#he sometimes misses but always aims for the head

[with-eunseok]

DOOM DOOM DOOM

🎧 now playing… cupid’s girl - marina

pairing: non-idol!eunseok x fem!reader

genre: smut, light angst ( 18+ ) ── 2.7k words

you’re unsure how to name what you and eunseok have but it’s growing with each passing month you spend together in the same company - no matter how much he tries to keep his guard up in fear of the past repeating itself. until one night, you finally have the chance to prove him that love is something he shouldn’t fear any longer

✎… coworkers to lovers au (outside the office), hint of slow burn, switch!eunseok, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (m!rec), edging (m!rec), cock worship, pet names, praise (f!rec), choking (f!rec)

When is it going to be your turn?

The question you’ve asked yourself, the universe, more times than you can count.

Maybe it’s tonight a small voice whispers in your head as you watch him measure his steps to the oche.

“Let’s play.” He glances at you; a lazy smirk tugs at his lips. There’s a dart between his two fingers that waits for you to take it.

The bar is much quieter now - your coworkers left almost an hour ago, other clients are starting to head home too. You can hear your own footsteps beneath the low hum of the music as you walk towards him.

Your own lips curl next.

“You sure you want to do this again? You know I never miss.”

The unserious late night dart games somehow have become your thing. A sort of ritual that grew out of weekly after-work drinks with your team.

But there’s so much more than that - between you and Eunseok.

Tension in the office, stolen glances during meetings, flirtatious comments, flowers for your birthday, coffee and sweet pastries when you overwork yourself.

Almost kissing in the elevator; almost kissing in his car after he drives you home when it rains.

But he always pulls back. Just when he’s reached the edge of what it could be, he looks away, takes a step back or murmurs a soft sorry, returning behind the walls he’s built from his pain.

You know why because he told you the story once - about the mess of lies and manipulation his ex-partner left behind.

Of course, you don’t want to push his boundaries or pressure him in any way, but it’s so hard to keep your feelings tucked away sometimes; those urges that open up inside you… the urge to soothe him with your touch, to ease his wounds with pleasure, to pick up the broken pieces of his heart kiss by kiss.

To prove him that he can love again, and be loved.

When is it going to be your turn?

To love him, and love him the way he’s meant to be loved.

Especially in moments like this, when something’s holding him back from ending the night and he allows his gaze to linger on you for longer than it’s appropriate. When his voice softens the way it does only when he’s alone with you.

“Please,” Eunseok gestures gracefully with one hand, stepping aside so you can do the first throw. “Who doesn’t love being humiliated in public places?”

“I won’t go easy on you then.” You still manage to match his humour even as you focus on lining up the dart.

Eunseok watches you carefully with arms crossed against his chest; how you move so close to him, how your fingers roll the dart for a moment before aiming it at the board, and how you tuck your bottom lip as you concentrate - he’s seen you do this unknowingly at work too.

For some reason, here - where it’s just the two of you, - the sight makes his chest flutter with something stronger.

A quick thump snaps him out of his daze, and his eyes flicker to the dartboard.

“Not bad,” he nods impressed.

It’s not perfect, but it’s definitely a good start.

You turn to Eunseok and meet his dark eyes. They look even more captivating under the dim amber glow.

“Don’t panick.” You tease, lowering your tone almost to a whisper.

Your hand brushes against his shoulder, a delicate, yet deliberate gesture to heighten his adrenaline rush. A reminder that with you, he is safe.

Eunseok parks outside your home, and you glance over at him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. His elegant fingers twitch around the wheel as if they’re debating whether he should reach out for you or keep his guard up.

“I already can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” He says quietly, and his gaze finally shifts from the empty street, settling upon you calm and steady.

“I like being with you too.” You reply, watching the corner of his mouth slide with satisfaction.

After that, a moment of silence stretches between you, but not the uncomfortable kind. Instead it feels… like an opportunity is being offered to both of you.

“What if,” you shift one hand over his thigh, “we continue the night at my place?”

You move your gentle palm with intent, cautious not to go too further; your heartbeat thumps with anticipation as more seconds pass without a response.

The view of your bold hand awakens all the deep cravings Eunseok has been too of a coward to face, but once he looks up, you can see it - he hesitates behind the lust in his eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he slightly shakes his head, “you don’t deserve it.”

“I know,” you answer softly, hoping he will hear the reassurance in your voice; that he will feel it in the way you cup his cheek. “You won’t.” Tilting his head in your direction, you lean in. “You’re not her, Eunseok.”

The effects of your warm whispers caressing his lips are clear as you sense the sudden presence of his touch on your hip.

“You’re a good person… you just need to relax a little bit.” Your hand drops to his chest where you can feel his excited heartbeat fluttering against your palm. “Trust me.”

Few seconds pass like this - you, drawing slow patterns of comfort with your hand, Eunseok tightening fingers on the side of your body, eager to slide them under your clothes.

And then, before you can even grasp that it’s finally happening - his lips press against your own.

You can feel it, the quiet acceptance in his kiss… that this, whatever it is between you, feels real. He feels it too.

Finally, he allows himself to feel more than he thought he could.

It’s in the way his mouth moves - insatiably, without hesitation. Like he’s chasing something that could slip away any moment after he’s been looking for it all his life.

His hands move to rest beneath your jaw. The light pressure from his thumbs guide your head back as his tongue swiftly parts your lips to sneak through.

Your tongues meet, and the thrill is so strong, passionate. On the instant, electricity runs through your body, heating up your skin. A quiet hum of bliss escapes you, and upon hearing it Eunseok’s lips detach softly.

“Fuck,” he exhales, pressing his forehead against yours to stay close.

“You know you want me.”

Your words, hopeful and delicate, come out slightly coy, but Eunseok catches the subtle seductiveness dripping from them. Each letter has his pulse intensifying.

“You cannot resist, not anymore.”

“I need you…” he confesses, tracing your jawline with fingertips.

Not I want you. I need you.

Need.

The word echoes in your mind, holding so much weight. Heavy with everything he’s been trying to hold back from.

Heavy with all these months you’ve been waiting for him.

When his lips find the side of your neck the following moment, they let out a thrilling sigh of relief; he can’t remember the last time he felt this light.

The moment you step into your bedroom, your trousers are left on the ground.

Eunseok pushes you gently on the bed, hovering over you with appetite glimmering in his gaze.

On the other hand, as you do oftentimes, you watch him with heart-shaped eyes; how few strands of dark hair dangle over his face, how his adam’s apple moves when his mouth slightly opens as if to speak, but turns out it’s just a reaction of bliss to his thumb swiping your lips to study their shape and texture closely.

At once, he tugs your bottom lip, then kisses you again. This time, completely out of any restraints. He’s just about to sneak a hand under your top when you switch positions without a warning.

The shift in his expression makes you smile bashfully as you settle on his lap. He’s impressed.

“Let me.” You murmur softly, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one.

As you slowly expose more and more bits of Eunseok’s skin, the only movements you catch him make are the one of his fingers that draw shapes on the sides of your legs.

Soon enough, after he remains in a pair of black Calvin Klein boxers, you remove your top, putting him in a temporary trance.

“You’re beautiful,” he draws out the words like he’s hypnotised by what’s in front of him; as though his current state of mind slows down his train of thoughts.

His eyes take their time travelling up and down your silhouette too; wanting to explore every part of you, he’s in no rush of anything.

You like that, because you wish the same.

“And you’re handsome.” An erotic ring slips into your low voice, perfectly matching the light dominance of your hand that presses against his toned chest - a quiet signal to lay back.

Eunseok’s pleased grin softens. His bare thighs fidget once or twice when your mouth hovers over his crotch, but his gaze is steady - more than ready to see your next move.

Delicately, you slide your tongue along his bulge, not breaking eye contact even for a second.

On the instant, Eunseok tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, watching you repeat the act silently. You can almost feel it… the tension in his jaw, the saliva pooling in his mouth as you trace the outline of his boner with your pink tongue.

The constant presence of your fingers, resting on the waistband only frustrates Eunseok further, but you’re so captivating - silently flirting with your eyes, scattering open mouthed kisses at his clothed tip… he cannot find the will to utter a word that could possibly interrupt this moment.

Your eyes flicker down after you earn the first little twitch; it makes your lips stretch into a playful smile.

“Can I?”

“Yeah,” Eunseok lets out a brief chuckle before he can catch it.

Your attentiveness, even after both of you acknowledge the wet spot forming, is honestly endearing.

He shifts to rest on his elbows, swallowing at the tempting sight of your mouth.

You continue teasing him - exposing nothing more than the flushed head of his cock. Blowing on it and smiling when you catch him suppressing a grunt. Twirling the tip of your tongue around it and peering into his eyes so he can see all the naughty thoughts reflected into the glimmer of yours. Attaching your soft lips for a tender kiss and sucking with a blissful hum - that gentle contact is the one to pull out the very first moan from him.

This isn’t the only kiss you end up giving his shiny tip.

Both of you humm and sigh in delight just seconds apart as you keep sucking passionately. You, because of his masculine taste, and he - from the sensation of your glossy lips hugging tight and releasing more of your spit when you ease them.

“Want to hear me beg or something?” He finally speaks up after a moment of admiring you. His voice is dropping lower the more his arousal heightens, and the more his arousal heightens the thinner his patience gets. “Is that it?”

You see his smirk stretching, slightly playful, slightly daring.

“I want you to relax.” You simply say, finally freeing him from his underwear. “You don’t need to do anything, not tonight.”

The truth is, Eunseok has been craving you for so long that if you ask him to beg - something he hasn’t done for anything or anyone in his entire life… he would.

But you don’t say anything more. Silently, you take him in your mouth and his head falls back; a long exhale of relief escapes his parted lips.

You don’t just suck his cock up and down, you worship it.

Your warm mouth soaks him wet, your soft lips applying the perfect amount of pressure as they keep dragging along his length, stretching further in order to adjust around his size.

You maintain the steady pace you picked up for a while; caressing what you can’t fit into your mouth with gentle fingers, finding pleasure in the gradual change of his breathing, in the way he starts to let out the groans building in his throat instead of swallowing them.

“Fuck—“ Eunseok reaches out to stroke the top of your head. “Just like that, you’re amazing.”

The pleasure is clouding his vision, but he can’t look away. He studies the movements of your seductive mouth, of your hands, and the way you close your eyes before you force yourself lower.

Seeing you aim to invite more of him between your hollowed cheeks, Eunseok’s hips slowly move up, helping you out by pushing the rest of his cock. His palm on your skull presses slightly, not too much, but enough for you to gag a moment later.

He groans at the thrilling vibrations, long and intensely, before you retrieve to catch your breath.

“Good girl,” he whispers, sitting up.

Before you have time to acknowledge it, his one hand is tilting your head back by grabbing your face, and his lips - breaking the string of spit hanging from your chin. His other one sneaks into your panties immediately making you whimper at how effortlessly he slips two of his slender fingers into your leaking entrance.

“What were you saying…” he mutters thoughtfully against your shiny lips, still just a breath away as he keeps his grip on your jaw, “I don’t need to do anything?”

There’s a hint of amusement dripping from his quiet voice that has your eyes flickering to his mouth, but the warmth inside you starts flowing in much stronger waves, distracting you completely. Following the rhythm of his experienced touch - of his fingers gliding with ease in your pool of arousal, pumping deeply, - the rush wraps your mind into a fog, and you close arms around his shoulders.

“You sure about that?” The corners of his mouth twitch slyly. Then, his lips part at the enticing sound of your rising moans as if he can invite them on his tongue to taste them. “You’re fuckin’ dripping for me, I think I should be the one taking care of you, hm?”

“Eunseok,” you mewl, swaying hips in the rhythm of his hand while he buries face in the side of your warm neck; his teeth graze your skin as he nibbles, toying with your sensitive spot, hungrily rather than teasing.

“I know, honey, I know…” he drags his lips to your earlob meanwhile his hand on your face drops around your throat.

As he continues to speak, his voice turns huskier, heavier with more demand. It doesn’t sound like he’s going to take care of you.

It sounds like he’s going to make you fall apart.

“How am I supposed to just lay back and not do anything about this mess?”

His palm brushes against your clit as your pussy walls squeeze onto his digits like they don’t want to let go. The squelching noise doubles beneath you.

“Fuck me, please,” you breathe out, unable to bare the urge to feel him any longer.

Your nails dig into his back as another sign of pleading. And that’s more than enough for Eunseok.

He empties your pussy, then pushes you on your back; your head’s right at the edge of the mattress, woozy from excitement and lust.

The euphoria is already buzzing through your body as he positions your legs over his shoulders, locking eyes with you as he inserts himself slowly but smoothly.

He doesn’t want to miss out on the way your gaze goes glossy at the exciting stretch, on the way you stop breathing.

After he rests his body weight on top of you, his strong hips start moving and the rush intoxicates your system ike a drug; it soakes into your bones, making you wonder how you’ve managed to live without something that feels so good, so striking.

‘been waiting for this, he chants at your ear, making your brain fuzzy, been wanting you so bad, finally you’re in my hands…

And you relish the sound of his words; the emotion he awakes in you with each next thrust, with every single kiss and brush of his fingers. They all grow more persistent, slightly rougher as the minutes pass by. The grip around your neck as your head slightly hangs from the bed tightens too.

All of those separate sensations blend together perfectly, bringing you to a climax without a problem.

Because there’s something that just works between you.

You take care of him with quiet tenderness - gentle hands, featherlight touches, a soft kind of healing he doesn’t know how to ask for.

And he takes care of you in his own way - with slight intensity, touching you like he wants to leave a deep mark. Consuming.

Somehow, like that, you create balance. A rhythm you don’t want any other way.

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise for any mistakes i’ve might missed

♡ taglist: @jaellymint

a.note ! thank you for reading till the end!! hope you enjoyed the story, and if you did, i hope you enjoyed the sprinkled lyrics of marina’s song cupid’s girl too as the plot was inspired by them <3

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt.4

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

Danny was sitting in the back, his backpack obnoxiously taking up the seat next to him, when the door to the lecture hall creaked open near silently.

“What are you in here for?” Danny asked the guy who crept into class. He sympathetically took his backpack off the Seat of Shame and allowed the guy to sit down. Funnily enough, they had the same hair and eye color.

“Gen Ed. Undecided. You?” The guy grunted quietly back.

“Environmental studies. I’m Danny.”

“Tim.”

With the implicit understanding of two people in a required class they could not give less than two fucks about, Tim and Danny tuned back into the lecture. When the class was assigned group work, Danny looked over to see Tim softly snoring, head slammed down on the table.

“Tim. Wake up, dude.” Danny poked his shoulder.

“Huh? Class over?”

“Nah, we got group work. Discussion board.”

“Oh shit, thanks for waking me up. Wanna team up?”

Danny shrugged. “Sure. We should aim to post it in the middle so the professor doesn’t read our answers to the class.”

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea. Any idea what we’re talking about?”

“Kind of?”

“Good enough for me.”

——

Tim Drake kept seeing Danny Fenton around on campus.

“Danny! Dude, what are you doing?”

Danny turned, gloved hands full of crumpled trash. “Picking up after the student population, apparently.”

“Didn’t think environmental studies was that serious.”

“Global warming is very serious, you jerk,” Danny smirked at him, crossing the grass to put the trash into the trash can. “Reduce, reuse, oil shouldn’t be spilled in water and all that.”

“Basic stuff,” Tim grinned. Nice, he basically had a friend past Bernard now!

They were friends, right?

“And yet humanity fails to comprehend it. Incredible. Incredibly stupid that is.”

“They get it. Major corporations just don’t care.”

Danny sighed. “True that. You on your way to your next class?” He took off his biodegradable gloves off (nitrile and nylon, baby!) and chucked them into the trash.

“I’ve got free time, actually. Prof cancelled for his daughter’s surgery.”

“Oh, shit, that’s rough! You wanna go downtown and join the strike?”

“A strike? What for?” Even as he asked, Tim hiked his bag higher onto his shoulder, ready to go. They fell into step as the two left campus.

“Apparently, Quillan Pharma was doing some shady shit at their manufacturing plants. I think it’s like killing kids, and pouring toxins into the ground.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Oh! Poison Ivy’s gonna be there!”

Tim blinked. He casted a sideways look at Danny. Sure he’s been here long enough to know… but it couldn’t hurt to check. “You know she’s an eco-terrorist, right?”

“Okay, but like… people suck sometimes. And all she’s asking for is like don’t kill the planet. And she doesn’t do that whole mind control thing too much anymore! The Sirens are so cool. Plus, one of my best friends at home might actually kill me if I don’t try to get her autograph. Poison Ivy is like, Sam’s personal hero.”

Tim snickered. “Yeah, okay. Mind if one of my friends join? His name’s Bernard.”

“The more the merrier,” Danny nodded. “Ooo! Hot chocolate. Want some?”

Danny bought three drinks as Tim trailed behind, texting Bernard.

“He said yes.”

“Cool! We should meet up somewhere before the drinks get cold.”

Well, Danny got the autograph. Tim got a new friend, and Bernard got a drink from his crush.

——

“Oh, you’re the glowing dude that Batman always talks about!”

Danny blinked, eyes scanning the wing-like cape and the yellow emblem on the hero’s suit. Danny was indeed glowing, stars and nebulas freckling across neon green skin, and glowing hair the color of a white dwarf star, tinged with the blue from his ice core.

“I… have absolutely no idea who you are,” Danny lied, like a liar. He’s found a surprising niche of entertainment in messing with the local vigilantes and he’ll be damned if he missed this opportunity.

He heard a snicker from the comm lines as Red Robin visibly brushes it off.

“I’m Red Robin. Why are you picking up trash?”

“Picking up after you humans, apparently.”

The both of them blink, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu. A moment of awkward silence passed before they both shook it off.

“Are you here to help? No offense, but the track record for you people is terrible.” Danny strode over and grabbed a bag. He opened it, and shook it at Red Robin’s face. “See? Batarangs, these odd bird looking ones, the R’s. Seriously, pick up after yourselves!”

“Oh, woah, can we have these back?”

Danny yanked the bag back before Red Robin could get close. “Pay me. These were incredibly tedious to pick up. Especially the batarangs. I mean, I even found a whole bunch of old rusted ones in the middle of the bay. What did you do, dump an entire bag in there from the air?”

Red Robin sighed and took out a wad of cash, with tracking fluid all over it. Danny grimaced, smelling the odd scent on the money. “That’s not real cash. It smells off. Are you trying to give me counterfeits because you’re broke?”

Red Robin gaped, oddly offended. “No! They’re real!”

“Doesn’t smell like it. It’s stinkier than the trash. Go get the one with the money, the litterer. Tell him I’ll be back the next full moon. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Danny grumbled, disappearing on the spot to watch Red Robin flounder with the stack of cash and the piles of dead bodies on the shore.

“What the fuck even is my life these days?” Red Robin wondered out loud, stuffing the cash back into his pocket. He looked over the plastic wrapped bodies and slumped, sighing.

Oddly enough, Danny felt a sense of sympathy. Well, he’s not getting paid for sympathy. He’s not getting paid at all tonight, actually. Danny flew off, plunging once more into the depths of the significantly cleaner waters, and used his ice to scoop out oil stains.

Danny glanced around and sighed. He had a lot of work to do.

——

“So you’re saying he’s like a werewolf mermaid fae child immortal god thing, right?”

Bruce grunted.

“B, what the hell are you smoking these days? You know drugs are bad, right? Do we need Superman to give you that PSA?” Jason snickered.

Tim, massaging his arms from having to haul an ungodly amount of dead bodies, grunted. He’s so similar to Bruce that it gave the people currently in the cave hives.

“He said full moon. I don’t think we can track him with regular stuff. The bugs kept shorting out.”

“Oh boy,” Dick sighed. “Don’t fall off the spiral cliff, Tim. You’ve got midterms to think about so no stalking the guy.”

“Yet,” Tim shot back, changing out of his suit.

Bruce grunted, setting aside a huge stack of cash.

[dangeroustravelermultiverse]

Neglected wintersoldier! Reader x batfam

Chapter 1 : The start of everything.

I don’t remember my name.

I don’t remember the sound of my own voice.

All I know is the mission.

My hands are steady. My aim is perfect. I don’t miss.

There’s no room for fear. No space for doubt. No time for pain.

They tell me who to hunt. I eliminate.

They tell me where to go. I disappear.

I am not a person. I am a weapon — sharpened, silent, and forgotten.

But sometimes, in the moments between orders…

I see a woman in black.

She's crying.

She's screaming my name.

And I don't know why… but it makes my chest hurt.

However all of it will be erased after the commander says the trigger word.

"оставление"

22 years ago

Y/n was just born to the wife of a billionaire. The wife of Bruce Wayne. Sure her mother and her father are in an arranged marriage but that loveless marriage created a child full of love but not enough love given. Even in a loveless marriage, her mother loves her so much but her father ? The same thing couldn't be described.

Of course when she was five years old, her father suddenly adopted her brother Dick grayson. Suddenly her father who never smiles seems to smile so brightly when Dick is in the same room as him. Of course as a good sister, she tried to spend her time with her new brother but all she got was "Sorry Y/n. I'm busy and I prefer to help Bruce." Poor little Y/n doesn't understand why her brother won't spend some time with her. At least she still got her mother !

However at 7 years old, her mother died. She doesn't understand that she seems to be the only one that's grieving for her mother. Alfred seems too busy to help Bruce and Dick and have too little time to help her. She asked for some comfort from her father and brother, but they just ignored her. Telling her that she's not the only one grieving. She just nodded her head and went to her room that's just beside her father's room but neither her father or brother have stepped inside.

At 10 years old, she got a new brother. Her father adopted a new boy named Jason Todd. He seems nice at first. Of course that's before Jason says that y/n is a spoiled princess and began to bully her. She tried to report it to her father and alfred but all she gets is "He's a good child and misunderstood, give him a chance." Well she did and Jason still bullied her.

At 13 years old, Jason died. She grieves for him even though he used to bully her for 2 years of his life living in the manor. She even argued with her father for adopting the neighbour's kid, Tim Drake as if replacing her dead brother. Of course, like a good daughter she is, she tried to communicate with her new brother. But all she got was "I have no time for you".

At 14 years old, she finally found out that her father is batman and her brothers used to be or currently a robin. She wanted to be part of their life, she trained alone , she shows her skill to Bruce but she's never gonna be enough is she ? And the most frustrating, maddening thing is, he adopted another one. This time , a girl named Cassandra Cain. She's silent like a true assassin, a true warrior a true bat. Her father loves her newly adopted sister but not her. She doesn't understand why ? Why ? She tried her best! She never disobeyed! She always nods and does her best! It's breaking her heart even more after she knows that Cass actually got to play vigilante with her father and brothers.

Years have passed , Now she's finally a vigilante even though her father still doesn't really approve of it under the name of batgirl, taking after barbara, steph and cass and then her dead brother turns out to not be dead and have a platonic love-hate relationship with her father. Although she's happy that Jason's actually alive, she's not that happy to get shot by him the day that she got shot by him though. Jason shot her because she just happened to stumble upon him in the kitchen.

Although the tip of the iceberg on her 19 years of life is when , she finds out she has a half brother. Damian Al-ghul Wayne. That 8 year old boy, despite being so little is so annoying and full of ego and pride. But as a good daughter, she tried to interact with her half brother only to be met with a tip of sword slicing parts of her left eye leaving a scar across her left eye. Of course like a sane Wayne, she kicked the little brat across the hallway only to be met with a scolding despite having a bleeding face.

"Y/n ! What have you done ?! How could you kick him ? He's just a little kid!" Bruce says as he shields Damian.

"But he started it first!" Y/n retorts back still holding her bleeding left eye.

"He has a difficult childhood ! You should know better!" Dick says as he glares at her.

The rest of them just watch her under their judgemental eyes.

Then all of them just walk away leaving her in the hallway. All she can do is drag herself to Alfred to ask for stitches on her left eye. She still can see but now her left eye has a scar across it. She can't even complain about it to Alfred knowing her pleas and sympathy would be shrugged off by the old butler because of his undying loyalty to the master of the house aka Bruce. From then on, her life in the manor begins to be like hell. At first she was just neglected and ignored but now ? She got tortured by her half brother, the little demon, Damian Al-ghul Wayne. That little demon would send his dogs and his various pets just to disturb her living space. And her bedroom besides her father's? She got moved out of it to a smaller room because Damian wants it as he is the true rightful heir like he claims himself to be. Now her room is in the far west wing of the manor. It's dusty and crowded but hey it's her room now.

By her 20s , all of them are supposed to work on a mission together. Their mission is supposed to be simple and easy. They're just supposed to stop a weapon delivery but something went wrong.

All of them got split up. Nightwing and Redhood, Red robin and Orphan, Robin and Batman. But Y/n ? The batgirl ? Of course she got sent alone.

"Batgirl, check the last compartment, the middle compartment is empty." Nightwing says through the comms.

She checked the last compartment only to find a bomb with a timer.

00:14... 00:13...

"HELP IT'S A TRA-!" but before she can finish the bomb exploded. As she falls into the river she stretched out her arms for anyone , someone.

"DAD HEL-" before she can say anything else she falls into the rushing cold river in Serbia.

Two years later

They are still trying to find her body. A clue or anything but nothing can be found. They regret all the things that they have done to her. The neglect, the abandonment, the torture.

Meanwhile Y/n is actually not dead yet, two years ago, one of the recruiters a scientist, found her unconscious body. They brainwashed her into becoming the perfect winter soldier.

The mission was a failure.

But she was a success.

Note: I hope all of you love this because this is my first time writing a fic. I got inspired by some neglected reader fanfic and thought why don't I make this more traumatizing by making her life like Bucky except without the Blonde hair american best friend. 😆 Feel free to comment!

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 13: "The one with the day after" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The aftermath of your night with Frankie isn’t what you expected—and maybe that’s not a bad thing. As you settle into this new rhythm, your thoughts rearrange themselves somewhere between interruptions, selfies, and a lingering cold. WC: 15.6k

A/N: Let's breath. You said you liked the long chapters—so here’s a long one. I hope you enjoy it; this one’s for my spicy girlies <3 Thank you for all your comments—I read every single one, even if the notifications don’t always hit my inbox and I take a while to reply. It means the world that you're enjoying this story, I absolutely enjoy writing this!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Frankie reached out, his hand brushing against the cool, empty space next to him. His fingers lingered there for a moment, as if the sheets might give something back to him —some sign you were still close. But you weren't. He opened his eyes, squinting toward the doorway. His heart gave a small, restless lurch.

He called your name. No answer.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. That uneasy feeling—the one that curled bitterly at the edges of his stomach—started to creep in. The light felt too harsh, too loud. He closed his eyes against it, squeezing the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to overthink.

Then: the sound of a door closing softly. Barefoot steps brushing against the hallway floor.

You appeared, standing there like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Hair loose, face bare and fresh, wearing only the white T-shirt he had thrown you the night before and the red panties he could still vividly remember sliding down your legs. 

"Hi," you said, your voice hushed, touched by sleep. You smiled, and for a second the sunlight caught the edge of it, made it look almost golden. You crawled back into bed, curling onto your side to face him.

Frankie dropped onto his back again, turning his head toward you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

"I thought you'd left," he said.

You reached out, running your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"No," you said. "I just went to wash my face." Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. "I hate waking up with makeup still on."

He tipped his head slightly toward your touch, hungry for it without realizing. "Did you find anything useful in there?"

"Not really. But I had makeup wipes in my bag."

He huffed a quiet laugh, something easing in his chest just watching you. Your face looked softer, almost unbearably tender, and maybe he could have resisted reaching for you—but he didn’t want to. He didn't have to. He pulled you into him, your body tucking against his like you belonged there.

For a while, he drifted. He wasn't entirely sure if he had fallen asleep or just let himself hover somewhere close to it. You were still there when he opened his eyes again, your breath brushing against his bare chest in steady, even puffs.

Frankie leaned down, pressing a light kiss against your cheek. You smelled so good. Warm, familiar, sweet. It wasn't perfume. It was just you.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little rough, "you still want to try that coffee I told you about?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "That would make me really, really happy."

And Frankie thought: good. Good, because he was already thinking of ways to make you stay.

“Hey,” you said, just loud enough to pull his attention back to you. Frankie turned his head, his gaze landing on you.

You pointed toward the piece of furniture in front of the window, your finger aimed precisely at the object sitting on top.

“You do have a lava lamp,” you said, a grin spreading across your face.

He looked over, then back at you, his mouth already pulling into a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling, his voice a little raspier than usual. “Yeah, I do. It's old, my dad gave it to me when I was like twelve.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frankie was standing in front of you, watching you like he was waiting for some verdict that might change the course of his day. He had placed a cup of coffee in your hands barely ten seconds ago, his fingers brushing yours briefly, intentionally or not.

You took a sip and then closed your eyes, tipping your head back.

“Yes,” you said, with a soft, satisfied sigh.

You didn’t say anything else.

Frankie arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “Yes? That’s it?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, lifting the cup again to your lips, the corner of your mouth curving into a smile.

He let out a short laugh, cradling his own mug loosely between his hands. He tilted his head a little, as if studying you from a new angle.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm and teasing.

You turned your head to look at him fully, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated suspicion before giving him a flirtatious grin.

“Sorry,” you said, tapping his bare stomach lightly with your fingertips. “I was busy savoring it.” You gave a small shrug, playful, self-assured. “It’s amazing. I never thought I’d say this, Francisco, but you were right.”

There was a tiny pause, a hitch in the air between you. Frankie stepped closer. He thought of something clever to fire back, something to match the spark you lit in him so easily, but the words never quite made it to his mouth.

Instead, he set his coffee down on the counter without looking away from you, then reached for your face, cupping it between his hands. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, grounding him more than they grounded you. Your eyes caught his like they had no other choice.

He kissed you, and it wasn’t rushed or impatient; it was simply inevitable. His lips found yours with a kind of easy certainty, the world narrowing to the soft, tender pressure between you. His hands slipped down to your waist, fingers pressing into your hips.

You fit against him so naturally. The thin fabric of the shirt between you did little to hide the way your body warmed his skin.

You lifted your arms, looping them around his neck, and the kiss deepened instantly, a small, involuntary sound vibrating from your throat into his mouth. It rattled something loose inside him.

It was ridiculous, honestly, how easily you could unmake him. How one sound, one kiss, could turn his blood into something reckless.

There had always been a part of Frankie that stayed careful, measured — even with the people he loved, even in the bright, stupid recklessness of his twenties. Lust had always been something he could control, contain. It never unraveled him like this.

But with you, it was different. With you, there was no polite distance between desire and need. No moment of standing still, thinking better of it.

Apparently, he was the kind of man who lost his mind over a kiss. The kind who forgot how to breathe when your hands touched the back of his neck. The kind whose body wanted things long before his mind had time to catch up. The kind who felt a desire bigger than his own body. 

And maybe, today, he didn't mind at all.

Frankie pushed you against the counter, his hands finding your thighs easily, lifting you in one smooth movement until you were perched at the edge, your legs parting instinctively to fit around his hips. Your breath caught as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers sliding down his abdomen like you couldn’t help yourself.

"Let's do it again," you said, a wicked glint flashing in your eyes. It wasn't even a suggestion.

Frankie laughed under his breath, a sound more strained than he meant it to be.

"What?" you teased, the innocence in your voice barely covering the hunger underneath. "You told me to use my words, didn't you?"

He smiled at you, or at least tried to. The expression faltered slightly as he felt your hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. His body went tight with anticipation.

"Yeah, I did say that," he murmured, voice low against the side of your neck, his teeth grazing the sharp line of your jaw. His hands tightened briefly on your thighs. "Then tell me, baby. Tell me what you want."

He could feel it in the way you shivered against him —the way you responded to being asked, like it made you braver.

"I want to feel you," you whispered, your fingers stroking the back of his neck, playing with the soft curls there. "I want to have you in my mouth."

Frankie pulled back enough to see you clearly, the way the sunlight poured over your features, the way your pupils were blown wide with desire.

"And then," you said, your voice breaking slightly on the next words, "I want you to fuck me. Like you mean it. Like you know exactly how bad I need it. Tell me, have you thought about it?"

He went quiet for a moment, letting your words sink in. They sounded strange in his mind, coming from you—words he never thought he’d hear you say. It felt odd, hearing you say something like that about him. And yet, the feeling passed almost as quickly as it came, slipping through the cracks before he could hold onto it.

He decided, almost instantly, that he liked the sound of your voice like that. So he smiled, lopsided and undone, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

"Sometimes," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I forget how goddamn good you are with your words." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Now show me what else that mouth of yours is good for."

You bit your bottom lip, smiling against his skin, before sliding off the counter, sinking to your knees in front of him. The sight of you like that —willing, gorgeous, utterly unbothered by the fact that he was already shaking inside— knocked the air from his lungs.

Frankie rested one hand against the counter to steady himself and brushed the other along your cheek, the gesture reverent even as the tension between you grew unbearable. You weren't looking at him. Your focus was entirely on the task in front of you, on your fingers curling around the band of his boxers and easing them down, revealing just how ready he already was for you.

He could see it in your eyes, too — the same raw need tightening his chest, threading through his veins.

Your hand wrapped around him and began moving, measured and excruciating, and Frankie had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, letting the pleasure override whatever guilt or hesitation might have still been clinging to him.

When you flicked your tongue over his tip, he opened his eyes immediately, refusing to miss a second of it. You looked up at him, smirking a little, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him —and maybe you did.

He didn’t care. He was too far gone to care anymore.

You leaned in, your mouth hovering just above him, watching his reaction closely. One hand steadied you on his thigh, the other moving with cruel, perfect precision. Frankie tangled his fingers in your hair, less to guide you and more because he needed something — anything — to hold onto.

Then, you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, the heat of you making him curse under his breath. When you pulled back, dragging your lips over him, he almost said it — almost told you to take your time—but he caught himself just in time.

He knew you didn’t want instructions. You didn’t need them. You knew exactly what you were doing—and you were going to ruin him with it.

Your mouth moved with increasing certainty, every shift of your lips, every glide of your tongue drawing Frankie deeper into the kind of pleasure that made rational thought impossible. Your hand stayed at his base, fingers firm, your grip confident and perfect, squeezing just enough to make him shudder under your touch. Your mouth was so warm around him it almost hurt, like the heat itself might undo him.

His eyes caught yours —bright, sharp, impossibly dark—and you didn’t look away as you adjusted the rhythm, your own need matching the urgency rising between you. Frankie dug his fingertips into the edge of the counter, grounding himself there, every muscle in his body pulling taut like wire.

"You're so beautiful," he choked out, the words escaping without permission, barely more than a rasp between the uneven breaths stuttering out of him.

You pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet sound that made his stomach tighten even more. You stroked him once, twice, your fist gliding slick over him, before licking your lips, messy and unbothered. Drool shimmered on your chin, a bright thread against your flushed skin, and without missing a beat you grabbed the hem of his white T-shirt — the one you'd slept in — and wiped your mouth with it.

Frankie thought he might die right there, from the sheer brutality of how beautiful you looked.

There you were: cleaning yourself with his shirt like you were scrubbing away any lingering innocence he might have imagined clung to either of you. He felt wrecked by the sight, by the effortless way you ruined him without even trying.

When you leaned forward again, flicking your tongue against him in a teasing stroke, something in him snapped. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling you back, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"Stand up," he ordered, his voice low, cracked open by need.

You obeyed immediately, the quickness of it making his blood roar. Maybe there were some commands you didn’t mind after all.

The second you straightened, Frankie caught your mouth with his, the kiss messy and insistent, hands greedy as they mapped the curve of your hips, the soft weight of your ass. He hoisted you onto the counter again like you were weightless, like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Kicking his boxers off his ankles without even glancing down, Frankie’s hands found the hem of your shirt —his shirt— and pulled it over your head in one swift movement, tossing it aside.

You leaned back on your hands, chest lifting with every breath, eyes half-lidded and glittering as you watched him.

Frankie pressed his mouth to the side of your neck, kissing the skin there hard enough to leave a mark, breathing you in. He moved lower, tasting the slope of your collarbones, the soft, sensitive skin along the tops of your breasts. You smelled like soap and sweat and him, and he didn’t know if he wanted to worship you or devour you whole.

Maybe both.

He paused, just shy of kissing the spot where your skin begged for it.

"Shit," he muttered, voice thick with frustration, eyes squeezed shut like he could will away whatever was clawing at his mind.

You stiffened under him, fingertips sliding up to the back of his neck. "What? What's wrong?"

Frankie opened his eyes, looking at you like it physically hurt him to pull away.

"I'll be right back," he said, peeling himself off your body like it required an impossible effort.

You sat up straighter as he backed toward the hallway. "Frankie, what is it?"

"I'll be back, don't move," he called over his shoulder, already halfway gone.

Frankie wasn’t a man who prayed. Not really. But in that moment, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged whatever god was listening to let there be a condom left somewhere, anywhere. Preferably in the nightstand.

He yanked open the drawer, heart hammering, scanning the cluttered mess. Empty. He clenched his jaw.

He knew it, he had known it —last night he'd used the final one, and had briefly, irrationally, thanked the universe for his own foresight. But hope was a stubborn thing.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath, slamming the drawer shut.

He checked the bathroom too, frantic now, rifling through shelves like maybe he had forgotten a secret stash. Nothing.

It wasn't like he could even blame himself. His sex life had been non-existent for months, maybe more. There had been no reason to keep a stockpile.

Still, he cursed himself the whole way back to the kitchen.

And then he saw you.

Still perched on the counter, wearing nothing but those tiny red panties, your hair messy, looking like some fever dream he'd conjured.

You smiled when he came back into view, and reached for him.

"I—" he stopped just in front of you, feeling like an idiot. "I don’t have any more condoms."

Your smile faltered, a tiny ripple of disappointment crossing your face.

"Oh."

"We can—" he started, fumbling, desperate to not lose the moment.

"I'm on the pill," you cut in, calm, your hands brushing down your bare stomach to rest lightly at your hips. "And I’m clean. If you want—"

"You sure?" he blurted out, faster than he meant to.

You bit back a laugh.

"Yes, Frankie. I'm sure."

Frankie exhaled, a short laugh shaking through him. "Well, I’m clean too."

"Yeah, I figured," you teased, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and bright.

He kissed you back properly, this time with both hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish.

Your panties shifted under his touch, and you lifted yourself without hesitation, letting him peel them off and toss them aside, forgotten.

“I’m naked, running around my house, and you’re laughing at me,” he said against your lips, amused.

You smiled, light catching your teeth, and he kissed you again, tasting the laughter on your lips.

Your hands roamed — over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his chest — while he lifted one of your legs, resting your heel on the counter, the other leg draping over his shoulder like you belonged there.

"Don’t think just because I like you that you’re getting special treatment," you murmured.

Frankie grinned against your mouth. "I don't expect it."

He cupped your waist with both hands, steadying you, anchoring himself. He would need every ounce of control he had left to survive this.

Carefully, he shifted his hips closer, the thick head of him brushing against you, and you broke the kiss to watch — to actually watch — as he started to push inside you.

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening, and Frankie thought, incoherently, that he would never forget the look on your face right then, not if he lived a hundred years.

His hips began to move, cautious at first, almost like he was testing the strength of what was happening between you.

Frankie watched where your bodies met, watched the way you grew slicker each time he pulled away and pushed back in. It was hypnotizing, enough to make his mind empty out completely.

Your breathing was ragged, the sound of it filling the kitchen, and when you looked up at him, your pupils were wide and glassy, lips kiss-swollen and parted like you couldn’t catch enough air.

He felt something coil tight in his chest — something reckless and unfamiliar — and it unnerved him, but not enough to make him stop.

A low moan slipped from your mouth, almost involuntary, and you threw your head back, exposing the long line of your throat.

Something inside him broke apart.

Frankie moved faster, driven by the sight of you unraveling right in front of him, by the noises you made every time he pushed deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, wet and urgent, with your breathing getting sharper, quicker, and the soft, almost desperate cries you couldn’t hold back anymore.

He crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that felt like it might actually leave bruises. When you bit his bottom lip as he pulled away, he made a low, broken sound in the back of his throat.

"Those fucking sounds you make," he said roughly, his voice cracking apart as his pace became more reckless, more wild, the sound of his hips meeting your body growing louder.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching him like you were afraid he might disappear, leaving shallow half-moons in his skin.

Your heel slipped from the edge of the counter but Frankie caught you without hesitation, grabbing your leg and hitching it over his hip, tugging you flush against him.

The new angle had you gasping, your body shuddering beneath his, every nerve ending lit up, and he could feel you trembling as he buried himself inside you again and again.

Little broken sounds escaped your mouth every time he moved, high-pitched and involuntary, and when you pushed forward abruptly, there was a sharp gasp of pain.

"Ouch," you whimpered, your forehead resting briefly against his shoulder.

He paused, instincts cutting through the haze in his mind.

You had bumped against the edge of the counter.

Frankie's hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a rare, tender gesture.

"Shit, sorry," he whispered, kissing your temple, his chest tightening at how small you felt against him in that moment.

Without any warning, Frankie slid you off the counter, catching you easily when your legs buckled under the weight of what you'd both been doing.

He noticed it right away —the way you trembled, your knees brushing against his as you tried to steady yourself.

His hands found your hips again, grounding you, and he turned you around. One hand smoothed down your spine, tracing the curve of your back like he was committing it to memory, until he reached the small tattoo just down there. His thumb pressed into it, soft and possessive, and he felt you shiver in his hands.

He pushed you forward, guiding you until your palms and stomach flattened against the counter. With his knee, he nudged your legs apart, shifting you into place like you were the only thing in the world he knew how to handle right now.

For a second, he just looked at you —took in the sight of you bent over, waiting for him, the muscles in your thighs tense, your back arching into the air. He swore under his breath, almost undone by it.

Frankie lined himself up behind you and slid back inside with a breathless curse, gripping your hips tightly enough that he wondered if he'd leave bruises.

It didn’t take long for him to build back the rhythm he needed, the sound of your bodies clashing filling the kitchen, raw and chaotic. You made a noise —high and desperate— and the sound shot through him like an electric current.

"I want to see you," you gasped, shifting, pushing yourself up so your back pressed against his chest.

His hand moved instinctively, skimming up your belly, palm flattened over your ribs, then higher, gliding over your breasts with reverence he wasn’t sure he deserved.

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, and he saw it —the way your face was flushed and open, like you were unraveling right there in his arms.

His fingers slid up to cup your jaw, holding you there, forcing you to keep looking at him. You moaned, louder this time, your body tightening around him as he moved harder, each thrust pulling another broken sound from your throat.

Your right arm reached up blindly, finding the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

Frankie’s breathing grew ragged, his movements growing uneven, messy around the edges.

Your voice broke the air —a soft, involuntary "yes," barely louder than a breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, too overwhelmed to look at you, but your words clung to him, dragged him closer to the edge.

"I know you're close," you whispered, voice low and certain, like a secret only you were allowed to know. "I can feel you."

He kept one hand firm on your jaw, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down your front, his fingers finding the delicate spot between your legs with practiced ease. He felt the way your body trembled, the way you clung harder to his arm, your nails pressing into his skin.

"Francisco," you whispered — the way you said it, almost broken in two.

"I know, baby," he breathed out against your hair, voice fractured, helpless.

You fell apart then, a choked cry leaving your mouth as your body caved against the counter. Frankie moved instinctively, pushing you down gently, bending you at the waist in front of him.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice uneven, broken slightly by his own ragged breathing.

You didn’t answer—didn’t even seem to hear him, really. You were somewhere else entirely.

“Baby,” Frankie said again, softer this time.

“Huh?” You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes hazy.

“Where do you want it?”

You blinked, and for a second, he thought you might not reply. But then you said, “I—I, um, inside,” the words barely more than a whisper.

“You sure?” 

You didn’t say anything this time. Just let out a soft, aching sound and closed your eyes again, your body answering for you.

His hands gripped your hips like he might lose himself otherwise, thrusting into you with a desperation he couldn't contain anymore, every nerve in him strung tight and burning.

He threw his head back when he felt you clench around him, his heart hammering, the sounds falling from your lips driving him straight over the edge. The air between you was a collage of broken moans and harsh breathing, bodies colliding over and over.

His rhythm faltered as he felt himself giving in, gasps tearing from his throat as his climax crashed through him. Frankie kept one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other bracing your waist, and he pulled you back into him as the last shudders rolled through his body. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the damp skin of your neck, like he could somehow say everything he felt without speaking at all.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The aftershocks hummed through your bodies, your breathing slowly beginning to settle.

When he finally pulled out of you, he caught sight of the mess between your thighs, evidence, and his stomach twisted painfully with a kind of wild affection he wasn’t ready to think about.

"Stay here," he said, voice rough, thumb tracing your spine. "Don't move."

He stepped away reluctantly, running a hand over his face as he made his way down the hall.

His heart was still pounding, his blood still running fast and bright in his veins, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was over.

He found a towel, wiped his face, then brought it back for you.

You were waiting exactly where he'd left you, eyes hazy and mouth pink from kisses. He cleaned you up carefully, then leaned in to kiss you, soft and slow.

"I really need a shower," you said, your arms looping lazily around his neck.

He smiled and nodded, feeling like he'd just survived something that might wreck him all over again if he wasn’t careful.

Frankie watched you lower yourself onto the sofa. Your hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and you were dressed in his clothes— a black cotton T-shirt and pijama shorts. You dug around in your bag, pulled out a lip balm, and applied it with absent-minded precision, your eyes unfocused, as if your mind was somewhere else entirely.

The phone on the coffee table vibrated sharply, breaking the fragile stillness. You picked it up, thumbs moving lazily over the screen, typing something you didn’t seem particularly interested in.

Frankie lowered himself onto the cushion beside you and switched on the TV, stretching his legs out, one hand resting lazily against his stomach. He could still feel the heavy satisfaction of breakfast sitting in his gut.

After the shower, he'd made another pot of coffee because the first one... well, had gone stone cold. So you had sat at the kitchen table across from him, eating breakfast with a kind of quiet, ravenous focus that made him strangely tender toward you. You chewed through a piece of toast, staring at it longer than necessary, like you were solving a puzzle only you could see.

Now, he was warm and half-asleep, the room around him vibrating gently with the television’s glow. He ran a hand through his hair — still faintly wet — and yawned into the back of his wrist. His thumb pressed idly against the remote, flipping through channels without focus until something made you shift beside him.

"Oh, leave that one," you said, tossing your bag behind you carelessly and setting your phone face-down on the table.

Frankie hesitated, glancing at the TV. It was Friends, some old episode he half-remembered from a lifetime ago.

He was about to make a joke about it when he felt your hand, warm and light, pressing into his ribs. He turned his head toward you, and found you already looking at him, your mouth twitching.

He gave you a crooked smile. "I— I don't know if I can do it again yet—"

"What?" you cut in, your voice high with amusement, a real smile stretching across your face now. He blinked at you, bewildered, for a second too long. "I'm trying to get you to lie down so we can watch TV," you said, laughing. "What the hell did you think I meant?"

Frankie exhaled a short, embarrassed laugh and glanced away, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh," he muttered. "Right."

You let out another bright little laugh and pushed at his shoulder until he slid down the sofa, stretching out lengthwise, his body heavy and pliant under your hands.

You climbed in beside him, nestling into the space between his arm and his ribs like it was made for you. As you adjusted, you squeezed his arm, teasing.

"What?" you said, grinning. "Tell me, Francisco. What were you thinking just now?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, smiling without looking at you, his eyes darting back toward the TV.

"So smug," you muttered, laying your head against his chest, draping your arm over him. "You're letting it go to your head, aren't you?"

He snorted, shaking his head in mock defeat.

"I just misunderstood you," he said.

"I didn’t even say anything," you pointed out, still laughing under your breath. "I just touched you."

"Yeah," he said, "but you're full of surprises, aren’t you?"

"Mhm. Sure. Whatever you say." Your hand played idly with the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging and smoothing it down again. "Right now I'm just full of toast and coffee. And very, very sleepy."

You let out a breathy sigh, your voice low and easy now, sleep already threading into it.

"Don’t let me pass out, okay? Emma’s leaving at eight. I need to be home before two."

Frankie made a low sound of agreement and slid his hand up into your hair, his fingers moving through it slowly, carefully. On the TV, the canned laughter echoed through the room.

He thought about how strange it all was, but also how strangely right it felt. As if this had been inevitable, written into the way things had always been, even though he knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. It hadn't always been this way, and pretending otherwise would only make the conversations you were eventually going to have even harder. Conversations about last night. About this morning. About the impossible weight of it all, sitting on his chest like something too large and too familiar to ignore.

He knew it wouldn’t be about admitting anything — there was no point anymore in telling you he liked you, that you made him feel every difficult, beautiful, complicated thing a person could feel. That part was obvious. It had bled through the spaces between you without needing to be named. But the rest of it — the consequences, the questions neither of you had the courage to ask yet — still blurred at the edges of his mind, a mess he wasn’t ready to sort through.

There was one thing, though, that he understood with perfect clarity: he didn’t regret any of it. Not a second. No matter how messy it could get.

It wasn’t as if this had happened out of nowhere. God knew he had thought about it — about you — for the last two weeks with a stubborn persistence that bordered on cruel. He buried himself in work, in meaningless tasks, anything to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind elsewhere. Hell, he even tried to quit smoking. But every night, without exception, you returned. You slipped into his mind at the edges of sleep, no matter how tightly he tried to close the door against you.

Sometimes the pull to reach out was unbearable. To call you. To show up at your door with takeout and ask you to put on one of those movies you were always talking about. He'd picture it sometimes — your bare feet on the coffee table, the way you’d laugh, the way you’d look at him when you weren’t trying to be careful. But every time, the same thought stopped him: maybe you didn’t want that. Maybe you needed space after what had been said between you.

And then there was Bill.

Frankie had known from the beginning what might happen. Santi had mentioned you were spending more time together for work. It seemed inevitable. A matter of days, maybe weeks, before something shifted between you and Bill in a way it hadn’t with him. It would be easier that way. Cleaner.

He should have let it happen.

But when Emma started listing all of Bill’s perfect qualities at the bar last night, something inside him recoiled. It was pathetic, the way he sat there, wanting to vanish into the cracked leather of his chair, knowing he couldn’t compete, knowing he shouldn’t even try. You deserved simple. You deserved someone who didn’t make everything harder.

Still, somehow, against every better instinct, he had stood up from the table. Some invisible thread tugging him, pulling him toward something he didn’t even understand yet. He didn’t wait for you to appear next to him, didn’t expect you to. And he certainly hadn’t prepared for what came next — for the look in your eyes, for the quiet, reckless thing in his own voice when he asked if you wanted to leave with him.

As if the choice had already been made. As if some part of him — some deep, stubborn part — had been choosing you all along anyway.

On the TV, Ross was grinning, his too-white teeth catching the studio lights.

Don’t fall asleep, Frankie thought, his mind sluggish. Stay awake.

He let his eyes close for just a second.

Just... a... second.

The sharp sound of the doorbell dragged him out of it. He blinked hard, his whole body protesting the movement, the heavy pull of sleep still thick in his limbs. You were draped across him, completely still, your breathing steady and soft against his chest.

He stretched one arm out toward the coffee table and fumbled for his phone. 1:45 p.m.

Shit.

You’d both been asleep for over an hour.

The doorbell rang again. Frankie shifted carefully, easing out from under you, doing his best not to wake you. You made a small sound but didn’t stir beyond that, your face slack with the kind of deep sleep that only comes when you stop fighting it.

Frankie padded toward the door, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. His body felt too warm, too heavy, like he'd been underwater. He peeked through the narrow curtain hanging by the window.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs.

Santi was standing outside, looking right at him through the glass, raising his eyebrows like he was in on some joke Frankie didn’t know he was telling.

Frankie backed away from the door instinctively, putting more distance between himself and the window.

"Uh, just a minute," he called out, his voice cracking slightly.

Without thinking, he hurried back toward the sofa, panic crawling up his throat. He hoped — prayed — that from the porch Santi couldn’t see anything, couldn’t piece together what had just happened, what he was about to walk into.

He crouched beside you and pressed his hand lightly to your shoulder, whispering your name once, then again.

You didn’t wake.

"Shit," Frankie hissed under his breath, glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the door.

He touched you again, a little firmer this time. You stirred, blinking at him with a foggy, confused expression that made his heart twist.

"Santi’s here," he murmured urgently.

You sat up immediately, your whole body jolting into awareness.

"What?" you said, your voice still rough from sleep. Your hair was messy and dry now.

Frankie handed you your phone, practically shoving it into your hand. "Go to my room. Now."

Without waiting for more, you clutched the phone to your chest and disappeared down the hall, moving quicker than he'd ever seen you.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he made his way back to the door.

When he pulled it open, Santi didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside like he owned the place, brushing past Frankie without hesitation. Frankie shut the door behind him and trailed after him into the living room, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and dread collecting under his skin.

"You look good," Frankie said, trying to sound casual. His voice felt like it caught a little on the words. "I figured you'd still be nursing a hangover."

"It's all appearances," Santi said, waving a hand as he dropped heavily onto the sofa, his body landing with a thud. "Inside I'm dying."

Frankie let out a short laugh and slumped down next to him. "You're old."

Santi tilted his head back, laughing properly now, the sound low and easy. "You're not exactly a spring chicken either."

Frankie shook his head, smiling despite the tightness gathering in his chest. Santi clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.

"Anyway," Santi said, stretching his arms out in front of him, "I came by to see if I could borrow your mower."

"You’re telling me you dragged your hungover ass across town at nearly two in the afternoon for a lawn mower?"

Santi shrugged, completely unapologetic. "You said it yourself, man. I'm old. I like my lawn neat." He made a vague sweeping gesture with his hand. "And besides, you're the only one of us responsible enough to actually own a functional mower."

"What happened to yours?"

"Engine’s toast. It’s dead. Beyond saving."

Frankie nodded, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a little. "Yeah, no problem. You don’t have to ask."

Santi gave a quick nod of thanks, his eyes drifting lazily across the room. He went still after a second, his gaze catching on something, next to him.

Frankie followed his line of sight.

His stomach dropped.

Santi was looking at the bag — a deep red one with a little silver star keychain dangling from the clasp — sitting right there, between them, like a fucking silent confession Frankie hadn’t thought to hide.

Santi’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Wait a second," he said, his voice light, teasing. "Are you... with someone right now?"

Frankie blinked, his brain stumbling over itself. "Huh?"

Santi nodded toward the bag. He didn't look suspicious, only amused, but that didn’t make Frankie feel any better.

"I, uh…" Frankie cleared his throat, searching for something neutral to say. "Yeah," he managed, aiming for casual. It could be anyone’s bag. It didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe Santi wouldn’t recognize it. God, he prayed Santi didn’t recognize it.

Santi grinned, slapping him lightly on the thigh as he pushed himself off the sofa.

"Man, you could’ve said so. And I'm here interrupting. No wonder you ghosted last night."

Frankie’s face burned hot. He scrambled up too, his hands finding his hips in a nervous, restless gesture. A laugh — shaky and a little too loud — broke from him.

"Come on," he said quickly, spinning toward the door like there was nothing unusual about any of this. "I’ll get you the mower."

Santi followed him out without another word, the two of them stepping into the afternoon sunlight. When Frankie handed over the mower, Santi just grinned at him, that same mischievous glint in his eyes, and winked before climbing into his truck.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to.

Frankie stood there for a moment after the truck pulled away, the hum of the engine fading, feeling like his heart was still lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You waited until you heard the front door shut and counted a few seconds, standing there barefoot in the stillness of his room. Then you stepped out.

In the living room, Frankie was slouched on the sofa like his body had folded in on itself. His head tilted back against the cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes like he couldn’t bear the light, or maybe the moment.

“Hey,” you said, your voice quieter than usual as your feet padded across the floor.

He didn’t respond right away. You sat in the armchair next to the sofa, knees angled slightly toward him.

“What happened?”

He exhaled. Slowly, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped. His eyes found yours.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

You gave a small shrug. “Just that he came to get a mower. Then I couldn’t hear anything. You started whispering.” You paused, tilting your head. “Why? What was it?”

Frankie shook his head, one short motion, like he wanted to shake it all off. “He asked if I was with someone.”

You blinked. “And what did you say?”

“That I was.”

“Francisco—”

“He doesn’t know it was you,” Frankie interrupted, waving one hand loosely in the air. “He thinks it was someone from the bar.”

“You told him that?”

“No. He assumed. I just... didn’t correct him.”

“Oh.”

You folded your arms, your gaze drifting to the coffee table between you. There was a stain near the edge of it—maybe old coffee, something long dried. You stared at it for a moment like it might hold an answer.

When you looked back at him, his face had shifted—like something inside him had turned heavier. He wasn’t meeting your eyes anymore.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently. Your voice felt different coming out of you—quieter, less certain.

He pressed his lips together and nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just feel weird about lying to him. It’s not sitting right.” He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes scanning your face like he might find some relief there. “It doesn’t feel good.”

“I know,” you said softly. You leaned back in the chair, resting your hands on your thighs. Your fingers toyed with each other, knotting and unknotting in your lap. “It doesn’t feel great to me either.”

Frankie reached up, scratched the back of his neck. His mouth parted slightly like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

You let a few seconds pass. Then you said, “You know we’re not doing anything wrong, right?”

Your voice was quiet, but steady. He looked at you again.

“We’re adults, Frankie,” you continued. “And we’re not hurting anyone.”

“I know we’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, leaning back into the cushions like he was trying to make space between the two of you, physically if not emotionally. His hand swept through his hair, raking it back, then falling to his lap. “But still—he’s my best friend. I know him. And I’m telling you, without a doubt, he wouldn’t want me anywhere near you like this.”

You tilted your head, a crease forming between your brows. “Like what? He spent years trying to get us to be civil. I imagine he’s just relieved we finally figured out how to be in the same room without yelling.”

Frankie let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t land—more of a breath that twisted in his throat, the edge of a smile flashing and then fading before it could mean anything.

“Yeah,” he said. “He wanted us to get along. As in, be polite. Exchange basic human niceties without biting each other’s heads off. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely between you, not even bothering to name it. “Not sneaking around. Not ending up in each other's beds.”

You gave a short, thin smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Right. Because I forgot I was supposed to ask for his approval before sleeping with you.”

He groaned, your name low and exasperated in his mouth, dragging a hand over his face like he could rub the tension out of his skin.

“Come on,” he said, looking at you now. “I know you don’t agree with what I’m saying, but can you try—just try—to understand where I’m coming from?”

His hair was a mess now, sticking up in every direction. It made him look younger.

You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence open up between you, a long breath of distance, before responding.

“I do see,” you said finally, your tone clipped but not cruel. “Your best friend showed up at your house, and meanwhile his sister was hiding in your room after having sex with you. It’s awkward. I get that. Of course I get it.”

Frankie looked at you, then down, his gaze landing on your hands like they held something he couldn’t figure out. He inhaled again, deeper this time.

“But you think I’m making it into a bigger deal than it is,” he said. “You don’t think it really matters.”

“That’s not true,” you said quickly. You shook your head, almost defensive. “That’s not what I think.”

“Be honest with me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted to the far wall like you were trying to find a neutral place to anchor your thoughts. A few hours ago, everything had felt light. Easy, even. Now, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and nothing felt simple anymore.

“We’ve had this conversation. I do understand what you’re saying. But I think you keep framing it like something catastrophic has happened. What exactly did you do wrong? You were nice to me. You’ve been sweet with me. What’s so terrible about that? If I like it—and I do—what’s the harm in you liking me back?”

Frankie was quiet for a second, eyes still on you. Then, voice flat but not cold, he said, “Let’s just say you’re right. Even then—it wouldn’t matter. He still wouldn’t want someone like me getting involved with you.”

You blinked. Your expression shifted.

“Someone like you?” you asked, eyebrows lifted. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with you?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression thoughtful but not entirely present, as if part of him had already begun pulling away. You could sense it—the quiet, almost imperceptible construction of a barrier between you. Not cruel. Just protective. Defensive.

“He knows me better than anyone,” Frankie said. “He’s seen the worst of it—every stupid thing I’ve done, every time I’ve blown something up that I cared about. He’s my brother. I know he loves me. But don’t think for a second that he wouldn’t want something better for you,” he added. “He knows what I’m still trying to fix. No matter how much he cares about me, don't fool yourself—he’d still want more for you.”

You let the silence stretch out for a beat.

“I think you’re confused,” you said calmly. “What makes you think he gets to decide what’s good for me? What I want, what I need—that’s not his call to make. That’s mine.”

Frankie exhaled and tried to respond, but you cut him off before he could get the words out.

“No,” you said. “And I don’t understand why you’re acting like this now, after last night? You let yourself feel something for five minutes and now one knock on your door and you're back to default mode.”

“It’s not like that. It isn’t.”

“It looks exactly like that,” you said. “You told me we should have boundaries. Then you kissed me and then you didn’t speak to me for two weeks. Two full weeks. You acted like you’d made peace with that decision, like you were fine with keeping your distance forever.”

He didn’t answer. 

“Why did you ask me to leave the bar with you last night?” You asked, voice louder.

“What?”

“Why, Francisco?”

He stared at you, his jaw set, confusion mingling with something harder.

“I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Why?”

He pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing at them like the motion might bring clarity.

“What do you mean why? Because I like being with you.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter now. “But you have my number. You know where I live. If you wanted to be with me, you could’ve shown up literally any other time. You waited until we were all sitting there, until we were surrounded by the people we’ve been hiding this from. You barely even looked at me the whole night. Like just being seen near me was risky. And then Bill comes up, and suddenly you stand, and next thing I know, you’re asking me to come with you.”

Frankie looked at you like he wanted to protest but didn’t know where to start.

“I...I don’t know,” he said, his voice caught somewhere between honesty and deflection. “It just happ—”

“Do you want to know what I think?” you interrupted, and your voice trembled near the end of the sentence. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just watched you, his eyes heavy with waiting. “I think the rules we agreed on, the distance you kept, felt perfectly reasonable to you. Until you thought there might be someone else.”

“That’s not true,” he said instantly, a little too quick.

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t know wha—”

“Then tell me!” Your voice cracked, not from anger, but from something more fragile.

“I just... I'm sorry,” he said, his voice rising, cracking under the weight of it. “I just know that last night I needed to be near you. And I didn’t know how to stop that.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. There was a pause, one neither of you filled.

Then you said, “Yeah, well. That turned out to be one hell of a mistake, didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a mistake for me,” he said, his voice clear and steady. His eyes didn’t move from yours. “Not for one second. I don’t regret it. Not last night. Not this morning. Not crossing that line with you.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. You blinked up at him, and the heat behind your eyes was instant, unforgiving. Tears clung to your lashes, not falling yet, just gathering, making everything shimmer.

“Then what are you doing?” you asked, your voice firm, but uneven at the end. “You’re constantly contradicting yourself. You say one thing, then act like none of it matters. You look like it’s killing you when Santiago comes up. But then you turn around and say you don’t regret any of it. So which is it? What are you going to do?”

“I just—” he exhaled hard, his posture faltering. “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

“You’re not going to lose him.”

He didn’t answer, not right away. His mouth opened and closed again. You could see the words catching behind his teeth, whatever truth he had trying to find a way out.

“And if you’re really this scared of Santi’s reaction,” you added, the edge still sharp in your voice, “then maybe you don’t know your best friend as well as you think you do.”

“I—”

“Or maybe this is just easier for you. Maybe it’s more comfortable to hide behind all this guilt and fear than to just say what you want. Because honestly, I don’t think you’ve thought about any of this without trying to put a label on it first.”

Frankie dropped his gaze, like he was following some invisible thread unraveling at your feet. The silence between you stretched, but it was not tense. When he looked back up, his eyes had softened.

He held out his hand, palm open, fingers curling slightly in a wordless invitation. You watched his hand for a moment, deciding. Then you placed yours in his, your fingers slipping between his like it was muscle memory.

He gave a gentle tug and you rose, knees brushing his. In one fluid, practiced motion—like he’d done it in a dream a hundred times—he drew you into his lap. His arm came around your waist, the other finding your wrist, thumb resting in the hollow there like he was memorizing your pulse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. His gaze didn’t waver this time. “This… it’s new to me. And I keep stumbling through it. Especially when it comes to Santi. It messes with my head. Makes everything feel strange.”

“I’m not exactly in the right place for any of this either,” you said, your voice low but steady, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, it’s over between me and Harry. Fully, completely. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for this.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Then what do you want?” he asked. His voice was quieter now. “Do you even know what you want out of this?”

You looked at him, and your throat went dry. The question made your mind turn to static. You didn’t answer right away. There were too many things happening in your head at once, and none of them felt solid enough to touch. But something in you clicked toward honesty, maybe because it felt like anything else would be pointless.

“I don't. I’m just as scared as you are,” you said finally, your fingers touching his arm. “I don’t have it figured out. But I know I feel good when I’m with you. I feel safe. And I didn’t expect that. Not with you, of all people.” You gave a small, startled laugh, as if the truth of it surprised you even now. “You understand me in ways that... I don’t know. I didn’t see it coming.”

You inhaled deeply, searching for your next words.

“I don’t know if I can define what this is right now. It’s too soon for me to wrap it in a neat explanation. But I know I want to live whatever this is without pretending it’s not happening. Without tiptoeing around it. I just don’t know if you’re ready for that. And I... I can see how much this is weighing on you,” you said, your voice quieter now, as though afraid too much volume might crack something between you. “I don’t want to be the thing that adds more weight. I don’t want to be something you have to carry around like guilt.”

His response came fast, too fast, “You’re not. God, you’re not. You’re not making anything worse.”

“Maybe that’s what you want to believe but something about all this is getting to you. What happened didn’t feel wrong to me,” you said, almost in a whisper now. “Not for a second. But a few moments ago? The way you looked at me, like you were already trying to undo it in your mind... I hated that.”

Frankie nodded, the motion subtle, like he was still working through the shape of his thoughts. His gaze dropped to your lap, settling there. He stayed quiet for a few breaths, and you didn’t push him.

When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“That’s not how it happened in my head,” he said, eyes still not meeting yours. “I swear, it wasn’t— I don’t regret this. Not even a little. It wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. I had time to think, to think about you. Two weeks, actually. And I used them.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and understated, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to show it yet.

You felt something light bloom in your chest. “So you thought about me?”

He gave a short, almost embarrassed snort. “Just a little.”

That made you laugh, a warm sound that belonged entirely to this version of the two of you—this strange, unfolding thing neither of you had a name for yet. You leaned in, your hand finding the familiar line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your palm. His skin was warm. You kissed him, your mouth brushing his like you’d done it a hundred times before, like it didn’t still terrify you a little. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you in with a quiet urgency, like he needed to feel more of you, like just the kiss wasn’t enough.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were on you now. Alert.

“Don’t overthink it, okay?” you said, your voice softer now.

He nodded again, this time without hesitation, and kissed you once more—quick, grounding.

“We’re just pretending, after all,” you murmured against his mouth.

He smiled.

When you opened the door, Emma didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at you, really looked—her eyes dragging slowly over the length of you, from your shoes to the crown of your head. Her gaze lingered on your face for a beat too long before she finally spoke.

“No way,” she said, sitting up straighter on the couch, clutching Mr. Darcy to her chest like he might need to hear this too. Her expression flickered—shock first, then glee. “You look criminally guilty right now.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, ears burning. A giggle escaped your lips, light and uncontrolled, almost like someone else had let it out. Embarrassment was a warm thing in your throat.

You told her everything. Naturally. Or, well—almost everything. The version with soft edges and edited scenes. Not for lack of trying on her part; she asked pointed questions, raised her eyebrows, made dramatic gasping noises until you were both doubled over in laughter.

Her excitement was instantaneous. She got so animated that her own cheeks flushed, her hands moving as she repeated things back to you in disbelief. But when the laughing ebbed, when the story was laid out like puzzle pieces between you, she reached for your hand. You let her take it.

“But you know you can’t rush into this, right?” she said, quieter now, as if saying it too loudly would tip everything over.

“I know,” you replied, your voice softer too. You leaned back into the couch. “We talked about it, in the car. It was—god, it was a whole conversation. I told him I didn’t want this to spin out before we even knew what it was. I said I’d write him sometime this week.”

Emma didn’t even blink. “Right. You’re going to write him tonight.”

You laughed immediately, half out of horror, half out of recognition.

“I’m not!”

She gave you a look, all sharp humor and affection, her lips pulling into a knowing smile.

“Yes, you are. You’ll pretend it’s casual. Something cute. Like a question about flight times or—what, turbulence? You’ll make it sound logistical.”

“I’m not that transparent,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “Besides, I saw him this morning. I’m trying to be chill. I’m maintaining mystery.”

Emma snorted. “Babe, any mystery you had died sometime between last night and sunrise. Pretty sure there’s no going back after someone’s seen you naked and sweaty and probably begg—”

“Oh my God, Emma.”You groaned, burying your face in your hands. 

When you finally uncovered your face, you looked at her—still flushed, still warm, but smiling now.

“I’m not calling him. I’m not writing him,” you said. “We agreed to talk later in the week.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, eyes glittering with mischief. “Which means you’ll call him tomorrow. Monday. A whole new week.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I won't!”

You didn’t. You didn’t need to. Because the next morning, while shelving a stack of biographies alphabetically—something that should have been soothing, or at least numbing—your phone vibrated in your pocket.

You wanted to believe you could’ve waited. That you could’ve finished straightening the line of uneven spines, wiped the thin film of dust from a few neglected covers, completed the task like a well-adjusted adult. But you didn’t. Not even close.

You fished your phone out of your jeans in a practiced, clumsy movement, nearly knocking over a memoir about mountaineering. The screen lit up in your hand. A message. Of course it was from him.

A photo.

Frankie.

It was a selfie, taken from a slightly awkward angle, like he’d held the phone low, somewhere near his chest. He was wearing those dark aviator sunglasses you’d teased him about once, and a pair of heavy headphones—the kind with the padded ear cups and the mic curving toward his mouth, like he was narrating something important from the sky. Behind him, the cockpit of a small plane blurred into view—wires and dials and sky outside the glass. His expression was technically serious, but you could see it, just at the edge of his mouth: that crooked thing he did when he was trying not to smile.

His hair was a mess. It looked soft, too, falling in uneven tufts over his forehead like he’d run a hand through it and then forgotten to fix it. Below the image was a single line of text:

Think about adding ‘flying lesson’ to your bucket list.

You smiled. Not thoughtfully, not hesitantly—your face just did it, all at once, without asking permission. The kind of smile you feel in your ribs. It was stupid how easy it was.

You typed back:

[You]: I will. Let me know if you know anyone good at it <3

[You]: Are you working right now?

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, or tried to. It buzzed again before your hand left the fabric.

[Francisco]: I know a guy

[Francisco]: And I’m not texting while flying, if that’s what you’re asking.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened a little anyway.

[You]: Okay. Let me think about it.

Read.

You stood still for a moment in the middle of the aisle, the dusty silence of the bookstore briefly folding in around you like a blanket. Then another buzz.

Typing…

Typing…

[Francisco]: Do you have anything to do tonight?

That afternoon, after locking up the bookstore and folding the security gate down with both hands, you walked three blocks to the supermarket and wandered through the aisles like someone with all the time in the world. You bought candy. Frankie had once mentioned, offhandedly and with a shrug, that he liked gumdrops and chocolate-covered peanuts. So you found both, holding the bags in your hands for a beat longer than necessary. 

Later, sometime just after eight, he showed up at your door holding a greasy paper bag that smelled like heaven. Burgers, fries, something carbonated in two cups with plastic lids and too much ice. He grinned when you opened the door and held up the food like an offering. 

You ate at the kitchen table, your knees bumping occasionally under the wood. No music, just the soft ambient sound of the refrigerator humming in the background, and Frankie making you laugh. He told stories about his coworkers, about mishaps during training sessions, the absurd things people said on radio calls, or when one of them once dropped a walkie-talkie in a porta potty and tried to fish it out with a wire hanger. And you found yourself leaning forward with your chin in your hand, smiling like someone on a first date. But this wasn’t a date. This was Frankie.

After dinner, the two of you migrated to the couch without really discussing it. The overhead lights were off, the living room soaked in the amber hue of the table lamp. He picked the movie—Christine, some weird eighties horror about a car that could think for itself and kill people. You rested your head on a pillow at one end of the couch and stretched your legs across his lap, trying to act casual about it. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you caught him resting his hand lightly on your ankle at one point, his thumb tracing a mindless shape there.

By the time the credits rolled, your mind had moved away from the film entirely. You could feel your heart beating in your throat. The idea had crept in during the last twenty minutes—quiet at first, then louder: Should I ask him to stay?

It was ridiculous, maybe. Or maybe not. You’d slept at his place once... Yeah, you did. He’d crashed at yours, too, drunk after a wedding. But both times had been circumstantial, convenient, semi-justified by context. This would be different. This would be you asking for something. You inviting him in, not out of necessity but because you wanted him there. With you.

“I should get going,” he said, cutting into your thoughts with the calm certainty of someone who hadn’t just thrown your internal world into chaos. He stretched his arms over his head, the hem of his T-shirt lifting just enough for your eyes to catch skin. He turned to look at you, his smile soft, almost apologetic.

“Already?” you said, glancing at your phone. 10:23 p.m. You looked back at him, not quite hiding your disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I had a really good time.” He reached for your chin, touching it gently, his thumb brushing your skin. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“Oh,” you said, quieter than intended.

For a second, it felt like he was going to kiss you. The way his body turned toward you, the quiet tension in the air between you—it was almost unmistakable. But then he looked away, instead fixing his gaze on Mr. Darcy, who was perched sleepily on the armchair like he was the one responsible for chaperoning the evening.

A few minutes later, you were walking him downstairs. You opened the front door and he stood on the threshold, one hand braced casually against the frame, his eyes soft in the dim porch light. You thought he might say something else, but instead, he just looked at you for a long second, and then—

He kissed you.

His hand came up to cradle your face, warm and certain. His lips were soft, unhurried, the kiss full of something quieter than urgency but no less intense. You reached up, your fingers brushing the back of his neck, and he leaned into you—deeper, steadier. One of your hands found his chest, the other resting lightly against the fabric of his jacket. His hand was at your waist now, grounding you.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes met yours—deep brown, coffee, the kind of color that turned darker at night, pupils wide in the dim light. You could feel your own breath catching.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back a little, as if needing more room to explain. “Oh, I won’t be around this weekend. We’re going to Boston—me, my mom, and Mai. Going to see Luna. Henry’s not feeling great. He’s been having a rough time, I think.”

“Oh no, what happened?”

“They’re not exactly sure. Or maybe they are and Luna’s just not telling us everything yet. It’s all kind of recent.” His gaze shifted off to the side, then came back to settle on you again. “She’s the oldest. She gets this way sometimes. Like it’s all on her to manage. Doesn’t always let us in.”

You nodded. “That must be hard. Being far away.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “I wish we were closer. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with Jamie too. At first, the trip felt like it might be... intruding? Like we’d be in the way. But then my mom said Luna actually asked us to come. And I dunno, something about that made me want to go even more.”

“When do you leave?”

“Friday morning.” He nodded once, almost to himself, then glanced at you again, studying your face like it calmed him somehow. “I was thinking—when I get back, we could pick up where we left off with your list.”

You smiled. “I’d love that. Which item?”

“That’s up to you. What do you feel like doing?”

You tilted your head, squinting slightly like you were concentrating very hard. Frankie laughed.

“All right,” he said. “You can tell me when I’m back.” His smile lingered as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got time to think it over. Or add something new.”

“I will,” you said, grinning now.

He started walking backward toward his car. “But I’ll see you before I go, right?”

You leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“You can’t shake me off that easily anymore.”

You laughed. “Good.”

The week passed quietly, the days folded in on themselves—work, errands, evenings spent helping Bill—and you didn’t really register their passing. Everything felt muted, like background music playing at low volume. You were content to let it be that way.

On Tuesday, Bill showed up at the bookstore just before your lunch break, holding a cappuccino in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

“Coconut cake,” he said, placing it carefully beside your laptop. “Thought maybe you’d want to come to dinner tonight. Julie’s been asking.”

You said yes before really thinking about it. 

He lived just ten minutes from the you, in a two-story house that looked like it had been loved for a long time. The porch light blinked once when you rang the bell, then glowed steady, casting a soft yellow halo over the front steps. Inside, the floors creaked under your feet in a way that felt more like a welcome than a warning. The rooms were layered in warm colors—muted greens, soft terracottas—and every surface had their touch: a worn mug left on a windowsill, stacks of books arranged without order, a half-burned candle that still smelled faintly of pine. A dog named Arthur, the size of a small bear, greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who truly believed you’d come just to see him.

Julie took your hand and tugged you through the house, her voice spilling out in quick, enthusiastic bursts. She showed you Bill's room, then her's—pausing reverently by a shelf of books to point out her favorites. Meanwhile, Bill moved around the kitchen, tossing garlic into a pan, stirring something thick and fragrant. He poured you wine without asking. The food was really good. Not just passable or “dad good.” Actual, proper, you’d-pay-money-for-this good.

The night stretched on without effort. You laughed, a lot. And the more time you spent with Bill, the more clearly you saw what people loved about him. He was kind in a way that felt active. Intentional. He listened when you spoke, remembered things you’d only said once. He was an excellent father—that part was undeniable—and probably an even better friend. Whatever Emma or Santi thought they saw, you didn’t feel it. There was no subtext in his glances, no lingering pauses or suggestive remarks. If he harbored some quiet affection for you, it wasn’t the kind that asked to be noticed.

You asked yourself if maybe you were missing something. If you were brushing past a nuance you ought to catch. But no. You were a good reader of people—better than most. You’d known when others were pretending not to want things. Bill didn’t strike you that way. He simply liked having you around. And you liked being around him.

On Wednesday, Frankie texted you mid-morning: Dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up.

He picked you up at eight, punctual. He asked what you felt like eating, and you told him to choose. You meant it, too—you didn’t want to make decisions that night. You wanted to see what he thought you’d like.

He drove you to a grill, the kind of place you wouldn’t have looked at on your own. Inside, it smelled like smoke and rosemary and something vaguely citrus. The lights were and made everything feel slightly warmer. It was, really good. The food was better. He ordered for both of you after checking if that was okay. You said yes before he could list the options.

You spent nearly two hours there, not in a hurry, not really aware of the time at all. People who worked there knew him—not just nods of recognition, but real, easy conversation, the kind you only fall into when someone has been showing up for years. You liked watching that version of him: at ease, occasionally distracted by someone calling his name. You liked seeing what the world looked like when he was inside it.

When you left, the air was colder than you remembered. You pulled your sleeves over your hands as you walked to the car.

In the driver’s seat, he turned toward you but didn’t start the engine.

“You wanna come to my place?”

You looked at him. His voice had wavered just slightly when he said it.

He added, “To spend the night, if you want.” Then glanced away, and back again. “No pun intended.”

You laughed, because he looked genuinely unsure for a second.

You didn’t mind, either way. If he had a motive, you weren’t in the mood to dissect it. You might’ve had one too.

“That sounds good,” you said. “But I should swing by my place first, grab a few things. That okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a little smile, already reaching for the gearshift.

When you got back to your apartment, he walked in behind you. He stayed by the couch, crouched beside Mr. Darcy, who purred so loudly it almost sounded fake. Frankie scratched behind his ears and didn’t rush you. He just stayed there, one hand still on the cat’s head, while you tucked a few things into your bag and closed the windows for the night. Before leaving, he pressed a soft kiss into Mr. Darcy’s fur and whispered something you didn’t quite catch.

At his place, you ended up on the sofa with a movie playing—something neither of you really paid attention to. Your legs brushed a few times, but nothing happened. Eventually, your eyes began to flutter closed, and Frankie noticed before you did.

“Want to go to bed?” he asked, like it was a real question.

You nodded.

But once you lay beside him, the sleep slipped out of reach. Your mind went suddenly alert, wide open. The awareness of his presence just inches away took up all the space. Not in a tense way, but in a heightened one. You stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, barely breathing.

Just a week ago, you weren’t even speaking to him. You’d wondered what he was thinking, where he went when he disappeared into himself, and whether any of it had anything to do with you. The space between you had felt like something structural, something permanent.

Now you were lying next to him, your body relaxed, as if this had always been a possibility. As if there hadn’t been days—weeks—of restraint and awkwardness and keeping track of how long it had been since you last made eye contact. Somehow, without really noticing it, you’d stepped past all of that. And this? This felt absurdly easy.

And it wasn’t like anything outrageous had happened. He’d invited you to stay over, and maybe something more would happen, but even so—it didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like something between a joke and a dare, playful, not overwhelming. There was nothing unraveling inside you. You weren’t spiraling. And it was... nice.

He shifted beside you on the pillow, turning just enough to catch your expression.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Frankie asked, his voice dipped in amusement. “You’ve got those eyes. Crazy eyes.”

You blinked. “What? I do not.”

“You do,” he said, grinning now. 

You laughed, moving toward him instinctively, resting your cheek against his chest. You angled your head to look up at him, your chin pressing into the fabric of his T-shirt. His hand found the small of your back, easy and grounding.

“Call me crazy again and see what happens,” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

He widened his eyes in mock fear. “Oh no. What are you gonna do, eat me?”

“Worse.”

“I’d honestly like to see that.”

You kissed him. Just a brief press of your lips at first but it didn’t stay that way. Your tongue teased the inside of his lip, and he let out a low sound that vibrated under your cheek. His hand tightened on your waist, then slid lower, anchoring you to him. You lifted your leg over his hip, instinctive and teasing. His breath caught, and when you reached down between you, pressing over the fabric of his clothes, he hardened against your palm with a quiet, involuntary groan.

You smiled against his mouth.

Then, without warning, you pulled away. Your leg slid off him. Your hand retreated. You rolled onto your side and adjusted your head on the pillow, your back now facing him.

“Good night,” you said lightly, amused by your own cruelty. You smiled into the darkness, knowing full well he couldn’t see it.

He didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation, feel the shape of his attention still focused entirely on you. The heat of it.

A few seconds passed.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice lower now, like he’d sunk into the mattress. “Good night.”

You heard the faint rustle of the sheets as he turned behind you. And then everything went still. Except your heart, which hadn’t quite settled yet.

Ten seconds went by. Nothing.

Another ten. Still nothing.

You stayed where you were, wrapped in the kind of silence that starts to feel personal. You didn’t say anything. Not yet. You wanted to see if he would break first. He didn’t.

Finally, you shifted, sitting up.

“Mhm. Sorry—it’s kind of warm in here,” you said lightly, like the heat had crept up on you. “Do you mind?”

Frankie turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.

“I can turn up the AC. Or grab the fan?”

You shook your head, smiling, already tugging at the toes of your socks. “I’m good.”

You peeled them off, one by one, and tossed them beside the bed. Then your fingers found the waistband of your pajama shorts. Without hesitation, you slid them off and flung them toward the far side of the bed—his side. You didn’t look to see where they landed.

Lying back, you stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved. His back was still to you. Either he was very committed to pretending not to notice, or this was his idea of restraint. You watched the curve of his neck for a moment, the edge of his jaw. You let a smile creep onto your lips.

Then you took the hem of your T-shirt in both hands and pulled it upward, lifting your hips to free it from under you. As it passed over your head, you felt a light breeze—barely there—touch the new skin exposed to the room. You balled the shirt loosely in your hand and tossed it, purposefully, to land just in front of him.

Still nothing.

You sighed like you meant it, settling again on your side, back turned to him, your eyes falling shut with calm.

A few seconds passed. The mattress shifted behind you.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and cautious, settling lightly on your waist, fingertips barely skimming your skin. His chest hovered just out of reach.

His voice landed beside your ear. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

You shrugged, eyes still closed. Said nothing. Made no effort to face him.

And then—without warning—he yanked you toward him with a single, fluid pull, his hand firm at your stomach, his body suddenly pressed against yours. You gasped, surprised, and then let out a laugh that broke in the middle.

He was laughing too, quietly, into your neck. His hand moved up, steady, his palm resting just under your breast, his thumb brushing the curve of it like it was an accident.

His mouth found your shoulder. He bit you gently, just enough to make you squirm. Then he kissed the spot, soft and maddening.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured. “You’re ticklish.”

His voice vibrated against your skin.

You twisted a little in his grip, breath hitching.

“Not fair,” you said, your voice muffled.

He grinned into your shoulder. “I’m not trying to be.”

You reached back without thinking, your fingers threading through his hair, guiding him closer. Your head tilted, cheek brushing his as you glanced over your shoulder. It was dark, not pitch black, but muted—just enough moonlight slipping through the window to see his face. His eyes were the clearest thing about him, steady and unblinking, watching you.

Then his hand moved. First, it skimmed across the softness of your stomach, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes on your skin, like he was getting reacquainted with it. You felt his breath at your shoulder before his mouth found it, his lips moving upward along your neck, mapping the curve of your jaw before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss was patient, unpressured.

He slipped one arm beneath you, anchoring himself to your ribs, pulling you closer so your back rested snug against his chest. The press of his body made something flutter low in your belly.

And then his other hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers parting you gently, brushing between your folds. You breathed against his mouth, the sound fragile, instinctive. He circled your clit with the same quiet focus, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, just happy to be here. The sensation bloomed across your body, sharp and tender. You arched against him, seeking more, feeling the firmness of him pressing against the curve of your ass.

Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers continued, moving in tight, even circles. Every nerve in your skin lit up, your nipples tightening in the cool air, your body reacting in ways you didn’t have to think about. Frankie exhaled behind you, uneven, his hips shifting closer. He pressed himself against you like it was involuntary, like he couldn’t help it. You pushed back into him, greedy for the friction.

Then, with a low sound in your ear, he guided one finger inside you.

You gasped, your hand tightening in his hair.

“This from the tickling?” he murmured, amused, voice rough and almost hoarse, as if speaking cost him something.

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back toward him, guiding his mouth to yours again. His kiss was messier now, more open, his tongue coaxing yours as he slid a second finger inside you. He moved them with precision, pressing into the spot that made you keen softly, his palm catching against the base of your clit with every stroke.

The pressure built in waves, your hips moving in small, instinctive motions, trying to follow the rhythm he gave you. He was fully hard now, pressed flush against you, and your whole body was humming, breath shaky.

Then, without warning, he withdrew his hand.

Your mouth parted, confused—but he didn’t leave you hanging long. He kissed you again, soft and sweet and then just a little smug.

“Open,” he said, his voice low and sure.

You obeyed.

He slipped his fingers into your mouth, and your tongue met them willingly, curling around the taste of yourself, tasting the salt and heat of what he’d done to you. He watched you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You didn’t look away.

He liked the way you looked right then. And you liked that he did.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, he brought them to his own without thinking, like tasting you was a kind of instinct he couldn’t resist. Just a second—then he was reaching for the drawer beside the bed, fingers brushing quietly through whatever else was inside before he found what he needed. He set the condom on the table, its presence casual but charged—he bought more, you thought—and began undressing with a calmness that made you ache.

You slipped your panties down your legs, kicking them to the floor before lying back into the same position, your cheek resting against the pillow, the sheets cool under your skin.

You heard the sound of the foil tearing behind you and then the mattress shifting under his weight as he came back to you. You rolled slightly onto your side to meet him, propping yourself up on your elbow. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a second like he was grounding himself, then slid his arm beneath you and drew you close, the contact warm and comforting.

His other hand moved your neck, fingers settling gently at the base of your skull, thumb grazing your throat. He kissed you in little fragments—several short, breathless kisses that weren't feel hurried.

You could feel him nudging at your entrance, his body flush against your back. You ran your hand across his arm, your palm pressed over the muscle of his forearm, and held on as he began to push inside you.

It was different this time. Not rough, not wild—just something else entirely. Every thrust was measured, grounded, like he was trying to feel everything, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of you. And for some reason, that made it hit deeper. It wasn’t just physical—it was intimate in a way that made your chest tight.

He moved into you with precision, hips meeting yours again and again, his pace unshifting but strong, the repetition making your whole body throb. You closed your eyes. Let your head fall forward. You could feel your pulse between your legs, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers.

His mouth found your shoulder, then your back, kissing a line down your spine in between thrusts. When he bit gently at the skin just below your neck, you let out a sound you hadn’t meant to make. He kissed the spot in apology or affection—you weren’t sure which.

There was no chaos in this. No rush. Nothing pulling you away. It felt like the only thing in the world was his body against yours, his hand holding your waist.

You breathed in deeply, not to calm yourself but to hold the moment a little longer.

Because for the first time in a long time, you felt entirely unguarded—like being touched by him was not something you needed to analyze or defend against. It was just good. Good in the kind of way that didn’t demand anything else from you.

You pressed your hips back against him, and he let out a soft, fractured breath near your ear. And everything inside you felt like it was finally allowed to let go.

The week slipped in quietly.

Frankie left early Friday morning. He sent you a picture from the plane—a blurry shot of the wing against an overcast sky, a coffee cup in the frame. He didn’t write much with it, just a short caption and a little airplane emoji. Still, it made you smile. 

You spent the weekend indoors, your body still weighted by a lingering cold that made everything feel just slightly out of reach. Reading gave you a headache, so you let yourself drift between reruns of half-forgotten reality shows and movies you’d seen a dozen times. You dozed through some, watched others with a kind of passive affection. You stayed in pajamas longer than you meant to. You ate soup from a mug. It was quiet. Not unhappy, but not particularly anything.

On Sunday afternoon, Frankie texted to say he was staying in Boston for a couple more days. He didn’t elaborate. You asked about Henry, and he replied that he was doing fine. Just that. It wasn’t that you expected more, exactly—it was just that something inside you had already started picturing his return. You didn’t realize how much you’d been counting on that until it slipped a little further out of reach.

On Monday, you stopped by Bill’s to pick up a coffee. The light outside the window was pale and wintry, even though it was barely autumn. You closed the bookstore early—not because you had to, but because your head was still pounding slightly and your limbs felt heavy. You told yourself it was just residual exhaustion. Nothing serious.

When you got home, Mr. Darcy greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t seen you in weeks. He hopped onto the couch and pressed himself against your leg like a loyal, if slightly overzealous, nurse. His version of affection included a surprising number of claws. At one point, he kneaded your arm so hard you winced, but you didn’t push him away. You just scratched behind his ears and told him he was forgiven.

Santi came by on Wednesday, despite the message you'd sent that morning insisting you felt fine. He showed up mid-afternoon with a brown paper bag in one hand, a crumpled plastic bag of medicine in the other, and a look that said arguing would be pointless.

“I’m staying for a few hours,” he said simply, stepping past you into the house. “Just enough to take care of you. Like the excellent big brother I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway.

You curled up together on the couch, a shared blanket over both your legs, and watched reruns of That '70s Show. At one point, your head tilted against his shoulder, and you stayed that way for a while, letting your eyes trace the patterns in the ceiling or the soft flicker of the TV screen.

But then his breathing changed and when you glanced up, you found him dozing. His chin tucked slightly toward his chest, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.

You smiled. Gently, you shifted away from him, pressing your fingertips against his arm as you moved.

His eyes flew open, confused and almost startled. He blinked at you, disoriented.

“You fell asleep,” you whispered, amused. “That’s all.”

He sat up straighter, rubbing his face and stretching out with a groan.

“Ah. Sorry. This couch does things to me.”

You stood, gathering the empty mugs from the coffee table.

“You can stay if you want,” you offered, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Thanks, but I should probably head out. Yov’s waiting for me.”

You nodded, catching the way his posture changedas he prepared to leave. He moved slowly down the hallway, announcing casually, “I need to pee.”

You stayed in the kitchen a while longer, rinsing out the mugs and placing them neatly on the drying rack. Mr. Darcy was weaving around your legs in tight little figure-eights, purring.

Santi reappeared beside you, looking a little less tired. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “I feel better.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “I told you, I wasn’t even that sick.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the fridge.

“You say that every time. You always downplay it. You act like it’s wrong to admit when your body needs rest.”

“No, Santiago,” you said, drying your hands and heading back toward the living room. “You men just dramatize everything. I still remember that time you had the flu and acted like the world was ending.”

“Because I was dying,” he called after you.

“You had a fever,” you shot back. “Not the plague.”

“I felt really bad,” he muttered behind you, the faint sound of his steps following yours to the door. “And for the record, the flu can be deadly.”

You paused, turning back just enough to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Yes, I know,” you said. “But you still exaggerate.”

Santi let out a short, unbothered laugh as he picked up his keys from the ceramic bowl in the foyer. And you stepped toward the coat rack and reached for his jacket, a puffy black thing he insisted on wearing regardless of the actual temperature. You handed it to him wordlessly.

He raised an eyebrow but took it from your hand anyway, his smile softening. You opened the door and stepped halfway out, but he didn’t follow. When you looked back, you saw he was still in the doorway, not moving, eyes fixed on something next to him.

You stepped closer to him again. He didn’t speak, just lifted his hand slowly, pointing toward the coat rack. You turned, following the direction of his gesture.

Your bag. You’d hung it there last night without thinking, and the little keychain attached to the clasp, the silver star with a tiny scratch on one side.

Santi reached out and touched it with the tip of his index finger. 

“Nice bag,” he said, low.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. He didn't.

Then, he gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he stepped past you, finally heading out.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[missmaymay13]

i accidentally fell in love with you - w.smith

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

w.smith x fem! oc | 7.2k

summary: will smith is getting tired of the teams constant teasing about his love life, so, he starts a fake relationship with the athletic therapist intern, Elizabeth Brooke. the only problem? she has no clue she had been roped in to dating him.

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Elizabeth Brooke loved her job.

Even on the days when the locker room smelled like sweat and sports drink, and she had to politely dodge flying tape balls and chirps from players who still hadn't fully grasped what "I'm working" meant.

Still, working as an athletic therapy intern with the San Jose Sharks for the second season in a row was a dream. She was gaining hands-on experience, earning school credit, and learning from some of the best in the league.

And most of the guys were great—loud, chaotic, but respectful. She was "Ellie" to everyone, or sometimes "Brooke," and every now and then "kiddo" when they felt particularly big-brotherly.

She mostly kept her head down, made her friends at the university nearby, and avoided any unnecessary attention at work.

Which is why she completely missed that she'd been fake-dating Will Smith without knowing it.

—

"Bro, just admit you're lonely," Macklin teased from across the locker room, taping his stick lazily. "You've been here three months and haven't gone on a single date."

Will rolled his eyes, lacing up his skates. "I'm not lonely."

"Then who's the mystery girl you're always texting?" someone else chimed in. "Or are you just playing Candy Crush?"

Will, flustered and unbothered at the same time, shrugged. "I'm uh- dating someone."

That shut them up for half a second.

Mack squinted. "You're what now?"

"Dating someone," Will repeated casually, hoping it would blow over.

It didn't.

"No way," Mack said, grinning like a shark (the metaphorical kind). "Who?"

Will panicked.

"She, uh... " he said, thinking fast. "Dark hair, brown eyes, quiet. Like—super sweet. You probably don't know her."

He thought that would be vague enough.

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

Mack's eyes lit up. "Noooo. You're dating Ellie?"

Will froze. "...What?"

"You literally just described her. Brown eyes? Quiet? You mean Elizabeth Brooke?"

"I—" Will started, but Mack cut him off.

"No way. She's way too nice to date you. That's, like, morally illegal."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Will asked, offended on behalf of himself and his imaginary girlfriend.

Right on cue, Ellie walked past the locker room, clipboard in hand, her soft smile aimed at the group like it always was—polite, sweet, almost shy. She gave a small wave.

The guys waved back.

"Dude, she's, like, adorable," one of them said. "You are not dating her."

Will, now far too committed to back out, stood up with unnecessary confidence. "Bet?"

Before anyone could respond, he jogged after her.

Ellie didn't flinch when he matched her pace down the hallway. She glanced up and smiled, recognizing him instantly.

"Hey," she said. "Need something?"

Will casually slung an arm over her shoulder. "Just walking my favourite AT to work."

She laughed, confused but not uncomfortable. "That right?"

It wasn't totally weird. The guys teased her like this all the time. She was the "little sister" of the staff, the one they all claimed to protect while also making fun of her coffee order and stealing her snacks.

So she didn't think much of it when Will walked her all the way to the recovery room, arm still resting lazily around her shoulder, chatting like they did this every day.

When they reached the door, he dropped his arm and flashed her a grin. "Catch you later, Brookie."

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked straight back toward the locker room.

Back at her station, Allan, one of the athletic therapists, raised a brow as she passed.

"What was that about?"

Ellie blinked. "What?"

"With Will."

"Oh. I dunno. He's just being nice?"

Allan gave her a look but didn't press it.

Ellie shrugged it off and returned to the charts, not knowing that Will had just created a very real problem for himself.

Because now, officially, everyone on the team thought Elizabeth Brooke was his girl.

And she had no clue about it.

⸻

Will should've let it die.

He should've said he was kidding, or made up a name, or pulled a full "you wouldn't know her, she goes to another team."

Instead, he watched Ellie from far away, calm and clueless, and turned back to the guys like he hadn't just made the worst spontaneous decision of his rookie season.

Mack raised an eyebrow. "So, she's your girlfriend."

Will crossed his arms. "Yep."

"She doesn't act like your girlfriend."

"She's private."

"She didn't even blink when you walked up to her outta nowhere and slung your arm around her like you were in a movie."

Will shrugged. "That's just how we are."

The guys all gave him the same look: We do not believe you, rookie.

"Alright," Mack said, grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all month. "Guess we'll keep an eye out. See how you two lovebirds act around each other."

Will blinked. "Why?"

"Just curious," Mack said. "Always fun to watch young love bloom."

Will gritted his teeth. He was so screwed.

Over the next week, things got... complicated.

He started getting asked way too many questions.

"Did you and Ellie meet here or before camp?"

"Does she like sushi or burgers better?"

"Wait, so are you guys, like, exclusive-exclusive?"

And worst of all: "When's she coming to dinner with the team?"

Will dodged. He weaved. He deflected with the skill of a man who had watched every season of Survivor and thought he could make it on the island.

But then there was Ellie—existing peacefully in her little bubble, smiling at him in the hallways, complimenting him on his stickhandling during practice, handing him water bottles like she wasn't accidentally the co-star in his elaborate charade.

She was the worst fake girlfriend.

Not because she was bad at it. She was great at it actually.

But because she didn't know she was one.

—

"You've been acting weird," she said one afternoon, handing him a compression wrap.

Will choked. "Weird? Me? I'm literally the least weird person in this room."

"There's only two of us."

"Exactly."

She narrowed her eyes, amused. "You're deflecting."

He fumbled. "I'm mysterious."

"You're twitchy."

"Hey, how's school going?!"

Ellie blinked at the hard subject change but let it slide, going off about her upcoming exams and a group project she was 99% sure would be the death of her.

Will nodded, listening but also sweating internally because why was she so nice? And why did pretending to date her feel so weirdly natural?

He needed a plan.

He needed to keep the lie alive long enough for the team to drop it—and definitely without Ellie figuring it out.

Which would be easy.

Right?

Right.

⸻

Will knew the guys were watching.

It started subtly—Macklin Celebrini lingering a bit too long by the gym entrance, pretending to scroll through his phone. Then William Eklund conveniently choosing the treadmill with the perfect vantage point of the therapy room. Even Tyler Toffoli, usually indifferent to locker room gossip, seemed to find reasons to be nearby whenever Ellie was around.

The pressure was mounting. Every time Will caught one of them glancing over, he felt the need to up his game.

During a routine stretching session, Ellie was demonstrating a new technique. Will leaned in closer than necessary, nodding intently, his arm casually brushing against hers. He could almost feel Macklin's gaze burning into his back.

"You're really getting the hang of this," Ellie said, her voice warm and encouraging.

Will smiled, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. "Well, I have a great teacher."

Ellie laughed softly, a sound that always managed to ease his nerves. She was so genuine, so effortlessly kind, and completely unaware of the silent battle Will was waging.

As the days went on, Will found himself seeking her out more frequently. Not just to keep up appearances, but because, truthfully, he enjoyed her company. They'd share lunch breaks, discussing everything from her university classes to his rookie experiences. He'd offer to help her carry equipment, their fingers brushing occasionally, sending unexpected jolts up his arm.

One afternoon, as they were organizing therapy bands, Ellie tilted her head, studying him with those deep brown eyes.

"I've noticed you've been around more lately," she said, a hint of curiosity in her tone.

Will's mind raced. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth—that he'd accidentally started a rumor about them dating and was now trapped in his own web of lies.

He flashed his most disarming smile. "Just love seeing my favorite girl!"

Ellie chuckled, a light blush coloring her cheeks. "You're such a goof, Will."

She returned to her task, leaving Will both relieved and increasingly aware of the warmth spreading in his chest whenever he was around her.

After a week of subtle surveillance, Macklin decided it was time to confront the situation head-on.

During a lull between practice drills, he approached Ellie, who was organizing medical supplies on the sidelines.

"Hey, Ellie," Macklin began, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with curiosity.

She looked up, offering her usual friendly smile. "Hey, Macklin. What's up?"

He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "So, the team's got a reservation this weekend at that new steakhouse downtown. Are you and Will coming together?"

Ellie's brow furrowed slightly, clearly puzzled. "Will and I? Together?"

Macklin nodded, watching her closely.

She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Oh, um, Will and I haven't really discussed plans yet. But if he's going, I'm sure we'll figure something out."

Macklin studied her for a moment longer before offering a satisfied nod. "Alright, just checking. See you there."

As he walked away, Ellie shook her head slightly, muttering to herself, "That was odd."

Unbeknownst to her, Will had been within earshot, heart pounding as he listened to the exchange. Ellie's innocent response had, miraculously, managed to maintain the facade without her even realizing it.

He exhaled a silent sigh of relief, mentally thanking Ellie for being her sweet, oblivious self. For now, his secret was safe.

⸻

"Hey," Ellie said casually, poking her head into the workout room where Will was finishing post-practice stretches. "Macklin said you and I were going to that steakhouse dinner together?"

Will's entire body froze mid-stretch like he'd been caught committing tax fraud.

"Uh—what?" he asked, voice suspiciously high-pitched.

Ellie raised a brow, laughing a little. "You good? You look like I asked you to do my calculus homework."

Will scrambled for a response. "Uhhh... I mean, yeah, yeah. We're going together. I—I think I said that because we live close to each other? So like... rideshare logic?"

Ellie blinked. Then smiled. "Oh! Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

Will let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Crisis averted.

"So," she added, tilting her head, "what time are you picking me up?"

Will's brain short-circuited again, but he somehow managed a grin. "Seven work?"

"Perfect!" she chirped, then turned to leave with a little wave.

He collapsed back onto the mat, hands over his face. "I am in so deep," he muttered to himself.

That Night – 7:25 PM

The Sharks were already seated inside the sleek, dimly lit steakhouse, tucked into a long table with just enough elbow room for their egos. Players and WAGs alike had shown out—suits, dresses, full glam. The waiters were clearly a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the reservation.

Macklin Celebrini sat at the far end, nursing a soda and keeping a suspicious eye on the entrance. William Eklund beside him leaned back just far enough to peek into the lobby. They were both very ready to witness Will Smith's downfall.

Then the front doors opened.

And there they were.

Will, in a crisp navy button-up, hair actually brushed for once. And Ellie, in a soft yellow dress that made her look like literal sunshine, paired with wedges and a tiny purse. Her hair was pulled half-up, and she looked so perfect it physically pained Will.

What really caught the boys' attention, though, was the parking lot performance.

From their seats, they had the perfect view of Will jogging around to open the car door for her. They watched as she stepped out, a little hesitant in her wedges, arms wrapped tightly around herself against the San Jose chill.

Then—the move.

Will noticed instantly, rubbing the back of his neck before casually slinging an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walked.

They couldn't hear what he said—but her head tilted up, cheeks pink, and she let out a giggle so soft and pretty it made half the table blink in unison.

Inside, Will leaned in. "Sorry, I'd give you my jacket if I had one, but I don't think the restaurant would be thrilled if I showed up shirtless. So... this'll have to do."

Ellie giggled again. "You're ridiculous. Thank you."

When they finally made it to the table, the group greeted them with a flurry of side-eyes and smirks.

Will, clueless, helped Ellie into her chair and pulled his in beside her like it was no big deal. Ellie greeted everyone like she always did—smiling, polite, a little shy.

Most of the guys exchanged a glance like, Oh. This is real.

Except Macklin, who squinted across the table like a man on a mission.

And Eklund, who whispered, "They're either dating or he's really good at improv."

"Something's off," Macklin muttered.

Will clinked water glasses with Ellie like he hadn't been spiraling all week and very much was about to choke on his Caesar salad.

He shot a glance at her, still laughing at something Toffoli had said, and smiled despite himself.

Fake girlfriend? Maybe. Unintentional real feelings? ...Yeah, possibly.

But for tonight?

He'd take the win.

⸻

Will was going to combust.

He'd made it thirty minutes into the dinner without incident, which was practically an Olympic-level achievement considering Macklin and Eklund were sitting directly across from him, analyzing his every breath like it was game tape.

Ellie, for her part, was just being... Ellie. Sunshine in a yellow dress, sipping water with two lemon slices like always, laughing at all the right moments, completely unaware that she was currently the centerpiece of Will's accidental soap opera.

She hadn't noticed the extra chair pulled just a little closer to his. Or the way he'd kept an arm draped over the back of hers like it was no big deal. Or the way he kept glancing at her like she was a live wire and he had no business being this close to it.

And then—it happened.

In the middle of the meal, with conversation buzzing and forks clinking against plates, Ellie reached over without looking and gently wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of Will's mouth with her thumb.

Just. Like. That.

Not a second of hesitation. Like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Will practically short-circuited.

"Uhh—" he choked, blinking rapidly as she returned to her conversation with Henry Thrun like nothing had happened.

His eyes darted across the table. Macklin was staring at him with a raised brow and suspiciously slow sip of water. Eklund looked like he was watching an interrogation scene from a crime show.

Will swallowed. Kept his cool. Pretended he didn't just die a little inside.

Ellie leaned toward him a moment later, brushing her arm against his, and without thinking, Will rested his arm casually along the back of her chair again. This time, it wasn't even a strategic move—it was grounding. He needed it to survive.

Then Cat Toffoli, looking stunning as always in some sleek blazer-dress situation, smiled from a few seats down.

"Aww," she said sweetly, "you guys are so cute."

Both Will and Ellie froze.

Will felt his entire soul detach from his body.

Ellie blinked. "Oh... um. Thanks!"

And then—nothing. She just turned back to her food like someone hadn't just complimented her on her nonexistent relationship.

Will internally screamed.

Macklin's head tilted, slow and thoughtful like he was watching live footage of a wildlife documentary.

Eklund narrowed his eyes. "She's either the best actress I've ever seen... or she really doesn't know."

Will met their stares across the table and smiled tightly. He was losing control fast.

But then Ellie glanced up at him, catching his eye, and smiled that sweet little smile that always made his stomach twist.

And Will realized something terrifying.

He didn't want to stop pretending anymore.

⸻

After the dinner, Will dropped Ellie off at her place with a grin that he swore didn't tremble. She thanked him like she always did—sweet, soft, a little shy—and then gave a small wave as she walked through her front door.

He waited until the door shut behind her before fully exhaling, like he'd been holding his breath all night before walking back to his car.

Then he slumped back into the driver's seat of his car and let the silence wrap around him like a weighted blanket of doom.

What the hell am I doing?

This wasn't supposed to be a thing. It was supposed to be a fake relationship to get the guys off his back. A little white lie to preserve the dignity of a guy who definitely wasn't secretly terrified of girls.

Because Will Smith might've looked like he had it all together—confident, flirty, always saying the right thing. But deep down?

He was a mess.

The reason he'd never had a girlfriend? He was shy. So painfully shy when it came to feelings that he once ghosted a girl for trying to hold his hand on a Ferris wheel.

But with Ellie?

It was different. Too easy. She was sunshine in human form. The kind of girl who made everything brighter just by walking into the room. She laughed with her whole chest, leaned into people when she talked, and made everyone feel like the most important person in the world—even when she was just handing them a water bottle.

Will groaned, dragging his hands through his hair.

He was in trouble.

He didn't know when it happened. Maybe it was when she giggled at his dumb joke during warmups. Or when she'd wiped barbecue sauce off his face at the steakhouse like it was nothing.

Or maybe it was the way she looked at him sometimes. Like really looked at him. Her eyes soft, a little curious, like she was trying to figure him out.

He thumped his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

Honk.

A loud beep pierced the night, his horn setting off a chain reaction of startled honks from neighboring cars.

"Great," he muttered, covering his face. "Just great."

He was spiraling.

Actually, genuinely spiraling.

Hands in his hair, stomach in knots, brain screaming you are fake dating the girl you like and she doesn't even know!

Then—

Buzz.

His phone lit up in the cup holder.

Ellie: You okay?

Will blinked. Turned slowly.

She was standing at her front door again, wrapped in a blanket, phone in one hand, amusement written all over her face. She waved once, eyebrow raised.

He groaned, letting his head drop back on the seat.

She saw the whole thing.

Of course she did.

And of course, she probably thought nothing of it. Just Will being a goof. Her friend. Her coworker.

Not the idiot who was definitely falling for her one fake moment at a time.

Will texted back.

Will: All good. Just fighting for my life.

Her laugh echoed in his head even through the screen.

Yup.

He was in deep.

And this? This was going to be a problem.

⸻

Practice had wrapped, and most of the guys had cleared out, but Ellie was still in the hallway reorganizing a few treatment plans when Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund casually strolled over—just a little too casual.

"Hey, Brooke," Mack said, leaning on the wall next to her.

Ellie glanced up with a smile. "Hey guys. You need something?"

"Nope," Eklund said quickly. "Just hanging out. Long day, huh?"

"Always is," Ellie hummed, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Will was limping again. I told him to stretch more but he's stubborn."

Eklund exchanged a loaded look with Macklin, but kept his tone neutral. "Yeah? You two carpool today?"

"Mhmm," Ellie nodded without looking up. "We usually do after morning skates. I hate driving and he lets me control the aux."

Mack grinned. "What's your go-to playlist?"

"Oh, I've got a rotation. Depends on the vibe. But I always throw in a couple songs Will secretly likes but pretends to hate. He groans every time but doesn't skip them."

Eklund raised a brow. "What, like guilty pleasure music?"

"Exactly," she said, finally glancing up with a sweet, knowing smile. "He has a weird soft spot for Taylor Swift. But I won't tell anyone that."

Mack bit back a grin. "His favorite song?"

Ellie paused. "Okay, this is gonna sound fake, but he loves 'Wildest Dreams.' Like... screams the bridge in the car."

Eklund blinked. "Seriously?"

She giggled. "Dead serious. It's actually kind of impressive."

The two Sharks exchanged a look. This was going sideways.

Mack tried a new angle. "So, like... if Will gets hangry, what's the move?"

"Easy. Chicken tenders and a nap," she said, not missing a beat. "And keep conversation to a minimum until he's eaten. He's dramatic about it."

Eklund looked visibly thrown. "That's... oddly specific."

"I know," Ellie said brightly. "He's kind of a walking tantrum when he's hungry."

The boys were stumped. These were real answers. Couple-level answers.

And yet... Ellie seemed so chill about it. Not gushing. Not flustered. Just... Ellie.

"You ever get in fights with him?" Mack asked carefully.

Ellie scrunched her nose. "Not really. I mean, he gets pouty when I beat him at Mario Kart, but that's on him. I warned him I was good."

"So... no drama?" Eklund asked.

She smiled. "We're pretty easy together, honestly. It's fun."

It was fun.

Too fun.

Macklin and Eklund watched her walk off a minute later, still humming as she disappeared down the hallway.

"...Dude," Eklund said finally. "I think they're actually dating."

"No way," Mack whispered. "Will's been acting like a man on the edge for weeks."

"I don't know, man. She knows his favorite comfort food and his guilty pleasure song."

"She also just called him a tantrum in the body of a hockey player."

"...Fair."

Later that afternoon, the boys watched from afar as Ellie received a bouquet of flowers.

She smiled down at the card with that glowing, delighted look only she could pull off, and Will was standing right next to her.

Mack jabbed Eklund in the ribs. "He got her flowers."

"I'm seeing it," Eklund muttered. "This is insane."

(They did not know the flowers were from Ellie's parents congratulating her on finishing finals.)

Then there was the car ride home. Again.

Then the lunch they ate together in the corner of the lounge, shoulders bumping as they laughed at something on Will's phone.

Then the hallway.

They found them—alone, mid-conversation, completely unaware of their silent audience. Will was leaned against the wall, looking down at her with that look—the kind of look that belonged in a Nicholas Sparks movie.

Ellie was smiling up at him, cheeks pink, hands lightly clasped in front of her. Will leaned in slightly, said something that made her duck her head with a giggle. She bumped his arm, he nudged her back.

No one else was around.

No audience. No act.

And yet... it felt like something real.

The silence between Macklin and Eklund stretched.

Then—

"Okay," Macklin admitted. "Maybe we were wrong."

Eklund sighed. "Or Will's playing the longest con of all time and she's just the best partner in crime?"

They both kept watching.

And somehow, they weren't even mad about it.

They were just... curious.

And very invested.

—

Ellie rarely traveled with the team. She was usually tied up with classes back at the university, so most of the road trips came and went without her presence.

But this time?

Spring break aligned perfectly. No labs, no lectures. Just a brief window of time and an open seat on the team flight. So Ellie packed her essentials and joined the Sharks for their road trip to Colorado.

Will didn't hesitate to claim the seat next to her. Of course he didn't.

The moment they boarded the plane, he threw his backpack in the overhead bin, turned to her with a grin, and said, "Window or aisle, your call."

Ellie laughed softly. "Window. I like the clouds."

Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund were seated directly in front of them.

And they were ready.

Armed with subtle glances and perfectly angled earbuds that weren't even playing music, they listened in shamelessly—because this whole thing? This mystery situationship between Will and Ellie had become their full-time investigation.

And the second the plane started to taxi, the cuteness hit the fan.

"Do you have my headphones in your bag?" Ellie asked, nudging Will's knee with hers.

Will reached down, unzipped a pouch, and handed them to her without a word.

Macklin blinked.

Then Ellie leaned back, brows knitting. "Wait—did you remember to turn the oven off before we left?"

Will groaned dramatically. "You were supposed to check it after I made that frozen pizza."

She gasped. "You left it on?!"

He smirked. "Relax. I turned it off. I just wanted to see you panic."

"Rude," she muttered, smacking his arm.

Eklund tilted his head. "Are they married?"

Then Will added, "Don't forget to call your mom when we land."

"Oh yeah, speaking of parents," Ellie said, suddenly brightening, "how did your dad like that movie I recommended?"

Will grinned. "He loved it. Said he wants to rewatch it with you over FaceTime because he has questions and thinks you're smarter than me."

Ellie beamed, flattered. "He has great taste."

In front of them, Macklin was having a quiet meltdown.

"They're so real," he whispered.

"They're either actually dating," Eklund whispered back, "or we're living in a simulation and none of this is real."

Eventually, the conversation quieted. Will pulled out his laptop, propped it between them, and opened their current binge show—something light and funny that they both always watched together but swore they weren't watching without each other.

They didn't say much after that. Just quiet laughs, small comments, Ellie leaning a little closer as she got comfortable.

Then silence.

Macklin turned around to say something dumb—probably a chirp about their show—and stopped mid-breath.

He nudged Eklund urgently.

They both turned slowly.

And what they saw nearly sent them into cardiac arrest.

Will had shifted into the corner of the seat by the window, legs stretched out across the row. One arm was draped lazily but securely around Ellie, who was curled against him, practically on top of him, her head tucked into his chest, his hand resting on her arm.

Her arm was wrapped around his waist.

The laptop was dark. The episode long finished.

They were both fast asleep.

Macklin sat back in stunned silence.

Eklund stared blankly ahead.

"Okay," Mack finally whispered. "I think they might actually be in love."

"Yeah," Eklund agreed quietly. "We've lost."

And for once... neither of them minded.

⸻

It had been a smooth road trip. No injuries, no drama, just a few wins and a lot of good vibes.

Until Ellie got pulled aside in the hallway by Coach.

Not Will. Not one of the guys. Coach.

Coach gave her a polite nod, crossing his arms. "I've been informed that you're dating Will."

Ellie blinked. "I'm sorry... what?"

"I don't have an issue with it," he added quickly, "you're both adults. Just make sure you keep things professional when you're in the building."

Ellie just stared at him. Brain buffering. "Wait. Dating?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's what I heard."

"Who told you that?"

"I think it started with Celebrini."

Of course it did.

Ellie nodded slowly, like maybe if she gave herself enough time, the moment would start to make sense. It didn't. She walked away in a daze, grabbing her stuff and heading out to where Will was already waiting in the car to drive her home.

When she got in, Will gave her the usual lazy smile. "Hey. Ready?"

She buckled her seatbelt slowly. "Are we dating?"

The car jerked slightly as Will's foot nearly missed the gas.

"I—what?"

"Coach said we're dating," she said calmly, like she wasn't possibly re-evaluating every moment of her life. "And Mack apparently told him?"

Will froze. Completely.

"Oh my god," he whispered.

Ellie stared. "Are we?"

Silence.

Then—

"I didn't mean for it to go this far!" Will blurted, hands flying off the wheel at a stoplight. "I swear! The guys kept teasing me about being single and I panicked, and I just... said I had a girlfriend! And then they wanted to know who, and I kinda... randomly described you. Because I had a crush on you, like, a huge one, and you were literally right there and—"

Ellie stared, eyes wide.

"—and it made sense because you're always nice to me and everyone adores you, and I thought it would die after a week, but then they didn't believe me so I had to prove it, and you just—kept being you, and I couldn't stop it."

Will looked like he was fighting for air.

"And then I didn't tell you, and it just got worse, and I didn't want you to hate me for lying, and I really didn't mean to fake-date you, it's just now it's not fake because I have very real, very tragic, very permanent feelings for you, and I know I ruined everything and you probably want to punch me in the face but—"

"Will," she said softly, her cheeks fully flushed.

"—and I'm freaking out, and I think I need to call my sister or move to another country or maybe both—"

"Will."

He whipped his head toward her, wide-eyed. "Please say something. Oh my god, did I just mess this all up? I'm so stupid. This is so bad—"

She cut him off.

With a kiss.

Will froze for a second—completely stunned—but then he melted into it, arms loosening, hand finding hers between the seats. Her lips were warm and soft and it was better than every fantasy he'd ever had.

One hand found her jaw, the other tangled in her sleeve, and she melted into him, laughing softly against his lips as they pulled apart.

"I would've said yes," she said breathlessly, cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You know. If you had just asked me out like a normal person."

Will was dazed. "You... you would've?"

She giggled. "Will, I've always thought you were cute. You just never asked."

"I literally faked a relationship because I didn't think you'd say yes."

"And you thought I was the oblivious one," she teased.

Will groaned and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel.

Honk.

She snorted as he flailed. "You've got to stop doing that."

"I can't think straight when you're here," he mumbled into the wheel. "Oh my god, I'm in love with you."

"I'm starting to notice."

—

Unbeknownst to them, across the parking lot, Macklin Celebrini sat in his car, slurping a smoothie and watching the scene unfold through his windshield.

He hadn't heard the words.

But he didn't need to.

He saw the kiss.

He saw the smile on Will's face after.

He saw Ellie laughing, looking at Will like he was the sunshine for once.

Macklin nodded to himself.

"Alright. It's real."

Then he picked up his phone.

Macklin: ur not gonna believe this but it's actually real. like, REALLY real. they kissed. in the parking lot. right now.

Eklund: send pics

Macklin: dude i'm not a creep

Eklund: that's news to me

—

Will was freaking out.

He was pacing the sidewalk in front of her house, pulling at the collar of his sweater, double-checking the dinner reservation under "Smith, party of two," and obsessively checking his hair in his phone camera.

Then, like any reasonable man in distress, he called his sister.

"Grace. SOS."

She picked up on the first ring. "Please tell me you didn't forget deodorant."

"I brought flowers," he said instead, holding the bouquet in one hand like it might suddenly explode. "Is that too much? Is it weird? We've basically been 'dating' for like, two months. This is somehow more stressful."

"It's not too much," Grace said, laughing. "It's perfect. You're nervous because it's real now."

Will groaned. "Yeah, well, real makes me want to throw up."

"Then it's working."

—

Ellie opened her door in a soft sage green sundress and her favorite pair of heeled sandals, hair curled loosely and cheeks already blushing before she even saw him.

Then she did see him—leaning against his car, freshly showered, holding a bouquet of daisies.

Her stomach flipped.

"Oh," she said quietly, smiling like the sun. "You brought me flowers?"

Will froze for half a second, then handed them over with an awkward little shrug. "Thought you deserved some. You've been dating me for months without actually being asked out."

She laughed, soft and sweet. "I didn't mind."

"Well," he said, his voice low and suddenly serious, "I do."

And just like that, Ellie was nervous too.

—

They went to a cozy, hip little restaurant downtown—intimate lighting, trendy cocktails, tiny candles on every table. Definitely a date-night spot. Will held every door open, let her choose the booth, and complimented her three times before they even ordered drinks.

Conversation flowed like it always did—easy, natural, full of low laughter and little looks that lasted longer than they used to. They didn't check their phones. They didn't rush. They stayed long after the plates were cleared, just sipping and talking, the city glowing outside the window behind them.

It was perfect.

Then—

"Oh my god," Ellie whispered suddenly, leaning across the table. "Don't look now, but I swear that's Cat Toffoli."

Will turned immediately.

"Will!" she hissed, laughing.

Sure enough, Cat and Tyler were strolling past their table on their way out. Cat caught sight of them first and lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Ellie! Will! Look at you two!"

Will stood up and gave Tyler a side hug while Ellie leaned in for a hug from Cat.

"You guys look adorable," she whispered into Ellie's ear before pulling away with a knowing grin.

Tyler clapped Will on the shoulder. "Try the tiramisu. Trust me. Split it."

Then they disappeared into the night, leaving Will and Ellie smiling stupidly across the table.

"Tiramisu?" Ellie asked.

Will flagged down their server.

—

Will had barely made it to his stall before Tyler Toffoli, who conveniently sat between Will and Macklin, turned to him with a smirk.

"So?" Tyler asked, casually taping his stick. "How was the tiramisu?"

Will grinned, tugging off his sweatshirt. "Delicious. You were right."

Macklin's head snapped around. "What tiramisu? What restaurant? You went out without me?"

Will shrugged like it was no big deal. "I took Ellie out. Like on a date."

Tyler chimed in, totally unbothered. "Saw them at this cute downtown spot with Cat. They looked so cute all dressed up. I had to say something."

Macklin stared at Will. "You really took her on a date?"

Will smirked, still high off last night. "Yup. Proper one. Flowers and everything."

Mack slumped against his stall, looking betrayed. "Unbelievable."

"You'll get over it," Will said, tugging on his jersey.

But the whole time, he was smiling to himself.

Because this time?

It wasn't fake.

⸻

A year and a half into dating, and Will and Ellie were still the couple that made people's teeth hurt.

They were that couple—matching hoodies, forehead kisses at the rink, inside jokes that made no sense, and a suspiciously high number of shared playlists. Will still lit up every time she walked into a room. Ellie still blushed when he kissed her cheek, even if it happened thirty times a day.

Tonight, most of the Sharks were crammed into Mario Ferraro's house for a lowkey night of pizza, video games, and yelling at the TV.

Ellie and Will? They were in the kitchen.

Bickering.

Loudly.

"I told you not to watch it without me," Ellie huffed, hands on her hips, wearing one of Will's hoodies and looking so betrayed. "That was our show."

Will, leaning dramatically against the fridge, groaned. "It was one episode! One! I was on the road and bored!"

"It was our show, Will! That's basically emotional cheating!"

"You were asleep by nine that night!"

"I was exhausted because someone dragged me to an early morning skate!"

"You insisted on making pancakes afterward!"

"I thought it would be romantic!" she gasped, hand flying to her chest.

Will raised an eyebrow. "So this isn't romantic?"

They glared. It was heated. Petty. A little ridiculous.

And then—

"You never would've done that while you were dating me without my knowledge!"

Silence.

Utter. Silence.

The living room went quiet. Like dead silent. No chewing. No breathing.

Ellie froze, eyes wide. "Oh... shoot."

Will turned bright red. Like stop-sign red.

She winced. "I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?"

He lunged toward her instantly, wrapping her in a suffocating bear hug, smothering her against his chest. "You're so dead. You're so dead."

From the other room came a chorus of gasps and groans.

And then—two familiar heads slowly peeked around the kitchen corner.

Macklin Celebrini, smugger than ever. William Eklund, arms crossed and grinning like a cat who finally caught the canary.

"So," Mack said slowly. "It was fake?"

Will groaned into Ellie's shoulder.

Ellie peeked around him, cheeks pink but grinning. "For a good 3 months, yeah. I was as clueless as you guys."

Eklund pointed at Will. "We knew something was off. The way it came out of nowhere? The way Will was acting? Come on."

Will let his forehead fall dramatically onto Ellie's shoulder. "I hate everything."

"You faked a relationship," Mack said, "and then fell in love for real? That's some Hallmark-level stuff."

"I panicked!" Will shouted into the void. "And then she was just... her. And I couldn't not like her! Have you met her?"

"She's literally the nicest person alive," Eklund agreed, nodding solemnly. "Honestly, we're impressed."

From the couch, Cat Toffoli yelled, "Called it!"

Tyler shouted, "It all makes sense now!"

And from then on, no matter what Will did, the boys never let him forget it.

Anytime Ellie walked into the locker room? "Careful, boys. Will might be fake-dating her again."

Every anniversary? "Happy Fakeiversary!"

" Did you count all the months you were fake dating? Or only the months you were actually dating."

Every time he so much as looked at her with heart eyes? "Wow. That fake girlfriend really got to you, huh?"

And Will?

He took it. Because, yeah.

She really did.

[agnireed]

IN THE DARK

summary 🏹 you end up with daryl after the fall of the prison and the isolation starts making you see the older man differently

word count 🏹 6.7k

warnings 🏹 large age gap (reader is 21), daryl is very conflicted in his feelings, using sex to cope with grief, non descriptive smut, daryl doesnt talk much

the blazing campfire was doing very little to thaw the complete icy cold your heart was currently struggling with.

you’d never felt a loss as substantial as this, something so monumental that you couldn’t even process it’s reality. there was no chance you were going to be able to fathom the grief you were carrying now that the prison had fallen along with the majority of your group, now and possibly forever.

your only reminder of what you once had was currently sitting across from you, eyes pointed down at the dirt instead of the fire that was painting his tan skin a deep and earthy shade of orange.

daryl hadn’t spoken a word since you had ran from the prison together and you’d almost grown concerned about the state of your hearing until you finally settled down and focused in on the crackling of the flames and the chirping of the bugs around you.

you had nearly missed him in the initial chaos, running any direction your body carried you without rhyme or reason, simply attempting to flee from the sounds of gunfire and the building roar of walkers. you’d barely made it into the tree line outside the gates when you heard heavy footsteps behind you, spinning around with your knife up only to drop it completely when you saw his concerned face.

he had spared a pained look back at the burning prison before approaching you and wrapping a hand tightly around your wrist, giving you a grunt that let you know it was time to go.

that was the last noise you’d heard him make and the silence was starting to drive you crazy now.

you kept watching him with the same heavy gaze and you didn’t falter even when he was finally looking away from the floor and making eye contact with you. his body locked up even though he could already feel you watching him before he confirmed it and you cocked your head curiously.

daryl hadn’t been somebody you’d put much thought to until this exact moment where he was potentially the last person on earth.

he’d been in the group before you and he was there when rick found you, standing just a few paces behind him with his crossbow permanently drawn and aimed at you like you were a threat with your shaking knees and carved broomstick.

it had made slightly more sense when you were brought back to the small house they were temporarily shacked up in and greeted by the sight of a largely pregnant woman and a small child standing in the doorway.

you didn’t take his precaution personally and it wasn’t long before you were joining the group and finding the prison together, the trauma of clearing it and losing people in the process finishing off the bonding you all needed to be able to trust each other.

he was always somewhere off in the distance watching as people had hushed conversations or heavy glances passed through the hallways, eyes observing and seemingly waiting for something that you weren’t sure of. you’d heard from carol bits and pieces about his past and you quickly learned how skilled he was in numerous areas that you couldn’t begin to understand but your knowledge didn’t go far past that.

you imagined he felt similarly about you and you were more accurate than you even realized.

daryl was aware that you were quick on your feet and silent in a way that even he feared occasionally. sometimes you’d appear behind him or other members of the group and the sudden sound of your voice would almost make him jump.

you had the same youthfulness that beth and maggie carried but the similarities between you stopped there, something much heavier weighing down your shoulders than the sisters could relate to.

he was looking away from you again and you wondered if he was thinking about the same thing you were right now, pondering over how ridiculous it was that you two were paired up out of everybody inside those walls.

on one hand you were extremely grateful to be in the company of somebody that could undoubtedly handle himself but then there was the silence.

the silence was the exact thing that was driving you to stand up from the warmth of the fire and sigh softly before turning on your heels and venturing off into the darkness of the woods around you.

you knew it wasn’t the best idea to go wandering around in the dark so close to where the flames of the prison were still raging and drawing swarms of walkers but you could almost feel the grief taking over any sense and rational left inside you. you felt dead already and there was only a slight warmth going through your blood when you heard the sounds of daryl stomping out the fire behind you.

it was easier to hear him like this, back pressed against a tree as he tried his best to track you in the dark.

you could hear occasional twigs snapping under his heavy weight and ever so often your ears caught a frustrated grunt as he struggled to find you. the human sounds were almost addicting after the prolonged mute period he was presenting you and you held your breath when you heard him nearing you finally.

it must’ve been impossible by now to locate you but you figured somebody as experienced as daryl could atleast tell that you were still nearby, even if it was as simple as feeling your presence.

you’d managed to stay still long enough that your eyes adjusted to the dark just the right amount to be able to make out his frame passing you, shoulders wide and sturdy as he froze in place and looked around frantically again.

you could see the way his chest was rising and falling with trembling breaths, undoubtedly feeling some sort of fear from how shaky his inhale sounded. you knew he wasn’t fearful of his own fate and your head cocked at the idea he was potentially afraid to have lost you.

there was a slight lapse of judgement on your part as you took an instinctive step towards him and although your foot made no outward noise, his head snapped up and in your direction. you wondered if he could see you there now, pressed against the tree and starting to meet his heavy inhales.

neither of you spoke still but then he was turning around fully and walking towards you again, seconds from passing you once more before your hand was reaching out and wrapping around his elbow.

he flinched at the sudden contact but his body lost most of the tension when he realized the hand on his skin was warm and very much alive, understanding it was you before he could even see you.

he took a step sideways and now he was standing in front of you, chest still heaving but now you could tell it was from a much different emotion. he was furious with you for disappearing and yet he still hadn’t said a word, not even about the fact your hand was still touching his arm.

you could see his face clearly now and you were sure the same was true for him, gaze looking over the part in your lips as you took small breaths and the way your eyes seemed wider than normal as you stared up at him.

you’d never been this close to the older man before and you certainly hadn’t touched him outside of the occasionally helping hand up or light grip while riding on the back of his motorcycle. your hold on his arm had turned into your fingers slowly moving up and down in a soothing manner, head cocking again as you waited for him to pull away from you.

he didn’t but you could almost see the struggle in his eyes, locked onto yours almost unintentionally like he just couldn’t bring himself to look away.

your hand smoothed it’s way up his arm even further, taking a few seconds to squeeze and rub at the tensing muscles of his bicep. you were suddenly reminded of his strength, something that was easy enough to ignore when you were able to chalk it up to being a young girl with hormones that didn’t have a place to go.

it was simple enough to be entranced by the sight of him digging graves or working on his bike in those sleeveless shirts he was so fond of, an older man already gruff to the world long before it had fallen apart.

you were able to feel little guilt for staring longer than you probably should have, always fixing your gaze back to where it was supposed to be as you busied yourself with the task for the day or just quick enough to avoid getting caught watching him by somebody else.

it was strikingly obvious now that there was no more distractions and certainly nobody who would be able to judge you.

you could feel his eyes still on your face even though yours was locked on the sight of your hand wrapping around his arm, letting it remain there for a few seconds longer before you were moving it up to his hair. he finally released a sound at this and the low grunt that fell from his lips lit up a heat in you that felt almost dangerous.

every part of you was suddenly screaming that you needed to do whatever possible to keep that heat growing higher and higher, pushing it until it was hopefully reaching the painful ice that had completely taken over your heart.

he was tenser now but not enough that he could stop you from softly pulling his head down towards your shoulder, feeling his hair touch your skin at the same moment you were turning and whispering into his ear. the desperation caused you to speak despite the overwhelming risk that he would leave you there alone with the dying heat as soon as he remembered who he was in the dark with.

“you can touch me too” your voice was so quiet that you almost didnt hear it but you knew he had judging by the way his entire body locked up at the way you practically purred.

you let him lift his head just enough that he could look into your eyes again and you felt another surge of panic at the hesitation his face held, your free hand immediately landing on his chest and rubbing downwards on his stomach to try and distract him from the obvious issue with what you had just said.

another thing you had learned about daryl since meeting him was that he was a good man.

rude and abrasive were the easiest words to describe him but it was undeniable that he was one of the best hearts your group could offer. he was devoted and loyal and there was very little he wouldnt do for the people he cared about.

all this had been something you admired a few months ago but now you were overwhelmingly frustrated by just how good he was proving to be. you could think of many men that would kill to be in the postion he was in now, alone in the dark with a young girl who was clearly longing to feel just about anything.

it made your nose automatically scrunch up to imagine any of those men here with you now instead of him and he mustve misread your sudden expression because you could feel him going to pull away from you, a panicked breath leaving your lips as you tugged him back harder than you had meant to.

your back was hitting the tree harshly and you barely had time to wince at the bark cutting into your shirt before he was falling into you, clearly unintentional. he froze up again when he heard the gasp you let out at the feeling of his chest pressing against yours and your hand in his hair tightened automatically.

he surprised you by not pulling away or distancing himself and you met his gaze again, giving him an encouraging nod as you gently tugged at his arm in an attempt to pull it away from his side. he gave in to your small nudges but still didnt touch you like you were longing for, instead just watching you as you let out soft whines and tried to get his hand to rest against you in any way.

“please.” it was the softest plea you could muster and the sound went directly to his defense, crumbling it almost completly as your wide eyes started to tear up. he was completely baffled that you were being brought to tears from how needy you were, desperate to be touched by him to the point that you were nearly forcing it.

finally he was caving in just enough to attempt to calm you down and you let out a shaky breath when his hand was landing on your side, feeling the dip of your waist and averting his gaze from yours now that he was responding to your advances.

your mouth parted again when he was squeezing your side almost absentmindely, massaging the soft flesh and letting out a low noise from the back of his throat when you tugged him impossibly closer. he was tightly pressed into you now and you could feel his entire body encaging yours against the tree, legs shifting to allow him more access to slot himself between them.

your hand was nearing frantic as you gripped his wrist and forced him to touch you more, sliding it over your lower back and angling yourself until it was touching your ass. he tensed up again but the high pitched whine you let out was almost enough for him to forget the issue at hand, worsening when your head was landing on his shoulder and your hands were gripping his upper arms like you were losing your balance over a simple touch.

he couldnt help himself now, it was simple human curiosity that led him to squeeze your ass in his first direct move. the action pulled you against him even more and slightly lifted you off the ground from the accidental force of it, another grope instinctively following when he felt your heavy breath against his neck and the way you shivered.

your hips were moving in small waves now, one of your hands back in his hair so you could force his gaze to meet yours again.

he seemed so cold as he watched you and the lack of emotion on his face did nothing but light the fire in you even more as a new desire to make him feel good emerged, his hand still gripping your ass while the other settled smoothly on your waist.

your shirt had ridden up as it got stuck against the tree bark and you felt the rough skin of his thumb smooth over your bare side, a cry leaving you at the feeling. he automatically shushed you and it was the closest you’d came to hearing his low voice in days, eyes watering as you nodded obediently and bit your lip in an attempt to stay quiet.

he was fully groping you now and your hips were rocking against him at a pace that was stealing the breath from your lungs, even more so when you were lifting your leg and resting it against his waist easily.

his core was pressing against yours and even though he wasn’t moving, he wasn’t stopping you either. you were practically using him for your pleasure and the thought made you cry out again.

this time he didn’t have to shush you because you were using your grip in his hair to pull his mouth to yours, whining as soon as your lips connected. he tensed up but you almost sobbed at the idea of him not responding to your advances and thankfully he did.

his mouth moving against yours was more intense than anything else you’d done and now the whines were impossible to hold back, forgetting about the loss you were feeling or the fact you were completely exposed to the world around you.

any potential danger wasn’t on your mind anymore and all that mattered was that you weren’t alone and you were still alive, heat fully building now as you kissed daryl and relished the feeling of his hands on you.

then it was gone as quickly as it came and you felt yourself completely ice over when he was suddenly gone, head so dizzy you almost thought he just completely vanished before you realized he had just stumbled backwards into the dark in front of you.

you knew he hadn’t left you, both because he would never do something like that and also because you could hear his raspy breaths a few feet away.

there was no confusion flooding through you because you knew exactly why he had stopped kissing you, the same reason he was currently storming off back towards where your abandoned fire was still dying out.

you waited a few seconds before you followed him, just long enough that you could still hear his footsteps without risk of ending up anywhere near him.

you weren’t stupid and you understood the mistake you had just made, especially with somebody as testy as daryl. you’d seen the way he locked up whenever carol rested her hand on his shoulder and it was obvious that he considered everyone he met a threat until given valid reason not to.

and then there was the issue of him being a good man.

daryl may come from a bloodline of men who would have no issue pressing a girl over twice their age younger than them against a tree but he wasn’t proud of that gene pool and he wasn’t going to start joining them now.

you felt guilty as you watched him from the tree line, throwing the half burnt logs roughly back onto the ashes with his face turned up in frustration and possible disgust. you didn’t join him even when the flames were back and a cold shutter was running over you, staying there in the shadows and longing for another warmth.

——

any hope of daryl choosing to forget about what happened and act normal was quickly lost when he woke you up by tossing a few loose rocks in your direction.

you had jumped awake and frantically searched your surroundings for any threat, freezing when your eyes landed on him standing there and glaring at you. he had looked the exact same since the fall of the prison but his shoulders were rigid with something else now.

you weren’t at all shocked by the fact that he hadn’t left you there, still feeling assured in knowing he wouldn’t do that to you no matter how upset he was with you.

he stood there, frozen in place, as you quickly gathered your little belongings into the small backpack you’d managed to grab during the chaos. there was an air of impatience around him that you didn’t want to test so you went as fast as you could and looked at him expectantly when you finished.

there was no mention to where you were going and you didn’t bother asking any questions, following him back into the woods blindly.

daryl walked for hours with no rest and you used all of your willpower to avoid requesting a break, keeping your exhausted pants and breaths for air as quiet as you could. he never once glanced back to make sure you were keeping up and there was periods of time where you almost lost him due to the distance between you.

at first you thought you were somehow managing to catch up every time but you quickly realized that he was stopping to wait for you.

the guilt you had felt was subsiding now as you assumed he was punishing you. you glared daggers into his back and started to purposely take your time, dragging your feet over noisy piles of leaves and sending decayed logs sprawling across the forest floor.

it took him a few hours to start sending glares back in your direction once he pieced together that your clumsy actions were clearly intentional. you both were furious with the other without really knowing why and the heavy emotion partnered with exhaustion was getting to you quicker than you realized.

“damnit girl pick up your feet.” his voice ripping through the forest completely threw you off your pace and you genuinely nearly tripped over a loose branch. straightening up just in time to see his concerned expression snap back into a glare.

“maybe if we took a break i could.” you were quick to argue back like the fact this was your first conversation in days wasn’t clouding your mind and he scoffed at your excuse.

daryl knew you well enough to know you weren’t the type to be clumsy when you were tired and that the crease in your eyebrows wasn’t a common sight. he was finding it hard to think of a rebuttal that wouldn’t reveal that level of familiarity and he settled on a mean scoff.

“do you even know where we are going?” your hands were thrown out from your sides in frustration and he watched you as you let out a humorless laugh. “is this your entire plan? walk ourselves to death?”

the jabs may have been just your anger spewing out whatever you could think but it was hitting him somewhere he didn’t know you could access. it wasn’t lost on him that you were looking to him now the same way everyone looked towards rick, although one life was way less of a responsibility than what the sheriff had taken on.

although he was beginning to question if that was true.

his lack of answer seemed to annoy you further and you wish you could’ve stopped yourself from talking but the embarrassment from his rejection and overall exhaustion was clearly affecting your impulse control.

“if you’re going to bore me to death at least let me get a drink first.” your tone was so harsh that he almost didn’t recognize it and his lip turned up in a snarl.

“ain’t even old enough to drink.” he was mumbling and turning to continue his mindless walk into the trees but you were quick with your reply.

“you know damn well how old i am daryl.” your sentence was harmless enough but the way you said it made his skin crawl, heavy implication that he had put thought into your young age.

you were embarrassed as soon as you said it especially since as far as you were aware, it wasn’t true. you had no knowledge to the fact that daryl had spent countless nights thinking about your age and wondering if you thought about him that way too. he had caught you staring a few times and watched a little harder next time you were in the room, lingered a little longer to try and gauge your thoughts.

you were a completely mystery to him and now it felt like he was an open book to you.

did you really know how hard it was for him to be around somebody as tempting as you? was it that obvious that guilt was eating him alive for even considering a world where you’d want him as badly as he did you?

his body was frozen in place as your words hit him harshly and you were so focused on your own humiliation that you didn’t even consider his strange reaction.

“look can we just…” your voice was breaking and trailing off in a pathetic way that only furthered your embarrassment and you sighed. “can you look at me?”

at first you thought that he might ignore you all together, actually wondering if he’d just stand there like that until you gave up and wandered away to find your eventual death. you let out a breath of relief when he was turning halfway to glance at you and the conflicted look on his face was different than the anger you had expected.

“im sorry that i made you feel weird but you’re the only person i have left.” you were talking without thinking and it was the first time he heard you sound so unsure of yourself, shifting in place restlessly. “i really don’t want to fight with you.”

he didn’t say anything for a long time but the fact he hadn’t immediately gotten defensive was enough for you to feel a little relief and it was only furthered by the small head nod he gave you.

“better move. suns setting.”

——

you hadn’t noticed the sky turning into a pale orange when he had mentioned it but he was as accurate as always and in less than an hour there was a dark haze obscuring your vision again.

this time daryl was more proactive and it turns out he did actually have a plan and he wasn’t just walking in circles, leading you through the woods until you were reaching a small town that was more accurately just a few run down shops and a bar.

the place looked properly picked over but daryl wasn’t stopping and looking in any of the windows or broken down cars, clearly more focused on settling down for the night rather than finding stuff to take along with you.

you almost laughed when he was leading you towards the bar at the end of the street, almost forgetting what you had said about wanting a drink to cure your boredom.

you knew there wouldn’t be anything left over on the inside but the irony was still apparent as you climbed up onto a stool and tapped impatiently on the bar top. daryl was somewhere behind you, messing around with the door locks and pulling tables in front of it to block the entrance.

you looked over your shoulder to see him glancing at you, possibly half amused at the way you rolled your eyes and checked a non existent watch.

he surprised you by actually crossing the room and getting behind the bar, searching through the cabinets and drawers for actually helpful things but also coincidentally allowing you to continue having your fun.

“so… bartender.” your voice was higher than normal and you’d suddenly gained a much thicker southern accent than your usual light drawl. “im new to town. anything fun to do around here?”

he was finally turning to look at you and you watched him curiously as he tossed an abandoned washcloth over his shoulder like he’d been drying glasses, your gaze growing heavier when he put both of his hands flat on the side of the bar and leaned slightly forward.

“pretty dead this time of year.” his voice was low and his face was as emotionless as always but his joke surprised you into a loud and sudden burst of laughter, laying your head down flat on the wood for a few seconds.

you’d never necessarily considered daryl funny but the vibe had certainly shifted from your harsh argument earlier and you couldn’t help but smile at him when you finally picked your head back up, resting your chin on your palm.

he didn’t speak for a while but he didn’t seem like he was planning to shy away from your gaze. maybe daryl was more confident after the sun had set, the bar barely lit outside of a few oil lamps he had apparently flicked on while you were playing pretend.

“what if this was how we met?” you didn’t feel stupid as you spoke even though a few hours ago you would’ve willingly ran into a tree before asking something like that to him. he didn’t respond but you noticed his grip on the bar tightening until his knuckles were white. “would you be at a bar like this?”

at first he didn’t respond and once again you felt that fear creep up, the isolation of his silence lingering in the back of your mind. then he was chewing on the inside of his cheek before shaking his head.

“nah.” it was low and gruff but it was something, almost everything to you and you were leaning even further off your seat and into your palm. “ain’t paying for shitty beer.”

you nodded at his answer and it actually made a lot of sense to you that he was the type of guy who’d rather drink at home but you wanted to pout at the fact he wasn’t playing along with you and your overactive imagination. he could see the disappointment flickering across your face but your eyes were lighting up before he could try to fix it.

“but we are here right?” you start slowly like you’re trying to paint the same picture for him that you’re able to see, maybe with some music playing instead of the sounds of walker growls in the distance. he doesn’t say anything and you take his silence as permission. “and im sitting on this stool, babysitting some shitty beer.”

you slightly mocked his accent as you repeated his words back to him and he scoffed out a laugh at the sound of your thick and over exaggerated recreation of it.

your mouth turned up at the sound of him laughing but it quickly seized when you were sliding your jacket off your arms.

daryl knew what you were wearing underneath, he’d felt the warm skin you were showcasing last night around this time even and yet he still wasn’t prepared for the image of it. he’d seen you in less if he actually thought about it but the small tank top wasn’t necessarily the point rather than the picture you were successfully painting now.

he could actually imagine the two of you at the bar in some other world, you dressed in something that would keep his eyes on you while you pretended to like the drink some asshole had ordered for you.

it was easier to forget the fact you hadn’t been able to drink before the end of the world and this was probably your first time in an actual bar when you were looking at him like that.

he wondered briefly if you meant to be as intimidating as you were sometimes, especially now as you smoothly slid off the stool while keeping your eyes locked on his. you answered his silent question by stopping to flick off one of the oil lamps as you walked towards his side of the bar.

the process continued as you disappeared with the light just to come back again under the glow of the next lamp before once again darkening it

there was a sane part of him that was screaming about this not being the time or the place, reminding him how much was constantly at stake. this was dangerous, you were dangerous and in more ways than one.

especially now that all the lights were off and you were suddenly right in front of him again, not quite as dark or close as it had been yesterday but enough for him to understand that you were once again wanting something from him that he could not give.

your hands were back on him and smoothing over his chest and arms, a repeat of events but this time there was confidence in the way you were moving. you barely hesitated before tangling your hand in his hair and pulling him closer to your lips and he didn’t resist the movement, staring down at you with that same blank look on his face that drove you to insanity.

he flinched back as far as your hands would allow when you went to kiss him, rocking on your tiptoes for a second before landing flat on your feet and pouting.

“it’s only us left in the entire world.” your whispered statement was as much reality as it was an exaggeration but he understood the point you were making before you spelled it out. “nobody will ever know.”

it was ridiculous how much your demeanor shifted under the thinly veiled mask of darkness.

this time when you were making an attempt, he was allowing you to kiss him. the pace of it was feverish from the beginning and you felt slightly smug with some solid proof that he had been wanting this as much as you had, regardless if that had started last night or long beforehand.

he wasn’t needing a guiding hand to touch you anymore and you sighed into his mouth when his rough hands were on your lower back, pulling you into him harshly like he had momentarily forgotten his own strength.

that wasn’t something you were capable of and your entire body felt like it was on fire as you remembered the things he was capable of, the things you’d seen him do to protect the ones he cared about. it wasn’t lost on you that you were included in that and your mouth felt bruised and swollen when you momentarily stopped kissing him in favor of pressing your lips along his jaw.

“god you could hurt me.” your voice was a single breath and he was opening his eyes to look at you, making brief eye contact whenever you came up from his hot skin. his gaze was heavy and alarmingly emotional, almost like he was fearing what you would say for one reason or another. “but you won’t, such a good man.”

you could tell the praising words bugged him so you didn’t object when he was grunting and kissing you again, affectively shutting you up while sparking your interest in putting your tongue in his mouth.

he was painfully curious where you’d learned to kiss so dirty, the idea of you wasting it on some idiot highschool boy getting under his skin for some reason. you were simultaneously hoping you were doing everything right and pushing yourself backwards up onto the counter to try to seem more bold.

your hands were clawing at the wood to try to get a good grip and hoist yourself up but luckily he was paying attention, easily lifting you by your waist and placing you there like it was nothing.

daryl still couldn’t see you but now he could feel your legs wrapping themselves around his middle and pulling him forward until his core was pressed against yours, drinking in the sound of your whines when you realized the position you’d put yourself into.

now you could feel that he was turned on and the knowledge was dangerous to your growing ego, still longing to hear another sound from him or to get him to fully snap and take you like you wanted.

his silence remained steely and you figured he wasn’t going to dare speak and risk putting himself too presently in the situation, bad enough that he was kissing your lips and pressing you into the bar top like some horny teenager.

he knew he had a responsibility now and before the end of the world, a moral code that didn’t stop just because the laws did. he knew you were legally an adult and aged even more by the things you’d had to go through but it didn’t stop the fact that he was over twice your age and the only person you had left, something that was settling uncomfortably in his skin.

is that the reason you were doing this, slipping your hand down the front of his chest until you were tugging at the rough leather of his belt?

“stop thinking so much.” your voice was still as breathy as it was before but it sounded firmer now, wanting him to hear your words. he rested his forehead against yours as you undid his belt and the narrow glare of his gaze was making your head spin. “i want this, want you.”

daryl tried his best to heed your advice, listen to the pure lust dripping from your voice as you told him what any man would want to hear from something as beautiful as you. he ducked his head into your neck when you finished removing his belt and he tried not to be too hasty as he roughly pulled down your low rise jeans.

he weirdly hadn’t put much thought behind what you’d look like without clothes despite his concerning amount of time spent fantasizing about different scenarios.

maybe you’d find him stupid if you knew he more often pictured you sending a youthful smile his way or grasping onto his hand when you were scared rather than what it would be like to take you to bed (or the top of an old bar counter).

you’d most likely laugh in his face if you knew how badly he wanted to protect you, feeling a heavy darkness low in his gut at the thought of you in danger.

he was thinking this like your hand wasn’t back in his hair while you did your best to pull his jeans down with your heels, pulling him back into a kiss and trying to bring him back to the present moment. you were slightly pained at how much he was clearly overthinking but you were too far gone into your desire to let it stop you from having him.

it was easier for him to get out of his head when you were whining louder and louder as he entered you, tugging at his hair and clawing at his back to hear another pained grunt from him at the feeling of your nails on his skin.

there was a lack of words from both of you now even though you had plenty to say, longing to catch your breath long enough to tell him how good he felt. or rather ask him about what he was feeling, coerce him with your tightness so he was less likely to regret what you were doing.

you wanted to make sure he knew that you weren’t settling for your idea of the last man on earth, detail how much you liked the lowness of his weathered voice and how rough his hands felt as he fumbled to grab onto any bare skin of yours he could find.

there was no part of you that was ignoring the clumsy way he dragged you closer to the edge of the counter as you both started to reach your peak, desperation causing an obvious fever in him that was making him act more impulsively.

no regret surged through you as you finished around him, bringing him back into another bruising kiss with slower rocks of your hips to try to urge him to come undone too.

daryl was completely frozen after and you almost didn’t want to open your eyes to search the dark for the look on his face, preferring to stay in the hazy moment with him still inside of you and not yet closing back off at the realization of what you’d done, what he’d done to you.

his age was showing again in the way he was still careful with you afterwards despite his inner turmoil, pouring some of your last bits of water onto the cleanest rag he could find to help clean you up and even pulling you further off the counter so he could button your jeans for you.

it was almost romantic if it wasn’t for the hovering knowledge that what had happened was technically a mistake by all moral standards.

you’d instinctively reached for his hand as he cleared his throat awkwardly and went to back away from you, letting it linger between your two bodies as you slid off the bar and stood there in front of him.

the ashamed look on his face was expected but he was mildly surprised to see the wide eye stare you were sending back, peering up at him like he had hung the moon and the stars that were lighting your faces through the dusty windows.

you had plenty of time for him to shut you out and deal with the inward battle about the lines you’d crossed together but you weren’t going to give up that easily, squeezing his rough palm and following behind him like it was completely typical behavior for the two of you.

your heart was thawed out knowing he’d come around eventually, even if it was only in the late hours of the night where it was easiest to pretend you were the last people on earth.

[inseobts]

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, WOWIE!! Id like to request a scenario with a gender neutral reader with the strawhats platonically, where for whatever reason (devil fruit or if they were born like this), the reader is a full on monster in the very literal sense. Like a Lovecraftian beast hellbent on protecting their crew.

The Crew and the Creature

strawhat crew x gn ! strawhat ! reader (platonic)

words count: 2.3k

tags: monster reader, found family, platonic bonds, protective reader, light horror, humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea is quiet. Too quiet.

Then something massive moves beneath the Thousand Sunny.

“Monster below!” Usopp screams, pointing over the railing “I saw a shadow—huge! With, like, tentacles!”

Franky rushes over “Maybe it’s a Sea King?”

“No,” Robin says calmly, her eyes scanning the water “That’s not a Sea King.”

The crew stares down. Bubbles rise. A thick, black shape coils in the deep.

Then it breaks the surface.

It is you.

You are not pretty. You are not small. You rise from the water like a nightmare pulled from the darkest part of the ocean. Your body shifts, sometimes scales, sometimes flesh, sometimes something else. You have too many eyes. Your teeth are not right. You drip seawater and silence.

And still, Luffy smiles.

“Hey!” he shouts, waving “You’re back!”

You let out a sound. It is not a word. Not exactly. But it means something like safe.

Chopper runs to you “Are you hurt?” he asks, climbing onto your arm, checking your many strange surfaces.

You gently lower him to the deck.

“I missed you,” Nami says, though she hides behind a mast “You scared away those bounty hunters back on Orange Island.”

“Yeah, and half the town,” Sanji adds, lighting a cigarette “Still... thanks.”

You do not speak like the others. Sometimes you speak in dreams. Sometimes in strange sounds. But they always understand.

Luffy laughs “You’re our monster!”

You blink all ten eyes at him.

“I mean it in a good way!” he says quickly “Right, guys?”

Usopp gulps “Y-yeah! Like, a cool, creepy bodyguard.”

“Cool,” Zoro mutters, sheathing his swords “Creepy’s right.”

But he’s smirking.

You settle on the deck, body shifting into a lower, less frightening form. You try to look less sharp. Less shadowy. More… crew.

“Still terrifying,” Brook says, his skull rattling “But I feel very safe. Thank you.”

Usopp looks over at him and says "You're the one talking about terrifying??"

Luffy sits on your back without asking “We’re heading for a new island. Lots of Marines. Lots of trouble.”

You growl low.

“Yeah,” he says “I knew you’d like that.”

You do not eat. You do not sleep like the others. But you stay. Always near. Always watching. Always protecting.

They are your crew. And no god, beast, or man will touch them while you still exist.

As the Thousand Sunny sails through the mist, thick fog clings to the deck. The sea is quiet again.

“New island ahead!” Nami calls “But something’s off…”

Robin narrows her eyes “There’s no wind.”

No waves. No gulls. Just silence.

Then it hits them.

A blast of air. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.

From the fog, a Marine warship appears, black sails, no flag. The kind used for secret missions. Assassins.

“Ambush!” Usopp shouts “They’ve got cannons aimed at us!”

The crew rushes to action.

Luffy cracks his knuckles “Let’s go.”

The Straw Hats move fast, Zoro to the bow, Franky to the cannons, Robin already summoning arms.

You rise from the lower deck.

You are not yet monstrous.

Your shape is tall. Barely human. Your skin shines wet like a deep-sea creature. Your eyes blink down your arms, across your collarbone, along your cheeks. Too many, but still familiar. You walk on two legs, but they stretch and bend wrong when needed.

“Hey,” Luffy calls out, grinning “Feel like scaring some Marines?”

You nod once “Give me a minute.”

Your voice is deep. Cold. Soft, like a wave under the hull.

You leap from the Sunny, arms snapping longer in the air, fingers clawed and sharp. You land on the enemy ship. The deck groans beneath your weight.

Marines freeze.

You stretch, spine cracking, growing taller, skin peeling back just enough to show something ancient.

They aim rifles.

You look at the captain “Don’t.”

He fires.

You disappear into smoke and shadow.

The Straw Hats watch from their deck as screams rise from the mist.

“Still terrifying” Usopp mutters.

“Effective” Robin says.

“Super effective” Franky agrees.

Within minutes, it’s over. You walk calmly back to the Sunny, not a drop of blood on you.

Chopper runs to you with a towel anyway “You okay?”

You blink “Yes.”

Sanji tosses you a can of juice “For your throat. You always sound like you swallowed gravel after a fight.”

You open the can. Sip. You do not say thank you, but you nod, which is more than usual.

Zoro stretches his arms “You went easy on them.”

You turn your many eyes toward him “They weren’t worth more.”

He smirks “Fair.”

Later that night, the fog long gone, you sit alone at the edge of the deck. You’ve shed your shape again. Tentacles hang lazily into the sea. You watch the moon.

Footsteps. Quiet ones.

Robin sits beside you. She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches the stars.

Then, softly, “Why don’t you stay in your human form more often?”

You shift, pulling yourself into it, slowly, carefully. You look almost like them again, though your eyes still glow faintly in the dark.

“Feels wrong,” you say after a long pause “Heavy. Small.”

“Unnatural?” she asks.

You look at her sideways “The monster is more me than the person.”

Robin nods “But both are you.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

Finally, you say, “I like it better here.”

She smiles “With us?”

You nod “Yes.”

She stands “Good. Then stay.”

You watch her go. The ship rocks gently. For once, the ocean is quiet.

You stay in your human form just a little longer.

The Sunny drifts near a small island. Just trees. Rocks. Nothing dangerous. Or so they say.

“I’ll stay with the ship” you say.

No one argues.

They know you don’t like towns. You don’t fit in them. People stare. Or scream.

“We’ll bring back food!” Luffy grins “Meat for me. Saltwater things for you.”

You nod.

They leave.

You wait.

You sit still as a statue, eyes half-closed. But you’re never really asleep. You feel the ship breathe. You feel the waves talk. You feel something… else.

Something watching you.

It comes out of the forest.

A long, narrow boat. Quiet. Hidden in seaweed and shadows.

You smell them before you see them, old blood and gunpowder.

Pirates. Not smart ones.

They don’t see you until they’re close. One of them points “Thought this ship was empty—what the hell is that?”

You stand.

Limbs stretch. Flesh twists.

You don’t scream.

They do.

You don’t kill them. Not unless they try first.

They try.

So you do.

By the time the crew returns, the pirates are gone. Their boat is cracked in half, floating far from the shore.

You sit on the figurehead, dripping sea-water, arms folded, eyes open. Your "human" shape, but your mouth is wrong, wider than it should be. Smiling.

“What happened?” Nami asks.

You shrug “They were lost.”

Luffy laughs “Bet they wish they stayed that way.”

You tilt your head “You brought food?”

“Yep!” he holds up a sack.

You take it, tearing it open. Not meat. Not fish. Something else, shaped like a heart, but not a real one. Candy. Soft. Sweet.

“I saw it and thought of you” Luffy says with a grin.

You blink at him.

“You thought of me when you saw candy shaped like an organ?”

He shrugs “Yeah. You’re weird.”

You don’t laugh, but you let out a noise. A dry chuckle.

“You’re not mad?” Usopp asks, watching you carefully.

“No,” you say “I like it.”

That night, you stay in your human shape longer than usual. You sit with them around the table. You eat. You speak.

Only sometimes. Only when needed.

But when Chopper starts talking about an old wound, you listen. When Brook plays his violin, your many eyes all close.

And when the moon rises high, and the sea starts whispering again, your shape shifts slowly, carefully, into something ancient and sharp.

But your place at the table stays empty only for a moment. Sanji slides your untouched mug closer to the edge “Come back when you’re ready.” he says.

You will.

You always do.

It starts as a simple raid.

Another island. Another greedy warlord.

The Strawhats get involved because someone asked for help and Luffy doesn’t even think twice.

You follow. You always do.

The man ruling the port has a big gang too. Armed. Smart enough to use traps.

Too bad they’re not smart enough to leave your crew alone.

The fight breaks out in the old dockyard. Smoke. Fire. Screams.

You're already half-shifted, tall, monstrous, voice cracking through the air like thunder.

Zoro cuts down a wave of goons.

Robin snaps arms like dry twigs.

Sanji launches into the air, spinning, fire trailing from his heel.

Usopp covers them all from the back, sniping, covering, yelling tips no one listens to.

Then it happens.

You hear it first, a shout that turns into a scream.

“AHHH—!!”

Usopp.

Your head jerks around looking for him.

He's on the ground. A blade in his shoulder. Blood soaking his jacket. One of the gang stands over him, laughing.

“Little sniper talks too much.”

Something in you snaps.

You drop your shape like dead weight.

The air turns cold.

Even your own crewmates shudder.

You do not walk. You flow.

You grow taller. Eyes open all over your body, the kind that don’t blink, don’t weep. Tentacles rip through your arms. Your mouth opens sideways. No teeth, just depth. Your skin peels back in places, showing muscle made of shadow and ink.

The gang member barely has time to scream before he vanishes in your jaws.

Then you turn to the others.

You don’t care if they run.

You hunt.

You crash through wooden walls. Your roar knocks people to the ground. You move like water, like madness, like hunger with bones.

Luffy watches from the rooftop “They messed up.”

“Big time” Zoro agrees.

"A MONSTER!!!" the enemies start to scream at you.

And then a flash. A cannon. They had backup. One shot slams into your side.

You scream. For real this time.

The blast rips through part of your body, smoke and ichor pour out. You crash into the street, bones (or what counts as bones) twisting.

“Y/N!” Chopper yells, already running.

But you rise again.

Shaking. Bleeding. Eyes still burning.

You don’t feel pain. Not yet.

You leap.

You tear through the rest of them. You don’t stop until they’ve either run or lie broken in the dirt.

Only then do you fall.

Your limbs lose shape. Your body pulls inward. You start to collapse.

But arms catch you.

Usopp, pale and hurt, grits his teeth “I’ve got you.”

You're bigger than him. He’s shaking. But he holds on anyway.

“Stupid,” you whisper “You got stabbed.”

“You got blown up,” he says, coughing “Don’t change the subject.”

Chopper reaches you seconds later, frantic “Lie down—don’t shift again, you’re leaking—everything!”

Luffy walks up, face serious for once “You went nuts.”

You nod weakly.

“Good,” he says, grinning again “I was about to.”

Sanji lights a cigarette “That was terrifying,” he says casually “Ten out of ten.”

You close your eyes. You feel your body melting back into something half-human, half-broken. The pain is catching up now.

“You protected me” Usopp says, still holding on.

You try to say something but for once, your voice is gone.

You sleep for three days.

Not real sleep. Not dreams. Just darkness. Warmth. Weight.

Voices pass through sometimes.

“Stable,” Chopper mutters “Barely.”

“Reattaching muscle with sea-stone thread? That’s insane.” Franky says, awed.

“They’ll make it,” Zoro says “Or I’ll drag them back myself.”

You drift.

Until you wake.

It’s night. The Sunny is quiet. Your body is wrapped in cloth and bandages. Your shape is smaller, closer to human. You're too weak for the other one.

Your eyes open “Hey.”

Usopp sits next to you, one arm in a sling, face tired, but smiling.

“You’re alive. And not screaming in monster-language, so I’m calling that a win.”

You try to speak.

Only a whisper “You’re okay.”

He laughs “You nearly died. I got a scratch.”

You turn your head. The others sleep nearby, or keep quiet watch. No fear. No running. Just… waiting for you to wake up.

“Why?” you rasp “I lost control.”

“You protected me,” he says simply “You chose us.”

Your claws twitch. You remember the way your body moved, without thought. The way you devoured the man who hurt him.

“I’m not like you.”

“No,” Usopp says “You’re not.”

You tense.

He leans in “But you’re one of us.”

That doesn’t make sense.

“I lie,” he says, smiling “Nami steals. Zoro drinks. Luffy eats enough to kill ten men. You? You destroy anything that tries to take us away.”

He leans back “I think that’s fair.”

You stare at him.

Then slowly… painfully…

You smile.

It’s strange. Your teeth are still sharp. Your skin still wrong. But your smile is real.

The next day, you walk on the deck again. Still weak. Still wrapped in cloth. Still you.

Luffy cheers when he sees you.

“Y/N!” he shouts “Back from the dead!”

You nod “Barely.”

He grins wider “Good. We need you for the next fight.”

Sanji tosses you something.

A rice ball. Shaped like a heart again.

You blink.

“You’re part of this crew,” Nami says, hands on her hips “Whether you look like a horror story or not.”

Chopper adds, “But please don’t bleed out again. I can only take so much stress.”

You sit down. You eat. Slowly. Carefully.

The sun rises behind the Sunny. The wind shifts.

Robin looks at you, voice soft “Do you still think you’re just a monster?”

You think.

You look at your hands. At the crew. At the sea.

“No...” you say.

You pause.

Then “I’m your monster.”

They all grin.

[spidermiguell]

What you do to me— Tangerine (18+)

—fem!reader x tangerine (wc; 3.5k!)

—synopsis: Rival hitmen, hired by opposing hands, constantly crossing paths but never pulling the trigger. Not on each other, at least. Now you’re both on the same train in Tokyo, chasing the same silver briefcase, and you know it was only a matter of time before things came to a head. You just didn’t expect it to be inside a locked bathroom stall, his hand around your neck, breath hot in your ear, and years of tension finally snapping into something raw and uncontrollable. Tangerine knows you’re dangerous. But he’s learning just how badly he wants to be ruined by you.

—warnings: unprotected p in v, slightly public ? (bullet train bathroom), gunplay, assassin rivals, very brief mentions of blood !

—song recs while reading : what you need — the weeknd + again — noah cyrus + xxxtentacion

Tangerine had a long-standing rule: never get personal on a job. Especially not with competition. But rules had a funny way of going to hell the moment you showed up. You were everything he hated in a rival. Unpredictable, relentless, always three steps ahead and smug as hell about it. He wanted to believe the jobs you pulled were just lucky breaks, sloppy shortcuts, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that hard. You were a ghost with perfect aim and no conscience, and every time your name came up on an assignment, something in his chest twisted, because despite everything—the clashing contracts, the bodies left behind, the taunting messages you sometimes left in lipstick or bullet holes—he was starting to think about you more than he should. And that pissed him off more than anything.

The messages, at first, started simple. A kiss in red on a mirror, right after you took out a mark in Istanbul seconds before he got there.
“Too slow, pretty boy.”

It wasn’t subtle—and it sure as hell wasn’t professional. He told himself it was just a provocation. Mind games. But the kiss mark stayed burned into his memory longer than it should have, and when he finally wiped the glass clean, his hands shook in a way he couldn’t explain. Then came the shell casing in Prague. One of his own, engraved with “Miss me?” and balanced perfectly on the edge of a windowsill. The way you left your mark wasn’t just bold—it was personal.

You knew his work. Studied it. Mirrored it. Mocked it. And he knew what that meant, deep down. You weren’t just trying to piss him off.

You thought he was hot.

And fuck if that didn’t turn something over in him, violent and immediate. His ego hated it. His instincts screamed to shut it down. But his body? His brain? They burned with the idea of you. That swagger you walked with, the slick confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove a damn thing but still enjoyed showing off. You made murder look like art. You made violence look good.

He’d caught a glimpse of you once, slipping away after a job in Venice. Tight clothes, blood on your cheek, a cigarette dangling from your lips, and a smirk that could’ve stopped traffic. You didn’t even run—you strolled, like you wanted him to chase you. Like you knew he would.

And that was the thing. He wanted to catch you.
He just wasn’t sure if it was to end you, 
Or to get you under him.

Either way, it wasn’t going to be clean.

The feelings that Tangerine had slowly developed for you could never make an appearance, until Tokyo. Your boss had told you to steal one case, and one case only. A silver briefcase with a train sticker on the handle.

One of the simpler missions; or so you thought.

You knew that youd be coming across Tangerine, simply because you knew his every move, and he knew every single one of yours. Wherever Tangerine was, Lemon was too. Unfortunately for you, he only served as a barrier—another issue to deal with before you could get what you wanted all along.

You didn’t mean the case.

The bullet train felt like a trap the moment you stepped on it—clean, quiet, deceptively sterile. But your instincts prickled for an entirely different reason. You knew he was already here. Somewhere in one of these cars, probably pacing with a scowl, suit crisp, mustache twitching, tension wound up tight in that gorgeous frame of his. You could already picture him—adjusting his rings, tapping the gun under his jacket, muttering insults about your boss, your style, your mouth. Especially your mouth.

And then there he was.

Two cars over. Leaning against the wall like he owned the goddamn train, scowl in place, eyes already locked on yours the second the door slid open. He was not supposed to spot you that early. Not before you could remind yourself to have your priorities set straight. 1st mission, 2nd Tangerine. This would mess with you. He looked like sin in that tailored coat, blood on his collar from something recent. His lip was split, but he hadn’t bothered to clean it. It made him look even better. Rougher. Real.

Lemon saw you as well, muttering something under his breath and reached for his weapon—but Tangerine’s arm snapped out, blocking him.

“Don’t,” he said low, never taking his eyes off you. “She’s mine.”

That wasn’t part of the plan. Not Lemon’s. Not yours. But the words made something twist low in your stomach.

You should’ve gone for the case. Should’ve ducked, rolled, fought. But you stood your ground instead, like you wanted him to come closer. And maybe you did. Tangerine took a step forward, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging down your figure like he was sizing up a target. Or something far more dangerous.

“You’re looking a little overdressed for a job like this,” he said, voice gravelly, tinged with a smirk. “What’s under all that attitude, sweetheart? Still got a gun tucked between your thighs?”

You tilted your head, let your lips part just slightly. “No. Just waiting for you to come check.”

His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched.

Lemon groaned behind him. “For fucks sake, not again—“

“Shut it,” Tangerine snapped, and this time it wasn’t playful.

He moved toward you like a storm coming in fast. All heat, smoke, and bruised knuckles. You couldn’t help but take in all of his features, his strong walk causing the carpeted flooring of the bullet train to rumble with the sounds of his chelsea boots. Before he could catch up to you, you were reminded of why you were here in the first place. You quickly turned on your heels, the automatic doors splitting the train carts opening for you with a whizz. You had to focus. Get the briefcase, hide it, then continue your play with Tangerine.

You were walking fast—too fast. Not running, but close enough to catch glances as you weaved through the crowded train car, slipping past suitcases, elbows, and confused tourists. You felt him near you, even though you somehow believed that you were weaving between people as flawlessly as you usually did.

You told yourself you were in control. That you had the upper hand.

Until your heel clipped the edge of someone’s abandoned duffel bag. And just like that—

You stumbled.

Before your knees could even hit the floor, a hand was on your back, steady and strong. Familiar.

“Christ,” a voice drawled behind you. That voice. Lazy, smooth, and soaked in a thick London accent that curled around your spine like smoke. “Bit clumsy for someone so bloody cocky, ain’t ya?”

Your stomach flipped.

Tangerine didn’t yank you back. He peeled you up, rough but smooth about it, like he had all the time in the world and still didn’t need to try. One hand in your jacket, the other catching your hip like he owned it.

And then he shoved you.

Not into a wall. Not onto the floor.

Right into the train’s tiny, fluorescent-lit bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind you a second later, and suddenly the cramped space was filled with him—his scent, his heat, his presence swallowing the air. He wasn’t out of breath. Not even ruffled. That perfect shirt was still tucked just right, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tattoos peeking through. Blood stained his knuckles, sure, but it wasn’t fresh. He hadn’t fought anyone yet today.

He’d been waiting.

“You gonna explain what all that was?” he asked, voice low, accent thick like honey over broken glass. “Speed-walkin’ like a bloody commuter. Thought you were tryna give me the slip.”

You leaned back against the sink, breathing hard, your jacket sliding off one shoulder. His eyes followed it like a hawk.

“Maybe I was,” you said, trying to level him with a stare.

Tangerine laughed once, dry and quiet. “Sweetheart, don’t flatter yourself. If you were tryin’ to lose me, you’d have to be twice as clever and half as obvious.” He stepped closer. No hesitation. One slow step at a time, like he was reeling you in on a line he’d cast hours ago.

“You saw me get on the train,” you said, throat dry. “Didn’t even blink.”

“‘Course I saw you. Wanted to see how long you’d pretend not to notice me watchin’.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging over your face, your mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “You’re easy to follow when you walk like that—hips swingin’, like you want me behind you.”

Your breath caught. He was right. You had walked like that. Had wanted his eyes. His attention. And now he was here.

Inches from you.

Unbothered. Amused. Dangerous.

“Touché,” you muttered.

Tangerine smirked—sharp and pretty, like he knew you were already folding.

He brought a hand to your throat, slow and deliberate, not to choke—but to feel. The pulse. The proof.

“There it is,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under your jaw. “That little fuckin’ drum in your neck. Been chasin’ that sound for months.”

You should’ve pushed him away. Fought. Taken the chance to strike.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

He just kept looking at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with teeth and bruises.

Like he wasn’t letting you leave that bathroom without making a mess first.

Tangerine’s thumb remained pressed just beneath your jaw, steady, like he was listening to your pulse—measuring it. Mocking it.

His body boxed you in, close enough that the heat of him poured straight through your clothes. His breath was calm. Focused. Dangerous.

“I should shoot you,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact.

and yet, you didn’t even flinch.

“And risk never finding out what I was gonna do next?” you murmured, chin tilted up into his hand.

He exhaled a humourless laugh, eyes flickering with something sharp.

Without warning, his spare hand moved unexpectedly—quicker than anything else you had ever seen him do. You didn’t even need to look down at your chest, you could already feel the cold metal pressed directly under your rib, digging sharply into your skin.

His pistol.

A matte black thing, customized and deadly. Sleek. Like him.

“I’ll do it right here,” he said, pressing it tighter. “Clean shot. Quick. No one’ll even hear.”

You grinned slowly, teeth flashing. “You won't.”

“Wanna bet your life on that, love?”

You moved your hand with maddening slowness, drawing your own weapon from the holster at your thigh. A small silver piece. Elegant. Lightweight.

You clicked off the safety.

Pressed the muzzle right under his chin.

Now that made his eyes light up.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The guns held steady. The air between you trembled like the second before lightning hits.

Then—you spoke, voice low.

“Dead standoff. How romantic.”

Tangerine smiled, sharp and wolfish. “You really do get off on this, don’t you?”

“Only when it’s you.”

And that broke him.

In the span of a breath, he knocked your gun aside with his wrist, sending it clattering against the tiled floor. You ripped his pistol from his hand with a twist, throwing it in the same direction your gun had been tossed. Both of you tangled in the hot mess of each other, arms colliding, breath mixing and ragged. He slammed you back against the door, hard enough to rattle it in its frame.

His mouth was on yours before either of you could think.

The kiss was brutal. Teeth and lips, no finesse—just need. Obsession. Months of watching each other bleed and win and take, all crashing down in a single messy collision. You dragged your fingers through his curls, yanking just enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. His hands gripped your thighs and hoisted you up without warning, setting you on the sink like you weighed nothing.

“This what you wanted?” he growled against your mouth, his voice wrecked and furious with want. “A fuckin’ chase just to end up right here?”

You bit his lip in response. “It’s not over.”

He grinned against your skin. “No. It’s not.”

And then he kissed you again, harder this time.

The kiss had turned savage. Full of lust and need.

Tangerine’s hands were everywhere—under your coat, dragging it off your shoulders, then gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. His rings scraped the bare skin beneath your skirt, fingers pressing bruises into your flesh like he wanted to mark you, make sure you remembered exactly who had you like this.

You gasped into his mouth as he shoved your legs wider with a knee, the cool edge of the sink digging into your back. Your heels locked behind him on instinct, pulling him closer—like there was still some goddamn space between you.

He grunted, lips dragging down your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make your hips jolt.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice wrecked and reverent at once. “You’re unreal.”

“You’ve had months to do this,” you breathed, gripping the back of his shirt like a lifeline. “What took you so long?”

“I thought if I touched you I might not stop,” he growled into your skin, dragging his teeth along your collarbone. “I was right.”

His hand slipped between your bodies, dragging roughly up your stomach, under your top, calloused fingers brushing over your chest, possessive and unrelenting. You arched into him, breath stuttering when his teeth caught your earlobe.

“Every time you ran a job near mine,” he whispered, grinding against you with brutal precision, “I knew you wanted this. Could see it in the way you watched me. Like you wanted me to fuck you against the nearest surface.”

“Maybe I did,” you shot back, voice low, dangerous.

His hand shot back to your throat, not choking—just holding. Claiming. Keeping your chin tilted up so he could look straight into your eyes.

That’s when the moment shifted.

The lust didn’t fade—it deepened.

But underneath it, there was something hotter. More fragile. Intimate.

His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. His other hand kept moving—slow, rough, greedy—between your legs this time, dragging a sound out of you that made his grip tighten.

“Say it,” he whispered, barely audible.

You swallowed, heart pounding under his palm. “I wanted you, Tangerine.”

That made him snap.

He surged forward, mouth on yours again, sloppier this time, like he needed to consume every word, every breath. His hips rolled into you, grinding with such fierce precision that it tore a moan from your throat before you could stop it.

The kind of contact that burned.

Your nails dug into his shoulder, pulling him even harder against you, making him unable to cover up the scowl that burnt deeply in his throat—like you were the only thing in the world that could unravel him like this. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment and now he was going to take every fucking second of it.

Without another second to spare, he pulled his lips off of yours briefly, his eyes still staring deeply into yours. He wanted to take it further, and so did you. His eyes had that questioning look in them, as if they had softened slightly…signalling that you could still back out if you wanted to.

Luckily for him, you didn’t.

You chuckled underneath your breath, legs still hooked around his hips. Your hands left his neck, slowly tracing his body before placing themselves on his belt. Unbuckling it intimately. He helped you pull your skirt above your waist as well, panties pushed to the side before it was just you both ready to give each other everything you both had been craving.

His lips conjoined with yours once again, all while he lined himself up with one hand to your aching cunt, the other hand holding you tightly in place.

You could feel his shaft deep inside of you, causing you to arch your back, tits pressed against his chest

“Fuck—feels so good” you groaned, your body undeniably shaking from the pure pleasure of feeling him so close to you.

“That’s right…look at you, taking me so perfectly” He had a wide grin on his face once again, that smug expression that got you so hooked on him in the first place. His curls were now glistening with sweat, his gold chain rocking back and forth as his hips jolted roughly into you.

You writhed under him, every part of you alive and electric as he rutted into you harder, lips barely brushing yours, panting into each other’s mouths but refusing to kiss. It was like neither of you wanted to give in first.

As your bodies continued to pound against each other, the sound of skin on skin became deafening. The rocking of the bullet train and the heated atmosphere of the bathroom had you feeling dizzy, and yet you didn’t want to stop. You wanted this moment to last forever. Because in this bathroom, work didn’t matter. It was just you and Tangerine. Together. Not rivals.

Before you knew it, you could feel the knot in your stomach tightening, your body shaking as you reached your climax.

“God—God im gonna—“

“That’s okay sweetheart, let yourself go”

And you did.

He continued to fuck you through it, his body releasing at the same time as you, the high driving you both crazy. He drove his hot spurts of cum into you, making sure you could take as much as possible before he pulled out with a wince, his chest heaving up and down harshly.

The silence that followed was anything but empty.

The air in the bathroom was heavy—humid with sweat, the sharp scent of sex clinging to every surface. Your breath still came in shallow pulls, body trembling, fingers curled tight against the edge of the sink. The mirror, fogged and smeared, showed the wreckage of you both—your lipstick smudged, hair a mess, neck bruised where his mouth had lingered too long.

And Tangerine—Fuck.

His chest was rising and falling, hands slow as they gripped your hips. His belt remained undone, shirt wrinkled, collar crooked. His knuckles grazed your skin lazily, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. And judging by the dazed, dark look in his eyes when you turned to look back up at him, he wasn’t trying.

He looked you over like you were the last thing he'd ever see—and he’d burn the whole train down before letting it go.

"You alright?" he asked, voice low, rough from exertion. His accent thicker now, his usual sharp edge dulled by whatever just snapped between you.

You raised a brow. “After that?”

He smirked, but it was different now. Less cocky, more... stunned.

You could tell he hadn’t expected this. For christ’s sake, hadn’t expected this. It had started like a punishment, a game of control—but now? You could still feel the way he held you, the way his hand had trembled just slightly at your throat when you came undone around him. He was affected, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“You shouldn’t of pulled me into this bathroom," you whispered, knowing whole-heartedly you didn’t mean it.

Tangerine took a step closer, pressing his chest to yours again, hand sliding up your ribs until his fingers rested over your heart. He didn’t speak. He just felt it—still hammering beneath your skin, racing wild under his touch.

“You shouldn’t have worn that fuckin’ perfume,” he muttered, voice ragged. “I could smell you the second you stepped into the carriage.”

You licked your lips, staring up at him. “Thought it might distract you.”

“It did.” He leaned down, nose brushing your cheek. “Got me all worked up. Couldn’t think straight.”

You felt his hand trail lower again, teasing down your thigh, then stopping just short of anything meaningful.

“We’re not done, are we?” you asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Tangerine tilted his head, lips curling. “With the job, or with each other?”

“Both.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Not even fuckin’ close.”

You smiled, and it wasn’t soft.

It was dangerous.

Because whatever this was between you—it wasn’t love. It wasn’t romance.

It was need. Raw, sharp-edged, relentless. Born from years of rivalry and admiration and frustration and lust all packed into the same explosive space.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, just for a second.

Then he pulled back.

“You’ve still got a briefcase to steal,” he said, reaching down to zip his pants. “And I’ve got a twin brother with a nose for trouble.”

You finally moved from the sink, running a hand through your hair, body still humming with aftershocks. You bent to pick up your jacket from the floor, glancing over your shoulder at him.

“I say, you let me steal the case with no effort in stopping me…” you suggested. “And I let you do whatever you want with me on the next mission.”

Tangerine’s grin spread slow and lethal, eyes narrowing like you’d just given him the best idea he’d heard all week.

“God, you’re dangerous.”

You winked. “You like it.”

and he definitely didn’t deny that.

please remember, requests are always open and feel free to reblog ! <3

[mydearmando]

“stay the distance” - john walker x fem!reader

pt. 2 of the “touch” mini series

pt. 1 here

pt. 3 here

summary: after the fight in Nuuk, you want nothing to do with john walker. fate has other plans, and you have a tense late night run-in with the object of your frustration.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 3.3k

warnings: reader has spider powers, idiots in love (but they don’t know it yet), tension, physical touch, minors do not interact

author’s note: y’all have been so patient for pt. 2. crazy that both parts have the same amount of words!! this one really got away from me haha… it got all soft? so weird?? i need comfort and love ahaha??? overall, i think there’ll be 4 parts to this little story, so thank you for your patience now and moving forward 🥹💕 bonus points if you’ve figured out what song the titles are all pulled from!

You didn’t see Walker the night you returned from Nuuk. He disappeared the moment the quinjet landed in the hangar, mumbling something about needing to work off the remaining adrenaline.

Dinner consisted of you, Yelena, and Bob perched on the couches in the main living room, consuming some spaghetti bolognese that you pushed in circles on your plate. The others had gone straight to bed, and the three of you sat there, a feeling other than hunger gnawing at your stomach.

“...you’d think I groped you or something.”

Walker’s earlier words came back to you, causing that gnawing feeling to sink its teeth deeper.

He said it accusatory, as though the action of wiping yourself off had insulted him.

In the moment, you were embarrassed. You missed something during the fight, and he had to save you from your mistake.

You weren’t used to being saved—to having others correct your mistakes—because you didn’t make mistakes.

You certainly didn’t make mistakes that landed you in the literal hands of John Walker, his body pressed thoroughly to yours, his arm holding you firmly in place, and his eyes searching yours, checking to make sure you were okay.

Not only did he save you, he yanked you into his arms and held you by the waist like some kind of chivalrous, gallant knight.

Being held in his arms, it… Well, it embarrassed you.

Yes, that was the feeling, you thought as a heat climbed up your cheeks.

Embarrassment at seeming incapable in front of an ally who was supposed to trust you and your abilities.

Then he made that comment—

“You’re welcome.”

That pissed you off. So you bit back.

And Walker—he apologized when you fought him on it.

In recent months, since unknowingly forming the Thunderbolts, you noticed that John Walker was making more of an effort.

He wasn’t always unkind or selfish—his sincerity showed in small actions. When he took out the trash every week, despite it not being his turn on the job chart. Or when Valentina made insulting comments, and he stood up for whoever she was aiming her jabs at.

He still struggled to back down from an argument sometimes, but you had noticed an effort to cut his losses and walk away. He didn’t want to be the team’s unofficial-asshole or a punching bag, and it was clear he was attempting to redeem himself from the actions of his past.

However, that having been said, he still possessed a temper.

And you had never, ever, heard him apologize.

Yelena said your name, “What is going on in that brain?” She asked, chewing through a bite of bolognese. “You’ve got like, something going on,” the widow added, gesturing around her face as she looked at you.

You reached your hands up, cooling your heated cheeks with cold hands and scrambling for an explanation. “Weird—I think… I think I might be getting a little sick.”

Lie. Total lie. But better than telling the truth, which was that the thought of a certain blonde super soldier made you heat up like an oven.

“Oh no,” Yelena’s lips downturned, tilting her head. “We can make you something else?”

“Yeah,” Bob agreed, throwing his thumb over his shoulder. “I think there’s some cans of chicken soup in the cupboard.”

You looked down, waving them off and willing your cheeks to cool down. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It takes like, not even 2 minutes to heat up—”

“No, really, it’s fine.” You interrupted, forming what you hoped was a reassuring smile.

The two of them looked at each other before looking at you.

“You’re being weird,” Yelena stated bluntly. “Like, just let us make you the soup, okay?”

“I like homemade soup better, anyway.” You rushed out, worried that they were seeing through your lie. “Really. Thank you, though. Honestly, I should probably just go to bed and sleep off the sick, y’know?” Awkwardly, you slid off the couch, avoiding eye contact, and entered the kitchen, dropping off your untouched bolognese.

Distantly, you could hear them murmuring in the living room. You exhaled, frustrated at your inability to play it cool. “Goodnight, guys!” You threw half-heartedly into the living room.

You heard their muted responses as you set course for the elevator to your floor, cheeks still flaming.

***

Sleep did not greet you, regardless of efforts to lull yourself. Despite a lack of sleep from last night and a physically exhausting day, your mind reeled. White noise, ASMR, melatonin, and even a pathetic attempt at a follow-along meditation aside, sleep was not happening.

Every time you closed your eyes—

“...you’d think I groped you or something.”

You hit the bed softly with your fist, clenching your teeth. Frankly, you thought, Walker didn’t have to phrase it like that. For all he knew, you were wiping yourself clean of dust, not him.

Although he didn't know that, and you had made a little… scene of the action.

Whatever. He didn’t need to touch you anyway, you convinced yourself. It would have been easy to jump up or down from the ledge and avoid the incoming hovercraft—he just hadn’t given you a chance before he grabbed you by your web and jerked you down.

The more you grew frustrated with a lack of sleep, the more you convinced yourself that you were right. Shaking your head, you rolled out of bed and slid on fuzzy slippers.

Walker had no reason to be offended when he had been the one to grab you, mid-fight, with no warning.

You shrugged on a comfy throw blanket from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around your shoulders and dragging it behind you on your trek out of your room and to the elevator.

He could have set you down immediately, too. Instead, he held you there against him, like you were something to be protected, like he needed to make sure you were safe—

The elevator released you onto the main floor, and you slouched down the hallway towards the kitchen in pursuit of some hot chocolate.

You were a part of the team. A capable fighter that doesn’t need rescuing, and most certainly doesn’t need rescuing from John Walker.

Nearing the entrance, lost in your thoughts, you almost missed the noise and light streaming out from the kitchen. Stopping in your tracks, you listened closely.

Someone was making something—there was thudding, as though something was being chopped, and the faint smell of chicken. If it were Ava, Alexei, or Bucky, you were in the clear. If it were Bob or Yelena, you had to be quick in returning to your bedroom.

If it was Walker—

Well.

You really needed hot chocolate.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, you felt your stomach drop and quickly paused your movements.

A large stock pot rested on the stove, steam emerging from its contents. The steam twirled in the soft light of the over-the-stove bulb, the only source of light in the room. Beyond the few feet of foggy light the bulb provided, the room was awash in darkness.

The muted thudding continued, and you directed your gaze to the right of the stove, behind the island counter, where, silhouetted by the soft glow, John Walker stood.

The light illuminated the tips of his dirty blonde hair, making it glow as he ducked his head down. The steady noise continued, and your eyes glanced downwards to see him chopping something on a wooden board.

He wore what looked like a soft—black or dark blue, you couldn’t tell in the dark—crewneck sweatshirt. His hair was messy, too, as though he had showered and rolled into bed with wet hair.

You stood silent, motionless out of fear of detection as you watched him. He moved deftly, lifting the board to scrape whatever he had diced into the stock pot and returning to the pot with a spoon, stirring in the new addition.

He looked natural. At ease.

Reluctant to interrupt what looked like a peaceful evening for the soldier, and unwilling to engage in conversation with him, you attempted to step backward silently.

As you took a second step, forgetting the blanket wrapped around your shoulders and dragging on the ground, your slipper pressed down on the soft material, causing you to stumble.

Catching yourself, you froze and looked up.

Walker was turned towards you, his head tilted to the side. Now hyper-aware of the clothes you slept in—which consisted of a pair of small sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that slouched off one shoulder—you yanked the blanket tighter around yourself, willing the small throw to cover the majority of your bare legs and bra-less chest.

“You good?” Walker asked lowly, as though trying to maintain the quiet atmosphere of the kitchen.

You nodded twice, pulling your lips into a tight line and fisting the blanket at the base of your neck. “Yeah. Yes.”

He leaned back against the counter behind him, and you watched the movement as he wiped his hands with a dish towel and threw it over his right shoulder.

Arms crossed over his chest, his biceps bulged slightly and filled out the previously baggy sleeves of the sweatshirt. This was different than the picture of the soldier that you usually saw—composed and battle-ready in tactical gear, or prepared and spirited in training. Sure, he wore lounge wear around the tower, like the rest of the team, but you hadn’t seen him look so sleepy before. Soft and bed-wrinkled in the late night.

“What are you doing up? Bob told me you were sick.” He asked.

In the web of your lie, you started to flush. “Oh, yeah. I wasn’t feeling great earlier, but I feel a little better now. I just—”

Your eyes flickered up to his face, where he was watching you with his lips parted in a confused expression.

“—needed something to drink.”

Silence stretched between the two of you. You took a moment to shuffle closer to perch on one of the stools, the island counter separating you, and even then, quiet persisted.

O-kay. Clearly, he was expecting you to elaborate. Well. You didn’t particularly feel like talking to him anyway.

Instead, deciding to leave the uncomfortable silence, and wait until he was done doing whatever he was doing, you took in the sight of him at a closer distance. His crew neck was dark blue, you noted, with a faded logo across the chest. Baggy gray sweatpants covered his lower half, which you didn’t allow yourself to linger on for too long. Walker’s cheeks were slightly flushed and dewy, likely from standing over the steaming stock pot.

Remembering the pot, you glanced at the contents of the kitchen behind Walker. A cutting board, a chef knife, a half of a celery stalk, some carrot shavings, and an empty meat package—

Suddenly, the smell that welcomed you upon your entrance clicked.

“Are you making chicken soup?” You asked, breaking the silence.

Walker blinked, uncrossing his arms and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as he glanced away.

“Well, yeah,” he stated, stunted, almost awkward. He looked like he had been caught in the act of something. “I always had homemade chicken soup when I was sick growing up. When I found out you were sick, I—”

He paused, shrugging.

“—I figured you might like some, since you’re sick, and it might help you feel better.” His eyes met yours, which were wide with surprise.

John Walker was making you chicken soup because you’re sick.

John Walker was making chicken soup. In the middle of the night. Because you’re sick. And he wants to help you feel better.

You yelled at him earlier today, and here he was, making you chicken soup.

He looked away from your shocked expression quickly, gesturing around his cooking space.

“It’s an easy recipe, and I couldn’t sleep, and I have nothing else to do, so I figured I have the time. I mean, I was just gonna finish up and throw it in the fridge,” He was rambling, you realized. A small smile began to spread on your face. “So you can have it whenever, if you want it.”

“Walker.” You tried to interrupt gently.

“You might not even like soup, which I didn’t even ask you, I’m realizing now,” He continued.

“Walker.” You said, a little louder.

He waved you off, continuing. “I’ll be done soon, so I’ll be out of your way and you can get whatever you need—”

“John!”

Finally, he stopped, blue eyes locking onto yours.

You smiled, unable to help the laugh that burst out of you. The whole situation was ridiculous.

Here you sat, having come down to the kitchen, wound up from Walker’s earlier actions and ready to bite his head off and then—

He was making you soup.

His current expression—shock and embarrassment, you thought—had you tamp down your laugh for his sake.

“Thank you.” You said, giving him a soft smile. “For the soup.”

“Yeah… yeah.” He nodded a few times. You sat there for a moment, enjoying his timidity. This was a side of Walker you didn’t see often. His shyness was almost… endearing.

This tall, physically imposing, self-assured agent possessed insane strength and a capability to do things no other human could.

And he was making you, someone who had chewed him out not 6 hours ago, soup.

You watched his eyes flicker over your face, taking in your smile. Then, his eyes shifted down, almost looking at your—

You glanced down at your shoulder to see that the blanket had slipped off your shoulders, taking the collar of your oversized t-shirt with it, exposing your right collarbone and shoulder. Your cheeks heated, and you quickly grabbed the collar and blanket, pulling them back into place.

Your eyes glanced back up at Walker. He blinked harshly and cleared his throat, straightening as if realizing his lapse in composure. He leaned closer into your space, bracing his elbows against the island counter. Then, he looked up at you, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Yeah, well,” He started. “Someone’s gotta take care of you.”

Ah. That was why you chewed him out earlier.

You rolled your eyes, willing the pink of your face to go down. “And there it is.”

He leaned in further, and the smell of warm cotton washed over you. Unbearable.

“There what is?” He asked, teasing in tone, eyes narrowing.

You shook your head and leaped off the stool, unable to take the proximity, and slid around the island. Ignoring him, you reached up to a cabinet and pulled down a large bowl, bringing it over to the stock pot.

Standing with your back to the blonde, you began to stir the fresh chicken soup. God, it smelled good.

“What, are you seriously ignoring me?” Walker asked, sounding simultaneously amused and offended. “As you serve yourself the soup I made for you?”

“I’m not biting. You’ll have to find someone else to bicker with.” You giggled, ladling the soup into your bowl.

“Really?” He laughed, and the warm sound reverberated in your chest. You could imagine him now, standing behind you with his arms crossed and his signature smirk.

Suddenly, you felt his presence much closer behind you. His chest was nearly pressed to your back, warming you from behind, and in your peripheral you could see his chin hovering over your now-exposed shoulder.

His breath cast a warm cloud over your neck, raising the skin there.

“What were you going to say, Bug? Don’t leave me hanging for the second time,” he said, voice low and tempting you to snap.

Feeling claustrophobic, and suddenly very flustered, you slammed your bowl down and whirled around to put some space between yourself and the tall man.

“Y’know what, John Walker—” You began, but before you could continue and jam your finger into his chest, he had placed his hands on the edge of the countertop, outside of your hips, caging you in place.

He stood closer—much, much closer than you originally thought he was—his head tilted downwards towards yours to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were lidded as they collided with yours, darkened by the light and something else, something that you didn’t want to think about, something that you didn’t dare put a name to.

Up close, you could see the moles speckled across his face and neck and the small scars that accompanied them. He had used a small bandage on his earlier cut above his eyebrow, not deep enough to warrant stitches, but enough to slow his super-healing process. The navy blue crewneck he wore looked worn at the collar, slightly stretched and distressed from many years of use.

His breath fanned across your face and, frozen, you looked to his pink, slightly chapped lips. As you did, his tongue darted out to wet them.

“You’re pretty good at starting fights,” he observed, voice deeper and huskier in the silent kitchen, sending a thrill up your spine. “But you’re not very good at finishing them.”

Despite his words, his clear attempt at egging you into anger, you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from his lips. With his face inches from yours, you climbed up onto your tiptoes—to get farther away from him or closer to him, you didn’t know.

He must’ve thought it was the latter, as you felt his fingers gently, slowly, inch closer to your hips from the counter. Finally, the first few made contact, sliding up your hips lightly and ghosting across the flesh underneath your thin sleep shorts. Shuddering in the wake of his warm, light, hesitant touch, you continued to stare at his lips.

You wondered if they would be soft—if they would taste like the ingredients of the soup, if he would push them harshly against yours, or if he would take his time and touch them softly at first.

As if testing the waters, he stayed there for a moment, fingers light against your outer hips. Then, he fully grabbed your hips with both hands, digging his long fingers into your soft curves and pulling you flush against his front, causing an uncontrollable gasp to escape you.

The two of you stood there, breathing the same air, lips nearly brushing.

You felt the anticipation deep in your core, warming you from the inside out. Here he was—John—leaning over you, lips dancing above yours, looking at you as though he had a thousand wants he couldn’t voice and holding you close for the second time today as if you were his tether to the earth.

Was he going to make you wait? Or was he going to just do it already—

The elevator dinged, and your heart dropped.

Quickly, you scrambled away from Walker, ducking under his statutory arm when he wouldn’t move. Footsteps echoed from the far hall, signalling the arrival of another member of your team.

Making to move around the counter and out of the kitchen, you were stopped by a large hand circling your wrist and pulling you back.

Your skin tingled in his hold, goosebumps spreading up your bare arm.

He pulled you in tight, up against his chest, with your arm clutched firmly in his grasp. His eyes were lidded, a fire within them as they remained locked on your parted lips. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, before closing it again.

The footsteps continued closer, and, anxious to be caught in such a state with the super soldier, you pulled your arm from his grasp, gathered the blanket around your shoulders, and whisked away into the hallway.

One last glimpse towards the kitchen gifted you with John Walker, in all of his sleep-ridden glory, hunched over the place where you had been, fist clutching the air you had left behind and burning eyes following your final movement out of the room.

thanks again everyone, hope you enjoyed! 💙🫐

[rafeys-angel13]

golfing with rafe

summary: you have zero interest in golf but rafe wants you to come with him so you do. and after he takes care of you to say thank you.

warnings: none

writers notes: i had to google half of this stuff. i actually have no interest in golf but i definitely have interest in rafe playing golf 😋 also im too tired to proofread this so there may be mistakes…

rafe is always golfing and you're always complaining about him always going golfing. so he decided to bring you along and show you how fun it can be.

you get ready, tying you hair up in two pigtails. you put on a white skirt and a pink tank top with some pink new balance sneakers with white frilly socks poking out the top.

"seriously? you couldn't have just worn leggings and a shirt or something?" rafe leans against the doorway of the bedroom.

"no, ew" you scoff and shake your head, "i wanted to look pretty, so i wore this..." rafe chuckles and pulls you in by your waist, kissing your head. he pulls one of your pigtails gently.

"you always look pretty, sweet girl..." he smiles softly and your cheeks flush.

"thank you, rafey..." you lean up on your tip toes and peck his lips.

"never a problem, babe..." he squeezes your side, you gaze up at him with eyes full of love. his heart basically melts. he pushes down the urge to keep you at home all to himself and takes your hand.

"come on... lets go.." he pulls you outside to the car, excited to spend some time with you doing something you enjoy you get into the car and sigh.

"do we have to, rafe? why golf?" you pout slightly.

"i always go shopping with you... you have to do some things i enjoy sometimes..." he squeezes your thigh gently.

"i guess... but can we not just like... have some cocktails at the country club bar or something... that seems like more fun..." you twirl your finger around a piece of hair.

"they have drinks on the course, sweetheart. i can get you a pink glittery one if that's what your heart desires..."

"really?" you gasp and smile. as he nods with a smug smirk on his face. he always knows exactly how to convince you.

once you guys get to the course, he explains the different clubs and what you use them for.

"so they're all used for different distances, shot types and situations on the course~" you try to listen, you really do, but all you can focus on is how tight his sleeves are on his big biceps. you nod as he talks, zoning out on his tanned, muscly arms.

"you listening, princess?" rafe chuckles, tugging your pigtail.

"yeah, of course" you smile up at him sweetly, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"don't think you were, sweetheart..." he squeeze you.

"okay, maybe i wasn't..." you giggle and he grabs your chin, pulling your head up to look at him.

"you gonna sit pretty and listen, angel?" he presses a few light kisses to your lips as if to persuade you to listen.

"yeah" you smile softly, easily convinced by his sweet kisses.

"okay... so- let me show you how to swing." he grabs a club and stands behind you, positioning your hips against his, crouching slightly to meet your hips. you let him help you hold the club properly.

"my nails-" you whine.

"christ, they're fine, baby... okay- now when you swing, keep your hips in place until the balls moving okay?" he demonstrates, moving your arms with his.

"okay..."

he sets down a ball and steps away from you.

"hit it, baby girl..." he smirks and looks you up and down, not missing your butt sticking out more than usual.

you swing and hit the ball quite a distance, it doesn't even land remotely near where you were aiming but rafe doesn't need to know that. you squeal excitedly and turn to look at him.

"atta girl" he smirks and pats your butt, "you're a natural, babe"

"yay" you giggle

you guys continue around the golf course, he explains tactics and rules as you go.

"rafe... slow down. what the hell are you even saying? can't i just hit the ball and hope it goes in? that seems much easier..."

"no baby... you gotta know how the rules work and how to plan your swing. here.. look" he takes the club off you and doesn't bother to line up the club with the ball and just smacks it, he turns back to you.

"if you don't plan it, it's shit. and you don't wanna lose, right?" he shrugs and you shake your head.

after starting to listen properly, you're starting to think this is pretty fun. rafe is beyond happy that you're enjoying something he also enjoys.

after a few hours, the sun starts to set and you guys head back home. once you get inside, you take your shoes off and lay on the couch.

rafe joins you, sitting next to you and pulling your legs over his lap.

"i'm tired..." you mumble and rub your eyes, your legs immediately relaxing as he starts to tub your thighs.

"yeah you look a little sleepy..." he says quietly, looking over your expression.

you smile slightly as he moves to your calves and rubs them too. after a few minutes of comfortable silence and him rubbing your legs, he speaks up again.

"come on, lets head to bed..." he stands up and takes your hand to lead you upstairs.

once you make it upstairs, he grabs your favourite pair of pyjamas and stands in front of where you're sat on the bed, lazily taking your hair down and makeup off.

"arms up, angel..." he instructs softly and you lift your arms up.

he takes off your tank top and bra, pulling the silky material of your pyjama top over your head and letting you slip your arms in.

"there you go... good girl. lets get this pretty little skirt off..." he smirks and you lift your hips up to help him slide it down your legs.

he swaps your skirt for the silk shorts with the little bow detail on the waistband.

"thank you..." you smile gratefully, yawning and rubbing your tired eyes yet again.

"was that a yawn, tired girl...?" he chuckles softly as he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before moving down to kiss your cheek. he pulls the covers back and lays the pillows out how you like it.

"it's definitely time for bed, huh?" he lays you down and pulls the cosy white sheets over you. "there ya go... i've got you..." he smiles and presses a few kisses to your face, stripping down to his boxers and getting into bed next to you.

"sleep tight, sweetheart... thank you for coming with me today... you did well, i'm so proud of you..." he pulls your head against his chest gently.

"i need something in return..." you mumble tiredly.

"anything you want, angel... i'd give you the world if you wanted it, sweet girl..." he strokes your back softly, lulling you into a peacefull, much needed sleep.

"sweet dreams, beautiful..." he kisses your head and tries to get some sleep of his own.

-

[4chensungs]

don’t kiss and tell

brothers best friend!jisung x fem. reader

after the incident of your brother finding out you hooked up with one of his friends, you promised to yourself to never look out for him anymore. but who says he’ll give up on you that easily?

wc. 2.8k

warnings. smut (mdni), jisung is down bad, body worship like crazy in here, tit sucking, fingering, ass slapping, unprotected sex

part 1 for context here <3

IT HAS BEEN one whole month since you last talked to jisung. one month since you saw him probably for the last time in a hot minute.

the last few weeks have been extremely unusual; you keep questioning yourself how was he doing, if he's even ever going to appear at your house again to hang out with you brother, like he always did. he's probably not.

and fuck jaemin, fuck him for screwing your bond with him. it's useless, pure jealousy and he's so stupid!, stupid for being this mad with one if his best friends of years, simply because he thinks you're still a child.

on the other hand, jisung is being not so subtle in the way he still wants you. he keeps liking the pics you post on your instagram stories, sometimes even replying to them. and it's the sad fact you're not giving him a single reply.

his mind wanders to the thought of you being already completely over him, wanting to distance yourself fully right now, thanks to your brother.

but your heart knows that's not what you want, and it keeps giving you a warning that the next time that you see him, these feelings will come back stronger than ever.

you miss him. so bad, thinking about him makes you sick.

you're laying in bed, scrolling quietly through your phone when the damn notification appears. why does he keep trying? you sigh out loud.

the__and.y liked your stories.

you ran your hands through your hair, turning off your phone to stare at the ceiling to collect your breath. you can't, your brother is still furious with both of you.

jisung ♡: why do u keep ignoring me in every existing social media

is he really going to do this? at this late at night?

jisung ♡: i miss you

you kept reading his messages and not replying. you didn't contact him for a month.

maybe, just maybe, things may have gotten lighter with jaemin. perhaps he's not really remembering this whole thing, yeah?

you: i'm sorry jisung

you: idk if this is right i really don't know

you: im confused

you turn off your phone again while waiting for his reply. let's give it a try.

jisung ♡: why wouldn't it be right

jisung ♡: jaemin can't control your life, you can do whatever you want

hm.

you: i felt bad that day and he's still so mad with you

you: idc if he's mad with me, he's my brother at the end of the day

you: i worry about you and how hes fucked up your friendship

jisung ♡: baby you know what's fucked up

jisung ♡: you trying to convince yourself that you don't want this because of him

jisung ♡: say to my face that you don't want it

you want this so fucking bad. to be in his arms again, and the thrill of being with him behind closed doors. god, that's all you want in every way.

you: ji

you: i want to see you

jisung ♡: that's right

jisung ♡: i've waited for this princess

jisung ♡: waited so long

you: i need you

you: i don't care anymore

you really don't give a fuck - your brother can hold his protectiveness instinct for himself, he actually can. you can't control what your heart aims for.

and it screams for park jisung.

"you can't ignore him forever, you know that?"

"who says I'm ignoring him? I texted him yesterday saying he should come this weekend." jaemin huffed, acting oblivious to the fact that the only reason why he invited jisung over was because of the boys' annual end of year party.

chenle deadpans at him with his stare, letting out a chuckle, "if you didn't invite him I would've done it myself." he paused, turning his head to look at the man, "that would be bullshit."

bullshit. jaemin swore he almost threw chenle out of the car in the harshest way possible - clicking his tongue in pure annoyance, "yeah, it was just fine when he fucked my sister behind my back."

"i'm pretty sure they did not fuck."

if you didn't then why were you both half naked. in his car. at your backyard?

"i'm telling you, I saw it. she was literally on top of him and she was fucking moaning his name, chenle. that's fucking wrong." your brother spat while still not looking at his friend - eyes focused on the road.

chenle keeps going, "cut this off, jaem. you can't see her as a baby anymore. let her live."

jisung is indeed coming to your house again - sooner than you thought. but it did take some days for you to find out, tho. you brother wasn't the one who told you.

in the same day, the last messages jisung sent you before you went to sleep.

jisung ♡: dress up prettily for me tomorrow

jisung ♡: will you?

you: what??

you: you're coming???

jisung ♡: jaemin told me to go and yeah i didn't expect it as well

jisung ♡: dreaming of you again

jisung ♡: kissing your sweet lips holding you so close to me

jisung ♡: it'll be all mine princess

you: go to sleep ji

you: silly

jisung ♡: i'll show you what's silly tomorrow

—

the sound of the boys laughing and loud pitching talking in the living room did quite mess with your head, anticipating the moment when he comes. it's crazy how you got so dolled up for him only, he's the reason why you're even going out of your room this night.

if it wasn't for jisung, you'd probably just greet the guys and come back to your own quiet place, drowning in your thoughts, alone. just like you always used to do before he appeared in your life.

a knock was heard on your door just right after you finished your makeup. unexpectedly, you meet a very tipsy jaemin.

"what the fuck is this outfit?" he spats, crossing his arms in front of his chest - his body unbalanced. for a split second, you closed your eyes and thanked all the existing Gods under your breath. he's drunk.

you smiled, "felt pretty today. you smell like beer, don't talk to me."

"hey, hey, hey." he grabbed your arm before you could close the door and kick him out, "come say hello to my friends. don't be rude."

you fixed your hair and outfit and went to the living room, being find with chenle, jeno and donghyuck's figures sat around the big table, nestled with all the different kinds of drinks and alcohol.

your breath hitched when jisung was nowhere to be found.

after greeting the guys, you decided to wait in your room - not sure on how, or when will jisung get there and you'll finally get to release all of your wants. show him how much you miss him and vice versa.

not much time had passed before another knock was heard on your door. you were sprawled on bed, dim lighting decorating the ambient.

"come in."

you said that because you thought it was your brother. jisung carefully opened the door, eyes peeking first to check on you.

that scene truly felt like a movie. you slowly got up, a smile starting to pop up in your lips as you walked to him.

your voice trembling, "hi, ji."

you opened the door fully for him to enter your space, he wasted no time to step in and pull you into a hug.

a mess was happening in your head, so ridiculously dizzy from him - the masculine smell of his cologne filling your nostrils, his hands holding your body flush to him while yours gripped his black t shirt, so simple and casual but yet made him look so attractive.

or maybe that’s just because you miss him a lot.

jisung leaned away from your embrace, gently taking your hair out of your face while holding eye contact - hands flew to your hips.

"you look gorgeous. more than ever."

your arms secured their hold around his neck, feeling your cheeks burning red from his words, "just for you." you announced.

he nodded, "all for me."

you both smiled like two idiots in love as he leaned down to kiss you, mouths melting so sweet at first - tongues brushing here and there, hums being heard throughout the kiss, "so pretty in this dress." he mumbles in between.

his back hits the door as he closes it, left hand leaving your hips for a mere second just to lock it.  making absolute sure that no one will be able to interrupt.

jisung grabs a hold of your thighs to help you walk further into your room, so familiar to him.

all the times you've sneaked out, when jisung slept by and left jaemin's room in the middle of the night when he was in a deep sleep. all behind his back with so much carefulness.

when he lays you down he's quick to trail his wet kisses down to your neck, firm hands caressing your whole body, going up and down in motions.

you arch into him, playing with his black hair strands as his face rests on your chest, meanwhile his lips keeps smooching your hot skin.

you sigh in contentment, knees pressing together - trying to give him a sign that you're needy, so painfully needy for him.

"jisung i want- mhhm" your words get cut off by your own whine when his hand grabs the top of your dress to pull it down, hanging it just below your bra.

"don't want to take your dress off.. youre looking too beautiful like this." his deep voice quietly said.

you smile at his sweet comment, holding back all your whines combined with the feeling of his fingers messing with the lace of your white bra, throwing your head back with no shame when he pulls the fabric down to expose your breasts, still not taking it off your body.

"so pretty, princess. i could admire you all day."

cool air is fast to hit but it's soon replaced by jisung's hot mouth, circling your breast with his tongue, hand massaging the other while his mouth does wonders on your soft flesh.

when he reaches for your nipple you whine even louder, his saliva pooling and soaking your whole breast when he sucks it into his warm hot mouth, humming nonstop.

"you're crazy ji-jisung."

"should i stop?" he teases, leaning his mouth away from your nipple and replacing it with his finger, rubbing it.

"no for fucks sake.. but I'm trying so hard to keep quiet." your voice trembled slightly.

jisung looks at you then laughs, “they’re so wasted right now, no one’s conscious in that room, love.”

you pout at him, he softly traces your bottom lip with his thumb before kissing you again, “I promise you, it’s okay. but I need you to tell me it’s okay with you.”

his soft and caring voice did turn you on even more, it shouldn’t, but it made you wetter. eyes holding so much love and appreciation looking at yours - “I want this. I want you, ji.”

jisung smiles one more time, giving you a nod and resumed his work, mumbling a deep “fuck” under his breath when he tested the waters, hand went under your dress to feel your core.

he pulled the ends of your dress up to your stomach, your thighs ridiculously pressed together. you should be ashamed of how wet you were, but you’re not, not even a single bit.

he gives your thighs a caress, “let me spread them, hm?”

your breath hitches when he brings your knees to your chest, spreading you all open and full for him. jisung mentally coos at the scene in front of him.

just like your bra, white lace panties with a wet dark patch decorated in the middle, like a gift for him. it drove him crazy.

“did you miss me that much, princess?” you can only moan as response when he touches the wet patch with his finger before pulling the lace to the side, holding it in place with one finger, while his middle finger travels up and down your cunt.

wet, so fucking wet, “fuck. love, i might cum just by looking at this.” he cursed and cursed again, eyes wide open and looking straight at your puffy displayed cunt, so wet just for him. he knew that and so did you.

“oh fuck baby i can’t-“ jisung’s fingers spread you open to admire you better - in love, genuinely in love with how your pretty pussy shines for him, glistening and begging to suck him in.

he leans down fast enough to give your clit a quick kiss, “can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is.” still caressing your core.

you moan his name desperately at his nasty but sweet comment, tons of whines and “jisung” ‘s leaving your mouth.

“ji please. want your fingers.” you manage to say.

“of course, gotta prep my beautiful girl.” he smiles, an expert finger circling your clit before diving down into your entrance. covered with slick, your cunt invites him just as soon.

experienced fingers pumping in and out continuously, you whine with your eyes closed at the sound of wetness.

jisung’s in complete awe, stoping his staring at your hole to kiss your face, first at the corner of your mouth, then at your lips, shutting your whines off.

“you’re perfect.” he leans away to say.

nothing’s more perfect in this world than the sensation of his long and thick fingers inside you, scissoring you and reaching the deepest and most sensitive spots ever. you’ll say that to him later.

you try to smile but you soon harshly bite your lip when he curled his two fingers inside, you yelped, “jisung! oh my god-“

he kisses you again, and again, until he’s satisfied and thinks you’re ready to take him. jisung’s fingers leave you empty, and you let out a cry - his eyes make their way to between your legs to see how you’re pulsating.

“never seen my princess this wet..” deep cocky voice says.

you reach out to take off your dress, “i’ve missed you.”

when your dress was discarded to the floor, he was quick to unbutton his jeans as they went to the same destination of your clothes.

you could see his erection through his boxers, and as much as you want to such him off right now, you’re needing him inside. now.

your panties were about to be discarded before jisung grabbed your hand and shook his head, “want them on, baby. s’ pretty. keep the bra too.”

knowing how he likes it with you, you turned around and pinned your front to the bed, arching your back and your ass in the air.

“fuck, just like that.” he pumps his cock at first, cooing you while you wait for him.

jisung’s hands flew to your back to arch it even more, then to hold your hips. he rubs the head of his dick on your entrance, how your pussy almost sucks him in just from the rubbing.

when he enters you, you let out a little too loud moan. hands clutching the sheets and tears filling your eyes.

he’s completely focused on how you keep clenching around him - the amusing view of your cunt sucking him all the way in, then out again.

your hips were pressed to his shaft, feeling him so fucking deep into your womb.

jisung coos again, “you don’t know how I’ve been dying for this.” he slaps your ass.

“jisung! jisung fuck, jisung.” you whine like a baby, lost in the pleasure. ass stinging from his big hand slap and cunt begging to be filled until you get sore.

“my love.” another slap, “fucking made just for me.”

his cock is so big and it leaves you like a babbling mess, so big that it almost hurts from how good it is, hits you in all places.

you both were getting closer, his thrusts started to get sloppier and messier, slower as he pulled away to release at your back.

your own release dripped down your pussy and thighs, while his hot cum painted your back down to your ass cheeks. what a scene.

“want them all to see this mess.. jaemin needs to see how you’re good to me.“ he admires the sight of your cunt clenching and unclenching around absolutely nothing but the air, “can’t believe you’re mine and no one can ever change that.”

you tiredly laid back on your back again, trying to fix your hair. jisung’s sweaty body joined you after tossing the dirty sheets aside, he breathes heavy, but still with that cute smile on his lips.

“do you think they heard something?.” you look up at him, voice low.

jisung thinks for a second, furrowing his brows, “i honestly don’t think so, baby. but you need to change these sheets..”

“of course i will, ji.” you laughed fondly. there’s still some questions hanging in the air, with what face will he come back to the boys?

“and if they ask you where were you this whole time and what were you doing…?”

“then i’ll just say that i was fucking the prettiest girl in the family and i don’t regret it.”

—

© 4chensungs

[redflagshipwriter]

Mamabat- enter Jason 1/2

MASTERPOST

The air was different with Cass, now. Danny felt a little anxious as he followed her to the study after breakfast. Something about her was serious-determined-protective. 

She always felt protective towards him. That was why he'd followed her in the first place. Some ghosts lied, but they couldn't do it with their aura. He knew what she really felt for him. 

“Sit?” She asked him. She gestured at the big squashy chair. Danny did without complaint. Cass perched behind him and started dragging her fingers through his hair, relaxing him.

Man. She was good at this. Top tier mothering, right here. Danny went limp. 

“I'm worried,” Cass broke the silence. She didn't sound worried. She never really did. Her voice was quiet and serious, but still kind. Her thumbs dug into his scalp. He pushed his head back against it. Bliss. “Barbara made you sad. Because you miss your sister?”

Danny tensed. 

‘I should have figured that Batman would track me down.’

Maybe he had known, if he was honest with himself. It didn't hit him like a shock.

“Tim thinks your name is Fenton,” she added, brutally sensible as always. And yup, that was it. No point in denying it. “Declared dead. In danger?”

He sucked in air through his teeth. He wasn't going to lie to her. 

“Worried,” she repeated. 

He thought about it. He really did. Danny bit his lip. 

She was liminal. That probably meant she'd come really close to death, in at least one sense of the word. Would that mean she was desensitized to it, or extra paranoid?

…It was hard to imagine Cass over or under reacting to a possible danger. She was just so steady. But would she see him as a possible danger if she knew what he was, what he really was? 

He could feel it out before he took a plunge with the whole truth.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was invasive. She didn't seem to realize that she was liminal. That meant she definitely didn't realize how much she was communicating to him under her words and gestures. 

But Danny deliberately tuned into her quiet aural communication and tested the waters. “Tim is right, I'm Danny Fenton,” he said. He knew he was too tense. She would definitely feel it. But what could he do about that? He was nervous. “I… Maybe I did die.”

Her heart dropped to her stomach. He could feel the crush of grief on her heart. 

But it didn’t wash away the thudding repetition of love-protect-my darling. There was no suspicion, no guilt, no fear. It was just pain for his sake, with no calculation about how to solve a sudden problem. 

God. He wanted so badly for that to have been how his parents reacted. His eyes started to sting.

Danny sniffled. He thought it was safe to tell her. “I died,” he corrected, and he knew he was right when Cass made a little wounded sound and leaned her body into him, aiming to comfort. “Not then, but a couple years ago. I’m different now, and it’s uh… It’s dangerous to be this way.”

“Affects?” Cass asked quietly. She started to pet his hair again. “Mood? Health?”

“...Huh,” he said, because that was a sensible question he hadn’t expected. If he really thought about his mood and emotions before and after the accident: “Yeah, uh, there’s sometimes a mood thing. I might be a little more aggressive than I was before? And I can get kind of intense sometimes.”

He had thought that was basically just a reaction to having a whole bunch of new threats in his life. But would pre-electrocution Danny have been able to actually stand and fight Skulker? He had genuinely been afraid of the jocks. Maybe… Maybe he was different. Sure, Sam and Jazz were up for shooting ghosts with Fenton tech. Would he have been if he was just human? 

…He didn’t really think so.

Oof. Well, that wasn’t exactly great for his sense of self.

Cass shook him lightly. “Health?” she repeated.

Danny forced down that revelation to deal with later. He didn’t like acknowledging that he was kind of a chicken by nature, but historically, there wasn’t much evidence of bravery pre-mortem. “Uh, my heart rate is really slow, body temp is low, so I can’t really afford to go to a doctor for a checkup,” he said. “Uh, sometimes I’ve got none at all and my hair turns white.” He paused there. That was- that was enough, yeah? He was going to be honest with her because she deserved honesty from him. But that didn’t mean he had to explain the whole great beyond and his inhuman status.

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass said, after a long silence.

Danny short-circuited. “Wait, what?” He craned to look at her. “Who?”

Cass darted forward to kiss his forehead. “Little brother,” she said cheerfully. “Want to meet him?”

Uh, yeah. Danny nodded vigorously, wondering what the hell she was on about. “Do you mean he died?” 

“Died,” Cass agreed, getting out her phone and tapping away at it rapidly.

“Not like, heart stopped for a minute on the operating table and he was revived, or what?” Danny pressed.

“Dead in the ground, came back later,” Cass said. “Dead for months. Now, very crabby.”

Danny balked. “What?”

“White hair too,” she said. Then her face did something funny. “I think he dyed it recently,” she said. 

Danny huffed a laugh. “If it’s the same thing as mine, you can’t dye it.” He saw her look over his head for white streaks. He didn’t correct her line of thought.

He hadn’t thought that anything could top the anticipation of meeting Batman. But Danny had to admit the rest of the day was a wash. Apparently Jason couldn’t make it until the evening, about an hour before patrol.

Danny nearly paced a line into the carpet. He had enough energy to do that now, even without ecto. He was getting soooo much food here. A guy couldn’t even stress out for an hour without someone coming by to make sure he had fruit and yogurt or a hot drink.

He didn’t need someone to come and tell him that the much anticipated Jason had shown up. Danny knew it when he went to take a sip of cruelty-free chocolate milk (hand delivered by the most frightening child in the world) and choked on vapor.

Damian gave him a glare and snatched the drink away. “Are you incapable of drinking beverages?” he demanded. His face looked so goddamn cross but he was just worried.

Danny managed a smile. “No, went down the wrong pipe, sorry.”

Damian didn’t seem to even see the fog, so- so that meant that either he was really unobservant or he wasn’t liminal enough to see it the way people did in Amity. That was a small blessing. Danny appreciated it and he took back his drink to have something to hold onto.

That was a whole ass ghost. That was a whole ghost coming onto the property, one that felt big and mad and old. Danny smacked his lips, disconcerted. 

He, uh, didn’t know what to expect from this.

[ambitiousmars]

.☘︎ ݁˖ GENTLE precision

.☘︎ ݁˖ summary: viktor works in his own way. on the floor, in the dark, sometimes even in his sleep. but no matter the circumstances you'd hate for him to miss his morning coffee.

.☘︎ ݁˖ pairing: viktor x gn!reader

.☘︎ ݁˖ genre: fluff

.☘︎ ݁˖ warnings: no use of y/n, pure fluff, not proof read, based on season 1

I'll gently graze you, so you'll remember my touch. I'll softly speak to you, so you'll remember my voice while it's coaxing you rather than haunting you. And I'll remember you, so when you remember me, we'll remember us.

"Morning, Viktor." You greeted yourself as the door of the darkened lab clicked behind you, hand grazing against the wall to find the light switch.

"Keep them off," Viktor would urge, "Please." He'd mumble politely as a blue light sparked from the floor beside his chair.

"What are you working on?" You'd ask, making coordinated steps with coffee in each hand towards the sparking light.

You didn't know it could be so dark in a light room. The window looked as if it was the dead off night, and you clearly wouldn't know any better if he told you it was, in fact. Even if you were outside ten minutes prior.

One step: lies a cord notorious for being tripped on.

Picking your foot to place three more steps.

Where a table clock laid, broken glass facing down that no one bothered to pick up.

Picking up your foot, you took a few more steps before standing beside the busy man.

"I hope that's coffee I smell." Viktor whispered, not because he didn't want you to hear but because of how gentle he took your care. Whispering was a sign of vulnerability, not even he noticed about himself.

"Well, you always did get what you hoped for." You responded in the same tone, a smile evident in your voice as you lowered yourself to sit beside him.

He pulled away from whatever he was working on and removed the goggles he placed on his eyes to the floor beside him.

He reached a hand out to you, noticing you couldn't see him in the dark and you weren't even looking at him. He located your wrist to grasp lightly and slide the coffee from your hand before letting go.

"What are you working on?" You asked, moving your eyes back to him. As your eyes found his, you noticed the glisten in his eyes that still glowed through darkness, something you'd hate to miss.

He hummed through his sip off the hot beverage, letting you know he acknowledged your curiosity.

"Same thing I was working on yesterday,  and the day before..." He spoke, although not great with humor, you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. As if he wanted you to laugh at the thing he found frustrating,  maybe to make it less frustrating for him.

"And why are we on the floor?"

'we.'

A simple word, a simple pronoun aimed at the two, now sat on the floor together.

"You can sit on a chair if you'd like." Viktor suggested.

'we.'

No one told you to sit on the floor.

"Then you'd be the only one sitting," You shook your head even when you knew he couldn't see it.

"And you'd be the only one standing." He whispered, more to himself than anything.

"Presicely."

Being alone was what he wanted, but being with you is what he craved. He didn't mind being accompanied on the floor by someone who doesn't mind accompanying him.

But it was far more than his presence, you'd hate to remember him by the man who was all alone unless you asked. You shouldn't have to ask, and he shouldn't have to answer.

Your hand found the air, with what you could see you brought it towards where you thought the shoulder of the man was. You were a bit far off until it landed on the fabric of his vest.

He didn't say anything, although he was curious he knew once you'd find what you were looking for, he'd know. Like now, when your hand glided across his chest to his right shoulder--letting your face follow where your hand went, you rested your cheek on his empty shoulder.

Which he allowed, as he sipped his coffee and thought about the question told once today.

"And why are you on the floor?"

[mrtelevisionlover]

can i request a chrismd one where you where one if the girls in the 20 women vs 1 youtuber football edition and fans start to ship you two? even the guys haha! loving your work btw!!

Yes!! Loved writing this, enjoy!

(Can you tell I know nothing about football?)

words: 1500+

Style

When Y/n got a DM from Chris’ manager asking her to be in this video, she wasn’t too sure what to think. She wasn’t very lucky in the dating scene, only going on a few first dates, and had never had a boyfriend. She didn’t really want to embarrass herself in front of his millions of subscribers but she had been a fan of his work for a while and had always wanted to meet him so…why not?

The morning of, she was very nervous. She had bought a new shirt to wear, and paired it with some shorts. She braided her hair into a simple french braid and stepped into some worn out trainers. She decided to go without makeup, as she was probably going to sweat it off. Also the weather outside was horrible and she didn’t want mascara dripping down her face…And she was late for the train.

When she arrived on the pitch, she saw 19 other girls, all very pretty. She suddenly felt insecure, especially as no-one was talking to her. She decided to go over her pickup line, seeing as that would be his first impression of her.

Soon, the cameras started rolling and one by one, the girls would introduce themselves to Chris and his two friends, Calfreezy and ArthurTV. Eventually, it was just her left. She watched Chris say goodbye to Loretta, who she eventually learnt had been on a few dates with Chris already. Once his manager gave her the green light, she walked over to the table.

“Wow-Hello!” Chris smiles. He takes a moment to look at her face, admiring her.

“Hi! I’m Y/n and uh…Can you be your striker? I'm only aiming for your heart.” Y/n giggles slightly, and the sound brings blush to Chris’ cheeks. 

“Aww, that’s quite sweet.” Arthur coos.

Freezy pauses, then points, nodding his head. “You know what, I like it.” 

Chris shakes his head slightly, and presses a hand to his cheek. “Are you any good at football?”

“I play with my dog sometimes?...” She shrugs, embarrassment painting her cheeks slightly.

“Oh…Okay. Well, I wish you the best of luck.” He smiles.

“Thank you!” She takes a few steps away from the ball before running towards it and kicking it with all her might. Unfortunately, the ball narrowly misses the goal, and goes over the top.

“Ooh! That was good, I’ll give you that.” Chris exclaims, clapping his hands together in celebration.

Cal sighs, “That almost made it too.”

“I’m actually surprised I got it that close. I thought it’d end up behind me.” Y/n gasps as two hands cover her mouth. She was quite awful at football and really surprised herself.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Arthur looks towards Chris in anticipation. He knows Chris already likes her, he can see the look in his eye– it was the same in school.

“Yeah, you’re through.” He smiles. Freezy takes note that this is the widest he’s smiled so far.

“Really? Thank you!” Y/n does a little jump before waving goodbye. She walks over to the rest of the girls where they actually start to talk to her. She starts talking to Rose, an American streamer who flew all the way over to be on this video. She seemed to really like Chris and Y/n started to get a little nervous, Rose was very pretty.

“She seems really sweet.” Arthur whispers to Chris as you walk away.

“She’s really pretty too.” Chris blushes, sending a shy smile towards him.

Freezy perks up, “Uh-oh, Chris is falling already.” He laughs.

Soon after, they moved into round two. Twelve girls remained, Y/n included, and they had three free kicks. Chris, Freezy, and Arthur stood in a line a few metres in front of the goal while the girls aimed for it, the 3 of them often getting hit. 

“Hello Y/n.” Chris beams. Cal laughs at him while Arthur nudges his shoulder. 

“Hi again.” She smiles, waving to the 3 of them. She’s incredibly nervous. She worries her luck has run out and has a bad feeling she’s going to hit one of them.

“Any technique you're aiming for?”

“Um…To score? Hopefully” She laughs. Chris giggles, Arthur and Freezy give each other a look

“Okay, Well…Best of luck.” He smiles.

Y/n steps back from the ball, lets out a little breath, and kicks the ball. It goes over their heads, and misses the goal. “Aww, come on!”

“It’s alright, you got two more!”

She kicks the ball again, she uses less power and it rolls towards the goal slowly. Arthur lets out a little laugh and Chris hits his chest with a scowl. 

“One more, give it some power!”

“Okay.” She mutters to herself as she walks back to the line. “Just score one, please.” She whispers, closing her eyes.

Y/n lets out another little breath before kicking the ball with all her strength. She watches the ball fly through the air and…Hit Chris right in the groin.

Arthur screams, “OHH!” as Chris falls to the floor, Calfeezy struggling to breathe from laughter. 

“Oh my-Are you okay!?” Y/n quickly runs towards him, leaning down to check on him.

“There goes my ability to have kids.” He groans, rolling on the floor.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t even know I could do that-” She apologises as her face is flooded in guilt. 

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” Chris slowly gets up, Y/n helping him.

“Are you sure? I’m just gonna go-”

“No! You’re through.”

“Wait, what!?” Cal exclaims as Arthur gives the camera a look of bewilderment. 

“Really?” She gasps.

“Yeah, you’re really sweet.” Chris rubs his hand down her arm, soothing her slightly.

“Oh, thank you. Again, I’m really sorry.” Y/n face plants as she walks away, her face flushed with embarrassment.

“You are insane.” Arthur mutters.

“What can I say, I really like her.” Chris shrugs, then wincing

 For the third round, the nine remaining girls had to show a talent. Y/n watched girls throw and kick footballs, recite poems, and participate in an arm wrestling contest. She decided to do some gymnastics, as that was the only thing she could come up with. 

“Hello Y/n, what will you be showing us today?”

“I will be doing some gymnastics.” 

“Oh cool! Ready when you are.” 

She starts by doing a handstand, then holding it for a few seconds before falling into a bridge. She stands up and does a simple cartwheel, then falls into the splits. She hears the guys cheering her on and she giggles slightly. She decides to finish it off with a few flips, landing in front of the table. 

“Wow…” Chris stares in awe.

“That was so cool” Arthur exclaimed, shaking Chris slightly.

“It’s a yes!” 

“Really? Thank you! See you later.” You wave them off. Chris watches you walk off, subtly checking you out. Freezy notices this and laughs at him, smacking him over the head.

 Now onto round 4. There were only five girls left and they were to be interrogated by Chris’ two friends. 

“So Y/n…What is your biggest turn off?”

“Uh…Not telling me how they’re feeling. I think it’s really attractive when a man tells me how he’s feeling — whether if he’s happy or sad, I think it’s really important.” She nods.

Arthur smiles. “That’s a really good answer.”

“Yeah. I’m really open about mental health on my YouTube, I like to use my platform for good, sometimes.”

“Really? Men’s mental health is so important, I think a lot of guys watching your channel would really benefit from it.” Y/n praises.

“Thank you.” He blushes.

“Chris…What makes Y/n different to the other 4 girls?”

“She’s really sweet, and seems very genuine. She’s…alright at football and…she’s beautiful.”

“Aww” Both Cal and Arthur coo.

Y/n covers her face, her cheeks feeling warm. She peaks between her fingers to see Chris smiling nervously. 

“And Y/n, what’s your favourite thing about Chris?” 

“I love how much he cares. He clearly cares so much about his friends, his videos, his fans. It makes him so enjoyable to watch and honestly? He’s such an inspiration.”

“Oh wow.” Chris breathes, his heart skpping a beat. 

“Right were running out of time but quickly—rate each other out of ten.” Calfreezy interrupts, turning to the two.

“Ten.” “Ten!”

“Really?” “Really?” They both stare at each other in surprise, blushing blooming on their cheeks.

“Chris? A ten?” Arthur teases.

“What? I really like his hair, and his freckles.” Y/n tuns to Chris and takes a moment, looking at all his features. “And he has a really lovely personality.”

“So…It’s Y/n and Rose, right? Those 2 you were smiling the entire time.“

“Yeah…Yeah, it’s them.”

“So…We’ve made a decision and we’ve decided to put Y/n and Rose into the final.”

“Woo!” The rest of the girls clap.

Both girls did rock, paper, scissors to decide who was starting first and Y/n won. Chris held an Umbrella over her head as he led her to the goal.

“So uh…What baby names do you like?”

“I like classic ones like Charlotte, or Henry.”

“Oh nice. I like Heather.” 

“Aww, that’s really cute. How many kids do you want?”

“As many as my wife will have, I don’t mind.”

Y/n smiles and realizes she's at the line. She says a little goodbye and watches him walk away. 

Eventually, Rose had scored 2 out of her 4 tries, and Y/n only had scored 1 out of her three. If she wanted a chance, she’d have to score. Y/n stands in front of the ball and closes her eyes, and slows down her breathing. She shakes her hands, stretches her neck, and kicks the ball.

She watches the ball fly through the sky, miss the goalie, and hit the net! She hears the guys celebrate behind her and realises she’s back in the game. 

She then watches Rose hit the ball for the final time, and watches as it narrowly misses the goal. Y/n hears gasps next to her as someone shakes her shoulders.

“If you score this, you win! No pressure though.” Arthur smiles at her sheepishly. She nods, still in shock. Y/n turns to Chris as she walks away and he gives her a reassuring smile, and a thumbs up. 

Y/n turns to the ball and eyes up the goal. She lets out one final breath and kicks the ball. It feels like everything is going in slow-motion, and she can’t watch anymore. She turns around and covers her eyes, only opening them when all 3 guys scream in excitement. 

She turns back around to see the ball in the goal and she gasps. “I did it!” Chris runs over and gives her a hug, congratulating her in her ear. She hugs him back, and squeals in surprise when he picks her up. Chris then gives her a gold envelope with a lot of money inside.

“No-I can’t keep this.” Y/n tries to give him back the envelope but he puts up his hands

“Yes you can, you won.”

“No-” She tries.

“Yes.”

“A date with you is the prize.” She pleads.

He smiles, before pushing the envelope back in her hands.

The video then cuts to them both skipping into the distance, with cute music playing over the top. It then fades, the video ending.

Comments: usera: Hello!? The chemestry between the two? SO glad she won

userb: rose was robbed tbh

userc: DOES ANYONE KNOW IF THEY ACTUALLY WENT ON A DATE I NEED TO KNOW!!

userd: who's wating for arthurs ai generated comment?

usere: you could see how much chris liked her from the start. who knew he was such a blushy boy!?

userf: so cute! Hope to see her in other videos

userg: him picking her up at the end? they better be together

userh: her talking about men's mental health? chris, she's a keeper!

Well, I hope you like it. My first real fic, done!! also, ignore any mistakes, i'll go over them tomorrow x

[thebestsetter]

Kuroo has always had a bad hair.

Ever since he was a kid, one of his main physical traits is his atrocious bed hair. He wakes up like that because of how hard he presses his pillows to his ears while he sleeps, so it's not really a habit he can change easily. Also, he has never had a problem with it, especially because his pretty wife, you, said it's one of your favorite parts of him.

You always talk about how you love his hair, even if you still call him "rooster head" sometimes. You love to pet it, you love the shape, the color and everything involving his hair. Not even he is capable of understanding the "attraction" you feel for it, so he just enjoys it.

So yeah, he doesn't really hate his hair, and overtime, he learned how to keep it more "tamed" and "behaved". So he thought his hair problems were over. No more bad hair days.

Well, he thought.

"Stupid... hair tie...." Kuroo murmured, voice coming out muffled because of the pink butterfly pin with glitter that was on his mouth. His eyes held a look of extreme concentration, akin to a hunter aiming for a deer in the middle of the woods.

He was serious. In fact, he had never been so serious in his life. Because this wasn't any occasion. It was the first time you had ever let him dress up your 5 year old daughter for school. He couldn't mess this up.

Her hair needed to be perfect. He just seemed to forget he had never braided a hair before in his life.

"Daddy, are you alright?" His little girl asked, feet moving around and hands on her lap, waiting patiently for her dad to finish the "amazing hairstyle" he promised her.

If only she knew.

"Yeah, sweetheart!" Tetsuro said, drops of sweat running down his forehead. "Just wait a little more!" He said, taking his phone off his pocket while still holding a lock of hair and still with the butterfly pin in his mouth.

He then started watching a video on youtube. It's title was "How to make a braid with only 3 steps".

"Ah, so it's actually done with 3 locks of hair, not only 2!"

He then began treading his daughter's hair with such precision that it was scary. His eyes were focused and it seemed like he couldn't pay attention to anything else. It was only him, the hair ties, and the hair. Nothing else.

After a while, things were actually going somewhere.

No way. He was almost getting it finished!

"Tetsu, honey, are you guys ready?" He heard you calling from the kitchen

"One sec, love!" Kuroo shouted back. "Now I just need to do this and... AHA! My masterpiece is ready!"

"How do I look, daddy?" His daughter asked, smiling brightly at him. Even if she had some missing teeth, Kuroo swore it was the prettiest smile he had ever seen in his life. Of course it was. It was just like your's, afterall.

"You look amazing sweetie. Like a real princess! You're your dad's princess, you know that, right?"

"Thank you dad!" She smiled again, hugging him strongly. He hug her back, careful not to touch her hair in the process. He couldn't ruin his hard work!

"Now, why don't we go show mama how great you look, hm?" He crouched down and smiled at her

"Of course! Let's go dad!" She laughed, grabbing his hands and pulling him downstairs.

She really was the cutest kid Kuroo has ever seen.

"Okay sweetheart, close your eyes!" Kuroo said, peeking from the kitchen's door. "Our daughter wants to surprise you with her amazing hair - the one I braided, of course"

"Sure, Tetsu! I can't wait to see this great work of art!" You giggled, using a sarcatic tone.

I mean, look at his hair. He couldn't have an experience with braiding. It was clear the hair would look utterly horrible.

"Hey, I sensed that sarcasm!" He said, which made you giggle "Mind you, she loved it!"

"If you say so. I'm gonna close my eyes now!" You smiled, putting your hands on front of your eyes to show them you wouldn't cheat and open your eyes

"No peaking, mama!" You heard your daughter saying, her little footsteps making you realize she entered the kitchen.

"Yeah, no peaking!" Kuroo agreed.

Gosh, they really were the same.

"Okay, okay! I'm not gonna peek"

"Now, I'm gonna count to three and say 'now'. Then you can open your eyes!" Kuroo said, voice showing how excited he was

"Okay!" You smiled

"1..."

You were really starting to think he did a great job. He looked so proud of it, after all!

"2..."

You heard your daughter giggling in the background. Maybe you really judged your husband wrong. Maybe he did know how to braid hairs.

"3..."

You were sure it would be at least decent. If it was, then you'd let your daughter wear it to school. If they were both happy, why not?

"Now!"

You then remove your hands from your face and open your eyes, meeting the most...

Atrocious braid you've ever seen.

"She's not going like that to school." You deadpanned, looking at the hair and wondering why he thought this looked good. Had he never seen a braid before in his life?

"HUH? WHY NOT?" Kuroo shouted, his chest that was once proudly puffed up now deflating

"Why not, mama?" Your daughter started tearing up, looking up at you with big, pleading eyes.

"It looks..." terrible. Is what you really wanted to say.

But looking at your the sad faces of your family members, you didn't find the strength to do so. And so, with a sigh, you smiled and said

"Too good! Other kids will be jealous!"

"For a moment there I thought you were judging my hairstyling habilities!" Kuroo laughed, that obnoxious laugh of his that you loved so much echoing through the halls

"Oh!" Your daughter also laughed, the same way her dad did "There's no problem! I can tell dad to do their hairstyles too!"

"Great idea, sweetie!" Kuroo agreed with her, eyes sparkling up

"I think... it's better if you don't"

"What do you mean by that?" Kuroo asked, looking straight at you with a very sad face.

"Just... you don't seem to have a talent with hairs."

"But you told me you love my hair!" Tetsuro pouted

"I do. And I love you, too!" You kissed his nose, making him smirk at you.

"Not enough. What about... here?"

He grabbed you by the waist and pulled you in for a kiss on the lips. It was full of all the love and passion he held for you and the family you both created together.

"Ewww, daddy and mommy are kissing! Gross!" Your daughter put her tongue out and did a "throwing up" mimic, making you both laugh.

"Now, let's take you to school, sweetheart!"

You smiled, leading both your husband and your daughter to the car.

You really loved your family, even if Kuroo didn't know how to deal with hairs sometimes.

You wonder if he would "get along" better with his son's hair. The son that he still doesn't know is in your belly right now.

Well, he still has 7 months to practice for when the time comes.

~ A/N: FINALLY WROTE A REQUEST!! It was so fun writing this omG. I love healthy families 💕. ALSO, first hq fic!! 🥳🥳

Masterlist

[headdinthewall]

DOMESTICITY ──  g.clarke  ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : what it’s like living with george (not with arthur & chris) a/n : high chance i’ll do this for all the boys // i realise some of these don’t take place in the clarkey x reader home, but i wanted to include them anyway so yeah content : established relationship ,, mentions of sex ,, drinking

─────── AT THE BEGINNING, it’s slightly weird and awkward as you both take time to adjust to spending practically every waking moment together. You find it strange that you could turn one corner in your house and he’d just be right there, but after a couple of weeks, it becomes a regular, comforting thing that you both grow to love.

𐙚 At first, when it came to sleeping in the same bed, you were all cuddled up, his chest to your back or your head on his chest, either if the two were your go-to sleeping positions, but now? You fall asleep barely touching each other. It’s not that you despise touching him when you sleep, it’s more so that you both understand each others sleeping patterns and habits, for example, George found out that you kicked in your sleep the very, very hard way, so now he knows to give you space while you drift off. It doesn’t bother you both that much, you both end up in each other’s arms by the time you wake up anyway. However, when he does his late night streams and you fall asleep in the back, he will crawl in and spoon you once he’s done, but if you’re both in bed at the same time? Nah, opposite ends.

“Ow!” He hissed as your foot came into sharp contact with your shin. He turned his head, only to see you fast asleep. You whined in your sleep, rolling over and completely invading his personal space. Your arm and leg sprawled across his body and your head on his collarbone. He sighed and patted your thigh, hooking it over his waist so it was more comfortable for him.

𐙚 Couch cuddles are always the best, and it helps that George is constantly warm. If one of you is working, you’ll use his side as a back rest and his arm will drape across the back of the sofa so that both of your laps are accessible to do whatever work you need to. However, if you’re both indulging in your free time together, your legs are across his lap and your head is on his chest while one of his arms falls across your waist and the other on your thighs. Sometimes, if he’s just finished filming and you’re chilling on the sofa, he’ll just come and lie on top of you without warning, hands up your shirt and on your back, head on your boobs and making sure your legs are wrapped tightly around his chest.

“Missed you today.” He mumbled against your chest, fingers stroking your skin delicately. You chuckled slightly, “You were filming with Chris for four hours. He’s literally one of your best friends.” “Yeah? And? You’re my girlfriend. I’d rather film videos with you.”

𐙚 Speaking of filming videos together, you like to film ‘day in the life’ videos and mini blogs for your youtube channel. You also occasionally post the odd ‘advice for teenagers’ video for girls about maintaining physical health, aimed to help those who may not have had good mothers. So sometimes George appears in the back of those, waving or coming up to you just to show you something he found funny or an edit of either of you. But he does feature in every one of your vlogs at some point.

“So … yeah, honestly your skincare routine doesn’t need fifty million steps and you don’t need— What are you doing?” You laughed as George just stood in the doorway of the kitchen. You grabbed the camera and flipped it so that you were filming him. “What are you filming?” He asked, rubbing his chin and walking over. “Advice for teenage girls on hygiene and stuff.” “Oh, I’d know all about that.” He joked, holding a finger up. “Yeah, because you have a vagina, George.” You rolled your eyes, setting your camera back down. “Ohhhh, it’s one of those videos.”

𐙚 You’re in the back of his videos a lot and he purposefully leaves in the parts of the video where you call for him in the back. He likes to do this because he enjoys seeing all the comments getting excited about your feature, even if it’s just your voice (it’s also a subtle brag that he’s still in a relationship with you).

“Would I do Inside again? Yeah, absol—“ “George!” Your voice shouted out from the living room. “Yeah?!” “The TV stopped working!” He gives a deadpan look to the camera and then the video cuts to when he continues talking.

𐙚 You wake up before him for your morning pilates workout, and he has the same reaction every morning when he wakes up and walks out the room and sees you:

“Nice!” George said in his ‘funny’ high-pitched voice before smacking your bottom while you were on your hands and knees. “George!” You exclaimed, disguising your attempt to kick him as just doing your workout.

𐙚 He tries to get you to go to the gym or on a run with him, but you’re fully against the idea of going anywhere male-dominated, even though you’re with him. He doesn’t push you to do anything you don’t want to, but every now and then he’ll bring it back up again.

“Do you not even want to try? I’ll be with you and I’ll help if you get embarrassed or whatever.” He offered again. “I mean … I just don’t really want to go, I’ve seen too many videos of weird guys and the idea of that happening makes me feel uncomfortable.” He frowned at your response, not because he’s mad but because he doesn’t like the idea of you being uncomfortable, “I promise you, if any guy even tried it with you, we’d either leave immediately, or he’d end up with a dumbbell in his head.”

𐙚 Eventually he does get you to go to the gym with him, and he’s constantly keeping an eye on you and spotting you. He makes sure that you’re 100% okay with your next rep and sets before starting on his own thing, but he makes sure he’s always no less than five metres away from you.

𐙚 The house is never messy messy. It can get a bit hectic and disorderly at times, but because you both don’t work nine to fives and tend to have quite a bit of spare time on your hands, you make sure the house is in good condition.

𐙚 Max and Chris have said on a podcast before that they don’t think George’s sex drive is that high, which used to be true, and then you two moved in together. You have sex at least once a week, sometimes more if your calendars aren’t too full. If it’s a really busy week, you’ll just exchange oral and handjobs, which neither of you complain about.

𐙚 Sex mainly happens in the bedroom, of course, but he’ll occasionally switch it up and start initiating things elsewhere, for example the kitchen or the living room, in which instance it’s a then and there type of situation. If it’s on the couch, you’re most likely to be on top, with him looking up at you like you’re an absolute goddess. If it’s in the kitchen, the chances are your chest will be pressed against the counter and his hand in your hair or on your hips. He likes to tease a lot, which leads to foreplay taking longer than actual sex.

“George,” You whispered against his lips as you straddled his lap and his hand squeezed the fat of your waist and his other groped at your chest. Your own hands moved to pop the button of your shorts and unzip them, and as enticing as it was for him, he only let his hands dip to your inner thighs, dancing along the sensitive skin there. “You’re so pretty,” He hummed, helping drag your crotch against his.

𐙚 He 100% brings you along to the pub golf videos, he can even sense that Chris is going to ask before he does.

“Mate, do you think—“ Chris was cut off by George, “Yeah, reader can come on the next pub golf.”

𐙚 Because of his miraculous ability to remain sober for longer than the average person, he’s always the one looking after you on the way home. If you’re not passed out, knackered by the constant walking and drinking, you’re rowdy and restless, meaning he may have to physically hold you down against him so that you don’t bother anybody on the train.

“Oh my God! Arthur—“ “Reader, my darling, you’re being very loud.” George says calmly, holding your face in his hands, “Let’s be quiet, yeah?” You pout and huff, slumping against him, but just a minute later, you shoot up, ready to start loudly proclaiming a drunken statement, but he’s quick to hold you this time, despite not being a man of PDA himself, if it’s the only way to keep you calm, he’ll do it.

𐙚 Hangovers always hit you like a truck, so after nights out, he always makes sure to wake up before you so he can get you some water and paracetamol.

𐙚 He’s not overprotective or easily jealous, because he’s secure in his relationship, but if you’re out and he spots a guy constantly giving you bedroom eyes and looking like he’s about to make moves, George’s arm is around your waist in a split second, fiddling with the belt loop on the front of your jeans.

𐙚 If you’re in uni and need help studying/ revising, he’s there at the drop of the hat. It doesn’t matter if he’s streaming of editing or filming his next video, the moment you ask for help he’s at the couch, reading out your notes and leaving gaps for you to fill in or reciting flash cards to you. If it’s anything practical, like debating and law, he’s happy to play any role you need him to, whether that’s the one being prosecuted or the opposing lawyer.

“Your honour, she’s just blatantly lying now.” George says in his ‘client’ voice, obviously trying to throw some fun into it so you don’t get burnt out. “George!” You laugh, “Well, actually, you could say that, but you need to explain why I’m lying.” “Uhh … your honour, I said she’s lying because I want this to be over so I can take her clothes off.” “That’d get you kicked out immediately.” You snorted. “Good thing it’s not my course then.”

𐙚 Arguments aren’t frequent at all, and when they do happen it’s usually because one of you has had a bad day and is just lashing out, or because one of you has been doing something that’s been annoying the other. They’re resolved fairly quickly, if he’s in the wrong he’ll apologise and buy you some flowers and a shirt you’ve had in your wish list for a long time and provide lots of long, randomly placed kisses. If you’re in the wrong, you’ll make his favourite dinner and lay out the kitchen island nice and romantically with candles and wine, even sometimes going as far to leave a little note on his napkin saying ‘I’m sorry! I love you, Clarkey’.

𐙚 Home-cooked meals are a constant thing you do. Usually it’s you cooking, and he’ll sit at the kitchen counter, doing bills or editing videos, which you don’t mind at all. You still get his company and he’ll occasionally turn his laptop to you and ask you which font you like more, or which colour to use etc. On a Friday or Saturday (sometimes both if you’re feeling lazy) you’ll order a takeout or physically go out on a date.

𐙚 Dates don’t happen too frequently because you both admitted that you enjoy spending every minute with each other in the house anyway, and as long as you are spending time together, the way in which it happens doesn’t bother you that much. When you do go on dates, it’s usually to a fancy restaurant or he’ll take you to a place you’ve been talking about for a while (museum, sealife centre etc.)

𐙚 If you’re not together, he’ll still find a way to reference you in whatever he’s doing, whether it’s filming a podcast ep or a football challenge video, if he’s featured in it, your name is mentioned at least three times in it.

George is cackling as Arthur fell while trying to kick the ball, “This reminds me of that time reader tried—“ “Oh, George, shut up about your girlfriend! We get it! You’re finally getting some action!” Chris exclaimed, though it was obviously jokingly — he’d never intentionally make fun of you.

𐙚 If you’re getting hate online and he sees it, he’s immediately replying to the comment and standing up for you and if it becomes a frequent thing (like this) he’ll make a short tiktok about it.

“If you’re hating on my girlfriend but still claiming to be a fan, then don’t. It’s sort of fake, and I don’t appreciate any nastiness towards her, especially when she’s just being herself.”