told, he was already imagining the possibility of you joining him.

“I already did,” you replied, shrugging. “You were dead to the world. Didn’t wanna to wake you.”

“Well, next time, do.” He huffed in playful protest. “I could’ve helped.”

You shot him a pointed look as you slid out from under him. 

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

He tries to follow, strong arms itching to have you back in them. 

“Depends what you mean,” he countered with a sly half-smile. “I can be very useful when I wanna be.”

You’re sure he could. 

“Go shower, lover boy.” You roll your eyes and grab a pillow, swatting him lightly. “I’ll get us something to eat.”

He laughs as he stretches up, blanket slipping to expose his torso as he clicks out all the sleep of his spine. He slips off the bed, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before he scurries through the doorway.

You wander into the kitchen, the morning sun giving the space a homey atmosphere despite the sparse contents of the fridge. When you open it, you are met with a mildly irritating discovery.

Three eggs. 

Damn it. 

You decide he’s earned two of them for all his hard work last night. A shopping trip is definitely in order, he’s not going to survive on leftover cereal and a couple of condiments. Setting the eggs aside, you gather bread and butter for toast, determined to whip up a breakfast that’s at least semi-nutritious. 

Grabbing a small notepad from a drawer, you remember that your boyfriend tends to dump half his belongings in the console table by the entrance whenever he can’t find a proper place for them.

So you wander over, opening the drawer and flipping through random scraps of paper in search of a pen. Old receipts, a couple gold star stickers, a manual for an appliance that he apparently never installed—typical Steve Harrington clutter.

Your fingers still on something that immediately stands out. A small stack of official-looking envelopes, bold printed letters across the front. The same sender, repeated name after name on each envelope. 

The stamp—some government seal or maybe an organisation’s letterhead—catches your eye. Your heart gives a peculiar jolt. 

National Laboratory? 

You’re not entirely sure, but it’s definitely not from his school. It looks official, maybe serious. Possibly part of the story he’s only given you glimpses of. You hover there, tempted. 

It’s not your place. 

You know that. 

But curiosity thrums in your veins—if only you knew more about where these came from and how they tie into his past. You catch a snippet of text on the paper, scanning just enough to see some names that mean nothing to you—except that they might mean everything to him.

Before you can open it fully, the shower in the next room clicks off, the pipes clanging in that telltale way. Mild panic surges up your spine, and you hurriedly tuck the envelope away. 

Grabbing the first pen you spot, you practically race back into the kitchen with it clutched in one hand, notepad in the other, as though scribbling down a grocery list had been your sole focus this entire time.

Trying to steady the beat of your heart, you begin jotting random items—milk, bread, eggs, fruit?—each word an effort to keep your thoughts from drifting back to those envelopes and the million questions you suddenly have. 

You care about Steve, more than you can articulate, and you still yearn to know every piece of his history. 

A soft rustle of movement alerts you to his presence before you feel it. He steps up behind you, pressing a warm, damp kiss to your shoulder. The heat of his skin seeps through the thin T-shirt you’re wearing. You notice his hair’s still dripping from the shower, and he smells faintly of soap.

“What are you up to?” 

“What does it look like?” Feigning ease, you hold up the list. “Making sure you don’t starve here. Clearly, you didn’t plan on feeding yourself for more than a day or two.”

He leans in, peering over your shoulder at the small list, then huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Wanna go to the store with me later? I’m sure there’s some pizza in the frozen-food section calling my name.”

You turn your head enough to catch his eye, relieved he hasn’t noticed anything amiss. 

“We should probably go soon,” you point out, recalling Sunday hours. “They won’t be open all day.”

Instead of answering right away, he skims his lips up the side of your neck,. The bare expanse of your skin prickles with goosebumps, and you fight the urge to melt against him entirely. He chuckles at your reaction, pressing a little closer so you can feel the solid weight of him.

“I can be quick,” he teases, voice dipping into the same husky register you remember all too vividly from the night before. 

“You’re not tired enough from last night?”

He’s insatiable.

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning into you, “you’ve got me wide awake this morning.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he turns you around, guiding your hips so you’re facing him, your notepad nearly forgotten in your grip. He kisses you then, slow but with a playful flick of his tongue that reminds you he’s not quite done pushing your buttons. 

“Bet I can have you calling my name again in five minutes, tops,” he whispers, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

You roll your eyes—though your pulse jumps traitorously—and push gently at his chest. 

“We’ve got errands now. If you wanna eat something besides toast for the next few days, you better rein it in.”

You playfully bat his hand away, though you can’t suppress your grin. He leans in for one more quick kiss before he finally heads into the bedroom to put some clothes on.

You watch him go, and he’s still the Steve you know. There’s still a layer of him you’ve only just glimpsed, wrapped up in those official envelopes, as well as Robin's previous slip-up.

That is the real Steve Harrington, the one you intend to fully understand. 

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish

[leclerity]

do you regret it?

Charles Leclerc x Lando's Girlfriend!Reader count: 2.2k words summary: You're dating Lando, but a whirlwind of a night finds you waking up in Charles's bed, with a mountain of consequences and decisions to make - and realities you need to face about your relationship. a/n: some mentions of smut, but 18+ only please!

You wake with a throbbing headache, a parched mouth, and sheets that smell of familiar-but-not-enough cologne. Your eyes flicker open and shut immediately, the light blinding you. Why is there light? The shutters are set to automatically go down once the sun sets.

Next to you, a body stirs. The weight of an arm rests on your waist, underneath the covers, and you feel them snuggle closer, nuzzling their nose in the back of your neck.

Lando never holds you in the morning.

Memories of last night flash before you—a club, salt burning on your tongue with the aftertaste of tequila, hungry lips on your neck, wandering hands under your miniskirt, the pleasant ache of a body pounding into yours—and for a moment you’re fine, thinking it was just another night out, until you remember your boyfriend isn’t even in the country.

It wasn’t your home you went back to – it was Charles’s.

“Stay,” you hear a murmur, a deep voice still laced with sleep. “Let’s just pretend, for a few more minutes.”

“Charles—”

“Please.”

He pulls you even closer, kissing your neck, and more memories flash before you. He held you last night, he pulled you back together when you told him about your troubles with Lando, he showed you what it meant to be—

Safe, you realise.

What it felt like to be safe with another person. Loved and cherished. Devoured. Worshipped.

Your shoulders relax against your will and his hand finds your arm, holding you. He kisses your neck again before you hear him snore a few moments later, his arm falling limp again.

This wasn’t right. This was—

What you have with Lando might not be the best, or even good, most of the time, but this is another thing entirely.

“This shouldn’t—This shouldn’t have happened.”

Charles stirs awake, pulling you gently until you’re facing him. His hair is ruffled and you remember tugging at it last night, screaming his name in pleasure. Your centre gives a little throb at the memory. You can’t tear your eyes from him – sleepy, dazed Charles, looking at you like all he wants is you.

“We can feel bad about it later,” says Charles. “What’s done is done.”

You wait a beat. “Do you regret it?”

He laughs; you can’t help but smile at the sound. “I’m not an idiot to regret something like that. Do you?”

There’s an ache in your chest and you turn away. He clears his throat and gets himself out of bed, and you know you’ve made yourself clear. Just because it was good doesn’t mean you shouldn’t regret it.

If he’s hurt by your silence, Charles doesn’t show. He hands you some of his clothes and a glass of water with a smile. He talks about his plans for the day, too – there’s a gala he’ll be attending later, with a few interviews before that and a photoshoot scheduled in a few hours. The more he talks, the less it feels like what happened last night really happened, and you find yourself going back to it, almost as if making sure you remember it.

It started at the club. There was a text from Lando, contents of which you can’t recall, and your phone is dead on the nightstand. It brought you spiralling, whatever it was – you’d been arguing a lot, lately. Over the smallest things. He’d been staying away from the flat you shared more, too, with friends or at conferences you were only invited to if there was a need to show the two of you as a couple.

Charles was there.

It’s not like it was the first, or even the hundredth time you spoke. He was always around, at the periphery of everything going on, and you’ve seen him walk past during some of the heated exchanges you’ve shared with your boyfriend. You didn’t even need to say what happened before he was at your side, a consoling arm over your shoulder in the VIP section of the club.

Lando was the reason you went out in the first place. Have fun without me. You didn’t want to, but it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t coming home.

That was the text, you remember. Lando said he’d be staying elsewhere for the next few weeks.

“You alright?” asks Charles.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got…”

He reaches forward and wipes your cheek with his thumb, a black stain marring it.

Neither of you speak, for a while.

“You deserve better.” He doesn’t look at you while he says this. “He doesn’t—He can’t treat you right.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” you snap back.

His eyes find yours. “That wasn’t the case last night.”

“Last night was…”

“Different?” he offers. His hand makes its way to your thigh, still bare. “Good?”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him like this, at the memory of him in the cab, where you should’ve gone to yours, when you kissed him and asked him if you were worth it, and he said—

“You’re worth everything, if you ask me,” Charles says again. “You could—We could have everything.”

You never ended up going back to yours, last night. You drove straight to his and then he fucked you on this bed, better than Lando’s fucked you your whole relationship. When he looked at you, deep inside of you, you could tell that he was looking at you. He was present. He was savouring every moment.

Lando only ever fucks you from behind.

Charles’s hand finds yours, pulling you back to the present. “I meant every word I said last night.”

“You mean, when you were fucking Lando’s girlfriend?”

He looks as if struck. “I couldn’t care less about Lando.”

“You said all the right things last night,” you say. “All the right things to get me in your bed.”

“If you tell me you regret it, I’ll know you’re lying.”

“That doesn’t ma—”

“You wanted it,” Charles says, pushing himself across the bed until you’re against the headboard, his face inches from yours. “You needed it as much as I did. You know there’s more between us than there is between you and him.”

“There’s a relationship—”

“Sure. But the way you were moaning my name last night, nobody’s made you feel that good in a while.”

His mouth is on your neck again and his hand is slipping up your thigh, gentle and slow but determined. You want to push him away—you need to—but you don’t. You let him touch the spot between your legs, kiss your neck, grab your hair at the nape of your neck, and you let him do so with a shudder, a moan.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers.

And you are, you realise. When did it start? You’ve been orbiting each other for years, like twin suns, laughing at each other’s jokes in the paddock and during press events, but it was never like this.

But you knew. Deep down, you’ve always known. His jaw would harden at the sight of you and Lando arguing, he’d always hold the door for you when Lando left you in his wake. He’d always be the gentleman by your side.

Until he was no longer the gentleman, nor by your side, but on top of you when you needed him the most.

“Charles,” you breathe out, and he stops. “We shouldn’t.”

“Do you want to?”

You can’t say no.

His phone rings, saving you, and he backs away from you with a heavy sigh. Through the fabric of his sweatpants, you can see the bulge – it’s only hours since you had it in your hands, in your mouth.

Your mouth goes dry again.

Charles talks on the phone in another room, but you hear the grunts, the apologies, the anger rising in his voice. When he comes through you’re all dressed, ready to see yourself out, only the look on his face freezes you in place.

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“What’s going on?”

He’s pale, now.

Some part of you already knows. You brace yourself, one hand on the door, the other twirling a loose thread in your pocket.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He just hands you his phone.

You scroll through the photos and your heart sinks to your stomach. There’s that cheeky grin on your face, the dazed look, smudged mascara on your cheeks, but your hand is in Charles’s, and then in his hair, and then his lips are on yours. Breaking news, it says. The article outlines the events of last night in a wrong, disorderly fashion, but close enough to the truth that you know it’s game over.

You’ve gone and fucked it all.

Charles holds you and you realise your knees are shaking, giving in. He guides you to the couch and you sit there, breathing deeply, scrolling through the photos as if they’d change, tell a story that wasn’t so incriminating.

All you can manage is, “How?”

“Some people knew I’d be there,” he says. “They probably just got more than they bargained for.”

“Lando must be blowing up my phone by now.”

Even as you say it, you know it’s not true. You know it as you knew what Charles would show you – certain truths don’t need to be acknowledged to be true. Lando might be pissed, but he won’t show. He won’t care to show.

“I’ve ruined everything,” you whisper.

“Maybe this—It could be a good thing. It could be a fresh start.”

You laugh.

“I mean it,” says Charles. He comes closer, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him. “We don’t have to hide what happened.”

“Do you expect me to just drop my whole life?”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

The whole time you’ve known him, Charles has never been anything but sincere with you. He’s never questioned anything you didn’t want questioned, when the paddock seemed to breathe in relief once Lando made things official, the story of childhood friends turned sweethearts. He didn’t ask when he caught you preparing to be Lando’s girlfriend, to act different, to enjoy the changes between you.

It was always meant to be. That’s what everyone’s been saying your whole life. You grew up with Lando, you travelled with him when you could, of course you’d be the one. Of course you’d spend the last three years of your life going through the motions, doing what’s expected, not once asking yourself if you really love him.

“I do,” you say.

He’s always been there for you.

When you were friends. When you were younger. When there was no expectations, at least not vocal ones, when the world didn’t care for who you were.

You feel Charles stiffen, but you hold onto his arm. “But not as a boyfriend,” you admit. “I don’t know if—I don’t think I ever did.”

He lets the statement hang in the air, but not for him – for you. By the looks of it, he’s known this for a while.

His hand finds your face and you lean into it. “We can deal with the media. The whole thing. It’s—I can talk to the right people and make it disappear. Tell a different story.”

“Lando would want—”

“I don’t care. I don’t. He lost the right to you a long time ago. He never should’ve had it in the first place.”

“He didn’t have the right to me,” you snap. “No one does. Not him, not you.”

Charles sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You know what I’m talking about.”

You do, you have for a while, but that doesn’t mean you can bring yourself to say it, too.

It doesn’t seem to matter, because his thumb brushes your cheek and his eyes gaze into yours with so much affection and care and desire that you realise you’ve known about how he’s felt about you, too.

Another one of those truths.

“We could have it, you know,” he whispers. “We could have it all. If you want to.”

“If I want what?”

“Me.”

This – this is what it boils down to. You can walk out that door and deal with the aftermath by yourself, knowing there’ll be no one to tell you to hold your head high as you collect your belongings, because there’s no going back. Even if the situation could be salvaged, Charles has shown you what you’ve been hiding from yourself. This wasn’t a relationship you wanted to salvage.

Or you could let him take you through that door. Show you to the world as his, kiss you like nothing else matters, fuck you while moaning your name just as loud as you moan his. You could have it, all of it.

All you have to do is give in.

You kiss him, instead of an answer, but the way he kisses you back, you know he doesn’t need one.

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ 𓍢 APPLE CIDER huh yunjin x reader

❀ ͘ ⴰ “and even if we’re just friends, we could be more than that”

↳ YUNJIN & HER SOLOIST GF 🍓

  ۫ • when yunjin started training again there was this one artist that she listened to that just always seemed to get her through tough times.

  ۫ • yn was her name, a rookie and she just had this angst but soft vibe to her that anyone could listen to if they wanted to be peaceful or just scream their lungs out and that’s exactly the type of music yunjin needed during that time.

  ۫ •  she found her so unique for some reason she was in the industry but she was like her own category. she was under a big company that didn’t produce the type of music she makes, she didn’t dance and she kind of just put out whatever she wanted.

  ۫ • she was also kinda cute.

  ۫ • yunjin carried her love for the artist through training, preparing for debut, listening to her an hour before lesserafim’s debut stage to calm her nerves to talking about yn during her first live alone a couple months after debut.

  ۫ • “my favourite artist?” yunjin read the comment aloud, swaying slightly to the sound of yn’s voice playing in the background. “hmm… I’ll give you a hint she’s playing right now.” she smiled as the chat sped up, comments flooding in. “I love yn so much. her music has gotten me through a lot, she’s so talented.” she tucked a strand of hair out of her face, eyes softening. “I still can’t believe she’s a couple years younger than me… she’s so talented. should I sing on of her songs?”

  ۫ • yunjin didn’t think much of it after the live, it wasn’t until deep in the night her phone started blowing with messages from her friends nearly giving her a heart attack.

  ۫ • “omg yn mentioned you on her live” “ouuuu guess who just mentioned you” “you’re gonna freak out.”

  ۫ • first of all how did she miss yn’s live? (yn never goes live so both yunjin and yn stans are on their knees begging her to go live everyday) and second of all HUH???

  ۫ • she immediately opens twitter and luckily it’s the first thing she sees.

  ۫ • OMG yn mentioned yunjin on her live today my sserayn crumbs.

  ۫ • “I don’t know, guys, attack me all you want, but milkis over banana milk any day,” yn said, spinning lazily in her chair. she slowed to a stop, eyes flicking to the chat. “did you see lesserafim’s yunjin’s live today? she mentioned you—yes! yeah, I did,” she nodded, lips curling into a small smile. “she’s a pretty cool girl. I’m really flattered that she’s a fan. I really liked lesserafim’s debut, so I guess me and her have something in common. when they get a fandom name, let me know.” she leaned forward slightly, about to move on before gasping. “oh! and her cover! it was so good, I love her voice—like, let’s make a song together at this point.”

  ۫ • yunjin nearly screamed so loud the whole dorm would’ve woken up.

  ۫ • yn knew who she was…yn wanted to make a song with her

۫ • yunjin stared at her phone, debating for a solid five minutes before opening yn’s instagram and hovering over the dm button.

۫ • after another minute of staring, she finally typed, "so… about that song?" and hit send before she could second guess herself.

۫ • she immediately threw her phone across the bed, heart pounding. she did not just do that.

۫ • except she did. and when her phone buzzed a few minutes later, she swore her soul left her body.

۫ • yn: oh? you actually wanna do it?🤭 ۫ • yunjin: um YES??? ۫ • yn: [a funny picture that only showed her forehead in a dark] . let’s make it happen.

۫ • and just like that, they started texting back and forth, going from talking about music to random late night conversations about their favorite snacks, childhood stories, and the most unhinged videos they cound find.

۫ • by the time they met up in the studio, it was like they’d known each other forever.

۫ • and at the end of the year, they actually released a song together, fans loved the sound of yunjin’s voice on a song that was more yn’s vibe and just the overall chemistry that yn and yunjin had.

۫ • and a behind the scenes vlogs had fans convinced there was something more going on.

۫ • yunjin was crushing. hard. but she kept it cool… until she didn’t.

۫ • one night, after another long texting session, she found herself typing, "so, are we gonna keep making music or do I get to take you on a date too?"

۫ • yn: that was really smooth dude. ۫ • yunjin:… is that you saying yes? ۫ • yn: maybe… depends on if it’s a sushi place if it is then yes

[gracie-eilish]

11 and 💛, maybe a little angst and then fluffy comfort? 🥺

“let me love on you”

prompt list

"billie i know how hard you're working, but please baby. its three in the morning and you need sleep." you pleaded.

billie had been cooped up in her home studio all day. recording, writing, re-recording, re-writing. however it was late and while you loved hearing her sing, hearing her sing while you tried to sleep, knowing she should be sleeping even more than you, was agitating.

"just give me ten more minutes." she didn't even look up from the monitor, just waving a hand in your direction. you huffed wanting to just go over and unplug the damn thing, but deleting all her progress didn't sound like the solution to this argument.

"no billie, you're coming with me now. it's late and you're gonna fry your vocal cords. please just come get some sleep. you can come back tomorrow-" billie cut you off, spinning around to face you.

"do you understand how important this next record has to be for me? y/n, I didn't win a single grammy for what I thought was my best body of work so far in my life. and you even said yourself, that when taylor swift- taylor freaking swift - didn't win anything for red, she went home and wrote 1989 which then became the most decorated pop album of all time. so please just let me make my better record."

you mentally cursed yourself for your taylor themed encouragement you gave her last month. you thought it would be a nice motivator to keep working hard, now it was just biting you in the ass... and sleep schedule. you took a deep breath walking across the room to her, squatting in front of her chair.

"yes, i did tell you that. and I think i also told you about her song all you had to do was stay. did i tell you about that one?" you thought quickly, hoping to get your stubborn girlfriend away from her studio.

"yes you did, that was so cool! she literally dreamt the lyrics to the chorus. like fully dreamt it and then woke up to write it."

you gave her a knowing look, softly rubbing the tops of her thighs while she caught your drift.

"what does that have to do- OH. oh. you're good baby." she realized.

"yes i know i am, thank you very much. now why don't you clean up down here so we can go to sleep so you can dream your next song lyrics, yeah?" you teased standing up and holding out your hands for her to take. she looked up at you like a toddler deciding if they wanted to keep playing with their toys or play with their bath toys compromising for bath time.

"c'mon baby, you're exhausted and need some rest. let me love on you."

"fineeeee. you win miss swiftie." she grumbled turning away to save her progress and shut off her equipment.

"i always do!"

"yeah, yeah. whatever." she scoffed before turning to grab your waist for a second. "i'm sorry for being so stubborn. you were just trying to take care of me and i appreciate that. you know how stressed i am about this album already and i need reminders every now and then to stop and rest so thank you for doing that for me," billie said with puppy eyes, but genuinely was sorry.

"oh my love," you pulled her in fully for a hug, cradling the back of her head. "i will always take care of you, even when you're being stubborn. i love you too much to not make you rest every now and then. but i swear to god if you start voice memo-ing songs in the middle of the night like taylor does, your's sleeping on the couch." you teased making billie giggle.

you pulled back to look at her face properly, cupping her cheeks. "i love you sweet girl. so much." you leaned in closing the space between you two with a cavity-inducing kiss.

"i love you more mama," she whispered into the kiss, only breaking apart when you both started smiling too much.

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 12

A/N: AHHHHH this is what everyones been waiting for!!!!

TW: SMUT/oral sex f!receiving/virgin reader/first time (kind of)

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!” The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, vibrating through your chest as you hung upside down, the cheap beer burning a cold trail down your throat. Two random guys gripped your legs firmly, while Amy your friend, held your skirt securely in place. 

Finally, they lowered you back onto your feet, the world spinning for a dizzying second. Beer dripped from your chin, trailing down your cleavage, but you barely registered it, wiping it away with the back of your hand. 

Six weeks. Six long, grueling weeks of therapy. Tonight, you needed this release, this explosion of carefree abandon. But a small, cautious voice in the back of your head reminded you to tread carefully. The last time you’d let loose like this, the intoxicating mix of alcohol and hormones had led to a regrettable encounter with a certain buzzcut and a whole lot of messy feelings.

Drama was the absolute last thing you needed tonight. You’d already crossed paths with Rafe near the keg, and thankfully, he hadn’t even spared you a glance. It was almost unnerving, this complete lack of acknowledgment. Meanwhile,  Topper and Kelce sent you pointed glares that you almost found comical. Whatever, you rolled your eyes internally. He was genuinely the last thing on your mind. You had enough of your own shit to deal with. And trying to decipher whatever had him in a pissy mood and blanking you was at the bottom of your list, in fact he was so irrelevant he wasn't even on the list.

Your gaze scanned the crowd until you found your familiar group huddled near the edge of the bonfire. A pang of longing hit you. It felt strange not having pre-gamed with them, but the thought of facing John B was too much to handle right now. You weren’t angry anymore, just… deeply, profoundly hurt. And tonight, more than anything, you needed a night free of that particular ache.

One by one, they noticed you and broke away from their conversation, their faces lighting up with genuine warmth. Pope gave you a cautious hug, his eyes searching yours for any sign of fragility. Kiara squeezed you tightly, whispering a welcome back. You noticed John B amongst them, but he remained a good distance away, thank god.

JJ was the last to reach you, and his hug was less of a comforting embrace and more of a full-body tackle. He lifted you off the ground with a grunt, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he spun you around in a dizzying circle. You leaned back, your hair tangling in the sand as the bonfire and the faces around you blurred into an upside-down kaleidoscope.

“Woah! Easy there, tiger,” he chuckled, his hands landing firmly on your back to steady you, pulling you back to an upright.

“I fucking missed you, you chaotic mess!” You grinned, reaching up to squish his cheeks together, your thumbs digging in playfully. “Rehab was like… a library without any good books.”

“Yeah?” He grinned back, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he finally set you back down. “Well, I fucking missed you more, you beautiful disaster. Every time I tried to pull a prank – and trust me, there were some epic ones planned – nobody would help me! They kept saying I needed to ‘mature’ and ‘think things through.’ Think things through? What’s the fun in that? I got my partner in crime back now. The world better watch out, we’re gonna be unstoppable.” He punctuated the sentence by gripping onto your arms and shaking you slightly.

That was the beauty of JJ. He never pried. Not once had he asked about the soul-crushing monotony of rehab. He just showed up every week, a whirlwind of unfiltered JJ-ness, not that you’d ever admit you looked forward to it. He physically couldn’t go seven days without updating you on the latest ridiculousness he’d gotten himself into: the assignments he’d spectacularly failed, the dating app disasters, the time he tried to ‘borrow’ a golf cart from the country club. He was a glorious, unhinged escape from the sterile, suffocating world of recovery. An escape from the saccharine smiles of the therapists, the forced vulnerability of group sessions where you had to dissect your feelings like a goddamn frog in biology class, the endless mindfulness exercises that felt like a personal affront to your racing thoughts, and the daily affirmations that tasted like ash in your mouth. 

You weren’t kidding when you said it was terrible; it was your own meticulously crafted personal hell. A six-week-long torture session of everything you actively avoided: talking about yourself, being forced to connect with strangers about your deepest insecurities, having your every word and action analyzed and interpreted. You genuinely would have preferred a lobotomy to another goddamn circle time where you had to share your ‘feelings flower.’

 Kiara and Pope had cast apologetic glances your way before gravitating back to John B. You just waved a dismissive hand, a small, tight smile on your face. It was completely fine. Really. 

You and JJ found a quiet spot by the water, a joint appeared seemingly out of nowhere between you two.

While JJ was animatedly recounting the latest escapades of his borderline-paranoid neighbor, Toby – something involving garden gnomes and accusations of spying – your attention kept drifting. You couldn’t help the magnetic pull of your gaze towards John B. He was perched on a log by the bonfire, the flickering embers casting dancing shadows across his face, and even from this distance, you could feel his eyes on you. A sudden, fierce longing surged through you – a desperate urge to run over, to bury yourself in his familiar embrace, to feel his lips on yours.

“Hello?” JJ’s voice cut through your reverie. He followed your gaze, “You should go talk to him, you know.”

You snapped back to face JJ, a defensive wall instantly going up. “Look, J, I know he’s your best friend, and I appreciate you… trying to be all mature and shit, but I don’t want you caught in the middle of this. I don’t want any of you to have to pick sides or anything. This is between me and him.”

“Hey,” JJ said, his usual goofy grin fading as he placed a hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t be fucking stupid. Nobody’s picking sides, alright? We’re your friends. We’re all just… seeing two people we care about so upset. It’s kinda pathetic, not gonna lie.”

“I’m not upset,” you insisted, crossing your arms stubbornly, your chin jutting out slightly. “If he wants to be a little bitch about it. Then that's his personal problem. It doesn’t exactly keep me up at night.”

JJ looked at you for a long moment, his lips pursed in that way he did when he was trying to be serious but still couldn't quite suppress his inner chaos. “He misses you. Like, a lot. He’s been moping around like a lost puppy ever since you left. It’s actually kinda gross to watch.”

“J, you know what I love about you?” You shoved him playfully, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses. “We don’t do this touchy-feely, heart-to-heart, ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ gay shit.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” he sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “But I’m the one who has to be on suicide watch every night. It’s cramping my style, man! I can’t even get laid with him radiating all that sad-boy energy. Think of my needs here!” He pouted, his attempt at reconciliation somehow both ridiculous and strangely earnest.

“It’s too complicated, J,” you said, shaking your head, blinking back the tears that threatened to resurface. “This is exactly why I never wanted anything to happen between us in the first place. He’s my best friend. He was my best friend.” You quickly corrected yourself, clearing your throat. “And now look at us. Look at this mess we’ve made.” You gestured vaguely behind you towards the bonfire where John B was sitting, and surprisingly, your outstretched finger made contact with something… or rather, someone.

Your eyes widened in dawning horror. It was a full-blown ‘he’s right behind me, isn’t he?’ moment.

“Hey, uh, can we talk?” John B’s voice, low and slightly hesitant, cut through the painful silence and the crashing waves.

You shot a death glare in JJ’s direction, silently screaming for a warning you hadn’t received.

“Yeah, go right ahead! Lemme just… uh… hosey on outta here.” JJ grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and with a quick, two-fingered salute, he jogged away.

You sucked in a sharp breath and whipped around to face John B. Before he could even get a damn word out, you held up a hand, like, 'Talk to the hand, buddy.' “Don’t even start,” you said, your voice all tight and shaky. Ugh, get it together, you pathetic mess. “If you came over here to ask me how that little slice of hell they call rehab was, just turn your ass around and walk away. Right now.”

John B rubbed the back of his neck, looking all awkward and shit. “I didn’t,” he mumbled, his eyes searching yours like he’d lost his damn keys. “God, I fucking missed you. Every second.”

“Yeah, yeah, noted,” you said flatly. 

He took a step closer, his voice all soft and pleading. “And I’m… I’m fucking sorry. Okay?”

“Okay,” you echoed, a bitter little laugh escaping before you could stop it. Yeah, right. Sorry my ass. “Thank you for that groundbreaking revelation. Will that be all? Because honestly, I’m not really in the mood for a tearful reunion right now. Still kinda processing the whole ‘being ambushed by my friends and family’ thing.” His face actually fell, like a kicked puppy. Good.

“No, actually. No, I’m not fucking sorry! Not really. I take it back!” He huffed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I’m not sorry that I forced your stubborn ass to get help! I’m not sorry that I couldn’t just stand by and watch you… slowly fucking disappear! And yeah, you wanna know what else, you oblivious idiot? I’m not sorry for being in love with you!” He was practically yelling now, his voice cracking. Oh, for fuck's sake. Here we go.

You shook your head, fat tears finally deciding to make an appearance, rolling down your cheeks like they had a goddamn agenda. “You sound just like my mom right now, you know that?” You turned to walk away, your chest feeling like someone had stuffed it with barbed wire. Just gotta get out of here. But you couldn’t leave it hanging. You spun back around, your voice shaking despite your best efforts. “That’s what you think I’m mad about? Seriously, John B? I’m not mad that I went to rehab. I fucking needed it, okay? What I’m hurt about… what I can’t get past, you dumbass… is the way you went about it! You lied to me. You went behind my back and planned it all with my mom? You fucking ambushed me! I trusted you. I told you shit I haven’t told anyone else. You were supposed to be my best friend.”

Without waiting for his pathetic reply, you turned and fucking bolted, shouldering past the surprised, nosy faces around the bonfire. Each step was fueled by a desperate need to escape the suffocating weight of your own hurt and his ridiculously timed, completely unwanted confession. Ugh, men.

You shoved past some meathead blocking your path, sending his lukewarm beer sloshing down his shirt. You spun around, ready with a practiced, “I’m so sorry—“ but then your eyes landed on Topper’s ugly, punchable face, and the apology died in your throat. “Watch where you’re fucking going, asshole,” you spat, scoffing as you whipped back around, not giving a damn about the death glare you could feel boring into your back.

“Say that shit again,” Topper’s hand clamped down on your wrist like a vise. “I fucking dare you.” His face was so close to yours you could smell the stale beer on his breath and the faint hint of Axe body spray. Ugh, still rocking that middle school scent.

“I’m gonna give you five seconds to get your grimey hands off me,” you warned him. You started counting down in your head, each number a silent threat. One… two… three…

“Or what? Huh?” He gave your wrist another painful tug, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Can’t hide behind your phone and your little Pogue posse now, can you?”

“Where’s your precious princess, Ruthie?” you taunted, tilting your head and giving him your most saccharine, mocking pout. “Still busy servicing half of Kildare? Or did she finally dump your sorry ass so she didn’t have to sneak around anymore?” 

His face contorted in rage, his grip tightening on your wrist until you could feel your bones protesting. “Where’s your fucking friends, huh? Did they finally fucking ditch your psycho ass too? Did they finally realize what a miserable, unlovable bitch you are? So unlovable that even your own fucking dad couldn’t handle your bullshit?”

You’re not entirely sure what happened in the next split second, everything seemed to blur. One moment Topper was sneering in your face, the next he was on the ground, clutching his nose and howling like a wounded animal. You heard a sickening crack, felt a jolt of pain shoot up your arm, and noticed your hand was throbbing. There was a high-pitched ringing in your ears, a dull buzzing that drowned out the shouts and gasps around you. You didn’t stick around to analyze the carnage. You just turned on your heel and kept walking, the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you headed down the beach, leaving Topper and his wounded pride in the dust.

You finally stumbled to a stop in the deserted car park, the realization hitting you like a punch to the gut – your Aunt had dropped you off. No ride home. You kicked a loose rock, sending it skittering across the asphalt, a frustrated “Fuck!” ripping from your throat. You repeated the action, again and again, until your foot throbbed in protest, joining the chorus of pain from your bruised knuckles. Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic. This was exactly how you’d envisioned your triumphant return from rehab: battered, bruised, and stranded. You squatted down, burying your face in your hands, hot, angry tears burning behind your eyelids. 

John B guy you were harbouring some seriously complicated feelings for was still on the beach, half your heart hated him and the other half wanted to be back in his arms. Topper was another delightful trigger you’d have to unpack later. And you were completely stranded, thanks to your current no-contact policy with your usual chauffeur, John B. You’d probably have to call your Aunt, drag her out of bed, further cementing your status as the family screw-up.

You forced yourself to get up, taking a shaky breath. You looked up, wiping angrily at your eyes, and saw him. Rafe. Leaning against his Jeep, his eyes locked on you. He didn’t make a move, didn’t say a word, just stood there, a silent, brooding figure in the dim parking lot light.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” you yelled, the raw edge of your emotions lashing out.

He still didn’t respond verbally, just pushed himself off the Jeep and walked over to the passenger side, opening the door with a deliberate, almost challenging gesture. Your first instinct was to tell him to go choke on a bag of dicks, but then you spotted the flashing lights of a Sheriff’s car pulling into the beach access road. Topper, the little shit, had definitely called them. Without another word, you scrambled into Rafe’s Jeep, practically diving into the passenger seat and reclining it as far back as it would go, hoping to disappear from view.

Rafe slid into the driver’s seat, giving you a deeply unimpressed look. “What in the actual hell are you doing?”

“Playing the drums! What does it look like I’m doing? Just drive!” you snapped, your voice tight with anxiety.

Rafe rolled his eyes, the interior light briefly illuminating his annoyed expression. He pulled out of the car park. “Where am I even going, exactly? Your place? Because I’m not wasting gas if you’re just gonna refuse to go in again.”

“Just drop me off right here.” You pointed to the side of the road when you were far enough away from the beach and any lingering law enforcement.

“Leave you in the middle of nowhere?” Rafe muttered, glancing at you. “Fuck no.”

“Pull over, or I swear to God, I’m gonna jump out of this fucking car,” you threatened, your hand hovering over the door handle. He sighed heavily, but begrudgingly pulled over to the side of the first deserted road.

You practically tumbled out of the Jeep and started walking, your pace bordering on a power walk. “Get back in the fucking car!” you heard him call out. You didn’t get far before he grabbed your wrist. A sharp hiss of pain escaped your lips, your skin already tender and bruised from Topper’s grip.

“What? What is it?” he asked, his hands held out in a placating gesture, like he was dealing with a feral animal.

“Nothing! Just leave me the fuck alone!” You huffed, whipping back around and breaking into a jog, but your tired legs were no match for his. He was suddenly in front of you, blocking your path.

“What the fuck is your problem? Huh?” he demanded, stepping right into your personal space.

“Rafe,” you spat, your voice low and trembling with anger and exhaustion, “I’m gonna be so fucking for real with you right now, I don’t have time for your bullshit!”

“Oh, so now I’m the bad guy?” he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, a sneer twisting his lips. “You’re the one who stood me up, disappeared without a word, and then show up here acting like the world owes you an apology!”

“Oh, okay, you wanna play this game? Fine! I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to our oh-so-important date, okay? I’m fucking sorry I have actual, real-life shit going on right now! I’m sorry if your pathetic little ego got bruised! There?! Happy now, you whiny little bitch?” you yelled, your voice raw with fury.

“You're unbelievable,” He shook his head, his eyes blazing with a mixture of pure rage and something that still flickered like hurt.

“That’s what I gathered from your emo tweets, princess.” 

“I don’t give a flying fuck that you stood me up! But you didn’t even have the decency to tell me what the hell was going on. You could’ve just said something. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t understand?”

“No offense, Rafe, but I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. Least of all an explanation. And also, if I’m such a waste of your time…. Why are you still here?” You hadn’t forgotten about his text messages you had read once you got your phone back.

“You had every opportunity to tell me – anything – you could have said ‘my hamster died,’ I wouldn’t have cared! Maybe just a ‘hey Rafe, not doing so well,’ would’ve sufficed!” He was being deliberately sarcastic now, planting his hands on his hips, his jaw tight.

“Right, yeah, I should’ve just shot you a ‘Oops stuck in rehab’ text. My fucking bad. You’re so goddamn entitled, it’s actually hilarious. I didn’t have my fucking phone, dipshit. They tend to frown upon contraband in those places.” You spat, trying to sidestep him, but he moved with you, blocking your every attempt to create space..

“You didn’t even have the basic decency to text me when you got back.”

“What the actual fuck is happening here? What the fuck is this interrogation? Why do you seem to think we’re some kind of… couple? I think you’re severely delusional—” Your words were abruptly cut off as his lips crashed down on yours.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, your brain momentarily short-circuiting. Rafe’s lips were hard and demanding against yours, a shocking violation that sent a jolt of something akin to pure rage through your veins. It lasted only a split second before you shoved him away with all your might, your hand connecting with his chest with a forceful thud.

“What the actual fuck?” you panted, running your fingers over your tingling lips. Okay, not gonna lie, that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Were you planning on kissing Rafe? Hell no. Were you still hung up on John B? God, yes. Did you desperately need a distraction from the swirling mess in your head? Fuck yes.

“Thought I’d shut you up for at least five seconds,” he smirked, a hint of his usual arrogance returning. Before he could say another word, you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape, and pulled him down. This time, you initiated the kiss, your lips crashing against his, a messy, desperate collision. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours, and his tongue slid into your mouth with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were so lost in the sudden intensity, the unexpected heat that flared between you, that you didn’t even realize he had backed you up against the cold metal of the car door, effectively pinning you.

He finally pulled away, his face a mixture of confusion and something that looked a lot like lust. You were so fucking confusing, your mood swinging from ice-cold bitch to scorching hot in a matter of seconds.

“Thought you were done with me?” You taunted him, a smirk playing on your lips as you remembered all the unanswered texts he’d left. “Thought you were done with me for good?”

“You make it so fucking hard,” he breathed, his hand now resting on your neck, his thumb lightly trailing over your swollen lips.

“Ever heard of self-control?” You smirked, catching his thumb between your teeth and gently sucking on it, swirling your tongue around the pad, coating it in your hot saliva.

Rafe closed his eyes, tipping his head back slightly, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “I need a trip to rehab too, you’re fucking driving me insane.”

You let his thumb slide out of your mouth with a satisfying pop, keeping direct eye contact with him. “Get in the fucking car. Now.” He didn’t ask, he ordered, and for some reason, you didn’t argue.

You were a mess – upset, tipsy, high as fuck, heartbroken over John B, and furious at pretty much everyone. But in that moment, all of that was drowned out by a burning, undeniable desire, a raging inferno between your legs. And the solution to that particular problem was sitting right next to you, his hand now gripping your bare thigh possessively as he peeled out of the roadside and sped back towards his place.

​​“You do this shit on purpose, don’t you?” He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, his knuckles bone-white, his jaw clenched so tight you could practically see the muscle twitching. His eyes, usually so vacant, were dark and intense as he briefly flicked his gaze towards you. “Showing up in a skirt that barely whispers hello to your ass, flashing half the damn beach doing a keg stand… you fucking crave attention. It’s almost pathetic how badly you want it.”

“Look at you, all hot and bothered right now,” you purred, shifting in your seat to angle your body more fully towards him, your gaze deliberately lingering on his clenched jaw. “Poor baby, all worked up.” You trailed a finger slowly up his taut bicep, feeling the immediate tension coil beneath your touch. “I don’t even have to try, and I’m living in your head, rent-free.” You leaned closer, your breath ghosting over his ear as you stroked a knuckle along his sharp jawline. “Must be exhausting, thinking about me day and night, but you’re barely a fleeting thought in my mind.” Liar.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to make you gasp, pulling your hand away from his face. “Then why are you here right now?” 

You shrugged, “Call it… sheer boredom.”

“Oh yeah?” A dark smirk played on his lips as he clicked his tongue. “Trust me, baby, you’re not gonna be bored after I’m done with you. I fucking promise you that.” His hand returned to your thigh, this time sliding higher, his fingers dipping under the hem of your skirt.

You gasped softly, a thrill shooting through you as his fingers pressed against the bare skin of your inner thigh, so close to the juncture that a faint heat bloomed between your legs.

He squeezed the flesh of your thigh impossibly tight, his pinkie brushing against the slick heat that had already gathered there. He almost swerved feeling your raw wetness, “Why the fuck do you have no panties on?” He demanded.

“I like to feel the breeze,” you said, your voice slightly breathless, your thighs involuntarily squeezing together around his invading hand. “It’s no-panties season, Rafe. You should try it sometime.”

Rafe ran every yellow light, the engine roaring as he sped towards his house. He didn’t even bother to offer to drop you home, and you sure as hell didn’t tell him to.

Was this an incredibly stupid idea? Most definitely. But you’d stopped giving a fuck about smart choices somewhere between your tenth therapy session and JJ’s detailed account of his neighbor’s alleged alien abduction. You just wanted to feel something good for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The only reason you’d ever resisted this particular temptation with Rafe before was because your brain had been so thoroughly occupied with John B. It had always been John B, a constant, nagging presence in your thoughts. But now… now you didn’t really give a fuck. 

*

The car screeched to a halt, tires spitting gravel, and Rafe was yanking your door open before the engine even died. “Jump,” he commanded, his voice rough, and you instinctively obeyed, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauled you out of the car. The sudden rush of cold air against your bare ass made you gasp; your skirt had ridden up to indecent heights.

His hands immediately found purchase on your backside, gripping and kneading the bare flesh, his thumbs digging in possessively as he tilted your head back and shoved his tongue down your throat. You didn’t draw a proper breath until you felt the soft give of a mattress beneath you, his weight momentarily shifting as he broke the frantic kiss.

Rafe had one knee wedged between your thighs, pressing insistently against your damp heat. He watched you, a predatory gleam in his eyes, watching the way your chest heaved, your breasts threatening to spill entirely from your bralette top. God, you were a mess, a beautiful, insatiable mess. He pressed his knee harder against you, and you bit your lip hard, stifling a moan that threatened to erupt.

“Got nothing to say now?” He teased, his hot breath ghosting over your face as he licked your jaw, his tongue leaving a slick trail across your skin before his lips began planting slow, deliberate kisses down your neck.

“Shut the fuck up,” you managed to gasp out, your hips instinctively grinding against his knee, a slick heat building with every friction.

“Seem a little desperate, don’t you?” His hand trailed down your body, his fingers ghosting over your sternum, dipping into your navel, before finally bunching your skirt up to your waist, not wasting another second. His fingers slid through your wet folds, expertly teasing your clit. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood, desperate to keep the whimpers trapped in your throat. “Yeah, you fucking like that, don’t you?” His fingers were at your entrance, prodding and teasing, and then his lips were back on yours, a smirk playing on his mouth as he tasted the copper from your bitten lip.

But now, with your lips moving against his, his index finger slipping inside you, a strangled moan finally escaped, his mouth swallowing the sound completely. Then a second finger joined the first, pumping at a relentless pace that had you gripping the bedsheets, your breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.

Rafe watched you writhe beneath him, a sheen of sweat slicking your forehead, your face flushed. He had you completely at his mercy, the incoherent sounds of pleasure bubbling up from your throat, he was in control now. “You close?” He didn’t really need an answer; he could feel the insistent clenching around his fingers, your face scrunched up in concentration, your eyes squeezed shut. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting how close you were, how his fingers had you teetering precariously on the edge.

And just when you were about to let go, a frustrated cry building in your chest, he abruptly pulled his fingers out, shoving them into your mouth. “Not yet, princess,” he murmured, making you taste yourself, lick his fingers clean of your slick juices. A frustrated whine escaped your throat around his fingers. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you glared at him, once he finally pulled his fingers from your mouth.

“Be patient, princess,” he smirked, patting your cheek lightly in a deliberately condescending manner. “I’ve got you.”

He stood up, stripping his clothes off in a haste that spoke volumes of his barely contained desire. Your moans, the way your mouth had greedily sucked on his fingers, had his cock throbbing with a primal urgency.

You were propped up on your elbows, watching him with this weird mix of ‘oh god, here we go’ and a slightly morbid curiosity as he gave his cock a few practice pumps. The head was all swollen and this startling shade of pink. It was… well, let’s just say it looked like it meant business. Your heart decided to stage a drum solo against your ribs, a frantic little beat of pure nerves. Holy shit, how the actual fuck is that supposed to fit inside you? You shoved that delightful thought down, right next to all the other anxieties you usually kept tucked away. You were so goddamn over being a virgin, tired of waiting for the right guy to come along. You just wanted to get it done, tick it off the life to-do list, right next to ‘learn to parallel park’ and ‘figure out what the hell a Roth IRA is.’ How hard could it really be? Every girl you’d ever semi-confided in about this whole virginity saga always said it only hurt for a hot minute, like a sharp little sting, and then BAM! Instant good times. 

And God, you desperately wanted some instant good times, even if it was just for a little while and with the resident Kook prince. He fumbled with the condom wrapper for a sec, looking like a total doofus, but eventually wrestled the little rubber raincoat on. Right then and there, you kind of wished you’d paid more attention in sex ed.

Rafe grabbed your ankles, pulling you roughly to the edge of the bed. You still had your bralette on, your skirt a tangled mess bunched around your waist. He didn’t bother with formalities, didn’t bother to undress you further. He was feral in his need, and honestly, a part of you was too.

He spread your legs wider, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Been wanting this for so fucking long,” he groaned, his voice thick with lust as he positioned himself between your thighs. The head of his cock slid through your slick folds, the tip brushing against your ridiculously sensitive clit, sending a jolt straight to your core. His grip on your hips was bruising.

“What you waiting for then?” You managed to get out through gritted teeth, the anticipation a sharp, almost painful ache. You were half-filled with a reckless excitement and half-terrified of the unknown. He was big, thicker than you’d imagined, and you had absolutely no clue what to expect sensation-wise. His prolonged teasing wasn’t exactly helping your nerves.

“So fucking impatient,” he hissed, kissing his teeth as he lined himself up at your entrance. “Need to fuck that bratty attitude right out of you,” he spat down at your opening, smearing it with his tip, a crude attempt at extra lubrication that did little to soothe your growing fear.

“I swear to you, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m fucking leaving—“ The threat died in your throat, your breath hitched as you felt him push inside. It was met with immediate, searing resistance. A sharp whimper escaped you, the stretching sensation intense as his thick mushroom tip tried to wedge its way past your tight walls. Your muscles clenched reflexively, your body screaming in protest, trying to physically force him out, “—fuck.”

“Fucking relax— you’re squeezing so fucking hard,” he grunted, pushing in a fraction more. The pain was sharp, like being torn apart. Tears burned in your eyes, and you squeezed them shut, but they still escaped, hot and wet against your temples. “Fuck— you good?” Rafe hovered over you, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“It fucking hurts,” you whimpered, your voice small and shaky as he finally bottomed out, the sensation of being completely full almost unbearable. “Ow fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was so deep inside you, you could practically feel him pressing against your stomach.

“Just relax, you’re so tense,” he murmured, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. “Relax for me, princess.” He stayed still for a moment, letting your body try to accommodate his size, his impressive girth. It felt less like pleasure and more like a goddamn baseball bat was currently trying to tear you in two. “Hey, open your eyes.” He demanded softly, and your eyelids fluttered open, your blurry vision focusing on his face looking down at you, his expression holding a strained restraint as he fought the urge to fuck you dumb.

“Just move— fuck—“ Maybe if he pulled out, you wouldn’t feel so stretched, so full. Maybe if you got a moment of relief, it wouldn’t feel so… “FUCK!” You yelped as he pulled out almost completely and then thrust back inside, the force sending another wave of searing pain through you.

“What? What? What’s wrong?” He stilled inside you again, his arms braced on either side of your head. “Just relax, you a virgin or some shit?”

“So fucking what if I am? It’s not your fucking business,” you snapped, even through the throbbing pain, your default defense mechanism kicking in.

“What the fuck?” He sat back on his knees, pulling out of you completely, making you hiss at the sudden movement. He looked down at the sheets, a prominent red stain blooming on the white cotton. The condom he’d used was stained a worrying shade of pink, and a few droplets of crimson were still trailing down your inner thighs. “You’re a fucking virgin?” He stood back up, tossing the condom into the overflowing trash can and pulling on his discarded boxers. “Don’t you think that’s something worth mentioning?” His voice was tight with a mixture of shock and a definite hint of panic.

“The fuck is your problem?” You sat up on the bed, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar rawness between your legs. You awkwardly adjusted your skirt back down over your hips, feeling exposed. One minute Rafe was inside you, all heat and urgency, and the next he was pacing around his room like a caged animal. “If this is about the sheets, I’ll fucking clean them for you, you uptight prick.” You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to project an air of nonchalance that you definitely weren't feeling. He was being kinda melodramatic right now.

“You’re. A. Fucking. Virgin,” he said slowly, his voice laced with disbelief and something that sounded a lot like regret as he squatted down in front of you, his gaze intense.

“You don’t have to sound so disgusted,” you snapped, a defensive prickle rising up your spine.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me that?” He pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Why the fuck does it matter?” You retorted, avoiding his gaze. “How does it affect you?”

“It fucking matters because that shouldn’t have been your first time!” He exclaimed, his voice rising with genuine frustration, a look of self-disgust flashing across his face. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall, or maybe himself.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting fucking candles and rose petals from you, Rafe,” you shrugged, trying to play it cool, even though a small, wounded part of you was screaming. “This is just a hook-up, right? That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“No. It’s not. That’s not how your first time is supposed to be… fucking hell, you’re so fucking annoying sometimes,” he muttered, running a hand roughly through his hair.

“HEY! If me being a virgin is such a fucking inconvenience, I’ll fucking leave,” you shot back, jumping to your feet. You managed to take a few wobbly steps before he was spinning you back around, his grip surprisingly gentle this time.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his eyes pleading.

“No, I heard you loud and clear, fuck you—”

“No, hold up,” he cut in, his voice suddenly softer, almost… bummed out? It was weird. “Listen, I’m actually kinda feeling like a dick right now, not gonna lie. God, I would’ve totally done that whole thing differently. Like, way differently. That was a total shit show, my bad. I would’ve, you know, been gentler and stuff. Maybe even, like, actually kissed you properly, all over. Fuck sake, you’re making me sound like a total tool, and yeah, maybe I am one right now.” He took a deep breath, his gaze losing some of that hard edge. ““That’s why you should’ve told me, so I could’ve… I could’ve made it special for you. I don’t give a fuck if you’re a virgin. I just… I wish it hadn’t been like that for you.”

“Dude, it’s fine, you’re not my boyfriend. Doesn’t matter,” you said, trying to play it cool with a sarcastic little punch to his shoulder, shifting awkwardly on your feet. Okay, maybe it mattered a little. Scratch that, it mattered a lot. “Now that we’ve had the super fun virginity reveal, uh, can you maybe drop me home?”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Fuck,” Rafe muttered, taking a step closer. When you didn’t bolt or even flinch, he took another, placing his hands gently on your hips. He backed you up slowly until the backs of your knees bumped against the edge of the bed. “Let me… let me make you feel good, first. For real good. Then I’ll drop you wherever the hell you want.”

“Yeah?” You ran your fingers through his short, spiky hair, the texture surprisingly soft.

“Mhmm,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your forehead with a tenderness that made your stomach flip. “Let me spoil you, princess.” He kissed you again, and the urgency from before was completely gone, replaced by a slow, sweet tenderness that melted some of the tension in your shoulders. Your fingertips traced up his chest, drawing him closer until there was barely any space left between you.

He left a trail of soft kisses down your jawline, his lips lingering at the hollow of your throat before moving lower, towards your cleavage. Your lacy bralette shielded your breasts, your nipples already hard and poking against the fabric.

“I’m taking this shit off,” he grunted softly, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp before pulling the straps down, revealing your bare skin.

“So fucking perfect,” he breathed, his eyes dark as he admired your exposed breasts. The cool air was instantly replaced by the wet warmth of his mouth as he latched onto your nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, his hand cupping your other breast, squeezing it gently. He swapped over, his kisses sloppy and adoring as he pushed your breast deeper into his mouth, savoring every inch of your skin.

It felt like a do-over, a second chance. Not one you’d asked for, but one that Rafe seemed determined to give you, like you deserved it. Before, he’d been so caught up in his own head, his own needs overpowering everything else. He’d been so consumed by the fact that he finally had you in his bed, a fantasy he’d chased for way too long, that he’d rushed it, been too rough. He’d seen the tough exterior, the way you acted like nothing fazed you. But beneath the sharp thorns underneath all that sharp-tongued, don't-mess-with-me attitude, he now  sensed a delicate bloom, untouched and sweet. And now, a newfound reverence stirred within him. He yearned to linger, to inhale the intoxicating scent of your vulnerability, to coax your petals open with exquisite care, until you unfurled completely beneath his touch.

“Rafe,” you gasped softly as he bit and nipped at your scorching skin, sending shivers down your spine. His free hand moved down from your hip, his fingers gently caressing your inner thigh.

“Hmmm?” He finally unlatched from your breast, his gaze now softer, more focused on you. He sat up on his knees, his hands hovering near the hem of your skirt before slowly, deliberately pulling it down your legs. “This okay?”

“You just had your dick inside me ten minutes ago, and now you’re asking if taking my skirt off is okay?” you said, a hint of your usual sass returning, though your voice was still a little breathless.

“If you didn’t have such a sharp mouth, you’d be so much fucking hotter,” he grumbled, but there was a playful glint in his eyes as he finally took off his shirt and tossed it carelessly to the side.

You instinctively snapped your legs closed, giving him an unimpressed look. “Sorry,” he smirked, gently forcing your legs apart again. Lying completely nude in front of him felt surprisingly intimate, the way his hungry eyes were taking you in. He leaned down, leaving a trail of kisses down your sternum, his lips tickling your navel, making you squirm.

“Gotta taste you, yeah?” He looked up at you, his eyes full of a raw desire that made your breath catch. You gave him a shaky nod, and he followed the path of his kisses lower, towards your mound.

He took his time, his gaze reverent as he admired your body. Drool glistened on his lower lip at the sight of your swollen vulva, your labia glistening with the sticky residue of your arousal, your tight little entrance aching to be filled. Damn, you were pretty. Pretty, pretty pussy, and all his… well, soon to be his again.

He pushed his face into your heat, the softness of your inner lips sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. He stroked his flattened tongue up and down your folds, groaning loudly when you instinctively pushed at his head, a pathetic attempt to regain some control. Rafe gently but firmly kept your thighs apart, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he continued to lavish attention on your most sensitive spot, taking his time to savor the taste, the smell, the sound of your wetness splashing against his tongue. His groans mingled with yours, the vibrations adding another layer of delicious torment. He sucked gently on your lips, humming against them before releasing you with a soft pop and then gently swishing his tongue around your tight little hole.

His tongue then lapped languidly over your pulsating clit, with absolutely no intention of rushing your pleasure. Tasting you, making you writhe beneath him, hearing his name fall from your lips in an anguished cry of need was all the reward he needed for his exceptional willpower in not just bending you over and taking you again.

He used his nose to bump teasingly against your clit while stretching your opening with his hot, wet tongue, sending a wave of sensation that made your eyes cross. You squirmed beneath his hold, a whimper escaping your lips, all semblance of control lost. You could only cling to his hair, your thighs trembling as you endured his loud, wet slurping and the intoxicating vibrations that accompanied his low growls. Your desperate cries turned into breathless gasps as he ate you harder, your grip on his hair tightening as more moans bubbled up from your chest, slowly melting into the overwhelming stimulation, teetering on the very brink of release.

“Rafe, please,” you gasped, your head falling back against the soft pillows, your mouth hanging open as trickles of pleasure slowly seeped from your core, and Rafe happily licked them up.

“Can’t wait to make this pussy mine,” he breathed against your slick skin, planting one last, lingering kiss on your swollen clit, panting heavily from having spent a continuous, uninterrupted half-hour between your legs. It was a pleasure unlike any you had ever experienced; your thighs were still trembling with aftershocks, a light sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead and neck, which he was now licking off as he moved back up to your lips, planting a firm kiss, making you taste yourself.

*

Despite your attempts to pry his boxers off, Rafe restrained your hands telling you "not tonight". You didnt fight him too hard because your body was exhausted. After a quick shower with him, you were wrapped in a soft cotton shower gown and back in his bed. He’d followed you in, only pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and now he was wrapping his arms around you from behind, his chest pressing against your back under the covers.

“Stay,” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. “Just for a little longer.”

You didn’t immediately pull away, “I should probably get going,” you said, though the words lacked any real conviction.

“Come on,” he tightened his grip slightly. “It’s late. Just… stay the night. We can order takeout, watch some stupid movie.”

“And then what?”

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing against your ear. “Then… we can figure that out in the morning.” He paused, his tone becoming more serious. “I missed you, you know.”

You scoffed softly, though a small part of you felt a strange warmth at his admission. “Yeah, right.”

“No, seriously,” he insisted, his chin resting on your shoulder. “It was… weird without you around. Even with all the yelling and the drama.”

For some reason, with him, it felt different. With your friends, you’d plastered on a fake smile, told them it was ‘challenging but ultimately transformative,’ spewed all the therapy buzzwords you’d been forced to learn. But with Rafe… maybe it was because you’d genuinely thought he couldn’t care less, that you were just a fleeting annoyance in his life. Maybe it was the anonymity of his perceived indifference that made it easier. Whatever the reason, the carefully constructed wall you’d built around your rehab experience felt like it was starting to crumble.

“It was… awful,” you admitted, the words feeling surprisingly easy to say out loud to him.

“Awful how?”

“Just… everything,” you sighed, a wave of the remembered misery washing over you. “The forced group therapy where everyone shared their ‘feelings flowers’ and talked about their ‘inner child.’ The mindfulness exercises that just made my anxiety worse. The daily affirmations that felt like I was lying to myself twenty times a day. It was like… my own personal version of hell.” You paused, then added with a dark chuckle, “I genuinely think I would have preferred a lobotomy.”

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his arms still wrapped around you. Then he squeezed you gently. “Sounds pretty rough.”

“Rough is an understatement,” you said, a bitter laugh escaping you. “It was torture. Being forced to talk about myself, to dissect every single messed-up thing in my head with a bunch of strangers and some overly enthusiastic therapist who kept telling me to ‘embrace the journey.’ I just wanted to punch someone.”

“So you didn’t, though?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Tempted,” you admitted. “Very, very tempted. But surprisingly, I managed to restrain myself. Mostly.”

“Well, I’m glad you're back.”

“I'm not.”

He frowned slightly, his thumb gently stroking your arm. “Why?”

You sighed, the weight of the past six weeks suddenly pressing down on you again. “Honestly? Not really. It’s… complicated.” You hesitated, then decided to just lay it out there. You were so physically tired of the charade. “I’m staying with my aunt right now. Things with my mom… they’re not great.”

He didn’t pry, just nodded slowly, his eyes full of a surprising amount of understanding.

You continued, the words tumbling out now, a dam finally breaking. “God, I’m so sick of pretending everything’s fine.....” You trailed off, the raw honesty feeling both terrifying and liberating.

Rafe listened intently. He reached out and gently stroked your arm. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice low and sincere. “If you ever… if you ever need somewhere to crash, you can always come here. Seriously. I’ve got the spare rooms, plenty of food. I’ll even… I’ll even try not to be a complete asshole.” He nuzzled his nose in the crook of your neck.

Yeah, right. Rafe offering you a safe haven? That’s about as likely as pigs flying over the Outer Banks. You brushed off his words as some kind of weird post intimacy dream. There was no way he was that nice, no way he actually cared.

The exhaustion from the emotional rollercoaster of the day, finally caught up with you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and the warmth of Rafe’s body next to yours was surprisingly comforting. 

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[mediumgayitalian]

Hazel thinks she hates New York.

It’s not Camp Half-Blood. She likes Camp Half-Blood, actually, likes the sweet-smelling strawberry fields, the rolling waves in the distance, the way every colour, every conversation or moment, just seems more. Louder, livelier. It’s only been a couple days but she’s fond of the place, even though the people are odd and the customs odder (seriously — who came up with the curfew harpies? Hazel is no stranger to demigod structural violence, but a group of demonic bird ladies let loose at a random time of “after the sun sets, usually” to kill and devour children and teens is a new level of weird even for her. Percy assures her that the harpy murder is alleged, as he has spent several summers in camp and has not seen it happen, but he is also an amnesiac and an enabler so what does he know).

It’s the stars, she thinks.

New York doesn’t seem to have any.

It was a shock when she was first brought back. How dim the night sky had become, how devoid, bereft. Uranus’ dome now pales in comparison to the dazzling Alaskan skies decades ago, even in New Rome, huddled away from California’s worst light pollution. Even in the middle of the Pacific, in quiet midnights aboard the Argo II, the sky seemed lonelier. She’s gotten used to it, for the most part, the tar-coloured skies, but New York is like the inkwells on the desk she shared with Sammy. They spilled them, constantly, clumsy hands taking the slap of the ruler in exchange for tapping fingers and quiet giggles, and the dark-stained woodgrain is a perfect amalgamation of the skies she watches now; stifling over the screened tent roof, silent as a packed grave. Unsettling.

She should be sleeping. Gwen’s snores beside her are familiar, and the ground is solid. A welcome reprieve from the months she’s spent at sea. But despite the exhaustion twisting in her limbs and bagging under her eyes, she cannot convince herself to drift. Her eyes remain stubbornly open, locked in with the stillborn sky, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Even the moon is dull.

Finally she can take it no longer. Careful not to wake her friend, she creeps out of her sleeping bag, wiggling out over the course of several minutes to avoid the loud rip of the zipper, The tent’s door she can’t muffle, so she opens it as quickly as possible, somersaulting out and zipping it shut behind her in under ten seconds. She holds her breath, hands braced on the taut plastic, straining to hear a shift, a sniffle, a snort of disruption, but there’s nothing. Gwen remains blissfully unconscious, snores steady and even. Good.

Sword firmly in her hands, watching warily for demonic chicken ladies (who are nowhere as sweet or cool as Ella, awful cousins are universal among species it seems) or whatever other horrible ‘features’ Camp Half-Blood forgot to mention to them, she picks her way out of the Roman encampment, through the strawberry fields, and towards the main.

It’s around three in the morning, she’s pretty sure. She can’t be certain, because she cannot see the sky, but she’s always had a knack for navigating the dark. Nico can, too. Perks of being an Underworld child, she supposes.

Hopefully Nico is asleep. (She replaced his cabin door with a solid brick of obsidian to force him to sleep, yesterday, so he better be, but he’s a slippery little brat and she does not doubt his ability to squeeze through the air vents she left for him, or something. His hair was probably greasy enough to slide him right through. He better have showered, or she is going to smack him. Hard.) If he isn’t, though, she wouldn’t mind his company. She is in the mood to complain about the modern world. And if he is, maybe she’ll go wake up Percy. Or wander around until the sun rises. Who knows.

She notices, as she wanders along the edge of the wonky cabin-omega, movement coming from the Big House. Most of the windows are dark, but the bottom floor on the left — the infirmary, she thinks — is dimly lit, conscientious of the late hour, and there is definitely someone moving around. She pauses, watching for a moment, and — yep. A blond boy, every couple of minutes, rushes past a window, stethoscope bouncing off his chest, new thing in his hands with every trip.

He seems harried.

Without much thought, Hazel pushes through the rickety screen door.

At first, he doesn’t seem to notice. Hazel is camouflaged, slightly, but the shadows, her black bonnet and dark sleep clothes blending in with the many shadows cast by shelves of equipment and gently swaying privacy curtains. The boy is busy, flitting from cot to cot, scribbling on charts and tripping over chords. He moves so quickly he is blurry, hard to focus on. It takes him almost a minute to stop, freezing in the dead centre of the overcrowded infirmary, and turn to face Hazel. He is tired, she notices. His eyes are darker than the bruises under them; glassy like black labradorite, and widen as they notice her.

“Oh my gods, you’re — you’re Hazel Levesque! Holy moly.”

“Hi,” she says, smiling slightly. “You look busy for this time of night.”

The boy waves a hand, returning to his fluttering — a little slower, this time, though. Less frantic.

“Oh, yes, well. Lots of things to do. Julia’s collarbone was totally shattered, have to keep monitoring that, and there’s a group who got drop kicked into a broken onager, their recovery concerns me, and we’re rationing nectar again, and I swear I’m always running out of bandages, and I keep getting that niggling feeling, you know, when — you’re forgetting something? Important? But of course you have no idea what, and — I’m sorry.” The boy twitches, freezing midway through changing an empty saline bag, glancing back over at her. “Oh my gods, are you injured? Fuck, of course you are, it’s the middle of the night and you’re here, obviously —”

“Wait, I'm completely —”

“Oh, no, you’re fine.” He sighs, a full bodied thing, and turns his attention back to the chart in his hands. “You’ve got an old riding injury ‘round your left patella, though. You should get that checked out.”

Hazel blinks.

She…does have an old knee injury.

It was a riding accident, when she was nine. She doesn’t remember much, only flying, warm wind kissing along her face, bubbling out of her lungs as she laughed and whooped and forgot who she was, what she was, forgot the stones popping up behind her. They couldn’t catch her anyways. And she remembers falling, wind at her back, instead, and she remembers Sammy’s face, and the panic that clouded it, and her mother’s shouting. She remembers cold marble and an oil-slick voice and cool hands on her forehead. 

She blinks, shaking her head slightly. The blond boy has moved past her, now, pacing up and down the rickety cots, trailing his long fingers over bandaged foreheads and crooked elbows. His mouth moves softly and silently, hands glowing along, shoulder sagging, slightly, with every person he visits.

“You’re exhausted,” she observes. 

The boy smiles slightly, finishing a whispered hymn before turning her way. “Who isn’t?” His fingers twitch, in absence of a task, and start picking at the bandage around his wrist, wrapping, unwrapping, wrapping, unwrapping. “Is your knee bothering you? Unhealed injuries last longer for demigods. Especially after battle. Something about unsettled scores, I don’t know. The concept pisses me off so I refuse to entertain it on principle, but I can ease the pain if you like.”

Her knee does twinge, actually. It’s a damp kind of ache, like a headache in a rainstorm, but it's old and familiar, and hardly even registers. It smarts far less than her heart, anyway. 

Gaea’s gone. 

So is Leo.

Leo is gone.

She swallows. “I’m okay. I’m used to it.”

“Three years ago, a man named Michael Moylon went to the ER for a ‘headache’ he’d been ignoring. Turns out he was shot in the head but was used to the pain, so he didn’t bother.” The boy stands starighter, scolding hands on his hips. Hazel stares at him. “So.” He pats a padded bench with a papery cover over the seat. “Let me take a look.”

…Camp Half-Blood will always be, Hazel thinks, a strange, strange place, with strange, strange people. It’s hard to believe she once thought the Apollo-descendants of Camp Jupiter oddities; it’s hard to believe she once found anyone odd. Even outside of Camp Half-Blood. 

Gods, child-eating harpies. She really can’t get over it.

The medic wastes no time. The second she forces her feet to move, settling in on the cot, he is in action, tapping her pant leg gently so she rolls it up – which she does, flushing red and pretending not to see his bit-back smile – and prodding gently at the area, humming to himself. 

“Jeez,” he murmurs, pushing the tip of her kneecap with his thumb until she winces. “You shattered the whole bone!”

“There is no way you could possibly know that,” she argues. “I broke it – gods, I broke it ninety years ago, almost. And it healed.”

“It healed ish,” the medic corrects. “By ish I mean maybe someone tied a bandage on it and you were on crutches for a week.”

Hazel has seen a grand many things, even for a demigod. She has faced Titans. She has faced Giants. She has won, in all of these fights, she has held fallen comrades, she has wept for them, she has wept for decades, cursing and loving her mother in equal measure. She has stood her ground in front of six of the most powerful demigods to ever walk the Earth and defended her brother. She has faced off her own Father, even, and the broken power behind his eyes. She has bent the Mist to her will. She has bent the Earth to her will. It is not cocky to say she is strong, it is not arrogant to claim she has seen all there is to have seen. 

Still, the small pop of her gaping mouth echoes in the quiet, midnight infirmary, and the boy smiles, sideways and crooked, and shoots her a wink. 

“I could tell you how often someone two hundred thousand years ago ate shellfish by looking at a fossilized tooth. Believe me, I know what a shattered patella looks like.”

Modern medicine is a wild thing. Hazel has found that a lot of her friends in modern times have no idea how good they have it, and how wildly medicinal science has progressed in the last century. Aside from machinery and accurate devices, the pure knowledge that is widely available is mind-blowing. Hazel still remembers the looks she got when recommending calomel to a stressed out mother of a colicky baby in a cafe – it’s not like she knew mercury was poisonous. She remembers dosing out her mother’s calomel solutions for her deepest depressions. 

Still. There is a difference between modern medicine and near-divining her past with the barest touch of a bone through layers of skin and fat and muscle. 

The boy hovers wide, scarred hands over her knees, waiting for her nod. As he rests his palm on her skin she sighs, quick and startled like the quick collapse of a carnival tent; the bright, clear heat of his hands sinks into the pores of her skin and settles deep inside her brittle bones, warming a cold she hadn’t realised she’d been harboring. He begins to sing, under his breath, first, but slowly swelling with the night breeze through the open windows, swirling around the climbing plants hanging from the ceiling and weaving through the stone fountain in the room’s corner, pulling her lingering pain away with it. Hazel watches, wide-eyed, as the shadows take shape, chasing the song, of a horse, red-eyed and panicked, and a small little wisp of a thing, weak and limp. With every lilting note, the shadows get softer, and softer, and softer, until they wash away in the fountain’s stream. 

In the silence there is the warmth of the medic’s hand still on her knee. In the silence there is that same warmth, liquid, slowly pushing its way through her veins and blood, settling curled and tired in the marrow of her bones. In the silence there is, for the first time in nearly a century, a stillness, a total lack of the low, pulsating, ice-cold pain that has been quietly pushing from her knee for longer than it hasn’t. 

“Can everybody do that here?” she asks, finally, breathlessly. “Or just you?” 

Hazel makes no habit of the infirmary in Camp Jupiter, but biannual check-ups are mandatory and she is not immune to injury. Still. This is a relief unlike she has ever felt. 

The waves his hand, pulling back, and grins. “I take it you feel better?”

She answers honestly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt better in my life.”

There is an ache, still, home in the dead centre of her chest, a lump still growing in the back of her through, and should she think too long, her eyes sting. But Leo is not…Leo is missing. And he is troublesome, like his great-grandfather, and slippery, and she has more faith in her friend than in Death. The ache is not overwhelming. The ache is tinged with something spiked and fiery, fueled by the genuine strength she feels in her body for perhaps the first time in my life. 

“Good.”

The medic twitches, slightly, as if he were about to reach out but thought better of it. He nods, instead, smiling, and walks back off to the end of the cots, where a monitor is beeping softly. This time, Hazel follows him, sliding off the bench and peeling the crinkling paper off her backside, stepping nimbly over taped-down cords and kicked-off blankets. She stands behind him, on her tiptoes, straining over his (too tall. People should stop growing after five-ten, she believes, except Frank who is an exception because he is cute) shoulders to watch what he is doing. He explains, around another muffled smile, each number and symbol, pointing to the freshly bandaged chest of the patient and muttering about reckless, thought-averse fools and internal bleeding isn’t real, nyeh nyeh nyeh and when I finally go insane and quit, they will have to beg for six business years to get me back I mean it. 

“Are the other medics this…” Hm. Unprofessional is probably not the word to use, here. “...Spirited?”

The boy raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. Hazel flushes. 

“The other medics are eleven and thirteen,” he says dryly. “And Kayla is currently over there –” he points to a snoring girl with dyed-green hair, who is bandaged in six different places and is sleeping upside down – “because she makes bad choices and has been demoted to assistant until I’m less mad at her, so.” He shrugs. “Spirited is what y’all get.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” she tries. The boy just snorts. 

“Y’r’gonna havta try a whole heap harder to offend me, that’s for damn certain,” he assures. “If I was really gonna quit, I woulda done it two years ago when they slapped the head honcho badge on my shoulder and told me to get crackin’.”

Hazel stills. Demigod life is a – wild thing, she knows, and most have not lived as long as she has, ageing like amber in the depths of the Underworld while the world stretches on ahead. Percy’s face when he realized demigods could live longer than eighteen still haunts her nightmares. Camp Half-Blood is a loud, lively place, that burns brightly over its layers of ashes and yells over the sound of weeping ghosts left behind. That much she can gather. It should not be strange to her for an eleven-year-old medic, or an army of teenagers. Her own camp is guarded by an eight-year-old. 

But this boy still has stubborn baby fat clinging to his cheeks, for all his height. He cannot be more than fourteen. Fifteen, if she stretches. 

The youngest head medics at Camp Jupiter are twenty-two. Regardless of demigod life, skills take time to learn, and stomachs and hearts take years to turn to stone. 

“I’m – sorry,” the boy says, voice crackling like burning pyres. “I’m –” he forces a smile, a quick, strained thing – “I am, uh, spirited. Unprofessional. I haven’t slept in several days and I’m – uh, I don’t like working Austin too hard. He’s still learning, and he doesn’t like healing much, anyway.” He busies himself quickly with the patient he pointed out earlier – Kayla, the thirteen-year-old medic. It is quickly apparent that there is nothing to be done for her, and he stands there, back turned to Hazel, scarred hands twitching above her forehead until they settle, finally, featherlight, like he’s scared a touch will wake her. Like he’s scared a touch will hurt her. 

His shoulders shake, slightly. It’s too dark for anyone else to see the twin droplets, splattering on the corner of her cot. 

Hazel’s chest smarts something awful. 

“Where are the other medics?” 

She knows there are none before he answers. He must know that she knows, judging the careful steadiness of her voice, the fleeting touch of her finger on his clenched fist. She pulls back when his hands begin to shake, worse than before, and his finger worms under the bandages on his wrist, pulling and twisting, twisting, twisting. He stands close to Kayla, still. Hovering, careful. His lips part, and Hazel holds her breath. 

“There were more of us,” he begins, hushed. His dark eyes track Kayla’s snoring. “I was the thirteenth. They were –” He looks up, suddenly, looks over, and the look in his eyes is like cracking ice, like a glacier that has stood for thousands of years breaking finally into the arctic sea and falling under its own weight to the sandy floor. Like the fractured flash of sky between lightning, like the azure glass shards of a Christmas ornament refracting back the twinkling candlelight. “It was so loud in here, once.”

Hazel tries to reconcile that, in her head. This boy standing at the edge of his younger sister’s hospital bed, his younger brother tucked safely away, awake for maybe the fourth or fifth day in a row. I was the thirteenth. 

Hazel knows a little something about unlucky number thirteen. 

“War?” she asks, quietly, remembering something Jason had told her, on guard on the Argo, about a Titan’s battle on two sides of the country. About an army of snake-monsters for them, and something on the other end. Something worse. 

“Slaughtered,” the medic says hoarsely. Another tear traces the path of the first, low light flashing off the sheen of it. “First the – first my sisters, the oldest, then my brother, then – all of them, at once, at the same –” He chokes, on something, on the truth of it or the pain of it or both. Something bubbles in Hazel’s chest, thick and oily, something like horror and pain and hatred; a pit of the same tar that killed her the first time bubbling through her veins and burning the back of her throat. Twelve children. Her throat dries.

“All of them?”

“Every last fucking one,” says the boy, and the pain swells from him so thickly and ardently Hazel is half-sure each ghost is standing behind her, boring into his gaze. “Every last one. I watched them.”

Hazel watched. She held her eyes open for as long as she could when the tar swallowed them, when Gaea dragged them down. Her mother’s kiss burned hotter on her forehead than the boil of the earth exploding around them, and the shine of Marie Levesque’s guilty tears glittered brighter than the diamonds popping like falling stars everywhere Hazel touched. She held her eyes open until the heat dried them blind. She watched, as long as she could, her prodigal mother sink, her beautiful, broken mother die. She had thought she would feel something worse, something like satisfaction. Vindication. Nico told her they hold grudges. She had known it about herself before then. But the pain of her body ripping from her soul was secondary to the pain of realizing, to the pain of finally understanding that her mother suffered, too. Pluto’s wanting had cost them both, and Marie had only barely been able to apologize. She had never been able to make amends. And now she walked, like all souls do, along the beaten paths of Asphodel, reduced to her guilt, to her anger, to her wanting. 

Hazel sits heavily on the one remaining cot. After a moment, the boy joins her. 

“I don’t think it’s worth it,” he admits, quietly. He meets her eyes when she faces him, blue-black in the candlelight. “All – this.”

She follows his gesturing hands. To the bandaged girl, Kayla, to the bloodied, to the sheets pulled over small faces. To the brothers and sisters slumped exhausted by bedsights, tear tracks dried on young faces. To the faded pictures rubbed worn with mourning, gentle fingers. 

They have never been thanked by the gods. 

She’s not sure it would be worth it, either.

“There’s nothing that will bring them back.”

It’s not consolation. It doesn’t sound like it, either; to her own ears it sounds defeated. Agreeing. 

“Do you think they’d even want to be back?”

“Probably not.” She swallows, thinking of Leo. Is he relieved? He’d insisted on being the sacrifice. She hadn’t fought him. She couldn’t blame him for wanting. “I wouldn’t.”

They sit in the non-silence. The medic pulls the bandages on his wrists until they are bruising; Hazel’s fingernails, unbidden, reach up to her lips, pick, pick, picking until salted iron dribbles down her chin, onto her pajama shirt. In the heavy stillness of the twilight there are people coughing, and snoring, and worse, moaning, groaning. Crying. Calling out for their mothers, for their sisters. Birds wail outside the open windows. Cicadas weep. Dryads murmur amongst themselves, sap dripping out of them in swathes.

“I know you’re a big-shot Prophecy of the Seven kid,” says the medic, smiling wryly at her. He sniffles, swiping a hand over his face; as the first rays of sunlight begin to stream in Hazel realizes he is spattered with a night sky’s worth of freckles. “But, uh. If you’re not busy, I could use a hand today. Every day, really. Whenever you’re free.” He exhales. "Sometimes it makes it a little bit worth it."

There is a veritable library’s worth of to-do lists for Hazel to work through tomorrow. Today. She’s a high enough rank that her presence and her direction will be missed. 

Regardless, she smiles back. 

“Yeah.” She reaches for his hand, and he releases his bandages, holding their palms together. “Yeah, I’ll hang out in here today.”

[yanoverload]

𝕐𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖! ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖

Th...The finest hu.....nhooman... in all of... in all of creat...creation...

As a literature girlie I had to do it ok.

….ℌ𝔲𝔤𝔬…? ??? 𝔶𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰? 𝔡𝔞𝔶𝔰? 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰? 𝔬𝔩𝔡 206 𝔠𝔪 (𝔬𝔯 6’7 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔱)

🥩 Being a butcher in Victorian times wasn't easy.

🥩 If you didn't hunt yourself, you would have to pay someone to do so.

🥩 Also showers don't exist, so any stains? Good luck!

🥩 How important it was though, that such people like you, knew how to store and cut the best pieces to display. 

🥩 Business wasn't doing stellar, however. 

🥩 Gang members started to raid the shops and demand tribute, "keeping the roads safe of robbers" they said.

🥩 More like a code to "give me money or I'll destroy your store."

🥩 No luck with cops either, they were always bribed to keep their mouths shut.

🥩 The common villagers started having money problems, those with lower income stopped buying at your butchery.

🥩 Those slobs were going to come try and snag more money this end of the month and you didn't have the money for it. 

🥩 Even though you didn't pray, someone high up must have heard yout woes.

🥩 Apparently the duke that took care of the state you lived was going to do a ball, and balls need food.

🥩 The dukedom asked for your best cuts. 

🥩 Not only that, but one day as you were rushing to pick said pieces for the party, a noble appeared in the shop.

🥩 You don't remember his name very well, but have seen high end academies praising his intellect.

🥩 Count Nornstein? No... Something with a F maybe. You are not deep into politics.

🥩 What you saw in your shop was instead a very frazzled, sleep deprived man that probably hasn't seen the sun in weeks.

🥩 Of course, you treated him with the utmost respect, no need to get in trouble with the bobbies. 

🥩 "I need some meat, and a pig's heart" he stated "the freshest you can give me. Name whatever price, it won't matter, I'll pay it."

🥩 More money quickly? Lady luck has blessed you. You rushed to give him what he wanted and he left.

🥩 Next day was when chaos began. It was a Thursday night, you were getting ready to separate the pieces the duke servant's would pick up in the morning

🥩 When you discover the inventory missing.

🥩 No no.... They weren't missing, you accidentally gave them to the noble, the count! Yes you remember now, this is a nightmare!

🥩 You don't want to imagine what could happen if you fail the duke, or even more, failed to pay the "rent".

🥩 With no other option, you tread towards the count's mansion. 

🥩 Maybe you could seduce a guard to let you in the kitchen? Tell them the meat was a spoiled one and you need to change it immediately?

🥩 Gasping for air you reach the mansion at the end of town, only to find it.... Empty. Maybe it's late and everyone is asleep already?

🥩 No time to think about the logistics or criminality, you find yourself soon jumping over the fence and peeking around the estate.

🥩 There is a trapdoor near the garden, almost at the forest that closes around the county.

🥩 Some smoke seems to emerge from it. It must be the kitchen! Or the storage room!

🥩 Surprisingly, it has no locks. 

🥩 Opening it, you find not a kitchen, nor a storage, but a study, how annoying.

🥩 A sound emerges from the darkness, a silhouette soon being shadowed by loads of books. 

🥩 You see one sole amber eye, watching you.

🥩 And you run. 

🥩 Shaky legs barely got you inside the foliage of the forest and you let out a sound that seemed like a cough, but could reminisce a sob.

🥩 "I can't hunt. How am I supposed to get quality deer meat in a few hours?"

🥩 Then a rustle. Some cracks. You see a deer, with it's beady eyes looking at your soul.

🥩 A hand grasps it at it’s neck, a wail leaves it for a millisecond, before...

CRACK!

🥩 It's neck is broken.

🥩 That same amber eye appears from the dark, a huge man holding the deer as if it was a small rabbit.

🥩 Time to accept death, you wonder briefly, before he.... Offers it to you?

🥩 ".....?" The man... Creature? Tilts his head to the side, and shakes the corpse of the poor deer towards you as if it's an obvious gesture.

🥩 Not wanting to anger him, you try to hoist the deer on your shoulders. It's heavy as hell. 

🥩 You look at the man again. His hands are bigger than your head.

🥩 He blinks. Then gives what seems like a really awkward smile.

🥩 "(⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)♡."

🥩 Who is this, does he think you are someone he knows?

🥩 What has your life come to?

[babyboywilson]

House md idea:

House refusing to admit he loves wilson because he thinks that theyre already married (due to some elaborete plot) and because of this he thinks wilson is deciding to refuse to admit he loves house so house is also refusing

Something something something

Then a proper wedding

the marriage certificate had been in the drawer of house’s desk for weeks now. a late night ceremony in hawaii after a conference that he and wilson had attended.

to be fair, wilson hadn’t known it was a marriage ceremony at the time. the description hadn’t been clear. it was supposed to be a nighttime ceremony on the beach with rope and flowers. house had joked it was a great way for him to tie wilson up and wilson had rolled his eyes but agreed just to prove he could thwart house at whatever game house was playing.

house might have googled what the ceremony was right before they attended. and he might or might not have discovered it was essentially a wedding. what better way to tie wilson to him then trick him into marrying him and maybe they could finally discuss the unspoken thing better them?

wilson only found out it was a native marriage ceremony when they were asked if they were ready to become husband and husband. wilson had choked out a laugh of surprise and flashed his gaze towards house. “what?” wilson asked. house had shrugged and replied, “well. they meant tying the knot literally. too late to back out now.”

house placed a sloppy kiss on wilson’s cheek, and they were declared husbands.

that night, in their shared hotel room, house had laughed out a “care to share the bed, husband?” it was said in a lighthearted tone, half joking and half flirtatious with a hint of seriousness buried under the teasing. because… well… they were husbands now. and there had always been something charged and crackling between them. maybe now house could finally drop enough metaphors that wilson would read between the lines and interpret house’s feelings for wilson.

wilson had shaken his head and said he was good sleeping on the couch still. and then he’d walked away from house without looking back.

house froze for a second, his brain whirring as he put together the words and actions. wilson didn’t feel the way house did. the tension between them was one-sided. even though they were married… wilson still didn’t want house the way house wanted him. with a false sincerity, house said, “more space for me then” and collapsed onto the bed; turning his back on wilson.

they’d flown back home and refused to talk about it.

days had gone by. days morphed into weeks. the fact they were married never seemed to come up in conversation.

until wilson had snuck into house’s office, rifling through the drawers of his desk looking for his secret stash of vicodin. and there was the marriage certificate. slipped into a protective sleeve in the corner of the drawer.

“find what you were looking for?” house asked from the doorway.

wilson stumbled, slamming the drawer shut and cursing under his breath as the drawer closed on his finger and he pulled it back quickly. “why do you still have that?” he asked, gesturing towards the certificate.

house shrugged. “for future black mail. if you’re looking for the vicodin, it’s in the lupus book.”

“don’t change the subject.”

house raised an eyebrow. “isn’t that what you were looking for?”

grabbing the certificate, wilson waved the paper in house’s general direction. “why is this here?”

dropping into his chair, house picked up his ball and tossed it into the air a couple of times. “reminder that i’m taken.”

wilson ran his hand through his hair. “house, that wasn’t… the ceremony wasn’t real. we aren’t-”

“am i not allowed to pretend we are?” house reached out and snatched the certificate from wilson’s hands. their fingers brushed. house shuddered. wilson’s breath caught in his throat.

“house,” wilson murmured softly.

“get out,” house snarled, turning away from wilson and violently bouncing the ball off the wall. it bounced across the room and house sighed.

“house,” wilson repeated, even quieter. and then wilson was stepping around the chair, into house’s space.

snagging his cane, house whacked wilson in the knee. “i said get out.”

shaking his head, wilson leaned down until his face was inches from house’s. “marry me? for real this time.”

house scoffed, shoving wilson back again. “jokes gone too far now. get out.”

wilson stepped back into house’s space, dropping to his knees in front of house’s chair. “no. not until you marry me again.”

and then wilson was closing the gap between them, their mouths meeting in a biting desperate kiss. house gasped and wilson kissed him deeper.

when wilson moved to break the kiss, house chased him, pulling wilson closer until they were kissing again. and again. and again. by the time house finally eased out of the kiss, his head was spinning and wilson’s lips were kiss swollen and his hair was mussed from house running his fingers through the silky strands.

“i’m guessing that was a yes, then?” wilson asked.

“get out,” house said, but instead of pushing wilson away, he drew wilson’s closer until wilson was straddling house in the office chair and they were kissing again.

[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 13)

Synopsis: You wake from a short nap, but the day has already shifted—conversations tense, glances lingering, something unspoken hanging in the air. As night falls, ghost stories and laughter blur into something else, something quieter, something charged.

Word count: 6.6K

Warnings: Sexual tension, Mild language

A/N: My sincere apologies for the delay in updates. My studies as a maritime student, including recent training exercises, have unfortunately limited my writing time. Thank you for your understanding and continued support♡

You wake to the sound of soft rustling and the smell of food.

 Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see is Agatha crouched next to you, holding a plate.

"For you," she says simply.

 You blink, still groggy, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. "How long was I out?"

 "Thirty minutes, give or take." She shrugs. "You looked dead to the world."

 You rub the sleep from your eyes, staring at the plate. It’s rice and some beef strips. Simple, but warm.

 "You—" You clear your throat. "You brought this for me?"

 Agatha smirks, setting the plate down beside you. "You did tell me to wake you when lunch was ready."

 You hadn’t expected her to actually bring you food, though.

 There’s a flicker of something soft in your chest.

 But Agatha is already turning away, crawling toward the tent entrance. "Come on. Eat with the rest of us."

 You glance down at the plate, then back at her.

 For a second, you consider just eating inside the tent, away from everyone, away from the possibility of Wanda staring at you again.

 But Agatha pauses at the tent’s entrance, looking over her shoulder. She raises an eyebrow.

 "What?" you mumble.

 She tilts her head, amused. "Don’t tell me you’re hiding."

 Your face heats up. "I’m not hiding."

 Agatha hums, not believing a word of it.

 Then, before she exits, she adds, "Better hurry before I eat your food instead."

 And just like that, she’s gone.

 You groan, running a hand down your face.

 She’s insufferable.

 You crawl toward the entrance, preparing yourself for whatever chaos awaits outside.

 The moment you step out of the tent, Alice calls you out immediately.

 “There you are! We thought you were gonna sleep through lunch.”

 You barely have time to react before your eyes land on Wanda.

 She’s looking at you—but she’s also looking at Agatha.

 Your stomach clenches.

 "Are you feeling better?" Wanda asks, her brows knitting together in concern.

 Well, of course you are. It’s a hickey, not a damn injury.

 But they don’t know that.

 You clear your throat, nodding quickly. "Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just needed a quick nap."

 You step forward, grabbing your plate—the one still in Agatha’s hand.

 She doesn’t say anything as she hands it over, but there’s a look on her face.

 Alice raises an eyebrow.

 “Wow, Agatha, serving Y/N food?” she teases, grinning. “Since when?”

 You nearly choke on air.

 “I—She didn’t—” You fumble for a response, but Agatha beats you to it.

 “She was practically dead to the world.” Agatha shrugs, completely unfazed. “Figured I’d do a good deed.”

 Jen snorts. “That’s a first.”

 Lilia leans in, amused. “What’s next, Agatha? Carrying Y/N’s backpack?”

 Agatha smirks, eyes flicking to you. “I mean, if she asks nicely.”

 Your face burns.

 You’re about to snap back—say something, anything—but then you feel a hand on your arm.

 It’s Wanda.

 You glance at her, and she gives you a look. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

 Oh, shit.

 You force a nod, letting her pull you aside while the others go back to eating.

 Once you’re out of earshot, Wanda folds her arms.

 “So…” she starts, tilting her head. “You sure you’re feeling better?”

 You gulp. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 She stares at you for a long moment, then exhales.

 “Look,” she says, softer this time. “I know you don’t wanna make a big deal out of it, but… if something’s going on, you can tell me, okay?”

 Your heart skips.

 Shit.

 Does she know?

 You force a smile. “Nothing’s going on.”

 Wanda watches you carefully. Then, finally, she sighs.

 “Okay,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

 Before you can dwell on it, Alice calls out, “Hey, are you two coming back?”

 You immediately turn away, heading back toward the group. “Coming!”

 You take a seat next to Wanda on one of the logs, the warmth of the fire licking at your skin despite the afternoon heat. Across from you, Agatha settles down next to Jen, her posture relaxed, legs stretched out in front of her like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Alice and Lilia share the last log, already picking at their food as they talk about something you’re not paying attention to.

 You blink, glancing up just in time to see Agatha standing up, making her way over to you. She hands you the can of soda, then, just as smoothly, returns to her seat across the fire, smirking.

You didn’t even ask for one.

She just knew.

You hesitate for a moment before cracking it open, taking a sip, and looking away before anyone notices the warmth creeping up your neck.

Well. Before most your friends notice.

Wanda is staring.

 She’s watching Agatha, then you, then Agatha again.

 Then, suddenly, she clears her throat. “So, about that bite.”

 You freeze mid-sip.

 Agatha raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”

 Wanda tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You were with Y/N when it happened, right?”

 Agatha leans back, unbothered. “She was with me, yeah.”

 Wanda’s fingers tap against her knee. “And you didn’t see it?”

 The air shifts slightly.

 Agatha shrugs. “Guess I was looking the other way.”

 Wanda doesn’t look convinced. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

 You clear your throat, trying to cut in. “It happened fast, Wanda. It’s not a big deal—”

 “It’s just—” Wanda exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You’re usually more aware of things, Agatha.”

 Agatha just tilts her head. “Well, guess I slipped up.”

 There’s a flicker of something in Wanda’s eyes. She’s still staring at Agatha like she’s trying to piece something together.

 You grip your can tighter, resisting the urge to press your hand over the band-aid again.

 Alice, sensing the tension, jumps in. “Well, let’s just be glad it wasn’t worse, right?”

 Lilia hums in agreement. “Yeah. Could’ve been a snake.”

 Great. Now you have to worry about that too.

 Wanda pushes further, ignoring Alice and Lilia’s attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere. "It could've been worse, you know. What if it had been something venomous? What if it got infected?"

 She crosses her arms, gaze flicking between you and Agatha. "And earlier, Agatha, you were laughing like it was funny. What’s so funny about Y/N getting bitten?"

 Agatha smirks, lips twitching as she fights back another chuckle. "Nothing. Just—" She waves a hand vaguely. "It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be."

 Wanda scoffs, not letting up. "You sure about that?"

Before Agatha can reply, Jen suddenly cuts in. "Alright, alright," she says, loud enough to break the tension. "Let’s talk about something else. What’s the plan after lunch? Maybe we should explore the area a bit?"

The group agrees, though Wanda is still watching Agatha with narrowed eyes. Eventually, she exhales sharply and shrugs it off, but you can tell she’s still irritated. Agatha, as expected, doesn’t seem to care.

After lunch, the group decides to explore the surrounding area. The air is crisp, the trees providing shade as you all navigate through the trails. It’s peaceful—until Agatha falls into step beside you.

“You’re walking kinda slow,” she comments, smirking. “Getting old?”

You roll your eyes. “Or maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”

Agatha raises a brow, glancing around dramatically. “Oh yeah, breathtaking trees. Real once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

You shove her lightly with your elbow. “I meant the scenery.”

She snorts. “Sure you did.”

Behind you, Wanda is keeping a close eye on the both of you. You can feel her gaze burning into the back of your head, and every now and then, when you steal a glance, she doesn’t even try to hide it.

At some point, the group stumbles upon a really scenic spot—overlooking the valley, the trees opening up just enough to give a perfect view of the horizon. Jen immediately pulls out her phone. “Okay, group photo. Everyone get in.”

You shuffle into place, Wanda beside you, and Agatha on your other side. Just as Jen is setting up the shot, Agatha reaches out, flicking a stray leaf out of your hair without a second thought.

You freeze.

Your eyes meet hers, and for a second, everything around you fades. The warmth of her fingers lingers near your temple, the touch barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then—

Wanda clears her throat.

Loudly.

The moment shatters. Agatha pulls her hand back, smirking like nothing happened. You force yourself to look straight ahead, pretending your face isn’t suddenly burning. The camera clicks, and just like that, the moment is over.

The rest of the afternoon passes with the group continuing to explore, snapping photos, and taking in the scenery. Every so often, you catch Agatha looking at you, and each time, when your eyes meet, she just smirks. It’s infuriating. It’s distracting. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from glancing at her, too.

Eventually, as the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, the group makes their way back to camp. As you settle in, Lilia glances around and announces, “We need more firewood.”

You straighten, about to volunteer, when Wanda nudges you sharply. When you glance at her, she’s already shaking her head, giving you a look that clearly says, Don’t.

Before you can argue, Agatha stretches lazily and says, “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go too,” Wanda adds immediately, tone firm.

Your stomach twists.

Agatha lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Afraid I’ll get lost?”

Wanda just crosses her arms. “Just making sure we get enough firewood.”

They hold eye contact for a bit too long before Agatha chuckles under her breath and starts walking. Wanda follows, glancing at you one last time before disappearing into the trees with her.

You exhale, slumping slightly as the rest of the group starts chatting again. A small pit of unease settles in your stomach, knowing Wanda isn’t the type to just let things go—especially when it comes to you.

After some time, Agatha returns with some firewood, but Wanda isn’t with her.

When Jen asks, Agatha just shrugs. "She’s still out there."

You frown. "Alone?"

Agatha glances at you, tossing a log onto the pile. "She insisted."

Without another word, you turn and head into the woods, calling out for Wanda. The sun is starting to dip, casting golden light through the trees. After a few moments, you find her silently gathering wood, methodically picking up sticks and branches as if she’s trying to focus on anything but whatever’s on her mind.

"Wanda," you call again, stepping closer. She glances at you briefly but doesn’t say anything, just bends down to pick up another branch.

You sigh. "Why did you let Agatha leave you out here alone?"

She shrugs. "I didn’t let her do anything. She just left."

You press your lips together, watching her work. "Wanda, what’s going on? You’ve been acting weird."

She lets out a sharp breath and straightens up, turning to you. "You tell me."

Your stomach twists. "What do you mean?"

Wanda crosses her arms, her gaze sharp. "That 'bug bite,' Y/N. Neither of us saw it happen. Agatha didn’t see it happen. But she thought it was funny—she was laughing earlier when we found out. Why?"

You freeze for a second before quickly composing yourself. "It’s not that deep, Wanda. We’re in the woods, bugs are everywhere. It’s not a big deal."

She squints at you, unconvinced. "It’s just... Agatha’s been weird with you. Clingy. She wasn’t like this before. And now she’s always near you, touching you, looking at you like—" Wanda exhales sharply, rubbing her temples. "I don’t know, Y/N. It just feels off. Like something’s changed, and I don’t get why. I just don’t want you getting hurt, okay?"

You hesitate. Your best friend is worried. And she has every reason to be, given how complicated things have been with Agatha. You want to tell her—you should tell her—but now doesn’t feel like the right time.

So instead, you shake your head and offer a small smile. "I get it, Wanda. I do. But you don’t need to worry about me. I can handle Agatha."

She studies you for a moment before sighing and shaking her head. "I don’t know if I believe that."

You nudge her shoulder. "Trust me."

She exhales, then reluctantly smiles. "Fine. But if she messes with you, I will fight her."

You chuckle. "Noted."

The two of you walk back to camp, the tension easing slightly. As you step into the clearing, your eyes immediately land on Agatha. She’s sitting on one of the logs with Alice, casually chatting. Then she looks up and meets your gaze.

Your breath catches for half a second before you manage a small smile and quickly look away, following Wanda back to the group.

The afternoon stretches on as the scent of sizzling food fills the air. You’re standing by the fire, stirring a pan of stir-fried mushrooms and bell peppers, the wooden spoon warm in your grip. Wanda, Lilia and Jen are chatting nearby while Alice turns marinated chicken on the grill with practiced ease.

A voice behind you makes you pause. "What’s this supposed to be?"

You glance over your shoulder. It’s Agatha, peering into your pan with an amused smirk.

"Stir-fry," you say. "Want to try?"

She picks up a piece with her fingers before you can even grab a fork and pops it into her mouth. She chews, then makes a face. "Needs more flavor."

You blink. "Seriously?"

A second later, she grins. "Nah. I’m just messing with you. It’s good."

You huff, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

She leans in slightly, voice just for you. "And yet, you like it."

Your breath catches for a half-second, but before you can respond, she winks and walks away. Not before glancing back with a teasing smile, though.

By the time dinner is ready, everyone is starving. Plates are passed around, laughter and conversation flowing easily. You sit beside Agatha this time, knees brushing, arms occasionally bumping. It’s casual, natural—except for the way Wanda, sitting on the log across from you, keeps glancing over. Her expression is unreadable, but you can feel her eyes on you both.

After dinner, Lilia claps her hands together. "Okay, so... horror stories. Who’s in?"

"Absolutely not," Alice groans. "I hate scary stories."

"Which is exactly why you need to hear them!" Jen grins. "Come on, it’s a camping tradition."

Alice groans again but stays put, resigned to her fate.

Everyone takes turns sharing stories. Lilia starts with a classic—something about a woman in white wandering the roads at night, her ghostly figure appearing in car mirrors before vanishing. Wanda follows with a chilling ghost encounter from her childhood, describing the eerie whispers she once heard in her grandmother’s old house. Jen’s is dramatic and animated, her gestures exaggerated as she recounts a tale about an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, making Alice grip her own arms and mutter, "Why did I agree to this?"

Then it’s your turn. You recall a story you heard years ago—one about a cursed path in the woods, where travelers who stray from the trail hear footsteps behind them, but when they turn around, no one is there. Some say the footsteps get faster the more you ignore them, until they’re right behind you, breath on your neck, a shadow stretching too close. And if you run? That’s when they reach for you.

As you speak, the fire crackles, casting shadows that dance against the trees. The wind rustles the leaves, making them sound almost like whispers. A twig snaps somewhere in the darkness, and Alice jumps, clutching Lilia’s arm. "Nope. Nope, I hate this."

Jen leans in, intrigued. "What happens if they catch you?"

You hesitate for effect, letting the silence stretch. "No one knows," you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Because no one who’s been caught has ever come back."

The group shivers collectively, drawn into your words. Even Agatha, who had been smirking through most of the stories, watches you with quiet intrigue, her expression unreadable.

And then there’s Agatha.

Her voice dips low, deliberate, weaving an eerie tale that seems to creep into the very air around you. "There was a girl," she begins, her tone almost hypnotic. "She went missing in the woods, not far from here. Search parties looked for weeks. They never found her." The fire crackles, casting long, twisting shadows.

"Some say she never really left," Agatha continues, her gaze flickering to the darkness beyond. "They say if you listen closely, you can hear her crying at night—begging for someone to find her. But if you answer? She takes your voice. Steals it. And then... she’s not the one crying anymore."

The fire flickers, and suddenly, a gust of wind rustles the trees. The woods seem darker, the silence stretching uncomfortably. A branch snaps somewhere unseen, and Alice lets out a startled yelp. Your pulse jumps.

You don’t realize you’re leaning in until Agatha meets your gaze and smirks, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Her eyes glint with amusement, but there’s something else there too—something unreadable. The moment lingers, heavy, before she suddenly claps her hands sharply.

You flinch. "What the hell!"

She laughs, clearly enjoying herself. "Gotcha."

"I hate you," you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

She leans in just slightly, voice near your ear. "Liar."

Before you can respond, Alice jumps up. "No. Enough. We need to shake this creepy feeling off. Play some music or something!"

Jen pulls out her phone, scrolling through her playlist. A lively song starts playing, breaking the tension, and soon enough, everyone is swaying, moving to the beat. Lilia and Jen dance dramatically, spinning each other, and even Wanda bobs her head slightly, a small smile breaking through.

Then the music shifts. A slower song comes on, soft and warm against the cool night air.

Your friends pair off playfully, and before you can react, Agatha grabs your wrist. "C’mon," she says, pulling you up.

 You roll your eyes but let her guide you. "You just want another excuse to mess with me."

 She spins you once, teasingly, before settling close, hands resting lightly on your waist. "Maybe."

 The firelight flickers, casting a golden glow over everything. Wanda is still watching. Definitely watching. But you can’t focus on that because Agatha’s hands are warm against your sides, and she’s closer than she probably should be.

 Her voice drops just for you. "Still scared?"

 You scoff. "Scared? I’m not—"

 "Yeah, right" Agatha cuts in, smirking.

You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. The two of you dance, and so do the others. The music and laughter blend with the crackling fire, easing the lingering tension from the ghost stories.

The song fades, but Agatha doesn’t let go right away. Her hands linger at your waist, her fingers just barely brushing your sides before she finally steps back. It’s only a second or two longer than necessary, but you notice it. And so does Wanda.

You settle back onto the logs, the fire crackling as everyone starts reaching for marshmallows and skewers. The conversation is lighter now, the eerie tension from the ghost stories fading into quiet laughter and teasing remarks.

“Okay, but real talk,” Jen says, stuffing a marshmallow into her mouth before she even roasts it. “If we hear something in the woods tonight, are we ignoring it or investigating like idiots in a horror movie?”

“Ignore it,” Wanda says immediately. “Don’t be stupid.”

Alice, still jumpy from the ghost stories, shivers. "I swear, if something taps on my tent, I will freak out. Or—whoever I’m sharing with, you better be ready to wake up with me."

Jen grins. "Speaking of that... who’s sharing with who?"

“I’ll be with Lilia,” Jen adds before anyone can answer.

“Guess that leaves me with you, Y/N,” Wanda says, her tone casual—but there’s an edge to it, like she’s already decided for you.

Before you can process that, Agatha scoffs. “Actually, Y/N and I are sharing.”

Wanda turns to her, eyebrows raised. “Since when?”

“Since this morning,” Agatha says smoothly. “Before lunch. Y/N went into a tent, and I followed. We already put our stuff there.”

Wanda’s gaze flicks to you, expecting some kind of confirmation or denial. You hesitate.

“I mean… yeah,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “Agatha’s right. That’s kind of how it happened.”

Wanda’s lips press into a thin line. “You could’ve said something earlier.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling awkward. “Didn’t really think it was a big deal.”

Alice looks between the three of you, blinking.

The tension in the air is impossible to ignore. Agatha smirks slightly, clearly enjoying the way Wanda bristles, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Wanda, on the other hand, exhales sharply, visibly holding something back. But after a moment, she just shakes her head and mutters, “Whatever. Do what you want.”

Lilia, oblivious to the quiet standoff, yawns and stands up, brushing off her hands. “Alright, I’m heading in.”

One by one, the rest of the group follows, dousing the fire until only the faint glow of embers remains. Wanda hesitates for just a second, shooting you one last unreadable look before stepping into her tent with Alice.

You let out a slow breath, suddenly aware of the way your shoulders had tensed. Agatha is already beside you, watching with a knowing expression.

“Didn’t really think it was a big deal, huh?” she murmurs, her voice laced with amusement.

You shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

Agatha just chuckles, bumping her shoulder against yours before turning toward the tent. “Come on.”

You sigh, following her inside, the quiet rustling of the trees outside the only sound accompanying you.

The air inside the tent feels warmer than it should, the weight of the day settling in as you shift slightly on your sleeping bag. Agatha mirrors your movement, lying on her side, propped up on one elbow as she looks at you. The soft glow from the dying bonfire outside barely illuminates her face, but you can still make out the teasing glint in her eyes.

"So," she starts, voice hushed, "what's up with Wanda breathing down my neck all day?"

You huff out a quiet laugh, turning onto your side to face her. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Kinda hard not to when she looks like she wants to tackle me every time I get near you," Agatha mutters, lips twitching into a smirk. "What did I do to piss off your best friend?"

You hesitate for a second, then shrug. "She’s just… protective."

Agatha raises a brow. "That protective?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Wanda knows I got hurt before. Not, like, physically, but… you know. She doesn’t want me to go through that again."

There’s a beat of silence before Agatha tilts her head slightly, studying you. "And she thinks I'm the one who's gonna hurt you?"

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you pick at a loose thread on your blanket, avoiding her gaze. The truth is, she did hurt you—even if she doesn’t realize it. And she still doesn’t know how much. But it’s not like you haven’t wondered the same thing yourself. There’s no label on whatever this is between you and Agatha. And sure, she kissed you last night—really kissed you. But is that enough to say she wouldn’t hurt you?

You don’t have an answer, so instead, you just shrug. "No. You know what? Let’s just forget about it. Wanda’s protectiveness will pass… eventually."

Agatha watches you for a moment, then smirks. "You sure? ‘Cause I think she’s about two seconds away from putting a leash on you."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "She’s just—she’s Wanda. She’s always been like that."

"Mhm." Agatha props her head up with her hand, grinning.

A comfortable silence falls over you both, and then you find yourself asking, “By the way, what did Wanda say to you earlier? When you two went to get firewood?”

Agatha exhales, like she expected this. “She told me to stop messing with you.”

You frown. “Messing with me?”

Agatha turns on her side to face you, her lips curl into a smirk, even in the dark. “You know, like annoying you, pissing you off—” She leans in slightly. “Making you blush.”

Before you can protest, a sudden rustling noise outside the tent makes you both freeze.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Did you hear that?” you whisper.

Agatha sits up slightly. “Probably just the wind.”

Another rustle. Louder this time.

You tighten your grip on your sleeping bag. “Or it’s one of those ghosts from the stories earlier,” you mutter.

Agatha chuckles. “Only one way to find out.”

She starts unzipping the tent, and you grab her wrist. “Are you serious? Just ignore it.”

Agatha grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” Before you can stop her, she slips outside.

You wait a few seconds, listening intently. “Agatha?” you call quietly. No response.

Your stomach tightens. You fumble for your phone, turning on the flashlight, and crawl out of the tent. The beam cuts through the darkness—but Agatha is nowhere to be seen.

Your pulse quickens. “Agatha, this isn’t funny,” you whisper-shout, stepping toward your friends’ tents, ready to wake someone up.

Then—

“Boo.”

You whip around, nearly jumping out of your skin. Agatha stands behind you, arms crossed, a smug grin on her face.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hiss, shoving her arm. “I thought—I thought something happened to you!”

Agatha shrugs, looking amused. “Relax, it was just a rabbit. I saw it.”

You glare at her, still catching your breath. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she says easily, nudging you back toward the tent. “Come on, scaredy-cat.”

When you both get back inside the tent, you’re still pissed at Agatha. She’s still grinning, stretching out lazily on her sleeping bag like she didn’t just scare the hell out of you.

“I didn’t know you scared so easily,” she murmurs, amusement still laced in her tone.

You glare at her, still feeling your heart race from earlier. “I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to be the idiot in a horror movie who investigates a noise and dies first.”

Agatha chuckles, shaking her head. Then, quieter this time—like it’s something she hadn’t meant to say aloud—“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, you know.”

The air shifts. The usual teasing in her voice is gone, replaced by something softer, something real. You glance at her, expecting a smirk, but she’s just looking at you, eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the tent.

A beat passes. Then another.

Agatha reaches over, her fingers brushing against your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s such a small, simple gesture, but the way her touch lingers sends a shiver through you. You feel the warmth of her skin, the way her fingers hesitate—just a second too long.

She looks at your lips, then back to your eyes.

Your pulse pounds, but you don’t pull away. Maybe you should. Maybe you should say something snarky, break the tension—but you don’t.

Agatha’s fingers trail down to your jaw, tilting your chin slightly, as if testing. As if waiting for you to stop her. When you don’t, she doesn’t ask for permission—she just moves.

The kiss starts slow, hesitant—like neither of you can quite believe it’s happening. But then something shifts. Agatha lets out a quiet sound against your lips, and suddenly, it’s like neither of you want to stop.

Your fingers find the hem of her long-sleeved white polo, gripping it like you need something to ground yourself. Agatha responds by pressing closer, her body half over yours now, her lips moving against yours with a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

Agatha’s fingers slide higher, tracing the curve of your spine. Her touch is slow, unhurried, like she’s memorizing the feel of you beneath her hands. The weight of her palm lingers, pressing into your skin in a way that makes your breath stutter.

Then she pauses.

Her hands still under your tank top, warm against your bare skin, but she doesn’t move further. Instead, she leans in just enough that her breath ghosts over your lips.

“Is this okay?” she murmurs, her voice quieter now—softer.

The teasing edge is gone, replaced with something else entirely. Something careful. Something that makes your chest ache.

You swallow, pulse hammering. You should say something, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you nod, barely more than a small tilt of your head.

Agatha studies you for half a second longer—like she’s making sure—before she kisses you again. This time, there’s no hesitation.

Her hands begin to move, slow but deliberate. Fingertips tracing up the curve of your spine, then down again, pressing into the small of your back as she pulls you closer. Her touch burns, leaving a trail of warmth wherever she goes.

She shifts slightly, half rolling you onto your back as her palm flattens against your stomach, sliding higher beneath your tank top. Every inch she covers feels electric, every slow drag of her fingers leaving you breathless.

When her thumb brushes just beneath your ribs, you gasp against her lips. Agatha catches the sound, swallowing it with a smirk you can feel rather than see.

“You’re so sensitive,” she whispers, her voice rich with amusement—and something else. Something darker.

Her hand moves higher. Testing. Exploring. Her fingers skim over the edge of your bra, teasing but never quite going further. Like she’s waiting for you to stop her.

But you don’t.

And that seems to be all the confirmation Agatha needs.

Her fingers slide higher, brushing over lace and skin with an unbearable slowness. Her touch is teasing, savoring every reaction—every shiver, every caught breath, every way your body responds to hers.

“You’re shaking again,” she whispers, her lips barely grazing your jaw.

You exhale sharply, fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeve. “And you’re talking too much.”

Agatha huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, her breath warm, teasing. “Bossy,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it—only amusement, only something softer.

The tent fabric rustles as she shifts, pressing herself closer. The weight of her is dizzying, grounding, and when her thigh slides between yours, the sensation makes your breath hitch.

Her fingers move again, slipping beneath your bra with deliberate slowness. The tent isn’t exactly thin, but it isn’t soundproof either. A few feet away, their friends are probably asleep—but not far enough that they wouldn’t hear if either of them got too carried away.

Agatha seems to remember this at the same time you do.

She leans in, lips brushing against your ear as her thumb finds your nipple through the lace of your bra, pressing just enough to make you shiver.

The thin fabric does nothing to dull the sensation. If anything, it makes it worse—frustrating in the way that leaves you aching for more.

Then, Agatha suddenly pauses. Her breath is warm against your ear when she murmurs, “You do realize these tents aren’t exactly soundproof, right?”

You swallow, pulse still racing, and murmur, “Yeah.” You pause, lips brushing against hers as you add, “Let’s just hope everyone’s actually asleep.”

Agatha hums, her fingers still teasing over lace.

You should be more careful. You should be thinking about the thin fabric of the tent, about the way sound carries in the stillness of the night.

But then Agatha’s hand moves again—slow, deliberate—her fingers slipping just beneath the lace, and suddenly, nothing else seems to matter.

A sharp inhale catches in your throat, your body tensing under her touch. Agatha stills for half a second, like she’s waiting—giving you space to stop this, to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, your hands move—almost on their own—reaching for the buttons of her long-sleeved polo. Your fingers fumble slightly, the fabric slipping under your grip as you undo the first one, then the second.

Agatha exhales a quiet laugh, her breath warm against your lips. “In a hurry?” she murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just keep going, pushing the fabric apart, your fingertips skimming over warm skin.

Agatha doesn’t stop you. If anything, she encourages it—shifting slightly, letting you peel the fabric away. The sight of her, the heat of her beneath your hands, sends something electric through you.

Then she’s kissing you again, deeper this time, hungrier, as if your touch has set something loose inside her. Her hands slide up your sides again, slipping fully beneath your bra now, her palms warm, fingers tracing, exploring.

She groans softly against your lips, and the sound sends a shiver straight through you.

The air between you is feverish, breathless, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember—your friends are still nearby.

Agatha must remember too, because when she leans in, her voice is barely more than a whisper against your ear.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this here,” she murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind it.

And yet, neither of you stop.

You let out a quiet breath, your hands still resting against the warm skin beneath her open polo. “Then stop,” you whisper back, but neither of you move.

Agatha’s lips twitch, her fingers flexing slightly against your skin. “You don’t want me to.”

You don’t. Not even a little.

Instead of answering, you slide your hands further beneath her shirt, palms skimming up her stomach, tracing the curve of her ribs. She exhales shakily, her grip on you tightening for just a second.

“Thought so,” she breathes.

Then she’s kissing you again, swallowing whatever response you might’ve had.

And just like that, the rest of the world—the tents, the risk, the lingering thread of reason—fades away.

You break the kiss just long enough to pull your tank top over your head, the fabric slipping from your fingers as you toss it aside. The cool air brushes over your skin, sending a shiver through you—but then Agatha’s hands are back, and she’s so much warmer.

Her eyes darken as she takes you in, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. The way she looks at you—like she wants—is enough.

You reach for her next, pushing her polo past her shoulders, dragging it down her arms. She helps, shrugging it off in one smooth motion before leaning back in, her lips finding yours as if she can’t stand the space between you.

Her hands trace your sides, fingers ghosting over bare skin. She moves slow—like she’s savoring every touch, every inch of you.

Then, with deliberate intent, her fingers slip beneath the strap of your bra, tracing the curve of your shoulder before gliding lower, lower—

Her breath is warm against your lips. Your pulse thrums beneath her touch. The rest of the world fades.

Nothing else matters.

Your hands move without thought, sliding over the bare skin of her back, tracing the dips and curves with slow, deliberate strokes. You feel the shift of her muscles beneath your touch, the way she tenses slightly when your fingers drag lower, just above the waistband of her pants.

Agatha exhales, her breath fanning against your cheek, but she doesn’t pause.

Her hands begin to wander—slowly, deliberately. They glide down past your waist, fingertips barely grazing the curve of your hips before trailing lower, teasing over the fabric of your leggings, where your skin burns beneath.

Your breath catches.

She lingers there, her touch light, almost too light, like she’s waiting—watching for your reaction. And when your body responds—when your legs part just slightly, instinctively—her lips curl into the faintest smirk against your skin.

Her fingers press in just a little more, still teasing, still not enough.

The anticipation coils in your stomach, heat pooling low, your grip tightening against her back.

Still, neither of you speak.

There’s no need.

Everything is understood in the way your bodies move, in the way you hold onto each other, in the way she touches you—slow and purposeful, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she’s savoring this.

Savoring you.

Agatha’s hand drifts lower, fingertips barely brushing over your thigh, featherlight and deliberate. She moves in slow, teasing circles, each pass of her fingers bringing her closer—so close—to where you want her.

Your breath stutters, your grip tightening against her back.

Then, she presses just a little harder, her fingers grazing the inside of your thigh, just shy of where you need her most.

A quiet whimper escapes before you can stop it. Your body reacts on instinct, heat pooling low, thighs twitching as you clench around nothing.

Agatha notices. Of course, she does.

She exhales a soft, amused sound, her lips brushing over your jaw. Her fingers flex against your skin, lingering, not giving you what you want—not yet.

She’s savoring this. Drawing it out. Watching the way you react, the way your body responds to her touch.

The tension coils tighter, your breathing uneven, anticipation burning through every nerve.

Agatha’s fingers slip from your thigh, trailing up—slow, agonizing—until they reach the waistband of your leggings. She toys with it, brushing her fingers just beneath the fabric, just enough to make your stomach tighten, to make your hips shift ever so slightly toward her.

She notices. She always notices.

Her lips ghost over your cheek, her breath warm against your skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag, she tugs at the band, just an inch, just enough to make you shiver.

Her voice is barely a whisper. "You still okay?"

You nod—maybe too quickly, too eager—but she doesn’t tease you for it.

Instead, her lips find your pulse point, pressing a kiss there as her fingers slip further beneath the fabric, dragging lower, lower—

Just as Agatha’s fingers dip lower, the faint sound of footsteps crunching outside makes both of you freeze.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

Then—

"I know you guys are still awake."

Lilia’s voice.

"I heard… muffled noises."

Your heart stops.

Muffled noises?

You snap your gaze to Agatha, wide-eyed, heat rushing to your face. But Agatha—Agatha—has the audacity to look amused. The startled tension in her face melts in an instant, replaced by something far too smug for the situation.

"Muffled?" she calls back, feigning innocence. "You mean, like, whispering?"

Lilia hesitates. "I mean… I guess? I don’t know! I just—do you have extra socks? My feet are freezing."

Agatha sighs—dramatically—but finally pulls away, reaching for her bag. You use the moment to press your palms to your burning face, silently willing your body to calm the hell down.

The tent unzips just slightly, and Agatha wordlessly slips the socks through the small opening.

"Thanks," Lilia mumbles, footsteps crunching away.

The moment Lilia’s footsteps fade, the tent falls into silence.

You exhale, pressing a hand to your face, still trying to cool the heat burning under your skin.

Agatha, of course, is thriving.

"Muffled noises, huh?" she echoes, lips twitching.

You groan, shoving at her shoulder, but she only laughs—low and pleased with herself.

Then, her laughter softens. Her eyes flicker over you, glinting with something darker. Something mischievous.

She leans back in, close enough that her breath tickles your lips, fingers already finding their way back to your waist.

"Now… where were we?"

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx

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Foundations (#6)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms. (Bucky)

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 6.4.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok. Let’s just pretend for a bit.

Previous Chapter

Bucky exhaled through his nose as he threw another punch at the training bag and his knuckles landed with a solid thud against the reinforced material. The compound gym was mostly empty this early, which was fine by him. He never did well with crowds.

Steve stood a few feet away, casually wrapping his hands, watching with mild amusement. "You know, Buck, as the guys say, you look rested for once. Must be the extra help at home."

He grunted in response, not offering him much. It was true, having her around had helped. But thinking too much about that came with… complications.

And then, the doors swung open, and Sam walked in fresh from a run, with a towel slung around his neck. "I saw your nanny last night," he commented, pointing at Bucky like he was delivering breaking news. “Boy, can she dance.”

Bucky’s hand froze mid-punch for half a second. It was barely noticeable, but Steve caught it.

"Yeah?" Bucky forced his voice into something bored, tugging the wrap of his hand tighter than necessary.

"Yeah," Sam continued, oblivious -or maybe not- grabbing a water bottle from the rack. "Didn’t know she had it in her, but man, she was feeling that music."

Steve turned, brows raising ever so slightly in interest. Oh, he was going to have fun with this.

“What pub was this?” he asked, tone oh-so casual.

"Some place called The Velvet Pine," Sam said, stretching his arms. "Never been before. Seemed nice. Drinks were decent."

"Huh," Steve mused, rubbing his chin. "And who’d she dance with?"

Bucky knew exactly what the punk was doing.

Sam shrugged. "Started out with her friends, y'know, girls hyping each other up, just having fun. But eventually-" he took a long sip of water, "I saw her with some guy."

Bucky this time tightened the wraps around his wrist. The fabric stretched to its limit as something hot and unpleasant curled low in his stomach.

Steve definitely saw it.

"And?" he pressed, because of course he did.

Sam lifted his hands. "I don’t know, man. I wasn’t exactly watching her all night. At some point, I noticed her friends were still there, but she wasn’t."

Bucky bent the metal clip on his wrist wrap. Didn’t even realize he did it.

From a few feet away, Clint -who had been silently lifting weights until now-chuckled, dropping his dumbbells with a clank. “Oh. Naughty nanny.” He grinned.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath his stubble as he exhaled slowly through his nose. His grip on the wrist wrap tightened further, the already-strained fabric pulling taut around his poor fingers.

Steve, who had been enjoying poking the bear just moments ago, suddenly didn’t feel so amused anymore. He saw it then, the shift in Bucky’s expression. It wasn’t just irritation. It wasn’t even anger.

It was something heavier.

Possessiveness? No. That wasn’t fair. But something bordering close to it.

Steve cleared his throat, giving Clint a quick, subtle glance to shut him up before casually steering the conversation back. "Well, wherever she went, I’m sure she was just having a good time," he said carefully like he wanted to smooth over whatever storm was brewing in Bucky’s head.

----

Monday came, and she picked up Thomas from kindergarten like usual. The walk home was filled with his excited chatter, small hands swinging in hers as he told her about his day. When they arrived at the apartment, Bucky was already there, waiting.

He greeted Thomas as warmly as ever, ruffling his hair and kissing the kid’s temple.  But something was off, she felt it immediately.

Short answers. Little eye contact. Still, she tried to keep things normal, moving around the kitchen, and talking to Thomas about what they needed to pick up at the store. It had become their thing, a routine that had started naturally. But today, when she asked if they should go before the hot discount items run out, he shook his head.

“I’ll go alone,” he muttered, already grabbing his keys.

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard, but she nodded, pretending not to notice the way her chest suddenly felt too tight.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was quiet. She played with Thomas, helped him with the items he needed to bring the next day, and folded some laundry.

Bucky never came out of his room. He wasn’t asleep, she could hear the occasional creak of the old bed frame when he moved. But he stayed away. It was like he was hiding.

Eventually, she knocked on his door, pressing a hand against the frame. “Dinner’s ready,” she called gently. “And I’ll be heading out soon.”

Silence.

Then, after a beat, his voice came through, low and hollow. “Alright. Thanks.”

She lingered for half a second longer than necessary before pulling away. No see you tomorrow. No safe trip home. No let me walk you down.

----

He knew she had noticed something, how could she not, if he was acting like a boy? Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face.

This had to stop.

He wasn’t sixteen. He wasn’t some kid sulking because a girl he liked went out and had a good time. He didn’t have any claim on her.

She was just the damn nanny, for fuck’s sake. Someone who kept his home in order, who made sure that Thomas was cared for when he couldn’t. So what if she had a life outside of these walls? So what if she went out, laughed with people, danced with some guy, or even fuck-

No.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought away before it could turn into something ugly, something he wasn’t ready to face. He had no right to feel this way and no right to let it fester.

Because this worked. The dynamic they had, the structure, the balance, it worked. And he wasn’t going to fuck it all up just because his dumb, touch-starved brain had decided to fixate on something it could never have.

So he’d suck it up. Just like he always did.

Tomorrow, he’d get his shit together. He’d act like a normal person. He’d even -fuck- ask her about her weekend like any regular, functioning adult would.

And he’d pretend.

Pretend it didn’t matter.

----

Tuesday afternoon, after she brought Thomas from the kindergarten, Bucky tried. Really tried. He put on that practiced smile -the one Sam always told him didn’t fool anyone but was the best he got- and forced himself to act normal. Like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t spent the last two days trying not to picture her dancing with some faceless stranger, disappearing into the night with him. So, when Thomas ran off to the bathroom at some point while she was making a snack, he casually made his way to the fridge for a glass of cold water, buying himself a few seconds.

He shouldn’t ask. But before he could stop himself, the words were already out. “I forgot to ask, how was your girl’s night?” His voice was so detached, so casual. Like he wasn’t already bracing for impact.

She stopped mid-motion, hovering the butter knife over the slice of bread, and looked at him as if deciding what to say. Then- “Not so great.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed before he could stop them. If dancing with some guy and leaving early wasn’t so great, well… “Oh?” He set the glass down on the counter, watching her carefully. “Why’s that?”

She pressed her lips in a thin line, exhaling sharply through her nose. “I-” She hesitated, then forced it out. “Someone put something in my drink.”

The world stilled. Bucky’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The fridge door clicked shut as he took a step forward, and his body moved before his mind could even catch up. His fingers twitched at his sides, his breath came out slow and measured like he was trying to keep something dangerous contained. “What?”

She swallowed, dropping her gaze to the counter for a second before she continued. “A guy invited me to dance. He seemed nice, you know? Attentive. At some point, he bought me a drink, and I accepted. After a while, I started to feel… weird. And he started to-” She waved her hand vaguely, like she couldn’t -or didn’t want to- say it out loud.

Bucky saw red.

His jaw locked so tight it ached, and something dark curled in his chest, coiling tighter and tighter with every beat of silence that passed. He wanted to ask questions, to demand names, and answers. But he restrained himself and let her talk.

“I don’t remember much,” she admitted, quietly. “But someone noticed something was off. The bartender, I think. He called someone from the staff, and they got me a secure cab. I managed to tell them my address.” She took a breath, “I sent a voice message to my friends while I was in the car. I couldn’t think straight, so the woman driving the car had to help me inside. I… was fine after a couple of hours. Just dizzy. Nauseous.”

Bucky was not fine. His fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked, and his vision tunneled as he fought the instinct to destroy someone.

She must have noticed the shift in his behavior because her hand suddenly did touch his, just barely, the lightest press of her fingers against his wrist. "I'm okay, Bucky," she said softly. "It didn’t go further than that."

Didn’t go further than that.

That shouldn’t be comforting. His chest ached with the effort of holding it all back, of swallowing the rage and forcing himself to breathe. “Who was he?” The words came out quieter than expected. Deadly.

She hesitated again before shaking her head. “I don’t remember his name but either way, it could have been a lie.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. You should've told me. Called me. Instead, what came out was, “You should’ve taken yesterday off. You needed time to recover.”

Then he realized. He had ignored her all of Monday while she’d been dealing with this. While she’d been sitting with the weight of what happened alone. He felt like a fucking dick. “Do you wanna go home?” he asked softly.

“No. I- I don't want to be alone right now, if that makes sense. I prefer to distract myself.”

Of course, it made sense. She just escaped a fucking rapist by a hair. Bucky’s fingers flexed at his sides, and his protectiveness twisted tighter and tighter inside him. “Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

Fuck it.

“Can I… I'll understand if you say no, but- just need a hug.” The last words came out lower like she was embarrassed to ask. But before she finished saying them, her body was enveloped in his. Warm, big, protective. And she let herself dive into it.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest, and he let out a slow breath, resting his chin on the top of her head.

It felt… right.

For both of them.

She shouldn’t want to stay there. Shouldn’t want to let herself sink into his warmth, into the solid comfort he provided her. But she did. And when she felt his arm pressing just slightly around her back, when he lingered, she dared to think that maybe… he didn’t want this to end either.

But while she was thinking about holding on, Bucky’s mind was already elsewhere.

Already planning.

He wasn’t a killer anymore. He wasn’t the man who mindlessly hurt and destroyed on command without thought. But when he finds the bastard who did this… when Bucky finishes with him, he’ll wish he was dead.

----

That night, he didn’t hesitate.

He called Steve and asked him to take care of Thomas, kept it vague. Steve asked if everything was alright and Bucky just answered, “I need to handle something.”

His first stop was the pub. It took all of ten minutes to get the surveillance footage. No one argued when he asked. Whether it was the weight of his name or the look in his eyes, he didn’t care.

The next stop was the Tower.

"Friday, pull up the security feed from Saturday night. Find her." Seconds later, there she was, black dress and nice hairdo, the picture of someone out to have a good time. Completely unaware.

Bucky fast-forwarded until he spotted her on the dance floor, spinning in some asshole’s arms. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to keep watching.

Fast-forwarded again, there they were at the bar. “Friday, enhance the footage. Close-caption the movements."

And there it was.

The bastard dissolved something into her drink while her back was turned. Then he rejoined her near the dance floor, charming, smiling. They flirted -another painful churn in Bucky’s gut- and then, she took a sip.

It didn’t take long. A shift in her posture, a slight lag in her coordination, the way she started leaning more into him, like gravity had shifted.

Then the hands. On her thigh, on her hip. Bucky didn’t finish watching. He couldn’t. It felt wrong.

But he had seen enough.

"Friday, run a facial recognition scan. See if he has a record." It took less than ten seconds. Convicted of multiple sexual offenses. Vicious ones.

Bucky’s blood turned to ice. "Give me his last known address."

A pause.

Then, a map appeared on the screen.  And Bucky was already grabbing his jacket.

----

The news broke early the next morning, spreading like wildfire across the city. A known sexual predator had been found unconscious at the doorstep of a police station, it seemed his battered body was dumped there in the dead of night. Law enforcement officials remained tight-lipped, refusing to release details, but unofficial sources painted a far more gruesome picture. Multiple broken fingers, a savage beating that left him barely recognizable, and the most horrifying detail of all: his own severed testicles shoved into his mouth. Whoever had done it had made sure he lived through it, going so far as to cauterize the wound with a knife, ensuring he wouldn’t bleed out before he was found.

Speculation ran wild. Some whispered about vigilante justice, others murmured that the man had it coming. The brutality of the act sent shockwaves through the media, but behind closed doors, some simply nodded in grim understanding. No suspects had been named, no witnesses had come forward, and no security cameras had caught a thing. It was as if the man had been plucked off the streets, punished, and discarded without a trace.

Bucky sat at his kitchen table, sipping his morning coffee as the radio droned on in the background. He didn’t react to the report, nor did he stop munching his toast when the anchor speculated about the motives behind the attack. He simply stirred a little sugar into his cup, took another slow sip, and went about his morning routine as if it were any other day.

----

In the afternoon, Thomas asked to watch a movie, so she picked Toy Story. The kid was thrilled by the idea that his toys might secretly move and talk when he wasn’t looking. Every now and then, she caught him sneaking glances at them, with his eyes full of wonder, as if he could catch them in the act.

At some point, he begged for popcorn, and she laughed, ruffling his hair before heading to the kitchen to make some.

She was rummaging through the cabinets, searching for the right pot, when Bucky emerged from his bedroom. His hair was a mess, sleep-tousled and falling loosely over his shoulders. He moved on autopilot, going straight for a couple of plums. His heavy steps and sluggish posture told her he hadn’t been awake long from his nap.

She turned on the burner, setting the pot down, and spoke as casually as she could. “Saw the news today.”

He didn’t answer. Just let the water run as he rinsed the fruit, lowering his head slightly, his strands of dark hair covering his face like a curtain.

She gripped the pot handle a little tighter. No point in dancing around it. “The man at the police station,” she continued, voice even. “It was him.”

He stilled. Just for a second. A fraction of hesitation before he reached for a bowl, placing the plums inside with slow, deliberate movements.

"Figures," he muttered, shutting off the tap, and reaching for a towel. But before he could step away, she moved without thinking, brushing her fingers over his bicep, rubbing slow, careful circles with her thumb against the fabric of his shirt.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

He still didn’t look at her.

“I would do it again,” he murmured.

There it was. The cat was out of the bag.

Now she knew -or was reminded- exactly what he was capable of. What kind of man stood before her.

Would she flinch away, look at him differently? He wasn’t sorry for what he did, wouldn’t regret it for a second, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think that actions didn’t have consequences. And maybe this -whatever this was- was something he was about to lose.

But then, instead of pulling away, she did the last thing he expected.

She pressed her forehead gently against his arm. “Want to watch what’s left of the movie with us?” she said softly, as if nothing had changed. “Thomas is loving it.”

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

He nodded, still without looking at her. "Then go sit with Thomas and I'll bring the popcorn when it's ready." She instructed, taking a step back and turning around.

----

She wasn’t stupid.

When she saw the news the next morning -just the night after she told Bucky what had happened- it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together.

He could have just reported the guy, turned him over to the authorities, and let the system deal with him. Instead, he had gone out, hunted him down, and made sure he’d never hurt anyone again.

This wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t even about punishment.

It was personal.

Why? Because she was Thomas’ nanny? Because, somewhere along the way, she had become part of something he wasn’t willing to risk losing?

She thought about that night, when he had offered her his bed, and told her outright that he didn’t mind her there, that she was part of his household. Maybe that was why he felt compelled to do this. Maybe, to him, this was just… protecting his own.

----

Bucky was done pretending.

Done pretending this was just a comfortable, familiar routine. Done acting like this was enough when it had long since stopped being so.

And after what happened, after hearing what almost happened to her, the dam was close to breaking.

He was on edge.

Because if she had been with them that Saturday, she wouldn’t have been in danger. She wouldn’t have had to look for a good time with strangers and wouldn’t have been put in that position. And maybe that was the worst part. Not that she had gone out. Not that she had almost gotten hurt. But she had to go somewhere else to look for what she wanted.

What she needed.

Because he was a coward.

Trailing after her like a touch-starved idiot for months, basking in the warmth of the status quo. Letting himself be pampered, doted on, and wanted, but never taking it. It was time to admit, to face it head-on, that under all his layers of self-deprecation and doubt, part of him had noticed the signs. The ones Steve had subtly and not so subtly tried to make him see.

It used to be easy for him. To read those signs. To know when someone wanted him. And if they didn’t, well, he had once been the kind of man to make it happen.

But that man had died the moment he fell from that train.

Now, he was this. A fractured thing. A man with too much past and too many scars, with a kid who deserved a better role model than someone who spent his nights fucking his own hand inhaling a damn scarf because it smelled like her.

Yeah.

She hadn’t lost it, as she thought.

He had found it in the laundry pile weeks ago and, instead of leaving it out like a normal person, had tucked it away like some depraved, desperate little secret.

Like a fucking creep.

And now, after what happened, he didn’t just want to protect her. He wanted to keep her. Not just so she wouldn’t have to expose herself to the dangers of the world, but because-

He was a selfish bastard.

And he’d had enough.

----

Bucky was sprawled across the couch when she returned, popcorn in hand. He shifted slightly, making room for her, but hesitated -just for a second- before not removing his arm from the couch’s backrest.

Oh.

Subtle. But not that subtle.

She sat down, careful and deliberate, placing the bowl within reach. At first, she kept her posture straight, too aware of the space -or lack of it- between them.

Minutes passed. The movie played on. Eventually, her back started to ache, as a dull protest against how stiffly she was holding herself. She needed to lean back. And still, he didn’t move his arm.

There was no way he hadn’t noticed, no way this was anything but intentional. A week ago, he would have given her space, even would have put Thomas between them. But now…

She let out a slow breath and took the offer. Slowly, carefully, she eased back, resting her head against his shoulder.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his arm shifted, pressing her closer, barely brushing the edge of her sleeve with his fingers.

Okay, she wasn’t imagining this.

She was cuddling with her boss.

Her boss, who had just tacitly admitted that he was the one who hunted down and beat the life out of the man who had almost hurt her.

The realization should have made her tense, should have made her overthink every second leading up to this moment, but instead, her body acted on instinct. She shifted -just a little- closing more of the space between them, pressing herself against the warmth of his body. She felt it. The way he caught his breath, the way his muscles went tight for a brief second, before exhaling and resting his cheek against the top of her head.

----

As the movie went on, Thomas remained fully engrossed, laughing and gasping at all the right moments. But the same couldn’t be said for the two adults on the couch. Neither of them was really watching.

At some point, she shifted again, adjusting herself against his body, and Bucky felt it, all of it. The warmth of her body against his side, the subtle weight of her head resting just right on his shoulder. She smelled like something soft, and warm, like lavender and the faintest hint of chamomile, and he knew if he moved even an inch closer, he’d drown in her scent.

She wasn’t faring much better. Every slow rise and fall of his chest made her hyper-aware of just how solid he was. How warm. How big. His arm, resting along the back of the couch, wasn’t quite touching her, but she could feel its weight hovering there like it wanted to.

Her fingers, resting idly beside her, shifted just slightly, brushing against his thigh. A featherlight touch. Accidental. But the way Bucky tensed made her stomach flip.

Neither of them moved away.

Another slow inhale. Another shift.

Bucky turned his head slightly, just enough that his nose brushed against the top of her hair. He breathed her in, slow and quiet, and let it out on a slow, controlled exhale. And then, in the quietest, rawest voice she had ever heard from him-

“Fuck.”

It was whispered, barely audible, slipping past his lips before he could bite it back. She felt it more than heard it, the vibration of his voice against her temple.

He went still after that, like he’d just let something slip.

And she couldn’t help it. Slowly, carefully, she tilted her head up to look at him, brushing her nose along the rough stubble of his jaw.

He inhaled sharply, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

Then, almost hesitantly, he moved, shifting ever so slightly, just enough to press his forehead against hers.

A slow, shared breath.

The space between them was nonexistent.

It would be so easy to close the distance. To press her lips to the corner of his mouth, to finally give in to whatever had been simmering between them for months.

And judging by the way his fingers pressed ever so slightly on her arm, he was thinking the exact same thing.

But.

As much as she wanted it, as much as he seemed to want it, Thomas was sitting mere inches away.

It was wrong.

All it would take was a second -a moment of distraction from the boy, a glance in their direction- and he would see everything transpiring between them.

A sudden laugh from the kid at just the right moment brought reality crashing back down. So, she swallowed, ignoring the heat curling in her body, and lowered her face slowly, resting her head on his shoulder again.

And that was when Bucky moved.

His arm, which had been resting on the back of the couch, scooped her closer, dragging her fully against him. Her cheek was pressed into his chest, and her hand landed against his ribcage, feeling his strong heartbeats beneath her palm.

She let herself sink into his body, into the way he held her there, firm and certain, like he needed it just as much as she did.

----

The movie ended, and with it, the fragile atmosphere built between them.

Thomas was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing in his seat as he fired off questions, questions that Bucky could only half-assedly answer because, truthfully, he had barely processed a single second of the film.

How could he?

Not when he’d spent the last hour fighting the urge to shift, to press closer, to let his hands wander where they shouldn’t.

Not when the scent of her arousal had curled into his senses, sweet and warm and impossible to ignore while she let him hold her, and press her against his chest.

Not when the dull ache between his legs had made every passing second feel like torture.

Fuck, he was wrecked.

She got up, answering Thomas’s rapid-fire questions easily -she’d seen the movie countless times- while making her way to the kitchen, and Bucky forced himself to move, standing up with a quiet grunt as he rolled his shoulders, discreetly tugging at his pants to adjust himself, willing his body to calm the fuck down.

A cold shower. He needed a cold fucking shower.

Throwing a glance toward the kitchen, he watched her move, hawking at the sway of her hips as she reached for a cutting board, the way she bent to reach a pot. Jesus. He clenched his jaw and forced his feet to move, heading straight for the bathroom.

----

She heard the shower start, and that was when she remembered. The towels.

Her fingers stilled on the knife for a beat before she turned to Thomas, mustering the most casual voice she could. “Sweetheart, can you take a clean towel to your dad? I forgot to put them back after laundry.”

The boy nodded happily, grabbing one from the pile and running down the hall.

And just like that, she was alone.

Alone with the feeling of his body pressing against hers. His smell. The weight of his arm. The slow, almost reverent way his fingers had traced just under her breast.

The way her body had reacted to his, aching, wanting-

Eventually, the sound of the bathroom door opening snapped her out of it.

And when she turned-

Oh.

Bucky stood there, fresh from the shower, water still clinging to his collarbone, shoulders, and forearm where he had missed a few drops before putting on a tank top that left almost none to the imagination. His beard was neatly trimmed, his jawline sharper, cleaner. And fuck, that damn ponytail again, like he knew exactly what it did to her.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze lower, only to regret it instantly.

The grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, and her stomach flipped violently, while heat crawled up her neck.

And God, then he looked at her.

Like he was devouring her with his eyes while he reached for a piece of bread from the table, biting into it with slow, deliberate movements,

She swallowed, gripping the wooden spoon tighter, forcing herself to focus on the food in front of her. Stirring. Stirring. Not thinking.

She gave the sauce one last absentminded stir, then shut off the burner.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she exhaled slowly before turning back to the table. "Alright, I should get going."

----

Thomas frowned from his seat, already settling in for dinner. "Already?"

She ruffled his hair with a small smile. "Yeah, kiddo. Gotta catch the bus before it gets too late."

Bucky, who had been watching in silence, shifted in his seat. Then, without a word, he stood, tugging his phone from his pocket and typing something before shoving it back in.

“I’ll walk you down.”

It wasn’t a surprise. It had become routine at this point, the act of accompanying her to the door, sometimes even down the street if it was late. If she ever protested, he’d just look at her. That flat, unimpressed stare that made it very clear she wasn’t going to win that argument.

So she just nodded, grabbing her jacket before saying goodbye to Thomas, who, as always, made her promise she’d be back tomorrow.

With that, she followed Bucky out of the apartment.

The hallway was quiet, save for the buzz of the overhead lights and the muffled sounds of life behind closed doors. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked at each other. Even as they stepped into the elevator.

She risked a glance at him, catching the way his fingers picked absently at a cuticle, and his jaw worked like he was thinking too much.

The elevator descended, floor numbers ticking down in a slow rhythm.

7

6

 

Her stomach flipped for no reason at all.

4

Bucky moved.

His arm slowly reached out, and before she could process it, his palm pressed the stop button.

The elevator shuddered to a halt.

Slowly, so slowly, she turned her head, looking at him.

And, oh.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… dark, intense, burning.

Her lips parted, and then-

His hand shot out.

Not to touch her. Not quite.

But close enough.

His fingers braced against the wall beside her head, caging her in, while his body got mere inches from hers, radiating heat. He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost across her cheek.

His voice, low and rough, sent a shiver down straight to her pussy.

“Tell me what you want, doll.”

Her stomach clenched, and her pulse hammered against her chest.

Oh, fuck.

There was no point in pretending anymore.

She shifted her face to the side, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

He tensed beneath her lips. But she didn’t stop.

Slowly, she traced a path along his jaw, breathing warmly against his skin, teasing, waiting, until she reached the corner of his mouth.

And then he just took what she offered.

A low sound rumbled in his chest as his vibranium hand came up, cradling her face with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger of his kiss. His other hand remained firmly pressed against the elevator wall, keeping her caged between him and the cold metal.

He kissed her hard, like he had been holding himself back for too long, because he had.

And she melted.

A moan escaped her lips as she parted them for him, surrendering as his tongue swept inside, claiming, coaxing, demanding more.

Her hands found their way to the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair, nails grazing his skin, sending shivers down his spine. His body pressed into hers firmly, as if daring the space between them to disappear entirely.

The elevator walls blurred away, and the world narrowed down to nothing but heat and mingling breaths.

He growled against her mouth, raw, almost desperate. His hands found the bare skin of her thighs beneath her jumper, digging his fingers into her soft flesh as he lifted her effortlessly, pressing her back against the elevator wall.

A gasp tore from her lips as her instincts took over, wrapping her legs around his waist, and locking him in. And then, he ground against her. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips, pressing the hard, aching length of his cock against the heat between her legs.

His eyes rolled back, as the pleasure ripped through his body like a live wire.

Fuck.

The thin fabric of his sweatpants did nothing to dull the friction, to stop the rush of sensations shooting straight up his spine. He barely had a second to gather himself, to hold on to what little control he had left, because if he didn’t, if he kept moving just like that-

He was going to fucking come in his pants like a damn teenager.

She took advantage of his momentary stillness, curling her fingers into his hair, and giving a soft, teasing tug at his ponytail. His breath stuttered, and his grip on her thighs tightened just before she latched onto the exposed skin of his neck.

Her mouth was warm, and her lips soft as she nipped and suckled at his skin, careful -too careful- not to leave a mark. Not that she could, really. She’d have to work damn hard to bruise him, to claim him in any visible way.

And still, he let her.

He thought he was going to die right there.

His neglected, touch-starved body struggled to process all the stimulus, the heat of her body pressed against him, the teasing scrape of her teeth, the friction, the fucking wetness soaking into the fabric of his sweatpants. He didn’t even know if it was his or hers or both, but he needed-

His hand moved on its own, slipping beneath her jumper, sliding up and brushing the rim of her panties, guided by pure desperation-

And then his phone blared between them.

The sharp sound sliced through the haze, snapping them back to reality for a fraction of a second.

He tensed. She gasped.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His past self had set that damn alarm. A fail-safe, a reminder, because he knew something could happen. Not this, definitely not this far, but something. He didn’t want to leave Thomas alone in the apartment for too long. Panting, he pressed his forehead against hers, squeezed his eyes shut, and muttered a curse under his breath.

She couldn’t stop herself, just one last time, and she rolled her hips against his, biting her lip when she felt just how hard he was.

His sharp gasp sent a thrill down her spine.

“Sorry,” she blurted, breathless.

His eyes snapped open, dark and hazy, his pupils blown wide. His chest heaved against hers, their warm breath mingling in the charged space between them.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he slid her down, letting her body drag against his, while his hands glided up the backs of her thighs, fingers splayed. She barely had time to catch her breath before he squeezed both hands on her ass, hard enough to make her gasp.

But before she could say anything, he exhaled sharply and fished out his damn phone, silencing the alarm. His fingers curled around the device as if fighting the urge to crush it in his palm.

“Sorry,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Thomas…”

“Of course,” she managed to say, forcing herself to focus. “He’ll wonder why you’re not back.”

She ran her hands over her clothes, smoothing fabric that had been wrinkled in his grip, and fixing her hair in a vain attempt to make herself look less like she had just been thoroughly manhandled.

Bucky wasn’t fairing much better.

She caught the way he stiffened and looked down, muttering a curse under his breath.

She followed his gaze-

A wet patch stained the front of his sweatpants, where the fabric struggled to contain his very prominent erection.

She swallowed, and heat sparked again deep in her belly.

Bucky scowled, tugging his tank top down in a pitiful attempt to cover himself. It didn’t help. At all.

With his jaw tight, he reached for the elevator panel and pressed the button, setting it back into motion. The sound of the machinery filled the small space, but neither of them spoke.

He barely even looked at her.

Couldn’t.

Not when he still felt her warmth against his skin, still tasted her on his lips, still throbbed painfully inside his damn stained sweatpants.

When the doors slid open, she stepped out first, and he followed instinctively, keeping close behind, using her frame to shield the evidence on his pants from anyone lingering in the hallway.

They walked in silence. When they reached the doorway of the building, she finally turned, meeting his gaze, with a small, timid smile playing at her lips.

Something in his chest pulled.

Without thinking, he lifted a hand, brushing his fingers gently along her cheek, tracing the warmth of her skin. And, instead of doing what he wanted -instead of kissing her the way he needed- he dipped his head and pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of her hair.

Soft. Safe.

All he could trust himself with right now.

“See you tomorrow, doll,” he murmured.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” she murmured, almost hesitant. Before he could pull away, she lifted her hand, cradling his where it still rested against her cheek.

Bucky swallowed hard as she brushed her thumb over his knuckles, slow, absentminded. Like she didn’t want to let go. But then she pulled back, releasing him and letting the air settle cool where her warmth had been.

She turned, walking toward the bus stop without another word. Will have the whole way home to think about what happened.

And him?

He had all night to regret letting her walk away.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira @technicallytinyheart @put-trash-here @chinggay85-blog @tulippix @dumblani @chuiisi @calwitch @civilbucky @neyr100 @tanyaherondale @theflowerswillbloom @stars4birdie @soberbabes @greatmistakes @littlesuniee @casey1-2007 @escapefromrealitylol @thriving-n-jiving @vxllys

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

In a World of Boys, He's a Gentleman - K. Rensuke

Fem!Reader

@ohagiyo hey look it’s your man

You've had a crush on Kunigami Rensuke for as long as you remember.

He lived right next door, and considering how friendly his family was, you and your families were both often at each other's houses, discussing the weather or the latest gossip or politics. You usually just played with him and his sisters, his older sister basically becoming your older sister and his younger sister basically becoming both your younger sister and child. Kunigami was your best friend, and you were both basically attached by the hip.

You knew that you were basic, that you weren't the only one who had a crush on Kunigami. Most of the girls at your school had a crush on him at some point; after all, he was calm, friendly, and handsome. The moment you started high school, you were thrown into the hell of receiving constant dirty looks and bad rumors about you that reached Kunigami more often than not. Despite that very fact, Kunigami was often the one to shut those very rumors, knowing that you don't go around sleeping with older men on the weekends; he literally spends the night at your house on weekends or vice versa.

Eventually, the girls who spread the rumors realized that whatever nasty gossip they say about you will never reach Kunigami enough for him to actually believe it, and they resorted to silently congratulating you for winning him over this easily but despising you at the same time. You and Kunigami were truly “that one couple” of your high school.

Except for one problem: You both weren't actually dating.

That very fact pissed all of your classmates and even teachers off to no end; I mean, who literally walks home together every day while holding hands, are partners for every single little assignment or projects, are always sharing their food with each other, always touching or holding each other in some way, have kissed before, and have known each other since they were two, aren't dating? What the fuck?

“We're friends,” you would always say. “I don't even know if he likes me back.”

He's never told you that he was in love with you after all, but you sure hoped that he was going to.

And as you're both standing outside of his house, him about to leave for some training program that the Japanese Football Union invited him to, he leans down and his lips meet yours. He pulls away after a few moments that felt like years, before he whispers “I love you. I'll come back soon, alright?”

It was the first time he had ever said it, and yet it felt as if you've heard these three little words from him for the past decade and a half every single day. You beamed, pale pink dusting your cheeks, before you replied. “I love you too. Now good luck with that program, alright? I'll wait for you to come back.”

He smiled at you before nodding and walking away, waving. And you watched as his figure slowly got farther and farther, until he was out of your vision.

And you didn't know this at the moment, you didn't realize it yet. You didn't realize that they would take your Rensuke away from you. You didn't realize that in four months, you would be staring at your TV screen, at an exhausted and stoic Rensuke, wondering what they had done to your lover.

A/N: inspired by the Taylor song “Slut!”, I'm literally obsessed with that song omg. This is also my first time writing for Kuni so…

[m00nkissedlover]

・｡Love Through Food🥘

You've ordered: a spiced cardamom tart! enjoy!

"Just the thought of not being alone gets me through"

Jamil Viper x reader | word count: 748 words

Summary: after hearing that you're not eating enough for Iftar, Jamil takes matters into his own hands 🥘 (short little drabble that i spent way too much time on-)

Warnings: reader is yuu, other than that, none!

Note: finally finished this! writer's block sucks 🫠 inspired by this post i made, encouraged to write this by @multifandom-milktea-simp 's comment on said post. can't believe there's only 10 days left T-T Ramadan Mubarak!! 🌙

Ramadan was a hell of a lot harder this year. Or at least that's what your friends thought. Not only did you have to not eat for practically the entire day, you were constantly stressed with whatever absolute bullshit Crowley made you deal with. They just didn't know how you did it.

"So, you really don't eat all day?!" Grim exclaimed, currently chowing down on a can of tuna you got him.

"Nope. I mean, I've been doing this since I was what? Ten years old?" You replied, using the extra time to do some homework.

"Jeez, I could never." the cat like creature mumbled, licking his paws.

"It doesn't seem all that complicated, Grim." You turned around at the sound of the familiar voice. And there he stood.

Jamil Viper, vice housewarden of the Scarabia dorm...and your boyfriend.

"How's the fasting going? Are you eating well when you break your fast?"

For your Iftars, you would usually just have Ace and Deuce take extra portions of food during lunch and keep them for you until sunset. You'd take the food to Ramshackle and try to turn the leftovers into something filling.

"Mhm. I usually find something to eat. Sometimes, I cook for myself and Grim in Ramshackle." you said, not wanting to worry him.

"Really? Good, good...You know..." Jamil began, glancing up at you. "I could always cook Iftar for you. It not a big deal."

"No, it's fine. Really. You already have so much on your plate..." you muttered, Jamil frowning a bit.

You didn't want to bother asking him to cook for you since he already had to do so for Kalim. But when he overheard from the Heartslabyul duo that you were basically eating whatever meatless food items they brought, it just didn't sit right with him.

"Are you sure? I can always-"

You placed a hand on top of Jamil's, gently patting his hand while giving him a reassuring smile as you stood up.

"I'm positive. My class is about to start. I'll see you later. Come on, Grim."

And with that, he watched as you left the cafeteria, a nagging feeling gnawing at him.

Even though you told him you were eating okay, he couldn't help but worry, causing him to take matters into his own hands.

The smell of various herbs and spices filled you and Grim's senses as you two made your way into Ramshackle that night. You didn't remember ever cooking anything. Maybe the ghosts made it.

As you stepped into the living area, your jaws dropped. On the table was a lavish spread of mouthwatering foods: roasted and spiced meats, sautéed vegetables, rice and beans, a pot full of curry, and various sweets. And of course pitchers of freshly squeezed juices.

And who stood at the head of the table with a smile on his lips? The one and only: Jamil Viper.

"Jamil, you..." You were so awestruck by the display, feeling your heart swell with affection. "When did you do all of this?"

"Who cares? Let's eat!" Grim exclaimed, rushing over to the table, only to be stopped by one of the Ramshackle ghosts.

You turned your attention back to Jamil, who reached out and cupped your face in his hands.

"You've been working so hard and fasting everyday at that. You only deserve the best for your Iftar, no more cafeteria food." he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you, Jamil. Really, thank you so much. I...I don't know how to repay you..." you muttered, placing your hands on top of his.

"There's no need. Seeing the look on your face as you enjoy my food is enough for me. Now come, let's eat." Jamil hummed, pulling away and pulling out a chair for you.

"About time!" Grim yelped, scampering into his seat and beginning to stuff himself silly.

"Grim! Slow down, you'll choke!" you chuckled, the cat like creature not minding your words as he grabbed another lamb skewer.

As you began to eat, your eyes widened, taste buds bombarded with various spices and herbs and sauces. It all left you speechless, your reaction being a thumbs up and a frantic nodding of your head.

Jamil was over the moon that you liked his food. Seeing you eat well after studying and fasting all day set his mind at ease, his hands moving to hold your empty one.

This was by far the best Iftar (and the best Ramadan) you'd ever had. 🥘

© m00nkissedlover, 2025

[yaut-jaknowit]

Heyo, i hope your doing alright and have a good day/night :)

I've just recently found your page and absolutely fell in love how you write and draw, please dont stop doing this :^).

Ive been thinking of mabye something like Body and culture exploration? Like lets say GN!reader just recently got with a yautja and they get comfortable enough to actually touch like their mandibles and stuff? Mabye even wanting to know more about their bio masks (like touching or mabye even putting it on) cause thats just something i would personally do. For the yautja could it Wolf? I love my elders hihi. Plus he has a missing tusk there too which i find badass

Thanks <3

(Pls dont mind the grammar, english is not my first language)

A Personal Look

Pairings: Wolf (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2004

Summary: In the home of Wolf on Yautja Prime, it's just the beginning of your relationship with Wolf. There is quite a lot to learn about him. Not just his mind but his body as well. You take a moment to learn your differences physically.

Author Note: It's all good! Thank you for the ask!

Masterlist

Ao3

Lounging in the main room of Wolf’s home on Yautja Prime, you occupied yourself with learning. Learning about Yautjas. Since said Yautja has given you a tablet to fill your time, you’ve scoured what they have for internet about them. They were mysterious and kept to themselves for the most part. Solidary creatures by nature but are willing to choose a mate. Clearly since you are here in Wolf’s home.

Admist your research, the universal wide web holds little about them. Just small articles and posts about either thoughts or lies they thought they knew about Yautjas. Some say they can read minds and teleport. Clearly those articles were thrown out. That only left you with one possible, reasonable source. Yet, even that offered little to quell your thoughts.

This was still in the beginning stage of your relationship with Wolf. The mighty Wolf. Each touch you’ve felt like you danced with fate and death. No, you don’t fear him. Instead… it was more of a respect. The first time meeting him nearly was your last. An inch closer and those blades would too sink into your skull.

Somehow, you still live.

There was something that lured you to him. The same for him. The nearing elder Yautja didn’t understand. Of course, he took matters into his own hands and asked for you to come along with him. The least he could do for almost killing you, you thought. Then, whatever that bait was enough for curiosity to spring life. Then, later… love.

It’s fresh love. Very fresh. Barely out of the womb and still soaked in fluids.

Both of you seemed to dance around each other. For a headstrong Yautja, he took a soft, almost timid approach. You would never say timid and him in the same sentence though. Wolf allowed for you to control this, as if he knew humans needed time to comprehend things. Maybe it was for himself as well. Not to rush into something so fragile.

A groan surpassed your lips. The tablet is discarded onto the nearby stone coffee table. How were you suppose to learn about them without directly asking the source? Wolf’s probably got plenty of information about humans already. Yet, all you got was females are larger than males and they breath more nitrogen then oxygen. Useless!

Up a few steps and on a balcony, sat Wolf enjoying the fresh morning air. An inquiring noise sounded from him. You sat up from the soft couch cushion and looked over at him.

Despite not knowing much about his species, you could see what would show him as an elder among his kind. The crow’s feet, the wrinkles among his face, the greying of his tresses, the way he carries himself. Don’t get you wrong, he is still a deadly warrior, through and through. But he’s lived his life. Now he enjoys relaxing and bathing in the suns of his planet. Though he is old, he’s most likely going to out live you still.

“It’s nothing,” you dismissed, not wanting to lead him onto your plans just yet. You wanted to be prepared before going into this. How were you going to accomplish that when said information wasn’t available to you? God, you wanted to throw yourself out a window.

You drape yourself partially over the back of the couch and watch from afar. Wolf lounged in peace. Eyes softly closed; chest softly rising and falling with each breath he took.

Something within you wanted to gingerly glide your knuckles along his cheek. To fully feel his skin against yours. Properly. Not these fluttering touches the two of you give in passing. A growing need to learn about him physically then move onto mentally. You wanted to know him.

“You watch,” he observed without even opening an eye. Immediately, you flustered and bowed your head, slinking back down the couch. “I was not telling you to stop.” You perked up a little and peered over the edge of the couch to find him in the same spot. “I will not bite.” Was he inviting you closer?

The lump in your throat was forced down before you slipped off of the couch and timidly stepped closer to him. Curiosity may have killed the cat but satisfaction will bring you back.

Nervously, you took each step towards in hesitation. Not of fear. Well… maybe of fear but not of him. Maybe it was the situation. Stepping into the unknown. That’s hit the nail right on the head. There was nothing to know beforehand. So all of this was new.

Sooner than you come to realize, you stand just on the edge of coverage from the harsh twin suns. Wolf blinks his bright yellow eyes open then sits up in a smooth, controlled manner. Quite the opposite of your racing heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest. He looks at you from underneath the beating suns, arms resting on his knees. A poised position of ease. You bite at your lower lip.

“You want something.” It was a statement. Your head raised only a centimeter but he watches the movement. “You are free to speak.” He’s given you all the rope possible. Every last inch of it to control the situation. “You are free to ask.”

Despite your fingers twitching towards him, you tampered down that feeling. Permission. That requires words. Words that are lodged in your throat, stuck in way that you didn’t know how to free yourself. You wanted to touch, to explore what he feels like. To learn about him in a way that you’ve never experienced ever.

Those bright eyes. The first thing saw when he brought those blades down. They pierced straight into your soul directly. They also noticed the twitching of your fingers. You noticed the twitching of his fingers. The two of you were frozen in time. Just watching. Just waiting.

Wolf gave the briefest of nods.

Then, you moved. You found your spot between his legs. The heat from the sun and him causing your core temperature to rise immediately. Though, he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, he presses a button on his lounge chair.

The awning above extended fully, covering you from gathering blisters. Yet, that didn’t stop you from feeling the heat the radiated off of him. The lump in your throat returned. Instead of letting your words speak for you, actions spoke louder.

He watched as you gingerly lifted up a hand in his direction then paused, holding the hand nearly a foot away from him. Wolf takes a moment then dips his head again. Permission granted. The unease that had settled in your chest lifted a little, giving way to hope. The corners of your mouth twitched, just enough to show off the twinkle in your eye.

When the pads of your fingers brushed against the scales of his upper mandible, you couldn’t help the small gasp. For a rugged, hardened warrior, the flesh there was smooth, nearly velvety in a strange way. Like touching a gecko. It was the last thing you were expecting from him. You couldn’t help the giggle that left your lips. Once more, you flustered and retracted you hand out of embarrassment.

Instead of letting the moment fall away, Wolf raises his own hand and waits for permission. When given it, the rough texture of his palm cups your cheek. That was more of what you were expecting. But, you didn’t retreat. You leaned into the touch and let your eyes hooded over, gazing at him with… love. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Though, the callouses were rough against your skin, you didn’t mind it. You were learning. Learning what he felt like. What a life of a hunter felt like against a human. He slowly let that hand drift down and teased the collar of your shirt then up the column of your throat. Not intimate in a sexual way… but exploring.

You helped by tilting your head back and allowed him to feel the way your throat bobbed; the fluttering of your pulse between layers of skin. Skin that was drastically different than his. His pointer and thumb pinched your jaw softly and brought you face to face with him again. You brought your hand back to his face, inches from touching him. Another nod.

Feeling the smooth flesh again wasn’t as shocking as before. But you still couldn’t help the glimmer of a smile on your lips. The softness of it with folds and wrinkles that marked his age. Years. Hundreds of them. You trailed down his mandible, feeling it twitch under you touch. Yet, you stayed clear of the scars that marred the other side of his face, afraid of upsetting him or passing over a boundary.

Wolf was smart. He could sense things before you could, sense a disturbance, even in you. So, the elder took things into his own hands. Literally. With his free hand, he wrapped them around your other wrist and brought the tips of your fingers to the gnarled skin. Your eyes jumped wide, breath caught in your throat at the touch. This felt like a true velvet than just the scales of his mandibles. Your other hand dropped to his shoulder as you focused on the scars.

Your eyes darted to his for a moment but the elder was focused on the feel of your skin. So, you took that opportunity to press onward by following up what was left of his mandible.

The scar was messy. It spider webbed across nearly half of his face and head. A painful experience you have no doubt about. A story for another time.

Though the healed wound was clutter of stretched and sinewed skin, you were memorized by the texture and patterned. You closed your eyes and let your fingers guide the way.

Inside of your mind, you forged his physical form into memory. A different way of experiencing him. You used your other hand as well to map him out. All the different dips along the dome of his head. The ridges and bumps of his features. The scales that were scattered around. Then, you slowly blinked your eyes open and smiled at him.

His own fingers found the curve of your nose. Starting from between your brows and following down the ridge, letting the lethal black claw ghost over fragile skin. The sight of it made your heart jump but he wouldn’t hurt you.

Not with the way he was looking at you.

Like he was discovering the joys of life for the first time. And maybe he was.

That same finger lingered on the tip of your nose for a moment before sliding down to the plushness of your lips. Subconsciously, you let them part. The sharp end of a claw dragged down your bottom lip, almost catching on the skin. You made no move to warn or stop him. Not even fearful he may hurt you. He stops for a moment when the tip was at the juncture of your bottom lip before continuing.

He went back up and diverted to the side. To your ear. If he thought your face was soft, when he touched your ear there was a stark difference. Wolf lightly pinched the cartilage with wonder flashing in his eyes. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped from you. To see the big bad Wolf amazed by something natural to you is amusing.

Then, up to your hair his fingers went, carding through the strands much thinner than his own. He pinched a bunch together and rolled it. The snort you made drew his attention back to your eyes. Wolf, too, dropped his hands to your shoulders in a similar fashion to you.

There. All you two did was stare at each other, admire the other’s differences. Not bad differences. Just… different. Alien if you must put a name to it. That was the beauty of it all.

Exploring each other.