#hey wait a second wait a second. I can USE this

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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[berrryparfait]

sex pollen ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: zayne, xavier, sylus, caleb, rafayel x fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: spring is here, and the "thorny" flower is in season. beware, unsuspecting farm visitor, lest you inhale the evil flower's pollen and fall victim to its whims... 「this urge... i can't resist it anymore—!」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] pure smut, literal sex pollen; "spontaneous and urgent need to have sex", piv, creampie, intense orgasms, dubcon, characters are not dating nor have they ever f*cked before (frenemies)

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: pelican town (from the stardew valley soundtrack)

✧ a/n: was the stardew valley soundtrack too unhinged or... anywaysss sex pollen is one of my all-time favorite tropes ever so here's my take on it <3

Sure, he might not be your favorite person in the world, but just for today, you're content with being acquaintances. For what it’s worth, if there’s anything worse than spending a whole day with your begrudging frenemy, it’s losing.

The annual Spring Corn-Picking Festival has begun, and you’ve been paired up with him. Can you put your differences aside and put your skills to the test? Or is there something else—something sinister—lurking beneath the surface, waiting to strike?

The “thorny” flower is in bloom, and no one is safe…

“Follow my lead if you want to win. I did my research, so I know where all the best spots are.” He parts the thick maize, making way for the both of you to trudge through the field. You roll your eyes at his predictable arrogance. “Please. I used to live on a farm. I know my way around—” You trip on a small rock and stumble into his back. He barely even glances at you. “Be quiet if you don’t want to sabotage our mission.” Rude. “Hey, there’s some up there.” You both dart towards the bunch of ripe corn a few feet away, no longer weary and complacent. Placing his basket on the ground, he begins to expertly pluck the corn from their stalks, intense concentration written all over his face.

All of a sudden, a strange smell hijacks your nostrils. “Do you smell that?” He grimaces and looks around, apparently sensing it too. It’s…strange. Foreign. Not entirely unpleasant. The flesh between your legs throbs. Why do I feel…? Your eyes lock with Zayne’s, then travel down to his groin. He’s hard. It takes him two seconds to close the distance between you. “Zayne, what’s going on—” He yanks your overalls down and grasps at your breasts, the expression on his reddened face absolutely feral. “I-I don’t know—” he stammers, still smearing his hands all over your plump chest. “But I can’t stop…” He pulls your panties down in one fell swoop to find you already dripping wet. His pupils dilate at the sight, and his hands automatically move to undo his belt. It doesn’t take long for him to free his erection, which is so large by now you almost feel bad for him. “Wait, we’re in a corn field—” Your words are abruptly cut off by him spinning you around and plunging his cock between your folds, and you have to cling to the sturdy stalks to prevent yourself from falling over. A hand goes over your mouth to conceal your surprised moans. He has you bent over in front of him, back arching against his dick as he thrusts into you and curses under his breath. I don’t like you! You don’t like me! Why does this feel so good?! “Fuck— I can’t stop—” His groans are strangled and pained, his hips moving so fast the field around you blurs into a mess of pale green and yellow. Expletives escape his lips as he slams into you so hard you both come undone, his hot, thick cum filling you up and dripping down your legs as you spasm and shake under his grip. You’re panting. He looks like he can’t even breathe. “What the fuck was that, Zayne?!” you scream at him, flustered and so utterly confused. “It’s that damn flower… Fuck. I’m sorry.” You pull your overalls back up and shake your head, unsure how to feel about all of this. “Let me make it up to you— Dinner. Tonight.” Tiny butterflies drift into the field.

“Would you quit micromanaging?” He glares at you before turning back to the corn, both hands wrapped around its plush kernels. “I’m just saying, twisting it out might be faster.” Always pouting, always bickering. It’s the only thing you two ever do. You’ve never denied that it bothers you, the way he acts as if you’re beneath him. “If you’re so confident, you do it.” You take the bait and push past him, sandwiching yourself between him and the stubborn stalk of corn. A smug grin plays at his lips when you fail to pull—no, twist—it out, his arms crossed over his chest.

Xavier sneezes. He brushes it off as a one-time thing at first, but then he sneezes again. Hay fever? he thinks to himself. Suddenly, the image of you working your hands around the cob of corn—squeezing and pulling at its base—is too much for him to bear. He’s imagining his dick in its place. You don’t realize it at first, but you’re getting wet. You feel the abrupt, inexplicable need to grind against something. Anything. All at once, you push Xavier to the ground and sit down on top of him. “Do you feel that?” you whisper between gasps, the pool of need between your legs growing by the second. He nods breathlessly, uncertain, but wanting all the same. Your hips involuntarily roll against his, and you both suppress a moan. The next thing you know, you’re grinding against his rock-hard cock and relishing the sounds of his tortured groans. “I’m—so horny—right now—” His voice is fried, needy. You lift the skirt of your dress and pull your panties to the side, clearly sopping wet. His jeans are unzipped. In what seems like an unimaginable moment, you’re bouncing on his dick and screaming out in pleasure. Why does he…feel so good… Your thoughts are a mess, part confusion and part unbridled lust. The way he rubs against your walls, jerks upwards to meet your thrusts, whimpers like a man starved—it’s everything you never knew you needed. You roll your hips at just the right angle, and he gets impossibly bigger before shooting warm spurts of cum into your cervix, his thighs clenching underneath yours as the most intense orgasms both of you have ever had crash over your joint bodies. You roll over to lie down beside him, still in shock. “W-What was that?!” He turns to look at you and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear—ironic, considering your entire head’s a complete mess. “I didn’t know you had that in you. You didn’t even kiss me.”

“Perhaps we’d get there more quickly if you stopped whining,” he jabs, already five feet ahead of you. His demeanor remains cool and composed, yet frustration simmers beneath the surface, visible only to those who know the enigma of a man well enough. Unfortunately, “those” includes you. “I just can’t believe I’m stuck here with you. Of all people.” Without looking back, he replies, “Are you sure this isn’t your desire for me speaking? Because judging by the way you were eyeing me just now…” You huff at his ridiculous statement. “Ha! You wish. Sleeping with you is the last thing I’d ever want, so keep dreaming, buckaroo.”

You don’t hear his reply. A sharp, almost sweet scent attacks your senses, conquering your mind almost instantly. You sway amongst the stalks of grass, trying to make sense of the sudden urge you’re feeling—the urge to bury Sylus’ dick between your legs. I hate him I hate him I hate him— Your hands reach out to grab him before you can stop them, and he spins around abruptly to gently push you away. “Having a change of mind?” He means the question as a joke, but the sound of his gravelly, seductive voice only intensifies the throbbing in your cunt. “Shut up and fuck me,” you spit, fully convinced you’ve gone insane. But he doesn’t object. The cocky grin vanishes from his face as he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, apparently devoted to the task. His underwear is still on by the time he’s lying on top of you, pupils dilated and erection rock solid. Overcome, he dry-humps your clit for a whole minute, the pressure so rewarding that he can’t bring himself to remove his boxers. “Fuck, baby— What are you doing to me?” He hisses when you yank them down yourself, eager to bury his cock deep inside you. No time is wasted. In a single thrust of his hips, he’s plunging all the way into you, so big you cry out in delicious pain. Your hips move in tandem with his, mud covering your back and seeping into your hair—but you couldn’t care less. His length is pumping in and out of you so hard your eyes roll to the back of your head, and distantly you wonder how long you’ve secretly needed—wanted—this. He grunts with each jerk, wet squelches filling the air as the strawberry-picking competition is forgotten, sweet release the only thing on his mind. A stutter—a falter, and he erupts, his thick seed coating your walls and seeping out of your pussy. You both fall silent as the pleasure consumes your bodies, so good your eyes squeeze shut and your throat goes completely dry. “I’m…a mess…” you mutter between pants, pushing him off of you. “Who wants to sleep with who now?” He shoves his pants back on and—blushes?! “It must’ve been that flower. Though… It’s worth mentioning that I’m immune.”

“Alright, let’s hurry up and get this over with.” He doesn’t seem thrilled to be wading through a cornfield with the likes of you, one of his childhood tormentors. Well, he’d tormented you back, of course—middle school turf wars were no joke. You both grew up and learned to tame your reactions a little, but some things never change. The fact that you’re still stuck in the same small town with him, for instance. “After all these years, Caleb is still a jackass,” you quip, already making your way towards a ripe bunch of corn. “You’re just jealous I never dated you.”

The wind blows, and you scrunch your nose at the scent it carries. “Shh— Do you smell that?” His eyes go wide as realization hits, and he rushes to cover your nose and mouth with his hands. “It’s that devil flower that spews aphrodisiacal pollen. Don’t. Breathe.” His expression is grim as he clamps his mouth shut, but he’s already starting to squirm. A small pit of arousal emerges in your core, but he’s clearly having a harder time than you are, the outline of his hard cock visible through his trousers. “Caleb…?” you ask tentatively as his hands slide away from your face, flexing indecisively before reaching towards you. “Caleb, wait a second—” He’s on his knees, pulling your shorts and panties down. Oh my god, this can’t be happening— You gasp as his tongue glides against your clit, the simple movement leaving you wanting more. Your hips grind against his face as you moan his name, lost in the lovely vibrations of his own groans of pleasure. “Get on the ground.” His tone leaves little room for debate. You lie flat on the soil, back towards the sky, and turn to look at him over your shoulder. His dick is out, precum coating the tip as it beelines straight for your inviting cunt. Pure bliss overcomes your system when he first glides in, your walls instantly slickening in response. He pounds into you from behind, his whimpers mingling with yours as you’re swept away by the feeling of finally having Caleb inside you. It’s surreal—ten years ago you would’ve laughed at the thought. Now your mouth hangs open for different reasons. “Faster, Caleb—” you squeak, desperate to reach your climax. He drives into you, clenching hard before he drenches your pussy, a steady stream of cum dripping down onto the soil below. “Holy fuck… I’m sorry…” he whispers, getting up to put his pants back on. An unexpected wave of laughter hits as you recover from the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body sated and…comfortable. “Don’t you dare blame this on the pollen.” He sighs wearily and smiles. “I’m not.”

“If we don’t win, I’m blaming it on you.” Great. This detour was all your fault. You can’t believe this guy. First, he makes no effort to help with navigation. Next, he decides that if anything goes wrong, you’re to blame? Sweet crackers, he’s the most insufferable fool you’ve ever met. Sure, he’s charming—the old ladies back at the farm couldn’t have made it clearer—but you don’t get to have a competitive streak when you’re not the one doing the streaking. Seriously, he’s slow as hell. “Stop talking and walk.”

“There’s something in the air,” he remarks, squinting. It’s the first time he’s paid attention to anything today, so you hear him out and begin sniffing your surroundings. You detect nothing and call him a big baby, resuming your search for corn. “I’m being serious! I swear it’s doing something to me…” He turns away then, so hastily your suspicions are raised. “J-Just gimme a sec!” he calls over his shoulder, “Lemme take care of something real quick—” You turn back around, tired of his antics, but a barely concealed groan stops you dead in your tracks. He’s jerking off in broad daylight, his head thrown back in relief. “Rafayel, what the f—” You feel it then, the throbbing ache in your pussy, and suddenly his presence no longer annoys you. You inch towards him, eyeing his hard cock as he pumps it with his fist. At the sight of you staring up at him with a strange, unabashed lust, his thighs clench and he moans your name, the sound of it on his lips sending waves of arousal down to your core. You push him down by the shoulders so he’s sitting upright on the ground, dick so hard it looks miserable. “Bounce on it,” he orders. In the span of two seconds, your panties are pushed to the side and your cunt is enveloping his cock. You’re so full, so dirty with him between your legs—Does it feel better to fuck someone you pretend to hate? His thumbs bruise your hips as you keep your pace, bouncing on his lap like your life depends on it, his tip crushing against your cervix the only thing on your mind. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he breathes before pumping his fresh cum into your pussy, your combined cries of pleasure so loud a neighboring flock of birds takes flight. Defeated, you lean against him in his lap, still shaking with desire. His hand goes up to rest on your head, his touch surprisingly tender. “I’ve been waiting all year for that.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[kxsagi]

got this idea cuz I was comparing sae and Rin to my friends who don't watch bllk loll

reader who's around the itoshi brothers a lot and accidentally mixes up their names at times and sometimes when she isn't looking at them or she's talking to them from another room she'll even mix up their voices 😭

lowk my dad does this w me and my siblings LMFAO

“𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢?”

a/n: i want to make out with sae

(art credits go to Jhong_Dai on X)

it’s not even your fault. really. they’re both monotone. they both sigh like the world annoys them. they both say your name like you just crashed their car. and sometimes, just sometimes, you’re not looking and they sound exactly the same. 

“rin, pass me the charger?” 

“i’m sae.” 

“… okay, but are you gonna pass it or not?” 

you don’t even flinch anymore. you just accept the wrong name like it’s your god-given right to be mildly incorrect 60% of the time. and it pisses off a particular itoshi. 

rin scowls. “do you not hear the difference?” 

“well yeah, i do now. you sound more like you're ready to fight someone, and sae sounds like he just woke up from a nap he didn't want to take.” 

“that’s literally just being awake.” 

but when you're not in the same room, that’s when things get dicey. 

once, you told sae from the kitchen, “rin, can you check the oven?” 

and sae, older brother sae, peeked inside and said, “yeah, it’s done.” 

and you thanked him like that was normal. it wasn’t until rin came home later that night and asked what you baked that it hit you. you stared at him. “wait… that wasn’t you earlier?” 

rin blinked. “i haven’t been home all day.” 

“… oh.” 

“… did you confuse us again.” 

“… maybe.” 

“… again?” 

you don’t even try to defend yourself anymore. “look, you guys have the same DNA or whatever, maybe my brain just can’t distinguish premium itoshi stock.” 

rin looks like he’s about to walk into traffic. sae, from the couch, just smirks without looking up from his phone. 

“it’s okay,” he says, “you’re not the first one to be confused. rin used to think he was me, too.” 

“i didn’t.” 

“you wore my uniform with my name tag for a week in middle school.” 

“it was black. they’re all black.” 

“you thought you were me.” 

sometimes you think you’re just being dramatic. but then they both walk into the room in black shirts, with the same resting judgmental face, the same little flick of hair falling across their forehead, and you have to mentally roll the dice. 

“sae?” 

“wrong.” 

“rin?” 

“still wrong.” 

“what? ... okay, but one of you has to answer.” 

"you could just turn around and look." 

“no. this is a test now.” 

the worst is when they use it against you. like today. one of them called from the hallway: “hey, can you come here for a sec?” 

you shout back, “who’s ‘you’?” 

“me.” 

“who’s me?!” 

“your favorite itoshi.” 

you freeze. because honestly? that doesn’t help at all. they both say that with the same exact sarcasm. 

rin walks in first, holding a water bottle. “did you come when i called or when sae called?” 

“wait, so you called me?” 

sae trails in a second later. “i didn’t say anything.” 

“then why did i hear–” 

they both smirk. they planned this. they planned this to gaslight you and it worked. 

“i hate you both,” you mumble. 

rin tosses you the bottle. “love you too.” 

sae ruffles your hair as he walks by. “learn our voices before you embarrass yourself in public.” 

you grumble something under your breath, and rin hears it. 

“what was that?” 

“… nothing, sae.” 

rin stares at you. “i will throw this bottle.” 

you grin. “do it, sae.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[leonarecs]

PIZZA. this was such a fucking masterpiece, i’m in tears and i haven’t even gotten to part two yet??? i know how much love and soul and dedication you poured into this fic and it truly was so so fucking worth it. i think i told you this before when you first sent me bits and pieces of this fic, but seriously, i can feel every bit of the reader’s heartache in this. its so potent and real and i feel so incredibly honored to be friends with such a talented person!! okie now let’s get into this…

Dark and brooding, his eyes scan through the crowds of students like an eagle targeting its prey before they relax set on you. As he makes his way ambling towards, his eyes soften, his lips curving upwards, at the crouched position you sat.

the way he melts when he looks at her 😭 ‘best friends’ my ass, he was so down bad for her from the very start, UGH they’re so dumb

His fingers hook over the spine of the book, pulling it down to see your sweet face. “Hey there Ace.” 

THE WAY I SQUEALED AAAAHHHHHHJFH this is the cutest fucking thing it’s so romcom coded i’m gonna burst. i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, you always include the tiniest details that make me go insane!!!

“You know I hate that damn nickname. It’s not a good representation of me. You’re going to scare off my prized possessions with the softness.”

okay first of all, that’s a LIE, you love the nickname, and second, FUCKING EWWWWW “prized possessions” I’M GONNA THROW UPPPP HE’S SUCH A MAN 🤢🤢🤢

It cut deep to know Mattheo was hurting too, every time he would lie quietly in your arms. A homely embrace that often was the only way he could fall asleep, the treacherous nightmares finally blurring away into nothing but distant dust particles.

HE. COULD. ONLY. FALL. ASLEEP. IN. HER. ARMS. SHE HELPED HIS NIGHTMARES GO AWAY. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME. i genuinely don’t know how to put my feelings into words at this moment so i’m just going to shut up and use memes instead.

It stung he’d never considered you an option, someone willing to open his doors, to melt the hardened rock that caged his heart, to patch it up with a warmness he deserved. But maybe it was your fault for always being available, too in reach, desperate for any time he threw your way. Mattheo loved the chase and if he was a dog, you were about as exciting as a flobberworm.  

i’ll never get over how good you are at capturing emotion like this. no exaggeration, this is just so beautiful and i can feel my heart aching for her. ‘never even considered you an option,’ OUCH IF ONLY YOU KNEW. and her thinking she’s not exciting to him. babe, this is the chase of the century to me.

You felt it too, feeling like the two of you shared something special, but nothing ever changed, nothing more ever came.

I CAN’TTTT, THE WAY SHE KNOWS THEY HAVE SOMETHING BUT SHE CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT PLEASE

And so you were stuck with just watching from afar as he broke your heart, shattering it into tiny grains of sand slipping through your fingers into an hourglass. That turned over and over at each new glimpse of hope, an endless time loop that had you feeling useless. 

no words. just in complete adoration of this metaphor and your brain.

His courteous and considerate nature was at large all day, making sure your basket was full of every Honeyduke flavoured candy, to reaching for magical assortments on the highest shelf in Zonkos.

i’m melting at the way he spoils her goodnight

Swarmed by a couple of girls stalling his exertion of returning to you, though he’s chatting away to them happily as if he has all the time in the world.

oh. yeah i take that last part the fuck back. the fact that he’s not even thinking about how she’s waiting outside in the cold for him while he’s just talking to other bitches? i can’t tell if my heart is aching or filling with something that says ‘punch him.’

Dean widens his grin, finding yours utterly gorgeous. “Going in right?”

DEANNN YOU BEAUTIFUL GENTLEMAN, COME SAVE THE DAY PLEASEE

“She’s fine. She’s with me.” Mattheo’s voice grabs your attention as he finally appears at the doorway, coldly shoving past Dean, his eyes narrowing into unpleasant slits meeting the Gryffindor's eye.

oh, mixed feelings here. glad he’s jealous, upset that he ruined my moment of happiness 😾

He wouldn’t allow anyone unworthy to take up a moment of your time, and a lousy shithead, Gryffindor, definitely didn't tick the box. 

oh please, dean is the furthest thing from a shithead 🙄✋

Call him selfish, but with the long history and close bond the two of you shared, he had always felt you were his. His friend, his study partner, his number one supporter at quidditch games, his go to for advice, his favourite person to pester lovingly, to sneak up on or make you laugh so hard tears would stream down your adorable face.

AUGHSHFH I JUST—… this pisses me off bc he’s such a hypocrite, expecting her to be completely his and give all her attention to him when he doesn’t do the same in return for her. but also… i love a possessive man what can i say 🥹 it’s one of my flaws. ‘down your adorable face’ ADORABLE EEHGFHASFG I’M GONNA CRY

He’ll find himself outside your dorm as if the hallway is lit with a thousand glowing signs guiding him.

this is incredibly random but the thought came to me so i have to say it. you know in the movie brave, how those little blue whisps guided merida to wherever she needed to go? thats what i’m imagining right now

“S‘good to me, Ace.” He pushes himself up further into the bosoms of your chest, his arm dangling heavily over your shoulder and his own fingers tickle the nape of your neck. “Don’t know what I'd do without you.” 

i’m hurting rn

mattheo when asked to explain his feelings for reader ^^

Dean, like Mattheo, was stuck on the interaction, daydreaming about the small, fond moment he shared with you. How your smile had warmed your face with a radiance unlike any other he’d seen before

AWWWWSAGSDS HE’S SO CUTE

When he had heard through the grapevine that Eli, his closest Hufflepuff friend, had grown and started a routine studying session with you twice a week. He practically leaps at the chance and the boy to let him tag along

do men actually do this too? i thought only girls daydreamed about tiny little moments and conspired plans to meet their crushes like this 🤯

The conflicting rising affections for Dean begin to sprout vines along the already fortified stone wall Mattheo has set inside your heart. 

THIS SENTENCE HELLO????? i’m in awe its such good imagery

His laugh only deepens, and he reaches over grabbing the cutlery, “Let me you damn klutz.” You watch his hands grip the silverware, his veins popping prominently under the flex of his movements. 

CUTTING HER FOOD FOR HER THE DOMESTICITY I’M SOBBINGGGHGHG also the veins omg i came

“Want me to feed you too, Ace.”

yes actually yes please

A multitude of inappropriate names and answers filter to the forefront of your brain, like a slideshow that practically screams ‘You’re horny for your best friend!'

LMFAOOOOO my mind right now: daddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddy 

A habit he undeniably loves, only wishing it was his lips you were so sensually nipping. 

ok now i’m horny again that’s not fair 😐 you can’t play with my emotions like this

“You giving me attitude now, little brat?.” He grabs your head into a tight headlock, rustling his knuckle into the crown of your hair, envisioning putting you in your place in an alternative method.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME I’M CUMMING AND WE HAVEN’T EVEN DONE ANYTHING JSDHFJFGHSDJGFFSDKG

“Yeah, it should be entertaining. Kind of hoping to use it as an excuse to finally get that stuck-up bitch Everly, to at least let me get to second base. No offense.. to women.”

the way i would fucking drag this man out to the courtyard by the hair… god give me patience he’s so fucking GROSS FOR SAYING THAT, TF YOU MEAN STUCK UP??? gonna slap him… on a lighter note, this also made me giggle a little bc that last bit reminded me of diary of a wimpy kid, the part where the mom finds a magazine rodrick had with a bikini model on the front and she was like “do you have anything you want to say to women for having owned this offensive magazine?” and he was like “… i’m sorry, women” LMFAOOOOO

The casual standby and unbothered appearance tightens his chest knowing you don’t care what he does with girls. It breaks him never getting a real reaction, and only fuels his conclusions regarding you only seeing him platonically.

oh so he says this shit to her on purpose. to make her jealous. to get a reaction. FUCK. YOU. but also omg feelings 🤗

It pains him to utter the next few words, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t tag along, of course. You know I'd never ditch my number one girl.” 

FUCKKKK YOUUU DUDE IF I WAS YOUR NUMBER ONE GIRL YOU’D BE GOING WITH ME INSTEAD OF TELLING ME TO “TAG ALONG” AND THIRD WHEEL

“You have a date?” He cuts you off with a little hostility.

the italics on ‘you’ pain me, like he thinks it’s impossible for someone to like her (ik that’s not what his thoughts are but that’s how it feels to her ☹️)

No fucking way. He looks between you and back to Dean, feeling an upchuck of jealousy gurgle in his stomach. The clocks churn, working overtime to filter through his memories. The same dazed smile you cast to him in Hogsmeade reflects on your expression as you wave back. 

he’s suchhhh a fucking hypocrite, i love the jealousy but he’s so annoying

He’s not used to this kind of hostility from you, and while he feels a wave of pride, he can’t wrap his head around you getting angry at him over the sake of a Gryffindor. 

HIM BEING INTERNALLY PROUD OF HER FOR SPEAKING UP FOR HERSELF UGHGHGGHG MY HEART

He walks with Everly confidently hanging off his arm, looking like a sparkly prized charm that, you know, means his eyes won't be anywhere but on her. 

it hurts please stop, one second i’m swooning and the next i want to be far far away from him

He's as attractive as ever, dressed in all black. His curls look decent for once, coiled neatly, which might have made you swoon, but you can't help question if she did it for him.

instantly i thought of this pic

What he really needed was you, a nice tall glass to satisfy his thirsting desire. His eyes linger on you for another moment. You look nice. Who’s he kidding?  You look gorgeous. It’s such a simple outfit and yet it suits your figure so well. He doesn’t know the last time he saw you so dressed up, definitely never for himself like that. 

YEAHHHHH BITCH NOW YOU’RE HORNY FOR ME SUCK IT UP 🖕

He wanted to stand beside you now as the group moved to the stage and scream the lyrics with you in each other's faces. He wanted to have your smile directed at him and be the one to spin you, listening to your infectious laugh meant for only him. 

stop now i’m imagining them doing just that and i want to cry. they’re so fucking cute together.

But Dean isn’t one to back down from a little intimidation, and eyes him, “I see what this is about. You're jealous, aren’t you?” 

call his ass out king

In the split second the word leaves Dean's lips, Mattheo connects his fist with his nose. There’s a loud crack of the bone and Dean yelps, grasping it as blood streams covering his fingers. 

IT TOOK TWO SECONDS FOR HIM TO SNAP OMGGGNDGHG

He meets your gaze, his eyes lighting up at seeing you noticing him properly, but then you’re walking towards him hastily. He has little time to escape before the familiar pulling pain shoots from his ear down and he yelps, cursing. 

I’M CRYINGGG NOT THE EAR PULL LMFAOOOO I LOVE HER

“He doesn’t even like you, y/n, he’s still hung up on his ex - I don’t know why you’re wasting time with him anyway, you’re not that oblivious, are you?”

that’s so fucking mean 

“Fine. I can see I’m not wanted.” He’s bitter and heartbroken as you completely disregard him with no trust. But he holds his tongue further, not wishing to damage the ship. “I’ll stay out of your way to avoid ruining your life further.” 

my heart is literally clenching shut up. why do i feel bad for him right now when he literally did this to himself.

You had been the one to ask Dean. 

WHAT A FUCKING WAY TO END IT OH MY GOD. the fact that he only processed that part when he got back to his dorm?? the fact that he was trying not to CRY?? i’m so done.

jfc i’m scared to get to part two, BUT i know we have a happy ending so its okay, i can power through 🙏 i currently feel the same way that i did as a child after watching that spongebob episode where gary ran away, i need to—

She will be loved

Sum: Reader is hopelessly and madly in love with her best friend Mattheo while constantly having her heart broken living in the shadows of other girls. Unaware that he’s hiding a secret and unable to express the truth about how he feels for her too. Wc: 8.7 k

Warn: This is part one, as it was so long, I decided to break it up. angst, (V angsty I guess), fluffy, use of Ace nickname, one mention of blood, bit of y/n in there, swearing - you will probably be unhappy with Mattheo in this part. Eli, Everly and the eloquent editorial are all made up by me.

A/n: inspired by the song she will be loved for my delayed milestone!!! (apologises for those who have been here since april ilysm!!) I also listened to butterflies which I think encapsulates their relationship more! dividers from here & here 🩵

You watch with eyes peering over the book, keeping yourself conspicuous while your heart clenches once again at the way he talks to her. The arrogant smirk, the subtle touches and sultry words that leave his sweet lips, and she’s caught hooked as he digs his fangs into another victim. Bagging another venture for some late-night plans, watching the way his hands squeeze her hip in farewell before he turns, and his eyes shift their gaze.

Dark and brooding, his eyes scan through the crowds of students like an eagle targeting its prey before they relax set on you. As he makes his way ambling towards, his eyes soften, his lips curving upwards, at the crouched position you sat. You avert your gaze downwards to the words you’ve continuously reread appearing busy on his arrival. 

His fingers hook over the spine of the book, pulling it down to see your sweet face. “Hey there Ace.” 

With nowhere to hide, you drop the novel and grin up at him. All feelings of hurt wash away as you greet your best friend. “Hi Matty.” His lips curl scoffing at the nickname, with an over dramatic eye roll, and he plants himself beside you with exhaust, leaning back into the bench seat. 

“You know I hate that damn nickname. It’s not a good representation of me. You’re going to scare off my prized possessions with the softness.” His lips mumble out, pursuing a cigarette between them, his hands covering the end to light it. 

It’s your turn to roll your eyes at his careless habit, “and you know I hate when you smoke. Can’t win every battle.” You ignore his comment about the girls he likes to collect as trophies. It’s easier if you pretend your feelings for him don’t exist. 

His eyes light up in amusement at the remark, “Touché little Acey.” Pulling back the cigarette, he playfully blows his next exhale in your face, making you fan it with your book. A deep chuckle cascades out of him smooth like honey, and you swoon internally as it vibrates from his body to yours. 

His eyes stare off into the distance, thinking for a moment, and you take the time to study his features. Something you often did, unable to help yourself from admiring the boy you loved. He was gorgeous. But of course he knew that, and so did every other girl in school.

Sometimes you wonder how life would be if you had never stumbled upon the then frightened boy hidden out in the wooden dockyards. If the two of you had never bonded so closely, then maybe you would have had a chance with him, too. 

Despite sharing similar trauma, one of the mainframes of your relationship, you still felt he was holding back. Not that he couldn’t trust you, but someone who has gone without love for so long, struggled with giving it and even harder to receive it without any doubt. 

It brought him comfort knowing you would always be there for him, always when he was in trouble, a helping hand, a guiding light. At times, he felt like you were the only one he could go to. 

For you, it was a curse and a blessing. You loved him truly as a friend always. But something lay deep beneath those friendly feelings, a growing sensation that burned in your heart. 

It cut deep to know Mattheo was hurting too, every time he would lie quietly in your arms. A homely embrace that often was the only way he could fall asleep, the treacherous nightmares finally blurring away into nothing but distant dust particles. He’d never been fully able to express the gratitude he held for you being in his life, in how you made him feel seen like he finally was someone of importance and not for his lineage. 

Someone who mattered and deserved to be loved. Even if he continued to suffer in denial over his conflicting thoughts about you as more than a friend, that kind of emotion never came easy for him to express. He’d freeze up as if Medusa herself had flashed her eyes, turning him instantly to stone. His palms clammed up, heart slowed and in the end he’d brush it off with a joke and bury those ambivalent feelings. 

But the way he felt for you was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced for anyone. You were kind and compassionate, with a heart of pure gold; the complete opposite of him. As far as he believed. He cared for you like you were kin, a treasured item with the utmost value, and it was his duty to protect. It was the only way he knew how to articulate those weakened feelings, soft thoughts of vulnerability taught to hinder. 

So he acted like a dragon, almost guarding you fiercely, and sometimes a little cold even to you by being overprotective. His loyalty and possessive nature grew stronger over your years at Hogwarts. The fear of destruction lingering behind every action, spiking his anxiety controling him like a puppet on a string, the dread of losing you dangling dangerously.

If something were to happen and he was the one to watch your bright flame flicker and extinguish because of the chaotic whirlwind that is his life, he’d never forgive himself. It didn’t matter anyway, he had all but virtually convinced himself that you felt nothing for him but brotherly love. So he kept you at a distance, not allowing anything to fester outside of platonic.

His eyes dark and contemplative glimpse down the corridor, admiring the newest gaggle of girls who flocked, his hair moving with the calm breeze that floats through the concrete archways. Students bustle around between the transfiguration courtyard, moving with enthusiasm for what the weekend brings as classes wrap up for the day. You can't tear your eyes off how he checks them out despite already scoring a date for later. Your jealousy is so potent it's a good thing he can’t smell it. 

You knew he was wounded, seeking enrichment and attention through women. A way to fill his emptiness from the absence of love he sought. It stung he’d never considered you an option, someone willing to open his doors, to melt the hardened rock that caged his heart, to patch it up with a warmness he deserved. But maybe it was your fault for always being available, too in reach, desperate for any time he threw your way. Mattheo loved the chase and if he was a dog, you were about as exciting as a flobberworm.  

He was a boy with a broken smile, and to most it seemed to only stretch wider when you were near. You felt it too, feeling like the two of you shared something special, but nothing ever changed, nothing more ever came. And so you were stuck with just watching from afar as he broke your heart, shattering it into tiny grains of sand slipping through your fingers into an hourglass. That turned over and over at each new glimpse of hope, an endless time loop that had you feeling useless. 

“I saw you got partnered in potions with that Badger boy. How’s that going?” His voice slices through your thoughts, redirecting your mind to the present, and you blink away the tattered heartbreak. His eyes are now observing you, lips sucking in the nicotine he badly craves, before his head falls to flick the butt against the seat.

You don’t catch his own undertone of jealousy laced in his curiosity, for it wasn’t odd of Mattheo to pay attention to how guys acted around you. You were, after all, someone significant to him. “Oh Eli? yeah, he’s fine. We’ve got plans to study in the library this weekend.” 

“You can’t. We have plans.” He rebuttals hastily, his voice low with a hint of seriousness that means don’t push him. His eyes study your reaction, letting out a drag before he continues, “Come on, I think it’s time I owe you that trip to Hosgmeade together. I know how badly you want to go.” He raises a brow, flashing you a boyish grin, his seriousness simmering with hopes of convicing.  

The suddeness in which he jumps at your long ago suggestion, one you’ve been pestering him about for weeks. The one always met with a shrug and a sheepish sorry-excuse decline that he has other things planned. A small frown forms in confusion, till you toss the idea over and the mere idea that he’s finally free to go with you overturns the doubt and you mirror his smile, excited and giddy.

The idea now blooming in your chest of spending a whole weekend with Mattheo. His smile widens at the fact he knows you so well, and he gets you out of your plans. “Okay, yeah, I’m sure Eli won’t mind waiting. We were getting ahead of ourselves, anyway.”

The day spent in Hogsemade went fast, a wonderful speed drive of hyper adrenaline that radiated deep in your chest. It was a dream, everything you’d imagine a date with Mattheo would be like. Which was a problem, because this most definitely wasn’t a date. 

Mattheo was a notorious charmer. For someone who grew up with unusual and pratically zero social contact, he was surprisingly quick on his feet. He knew the way to sweep and woo a girl with the subtlety of a chameleon, and the ability to match anyone's aura as easily as alternating his colours. 

His courteous and considerate nature was at large all day, making sure your basket was full of every Honeyduke flavoured candy, to reaching for magical assortments on the highest shelf in Zonkos. All little thoughtful things that had made you woozy with delusion and a pounding heart that rang out like smashing symbols repeatedly. 

Mattheo, though he might never admit it, was always subtly paying attention to you. You were his best friend, and he wanted to keep you near, concealing his longing gazes with reasons of just  being defensive. A part of him felt responsible to repay you in the best way he knew how, if not with words of gratitude - avoiding ripping down the robust fortress that protected his vulnerability - he’d be there in other ways that held less hardship on him. 

When he excuses himself to the bathroom in the three broomsticks, you decide best to wait outside the inn for him. Huddling near the entrance underneath the roof that overhangs, the last stop of your outing before the two of you head back up to the castle as the afternoon sun sets. The minutes tick by slowly, making you apprehensive and irked, wondering what’s taking him so long. Peering back through the dusty windows, you find the cause of his delay. 

He’s nested at the far back of the pub close to the bathrooms, but he’s no longer alone. Swarmed by a couple of girls stalling his exertion of returning to you, though he’s chatting away to them happily as if he has all the time in the world. The usual bitter feelings of neglect and redundancy rise, stirring the once settled butterbeer, now threatening to creep back up and paint the windows. 

Turning around with a heavy heart, you lean back on the cool panels, taking a shaky breath to control the hurt you feel. It's not the first time he’s done it, throwing you aside temporarily, replacing you with something more shiny and alluring to him. You’re almost certain he doesn’t do it purposefully, he just gets swept up in having positive attention on him, and well with girls, it's always favourable. 

As time turns, those grains of sands sift further through the gap in the hourglass, questioning with logic why you're not just barging in and yanking him out by the ear. The bell goes signalling the exit of customers, and you turn in hope only to find yourself planted in the middle of a loud, deafening talkative group of Gryffindor boys. Alarmed, you step back, attempting to save yourself from being flattened by the load of them as they mingle past you. 

Giving polite smiles to the passing lads, you wait patiently, till there's only left still holding the door in offering. He’s easily recognizable with his towering height and his signature kind smile, one that has you feeling as if a thousand rays of sunlight were glowing from deep inside your body, leaving you feeling warm and cozy. 

Dean widens his grin, finding yours utterly gorgeous. “Going in right?”

Nodding absentmindedly, you still don't move, a little frozen by his dazzling smile. “Uh huh.”

He tilts his head, studying curiously, his expression shifting into an amused smirk. “You alright y/n?” 

“She’s fine. She’s with me.” Mattheo’s voice grabs your attention as he finally appears at the doorway, coldly shoving past Dean, his eyes narrowing into unpleasant slits meeting the Gryffindor's eye. A silent warning that he’s walking a thin line into deathly territory talking to you when he’s present.

He falls back in his place, slinging an arm over your shoulder protectively, and steers you away from the pub without another word to Dean. Looking back, you give a brief goodbye smile to Dean before your undivided attention returns to Mattheo. 

“What did he want?” He grumbles, walking with a quicken pace much faster than your legs can keep up with.

“Nothing. He was just leaving the pub too.” Mattheo’s eyes are distant, flickering back between the cobblestones and the castle emerging in the distance.

“What took you so long?” You push for a truthful answer, watching his reaction carefully. 

He shoots you a glare, though he can’t help the boyish smirk that shines through. Despite knowing he had made you wait longer than needed, he’ll bend the truth to avoid admitting a fault.

He pulls you in closer with his arm, “I just got stopped by some classmates, no big deal. Quit overthinking Ace.” He ruffles your hair with childlike mannerisms and your nose scrunches, feeling babied, the constant reminder that he sees you as nothing more than a sister. 

Contrarily, Mattheo’s mind still lingers on seeing your dazed look radiating from the simple act of kindness Dean had shown you. Defensively, he assured himself that it's probably nothing; you were just being your friendly self.

He swallows, the bitter taste rising, promising himself he wouldn’t let you out of his grasp. You were precious to him. He wouldn’t allow anyone unworthy to take up a moment of your time, and a lousy shithead, Gryffindor, definitely didn't tick the box. 

The next few weeks pass in a blur, the seriousness of the potions assignment weighing down on you and Eli. The two of you had worked together seamlessly, coordinating portions of the workload evenly to one another and sharing ideas and discussions together to get it done efficiently.

In the time since working on the Antidote for Veritaserum, Eli and you had grown closer together, strictly platonic. A routine was beginning, finding yourself commonly buried in the library working alongside one another more often than not with an intellectual mutualism. 

It was nice to find a common interest with someone outside of Mattheo, as he wasn’t the biggest fan of studying. His interest in it was minimal. Being naturally smart, he found the absence of it didn’t alter his grades and more so a waste of time. Not to mention he had a multitude of other talents that he believed were superior to the education of most Hogwarts classes. 

Mattheo wasn’t entirely fond of your new friendship with the puff, stuck in a loop of eye rolls and grumbles when you would escape away from him to the library. Even though he had concluded that Eli was an unworthy and pitiable threat, the idea of your attention suddenly being split from him nagged at the back of his head. 

Call him selfish, but with the long history and close bond the two of you shared, he had always felt you were his. His friend, his study partner, his number one supporter at quidditch games, his go to for advice, his favourite person to pester lovingly, to sneak up on or make you laugh so hard tears would stream down your adorable face. He might have not fully comprehended his feelings, continuing to act as though you were nothing more than a friend. But he was still loyal to that possessive idea, and he didn’t want anyone else taking his treasure away. 

He had managed so far to brush off his imaginary jealousy for your attention, not wanting to appear clingy or needy for it. Two traits he despises with deep, pure hatred. Never wishing to be associated with the dread of appearing weak or desperate, haunted by his past punishment. 

Especially for something so pathetic as this. They had no place in his heart. 

His line of vulnerability was already thin enough, and you barely just crossed it being his best friend. But that was when he had the safety net of darkness, all the lights off where he could release a heavy sigh from his chest and into your embrace. In the middle of the night, where it was silent and the only noises were the colliding beats of your hearts and mingled breaths, a world for just the two of you. 

Or the occasional times when he’s too drunk to coherently fulfill his plans of hooking up with someone. He’ll find himself outside your dorm as if the hallway is lit with a thousand glowing signs guiding him. The intensity blares his vision, and he’d stumble with his hand lifting to block them. They shine with hope and all things good as he makes his way into your room. Calling your name into the dark, a voice filled with contentment arrived at the epitome of a home. 

“Matty?” Bedsheets ruffle and a soft glow illuminates the room at the switch of your lamp, which he profoundly protests at. 

“Noooo, turn the light off.” He shields his eyes, still feeling the blur from his invisible imagery, and flops down on your bed. You groan at the pressured weight of him half collapsing on top of you and the vivid stink of his alcohol infused breath, his hands coming to constrict around you in a tight squeeze. “Ace! Turn the light off.”

Grumbling with irritation, you flick the lamp off and sigh heavily under the weight, but when he mumbles a slur of incoherent words to you, the anger melts away. Bringing the familiar soothing hand to his head, your fingers rack through his curls and he sighs peacefully. 

“S‘good to me, Ace.” He pushes himself up further into the bosoms of your chest, his arm dangling heavily over your shoulder and his own fingers tickle the nape of your neck. “Don’t know what I'd do without you.” 

His words cause that familiar churn in your heart, even with the understanding of where his words pull from, you can’t help but ache pining for more. As usual, you say nothing to reflect the desperate truth and continue to be only a good friend for him. Comforting him as he spills drunk, vulnerable babbles one after another till he succumbs to the sleep he so severely needs. 

And when the morning light shines and wakes him from his slumber, he’d give you the smallest of an indebted smile, that broken smile begging to be loved - a boy clinging to the one radiant thing in his life, completely convinced he’s reached the peak fulfilment of love confined to never earn it romantically before he’s back to the overconfident composed boy with a secret so big he might break if it spills. 

Dean, like Mattheo, was stuck on the interaction, daydreaming about the small, fond moment he shared with you. How your smile had warmed your face with a radiance unlike any other he’d seen before and while he knew who you were, he wanted to further that acquaintance. Perhaps friends, though Dean wished for better luck than that. 

When he had heard through the grapevine that Eli, his closest Hufflepuff friend - for the mere bonding over the muggle football club, West Ham - had grown and started a routine studying session with you twice a week. He practically leaps at the chance and the boy to let him tag along, with N.E.W.T.S drawing nearer he found himself cumulative by stress and wanting to buckle down. 

“Eli! El- wait up.” Surprisingly, the measly boy had a speed like a roadrunner, zipping his way along the hallways up the grand staircase, causing Dean’s larger body to mutter a substantial amount of ‘excuse me’ before he catches up grasping the puff's shoulder. “Bloody hell, you’re fast.” 

“Oh hey Dean, where’d you come from?” Eli turns, smiling once he recognizes his friend. 

“Just got out of DADA with the Slytherins, anyway I wanted to ask if I could join your next study session. Seamus is snoring a lot and talkin' in his sleep. It's driving me mental mate. I’m so behind on my workload.” Dean huffs out his worries, hoping it seals the deal. 

Eli's smile just widens, nodding, “Course! The more the merrier, I'm sure y/n won’t mind. It's just the two of us, anyway, so there's plenty of room on the table!” 

Dean grins, pleased, “Cheers, mate.” He presses a bit for further info on you. “So, what’s she like? y/n I mean.” He leans against the banister as the stairwell churns, moving upwards. 

“Nice, very nice. She’s super smart too, wouldn’t be able to cover half the material without her…” Eli watches Dean’s expression, noticing the highly engrossed look, and raises a brow with a small laugh. “Is this some sort of set up?” 

“W-hat-what? No course not. I need help, really.” Dean smiles widely, trying to appear less suspicious, though he’s not lying. Getting to spend time with you is just a bonus. A very nice bonus. 

The library is packed with students, squeezed into every nook and crevice, stressed for the upcoming last few weeks before exams. The table you and Eli accommodated no longer resembled one of dignity—scattered with papers, books, quills laid out among the extra assortments of snacks and water. 

“So still cool if my mate joins us today? Seamus is driving him mental! He told me his accent has thickened stronger and he can barely understand him.” 

Shaking your head in a no, you laugh at the idea of Seamus Flingans Irish accent becoming more incoherent with how you already struggled to make out what the poor boy was saying. The absence of your usual sleeping routine alters your ability to make the connection of who Seamus’s friend was. 

He’s hard to miss when he comes bounding round the towering shelves that lined the interior of the library, with a clear height on himself. His head topples over the other students, beelining towards the two of you. That same contagious smile graces his face, lighting the browns of his eyes to warm ambers and he offers a friendly wave. 

“Blimey! The library is bloodyfull today. I’ve never seen so many students here at once.” His voice is smooth and lulling, filled with an enthusiastic kick that zaps the sleep right out of your body. 

You sit leaning your head in your palm, nodding in agreement at his observation. “Yeah, cram studying, I guess.” 

He grins, opening his books, and takes the moment to glance appreciatively at you. “Nice to see you again, y/n.” 

A warm glow of pink flashes under your skin and you nod, “Yeah, you too, Dean.” 

Eli watches, noticing the small flustering effect the two of you seem to have on one another, giving Dean an eye, who shoots him one back, telling him to keep it cool. Dean rubs the back of his neck, trying not to gaze too long at you. He hadn’t been into another girl since Ginny Weasely had dumped him for Potter, leaving him gutted and shocked. So spending time slowly easing in with you felt nice compared to the drama of endless fighting he’d had endured with his ex. 

The longer the two of you work alongside one over the weeks of sessions, Dean can’t help himself crushing a little deeper on you. The way you talk about your passions with so much enthusiasm, his own face can't help but match your ecstatic smile. He finds you listen well, and he gets to match his own excitement about quidditch and football. The two of you often get distracted chatting about your interests, with Eli having to rein your focus back in. 

His warm brown eyes have a habit of igniting the deepest red upon your cheeks and your hands suddenly can’t stop playing with your hair. It feels odd and completely different to how you feel with Mattheo. You find you can’t take your eyes off of him wanting to be the one to see that pearly smile and hear his deep chuckle.

The feeling is refreshing and his attention feels reciprocated, which only makes you glow brighter. For every time you glance at him, he’s already staring back with a slight twinkle, like he finds amusement in your shyness. 

Though there’s a part of you that aches with betrayal, with disloyalty, like none other than Mattheo has thrown a cold bucket of water at you. The conflicting rising affections for Dean begin to sprout vines along the already fortified stone wall Mattheo has set inside your heart. 

If only you could merge the traits of both boys to make the perfect specimen. You’d take Mattheo’s charm, those moments of compassion he saves for you and the ability to make you laugh even on your darkest days. Added with Dean's patience, kind nature and positive outlook on life and Voilà, you’d never have to deal with these frustrating thoughts again, which have made your head throb. 

You decide its best to keep the feelings at bay, under observation and stick to only friendly interactions with Dean outside of sessions. A kind wave in the halls, or a smile over breakfast at the far away tables. It’s not like you want to unravel a new crush to blossom, you just want Mattheo that’s always been true.

But you know you won’t be able to contain the feeling for long. The desperate yearning for attention, for something real and that’s only yours.

The latest bulletin publication in Hogwarts’s eloquent editorial, engrossed the topic of witnesses spotting the popular band Weird Sisters and their crew arriving down in Hogsmeade, sparking school wide chatter. For many, the band hadn’t been seen since the Yule Ball, and their next gig performing this weekend for eighteen plus only made it even more exclusive. 

Everywhere you walked the whispers about the wicked gig breezed whispering in your ears, between classes, to the common room and down to the great hall. Where you sat pressed up to Mattheo, the news making this evening's dinner even more packed. He shoots you an amused grin, watching how you struggle to eat your dinner without your elbows flying up. 

He lowers the left one, near missing his jaw, and chuckles, “Fuckin hell Ace, trying to finally land a blow to me, huh.” 

Embarrassed, you tuck your arms inwards, instantly giving a light apology, thinking up new tactics for how to cut your steak. His laugh only deepens, and he reaches over grabbing the cutlery, “Let me you damn klutz.” You watch his hands grip the silverware, his veins popping prominently under the flex of his movements. 

It's hard not to daydream whenever he’s sweet and considerate like this, imagining a life with him away from all the trauma. The two of you, a life of your own, him cutting you dinner and you as his loveable wife. But it’s really watching his hands go to work that makes your mind wander a little more down the lane to the bedroom. 

“Want me to feed you too, Ace.” His teasing question interrupts your hopeless fantasy, causing a flush to break rising your neck, and you laugh rolling your eyes at his playful antics. He grins, matching you, glad to know you can always take a joke from him. He puts the cutlery down, his eyes twinkling with lively energy, the spark that makes him feel like himself.  

“Just checking, ya know, cause you looked like you were drooling.” An adorable smirk graces his face, watching for your reaction. 

Another wave of heat adorns your cheeks and you have to thank Merlin that there are candles in the hall concealing your clear flustering. “Shut up, you sod.” 

Reaching over to steal a potato from his plate, you pop it in your mouth and scrunch your nose at him in displeasure. “You little thief. Where are your manners, Ace? And no ‘thank you’ either.” His face feigns disapproval, arching a brow like a disappointed father. His once charming eyes stare down with an intensity that halts your breath. 

As subtle as you can you bite your lip and frantically search your mind that's currently occupied in a foggy haze under your aroused state. A multitude of inappropriate names and answers filter to the forefront of your brain, like a slideshow that practically screams ‘You’re horny for your best friend!'

When the words finally find you, you thank Merlin, again, for the rational part of your brain and utters a sarcastic response. “Sorrrry your highness, thank you for your cutlery knight ship.” 

He reacts with an eye roll of his own, stealing a potato of yours back, his full cheeks bearing his own cheeky grin. Watching you laugh, he questions the habit of having noted the brief second your teeth had sunk into your lips, something you only did when nervous or in thought. A habit he undeniably loves, only wishing it was his lips you were so sensually nipping. 

“You giving me attitude now, little brat?.” He grabs your head into a tight headlock, rustling his knuckle into the crown of your hair, envisioning putting you in your place in an alternative method. 

Your laughs echo around the large hall and you swat at him, shoving a hand up into his face, making him groan in protest. “Watch those grubby fingers! Gonna poke my eye out.” 

“Well, stop messing up my hair!” The constant back and forth of your argumentative banter continues until dessert appears and you make a truce for the tradition of sharing a banana split. 

“So.. you heard about the gig?” You ask, easing into the next conversation, one you’ve been contemplating since this morning. Heading down to the village on a Saturday night is customary to have a date, especially for an event such as this. 

Mattheo takes another spoonful of his ice cream, humming in acknowledgement at the topic. “Yeah, it should be entertaining. Kind of hoping to use it as an excuse to finally get that stuck-up bitch Everly, to at least let me get to second base. No offense.. to women.” He adds. 

You should be ticked off about the comment, but you’re completely transfixed on the way your heart has fallen out of your chest. It's laying right there on the ground, a knife shoved in the centre and then it pops like a balloon and the remaining sand runs out of it. Biting back the tears, you give a small nod as he meets your eye, watching as he goes about like nothing has happened, offering you the last bite. 

Mattheo raises a brow, offering a kind smile, though he’s watching the way you seem as usual indifferent about his forward encounters. The casual standby and unbothered appearance tightens his chest knowing you don’t care what he does with girls. It breaks him never getting a real reaction, and only fuels his conclusions regarding you only seeing him platonically.

It pains him to utter the next few words, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t tag along, of course. You know I'd never ditch my number one girl.” 

Number one girl is right, sitting in your rightful place on top of the podium of his heart. And yet he can never give you the medal just for being here. In his presence, he can never tell you how he truly feels. But it's the next words he hears that cause him critical heart palpitations. 

You shake your head, declining his offer to friend zone you, refusing to be the awkward tag along while he gets his dick wet. Thus you lie. “No, it’s alright. I just wanted to ask in case you didn’t. I actually have one-”

“You have a date?” He cuts you off with a little hostility.  

The sharpness of his interrogation takes you back, shutting your mouth, eyes fixed on how his one's narrow skeptically. Your brows furrow together with offense. Does he not think you could get a date? Though it's true you don’t have one, he doesn’t know that, so you lie again. “Yes.”

“Who?” The one word spits bluntly. 

A loud scoff of disbelief falls from your lips at his audacity to not ask, but demand an answer. Rolling your eyes, you look out around at the other houses, buying yourself time to think of a partner. You spot Dean who meets your gaze and offers a friendly wave. 

Mattheo observes, his eyes darkened and fixed on where you look. No fucking way. He looks between you and back to Dean, feeling an upchuck of jealousy gurgle in his stomach. The clocks churn, working overtime to filter through his memories. The same dazed smile you cast to him in Hogsmeade reflects on your expression as you wave back. 

“Him?! Dean Thomas asked you?” 

How could he not have seen this? All this time he’d been dismissing the notion that he had nothing to worry about, and then it clicks like the last piece of the puzzle. Wherever Eli was, Dean was, too. Every trip to the library he had blown off as just another geek session with your Puffle friend, that slick son of a bitch got you in effect alone. The only place Mattheo wouldn’t dare go. His fists clench, shake with a raging adrenaline and he eyes you hard, waiting for a good reason for this illogical decision. 

Shit. Catching Mattheo’s expression from the corner of your eye, your muscles tense, afraid to face him full on. His tone laced with accusation as if you’ve committed treason, which in his eyes it's far worse than that. 

But seeing how ticked he is, and the lingering thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s jealous drives you to lie again. “Yes, he did.”

When you meet his eye finally, they’re clouded with a dark, fiery intensity, not detecting any hesitation in your answer. He’s up instantly and you grab his arm to tempt him back down. “Mattheo sit down-“ 

“Need to have a word with that fucking lowlife. What was he thinking asking you?!” 

You. The way he spits the word with animosity causes a deep frown to appear. Was he really that disturbed for you to have a date? Knowing it’s most likely from his short circuit brain reacting with brute protectiveness doesn’t exactly ease your thoughts. What made you so unloveable for you to be forbidden to spend an evening with someone outside of Mattheo? While you felt regret for falsely informing him, the aggravation of his skepticism bruises your heart more and pushes you to defend yourself. 

Pulling on his arm harder, you rebuttal with strength, almost sneering the words out of ache. “I can go to a gig with whoever I want. Not sure why you care so much if you have your own date.” 

His jaw clenches with a stubbornness not willing to explain his reasonings, sensing the growing tension brewing between you two. He huffs agitated, “That’s besides the point-” 

“-I don’t need protection. You don’t need to baby me.”

He can see that you’re not allowing room for argumentation, his eyes tinting with dark coldness swallowing his bitterness. He’s not used to this kind of hostility from you, and while he feels a wave of pride, he can’t wrap his head around you getting angry at him over the sake of a Gryffindor. 

"Whatever. I don’t have time for this shit.” He pushes past you, leaving you aghast and hurt. 

“Matt-” His name dies on your tongue, watching him retreat without any remorse. You release a deep sigh, forcing down the part of you that reeks of guilt, ceasing the tidal wave of pity urging to wash ashore. 

The newfound spite irks, refusing him to control your social interactions and you pick yourself up, marching with determination over to the Gryffindor table. “Hey Dean. Are you going to the gig? Because I was wondering if you wanted to, uh—gowithme?” The adrenaline spits out in a hurried ramble, standing behind the sprightly boy.  

Ron snorts, snickering lightly. “What a skitzball,” he mutters to Seamus. 

Dean, who had only just turned at your arrival, catches the half rushed question and grins. “Are you asking me to the gig? Like on a date?” 

You nod. His smile brightens. “Sure sounds fun!”

You blink, surprised. “Really?” His answer is so straightforward. There’s no teasing or joking, a stark difference from how Mattheo interacts with you. 

He laughs nodding, “Yeah really, can’t wait!” 

You grin, biting your lip excitedly, “Okay cool, see you then!” Leaving the hall with a light spring in your step, your mood instantly lifted at having a date for the first time. 

The following weekend, students of age make their way down to the village crowding around the entrance to Hogs Head, the hosts of this evening. The interior, normally consisting of minimal effort, had surprisingly transformed, outdoing itself for the performance with dark black cloth hanging to encapsulate the atmosphere of a muggle venue. The ceiling is enchanted with glistening disco lights twinkling and streams of smoke that surround the main platform the band will perform on. 

Dean grins, offering his arm chivalry out to you, liking the idea of you entering the venue as one. He's chuffed, and a little surprised that you had been the one to initiate, asking him to be your date.

Dean’s fondness for you had continued to bloom, his trips to the library becoming more frequent, happily using every opportunity to get more acquainted. It seemed to be the only time you weren't attached at the hip to Mattheo, and Dean, though not entirely scared of Riddle, didn't want to end up on his shit side. 

“Woah, the pub looks wicked, doesn’t it?” He speaks down to you, his voice attempting to be on the softer side still booms with elation. 

Laughing sweetly, you nod in agreement, admiring the pub as it fills, people already gathering towards the stage. Dean moves inwards, his arm gently pressing to your back to stop the two of you getting separated. 

“Yeah, I’m excited!” Responding with positive optimism for a good night, though you can't help searching around for someone in particular. 

Already aware of his date, there's no room for unwanted assumptions to creep in. It's all laid on the table. He’s easily noticeable, entering among his other Slytherin friends and their obnoxious energy suffocating anyone in a one step radiance. He walks with Everly confidently hanging off his arm, looking like a sparkly prized charm that, you know, means his eyes won't be anywhere but on her. 

The desperation slithers up your throat, constricting your breath. Thankfully, Dean’s not paying attention caught in his own zone. For when Mattheo scans the floor and his eyes lock on yours, there's no force strong enough to lure your attention from him.

He's as attractive as ever, dressed in all black. His curls look decent for once, coiled neatly, which might have made you swoon, but you can't help question if she did it for him. The bitterness drenches your tongue with the disturbing truth that he’ll always pick someone else over you. 

Your heart sinks further, drowning in the waves of pain and ultimately it’s the part of you with any dignity left that turns your focus back to Dean. Mattheo watches how Dean waves over his other mates, his smile widening for a moment at Ginny, and he frowns as you are forced to blend in with his rivals. He rubs his temple, a throbbing headache banging as he fights the battle, evading the pressure rising of hurt and jealousy threatening to breach the surface.

“Fuck off, since when did y/n mingle with the Gryffindorks.” Draco’s disdainful comment snaps Mattheo’s head back as the others identify the reasoning for your absence. 

“What did you do?” Theo asks Mattheo bluntly, the crowd roaring, welcoming the band strolling onto the stage. 

Mattheo scowls with bitter irritation, snapping louder over the noise. “I didn't do shit. She did that all on her own.” 

Theo observes perplexing Mattheo’s response, noting the nonstop chatter you’re spewing to Dean as the two of you move closer to the stage. He leans down to point out whispering, “I doubt it. She hasn’t even waved at you once.” 

“Well, maybe she’s too busy fawning over dickhead Dean to give a shit about the rest of us.” Mattheo grits, defensively grouping everyone in to share the fault of his wrongdoings on why you hadn’t said hi. 

“I need a fucking drink.” He mutters, his high hopes of smashing dissolving no longer interested in using Everly as a distraction. What he really needed was you, a nice tall glass to satisfy his thirsting desire. His eyes linger on you for another moment. You look nice. Who’s he kidding? 

You look gorgeous. It’s such a simple outfit and yet it suits your figure so well. He doesn’t know the last time he saw you so dressed up, definitely never for himself like that. 

His eyes flicker back to his date and he can’t help but compare the two of you. There's an energy about you tonight he rarely sees. You’re holding yourself with tallness, an appearance that makes you even more attractive. You look happy and confident and his eyes can’t help but scan your exposed legs. That skirt is definitely shorter than your uniform. 

He always knew his feelings would resurface, couldn’t stay down forever despite how hard he fought them. However, the intense jealousy and pain was something he thought he could escape. Having kept it at bay for so long, why was it now that his mind weakened, allowing the sweet essence of you to slip through? 

He wanted to run to your side and embrace you, to shove Dean to the ground with one swing of his fist, for even daring to look. He wanted to stand beside you now as the group moved to the stage and scream the lyrics with you in each other's faces. He wanted to have your smile directed at him and be the one to spin you, listening to your infectious laugh meant for only him. 

But of course he’d been afraid and pushed you again and even as he ponders and dreams of the possibilities of what ifs, he can’t deny how happy you look beside Dean. Smiling brightly up at the git, he knows he’s being selfish and greedy. He wants to fight for you, to make things right, to tell you how much you mean to him. 

He leaves you be for the first few songs, eyes fixated on you only, before he spots Dean excuse himself to the bathroom, and in a flash he’s doing the same ditching his date. He walks casually so as to not draw suspicion, keeping a distance between Dean and himself.

The bathrooms down the corridor in the pub are dark and dingy and mostly empty as everyone’s still listening to the band. He spots Dean stalking past him down a few urine stands before he takes a wiz himself. It’s more awkward than the usual boys' bathroom encounter. 

Dean can feel the prickling burn of deathly eyes on him, and peeks sideways at Mattheo. They finish washing their hands and then Mattheo speaks up before Dean can escape his interrogation. “Thomas. Doing well?” 

Dean looks over at Mattheo in surprise. He dries his hands and clears his throat. “Yeah fine. Yourself?”

Mattheo runs a hand through his hair, eyeing him with a sharp look, trying to pinpoint what about him you might like over himself. Sure, he was tall and strong like Mattheo. But he’s a loudmouth Gryffindor. There's nothing worth tolerating about them. “Fine.”

Dean watches, sensing Mattheo is pissed about something, and he can only imagine it’s his presence around you. “You seem like you're digging for something. Why don’t you just say it?” 

He chuckles darkly, a little impressed with his boldness - guess Gryffindors' are brave after all. For the anger Mattheo felt was reaching a peak like a volcano about to explode and Dean was standing in the danger zone.

“Not sure why you’re hanging around her when you’re clearly still hung up on your ex.” Dean frowns, looking at Mattheo in confusion. “I can see the way you look at Weasley still, so I suggest you back the fuck off y/n, before I make you.” 

Dean looks at Mattheo like he’s mental. “I actually like her, you know. I’m not into Ginny anymore.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, shithead.” Mattheo moves forwards looming, he’s a tad shorter than Dean, but it doesn’t diminish the look he’s shooting his way. 

He’s still standing tall and brooding enough to have Dean a little uncomfortable in his shoes. But Dean isn’t one to back down from a little intimidation, and eyes him, “I see what this is about. You're jealous, aren’t you?” 

Mattheo scowls, hating that he’s hit it right on the nail, but only laughs instead. “Good one, Thomas.” 

“You are, though, and you missed your chance to tell her, didn't you?” Dean uncharacteristically taunts him, unaware of the insecurity he’s about to strike. “Not like you deserve her anyway with how you act-.” 

In the split second the word leaves Dean's lips, Mattheo connects his fist with his nose. There’s a loud crack of the bone and Dean yelps, grasping it as blood streams covering his fingers. 

“The fuck are you, to talk to me like that?” He watches Dean’s bravado crumble as he stares into the intense and wired eyes of Mattheo. “You don’t know shit about me or her. Get the fuck out of here before I do something I actually regret.” 

Dean, still clutching his nose, gives him a look that easily reads what he thinks about him before he decides it’s best just to leave, heading back out into the hallway. Mattheo stays pacing a little longer and gazes at himself in the mirror. He’s craving a cigarette now; he should just ditch this shitty gig and call it a night. 

The few people hovering outside the hall’s entrance, dousle themselves with refreshing glasses of water. You’re one of them having gotten hot and thought it would be good to wait somewhere visible to him. All too easily Dean is noticeable pushing out the door with his hand still pressed to his nose. 

“Holy shit! What happened to you?” Rushing over you ask Dean, though you have a tickling suspicion already. 

For once, Dean’s usual aura is low, and he gives you an indifferent look. “Who do you think, y/n. Riddle of course.” 

Hot flashes of anger blur your vision, washing over you with a feverish intensity at Mattheo's audacity and you stare at the bathroom door as if trying to summon him out. Dean gives you another look, muttering an irritated, “I’m gonna go wash up elsewhere. I think you should talk to him.”

Dean walks off back down the hall to another bathroom, and your shoulders drop in defeat at the disappearance of your date. How had your night flipped one eighty? Your sunny optimism now drenched by the pelted rain of trouble that Mattheo Riddle brings, and then he appears.

He’s shaking out his fist, flexing his fingers, a clear sign he’s just used them in combat, and your eyes narrow on him. He meets your gaze, his eyes lighting up at seeing you noticing him properly, but then you’re walking towards him hastily. He has little time to escape before the familiar pulling pain shoots from his ear down and he yelps, cursing. 

He could never defeat the strength of an angry woman's ear pull, as you drag him down and outside the pub, pleading at you. “Ace! Geez, come on, is this really ow- necessary!? Fuck-“ 

It had been forever since you’d pulled the move, one that was extremely effective and often required when the two of you were younger. His ear swells a deep red and continues to throb even once released from your hold.

He winces, straightening up to shoot you an unappreciative glare, but he’s met with an equally disappointed face. A look he never wishes to see again, eyes vacant their usual glimmer, left with only a look of disappointment that fears him worse than his father.

He swallows, but acts nonchalantly. "What’s this all about?” 

Gritting your teeth, eyes narrowed into slits as thin as paper. “You hit him? You hit Dean! What is wrong with you, Mattheo?” 

His sympathy and sorrow vanish in the return of his anger, muttering. “He had it coming.” 

“How? What did he say?” 

He rolls his eyes, rubbing his aching ear. “It doesn’t matter. It was uncalled for, and I shut him up.” 

“You always do this, always an excuse that makes you look like the victim. What could he have possibly said that would make you need to act like that?” 

“He doesn’t even like you, y/n, he’s still hung up on his ex - I don’t know why you’re wasting time with him anyway, you’re not that oblivious, are you?” He snaps, his frustrations growing. 

His words sting, like a slap to the face, and you blink, standing back from him. Oblivious? Who was he to call blind when he couldn’t even comprehend how you felt about him? There's no recollection of seeing Dean pining after Ginny, and the tears build at the lengths he will go to destroy your first possibility of romance.  

“Are you seriously making this up now because you're upset? That I had the courage to ask someone to be my date, and he happens to be a Gryffindor?” 

He groans, frustrated, “No fuck, I’m not making this up.” He walks closer to you, trying to get you to understand, but he can see he’s hurt you. “Ace, come on, I’m not trying to ruin-”

“Well, you are!” It’s his turn to be slapped, and he stares a little taken back, absorbing your words. There's a chill in the air, like your words squeezed all the joy out and it shows in his eyes. 

They harden, staring you down, and he gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Fine. I can see I’m not wanted.” He’s bitter and heartbroken as you completely disregard him with no trust. But he holds his tongue further, not wishing to damage the ship. “I’ll stay out of your way to avoid ruining your life further.” 

He doesn’t even mean to say that much, for the idea of staying away breaks him. The concept that his worst fears are coming to life, cracking, pushing their way to the surface, and it frightens him. As he storms off, glad to escape the awful changing reality, he can't stop thinking about how this is all his fault. 

Fuck. Fuck! He walks hastily away, not daring to turn back around and see the despair he’s left you in, heading straight back to the castle with a tornado of mixed emotions. Anger and sadness that push and shove at one another, fighting for dominance in who will break the surface first. 

He collapses on his bed, stuffing his pillow over his face and erupts into a raw yell, fighting back the tears. In the end anger wins, and he kills his self-pity, deciding to down himself in a bottle of fire whiskey till he blacks out with the last remaining thought on his mind. You had been the one to ask Dean. 

Any and all interacts are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading! 💫 Masterlist! Part two should be up next few days- to a week.

ALSO the biggest shoutout to @amongemeraldclouds who patiently dealt with my ass about this for like a month ilyyy pookie 🤍 @leona-hawthorne who for without I’d never have restarted this I swear ilyyyy and @slytherinslut0 thank you for proof reading!! 🩵

©️pizzaapeteer 2025

[starkwlkr]

i didn’t like the ending | mark webber

an: ok so this is the last part but because i know some of you won’t like the ending i have planned, I’m giving you TWO endings and you can choose which one is canon in your head <3 so this one is the sad ending and i’ll try to post the happy one sometime this week!! thanks for reading <3

part 1 part 2

2025 Australian Grand Prix

The paddock was buzzing with energy as the Australian Grand Prix weekend kicked off. The first race of the season always carried a certain weight, but for Y/n, it was just another day at the office. She was here to focus on Oscar, to make sure he had the best possible start to his third year in Formula 1.

She hadn’t expected to run into Mark. Last she heard, he was busy traveling.

But of course, she should have. This was his home race too, and as Oscar’s manager, he was bound to be around. She had just stepped out of the Mclaren garage when she nearly bumped into him, stopping short as they locked eyes.

For a moment, it was like nothing had changed. Like they weren’t exes, like they hadn’t broken each other’s hearts, like they hadn’t spent the past decade trying to move on from something that had never fully left them.

“Hey,” Mark said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Hey,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral, professional. She wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or hers.

“You look great.” Mark said.

“Thank you, you too,” she smiled and took a step back as if admiring his look. “You’ve got more grey hair now.”

Mark blinked, momentarily thrown off. His hand instinctively ran through his hair, as if to check for himself. “Yeah, well. . . it happens.”

A small smirk tugged at her lips. “I remember when we first got married, you joked that if you ever started going grey, it’d be my fault.”

His expression shifted—just for a moment. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by something softer, something unreadable. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Mark opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. Instead, he let out a breath, shaking his head slightly. “You always did remember the little things.”

There was a brief pause before Mark cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. “So, uh . . . I’ve been seeing someone.”

It was so abrupt that Y/n almost flinched. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t even hinted at it, but there it was. A declaration. A fact thrown into the space between them.

She forced a smile, though she wasn’t sure how convincing it was. “That’s great, Mark. I’m happy for you.”

He nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s great. We’ve been on a few dates.”

A few dates. Not serious. Just starting. She could hear it in the way he said it, like he was still testing the words, trying them on for size.

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed past the ache that bloomed in her chest. This was good. This was what needed to happen. They had tried, and they had failed, and there was no point in pretending they could fix what had already been broken beyond repair.

Still, it hurt.

She forced another smile. “I’m glad, Mark. You deserve to be happy.”

He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was waiting for something—maybe for her to ask if he really meant it, if he was really moving on. Maybe for her to say something that would make him take it back.

But she didn’t.

She just nodded, said goodbye, and walked away before she could change her mind.

“Fuck.” Mark whispered as he watched her slip away. He wasn’t sure why he was even going on dates with someone. He didn’t mean to tell the woman he would move to go on another date. But one date turned into another and then another and now he was using the dates as a distraction.

Mark returned to Oscar’s garage and saw the Aussie on his phone. “I’m losing my mind.” Mark admitted to him.

“Does it have to do with my race engineer?” Oscar put his phone in his pocket. Once Oscar saw how hurt Mark looked, he stopped joking around. “You saw her. .”

“And I told her I’m seeing someone.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you have ever said. You don’t even like your date!” Oscar raised his voice lightly, earning looks from the Mclaren team. “You have to tell her it’s not serious.”

“Oscar, mate, I don’t think it’ll change anything. She’s finally happy and if she’s happy then I have to be too.” The older man started to walk away from Oscar.

“But then you won’t ever be.”

“As long as she’s happy.”

tags!!

@hc-dutch @5sospenguinqueen

[ashthesalamipiece]

hey ash can i please request soemthing? a katsuki bakugo x female reader they are married and reader is like extremely weak? like physically and she got pregnant-a high risk one the type where the doctor would say to consider a abortion? something like that? you dont have to do this Just a request from a fellow follower love your works they are chaotic and love them :)

Hii mll♡

Of you can request anything I appreciate ittt♡

I hope this is up to your expectations♡

---

"Stronger Than You Know"

Bakugo had never imagined himself the marrying type—at least not back when he was the hotheaded teen with a short fuse and a tunnel vision for victory. But somehow, you had wormed your way into his life with gentle hands and soft words, the exact opposite of everything he used to think he needed.

He used to think strength was everything.

But then he married you.

You weren’t strong like him. Not in the way that counted for most people. Your body was fragile, your energy limited, and your constitution was nothing short of worrying. Some days, he’d carry you from the bed to the couch because your muscles trembled too much. He always did it without complaint, though he grumbled under his breath just to keep up appearances. You’d laugh and call him a softie, and he’d call you a brat.

But he never once resented it. Not once.

Because you were the only one who could make him feel calm. Needed. Loved.

So when you told him you were pregnant, his reaction was… complicated.

He stared at you for a full minute before the words even processed. You were sitting on the couch in one of his old shirts, fingers wringing the hem, face pale and eyes a little wet. You’d looked scared—not of him, but for yourself. For the tiny, forming life inside of you.

And he felt like the ground tilted beneath him.

You were already so delicate. The idea of you carrying a child—his child—through nine months of hellish strain made his stomach twist in fear.

Of course, the hospital visit only made things worse.

“The pregnancy is high-risk,” the doctor said, voice carefully neutral. “Your body might not handle it. If complications arise, it could be fatal… for both of you.”

You’d gripped Bakugo’s hand then. He could still feel how cold your fingers were. The doctor kept talking, listing options, risks, and the word he hated more than anything in that moment: abortion.

Bakugo didn't speak. He didn’t trust himself to.

The moment you two left the office, you waited until you were in the safety of his car to finally whisper, “Katsuki… what should we do?”

He didn’t answer right away. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“Do you… want to keep it?” he finally asked, voice low.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I want to try. Even if I’m scared.”

He looked at you for a long time. Your face was full of fear and hope, all tangled together. You weren’t strong—at least not in the way people measured it. But he had never seen someone braver.

“You’re not doing this alone,” he said, turning fully to face you. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. I’ll be there for every damn second.”

You gave him a watery smile, and he kissed you before you could say anything else.

---

The following months were hard.

You were in and out of the hospital more times than either of you could count. Bakugo adjusted his patrol schedule, sometimes canceling it altogether just to sit beside you during check-ups. The staff got used to seeing the pro hero sitting with you, his scarred hands cradling yours, whispering quiet reassurances that didn’t match his usual brash image.

There were nights he’d sit beside your bed, wide awake while you slept restlessly. He’d talk to your belly when you were too tired to stay conscious, his voice low and steady.

“Your mom’s the toughest damn person I know, you hear me?” he’d mutter, fingers gently tracing circles on your skin. “She’s stronger than any hero out there.”

Sometimes the fear crept in.

Like when you collapsed while walking across the kitchen.

Or when the doctors said your blood pressure was too high again.

Or when they prepared an emergency bag “just in case.”

But you always pulled through. Even when your body screamed and the world felt like it was stacked against you, you kept going.

Because you had a reason now. A heartbeat you heard on fuzzy monitors. A future wrapped in warmth and baby clothes folded neatly in drawers. And Katsuki’s hand, always there. Always strong. Always steady.

---

The birth wasn’t easy. It was a blur of beeping machines, sterile white lights, and a level of panic Katsuki never wanted to experience again.

They rushed you in after you started bleeding—too much, too fast.

He wasn’t allowed in the OR.

He punched a wall.

Paced like a caged animal.

Nearly lost it when a nurse asked him to “stay calm.”

But then—

A baby’s cry.

And the nurse came out.

“A girl,” she said. “She’s healthy. And your wife… she made it. She’s going to be okay.”

Bakugo didn’t remember sitting down, but he did.

Didn’t remember the tears, but they came.

When they let him in, you were pale, exhausted, barely awake—but smiling. And in your arms was the tiniest, angriest baby he had ever seen.

“She’s got your scowl,” you whispered hoarsely.

He looked down at the two of you—his whole world in one hospital bed—and something in him broke open.

He kissed your forehead.

“You scared the shit out of me, idiot.”

You laughed weakly. “Worth it?”

He looked at the baby again, who had just punched the air in protest.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, it was.”

[formulaonecrumbs]

Hiiiiii xoxo

I love reading your sibling au’s with the drivers they’re so good !!

Would you be open to making one about max Verstappen but as the little brother ? :)

i’m always gonna come find you

Max Verstappen x older sister!reader

summary: after their dad (jos verstappen WHEN I FUCKING CATCH U) left max at the gas station for a ‘bad’ race, reader takes care of him.

warnings: bad dad. hurt little max.

A/N: this situation was perfect for this cuz every time i’m reminded of it, i feel the primal urge to (1) KILL JOS (2) protect little maxie. also i didnt remember when this happened to him so i just made him 13, reader is 18. ENJOY MY LOVVVEEE. i love u, thank u anon, VERY MUCH 🫶

p.s. i won’t do the home film thing for any other sibling au’s when it comes to other drivers cuz i have that reserved for lando IM SORRY!! it’s just special to that series, hope u can understand :)

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

it was getting dark by the time she found him.

the gas station lights buzzed faintly overhead, a flickering, sickly kind of glow. max was sitting on the curb with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, helmet still in his lap like he couldn’t bear to let it go. he looked so small like that. so young. like the little brother she sometimes forgot he still was.

she pulled into the parking lot too fast, tires crunching over gravel, throwing the car into park and practically flying out of it.

“max!” she called, voice already cracking with worry.

his head snapped up immediately, eyes wide — and the second he saw it was her, his whole body sagged, like he could finally breathe again.

she ran to him and dropped to her knees without thinking, gathering him into her arms. he didn’t even hesitate — just pressed his face against her shoulder, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her hoodie.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it. “i tried. i really tried—”

“shh, hey, no,” she soothed, pulling back enough to cup his face in her hands. his cheeks were pink from the cold, and his eyes were glassy with tears he was trying so hard not to let fall. “none of that, okay? you don’t ever have to be sorry with me.”

he sniffed hard, ducking his head a little like he didn’t quite believe her.

she brushed his messy hair back from his forehead, feeling her heart splinter at the sight of him. thirteen years old and already carrying the weight of expectations he didn’t deserve. already blaming himself for things that weren’t his fault.

“dad was mad,” he whispered. it wasn’t really a surprise, but hearing it still made her chest ache. “he said i embarrassed him.”

her hands tightened on him instinctively.

“dad’s wrong,” she said firmly, voice leaving no room for argument. “you hear me, max? he’s wrong. you didn’t embarrass anyone. you raced your heart out. that’s what matters. and leaving you here—” she broke off, shaking her head. “there’s no excuse for that. none.”

max looked up at her then, cautious, like he was waiting for her to get mad too.

but all he found was her, steady and sure and warm.

“you’re not alone,” she promised, her voice gentler now. “i’m always gonna come for you. always.”

his lip wobbled. just a little.

then he threw his arms around her neck again, this time holding on even tighter.

she hugged him back just as fiercely, rocking him slightly like she used to when he was little and scared of thunderstorms.

for a long time, they just stayed there on the curb, wrapped up in each other while the rest of the world spun on.

finally, she pulled back enough to smile at him — a real smile, soft and proud.

“c’mon,” she said, standing and offering him her hand. “let’s get you home.”

max nodded, still silent, but he took her hand without hesitation, gripping it tightly like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

and maybe it was.

maybe it always would be.

THE END :>

[youreonmymind37]

My poppin’ cherry, I nailed her last week. She wants some more. That’s why she wore her skimpy outfit. Cherry is my wife’s baby sister. My wife took my toddler to a play date.

I waited until my sister-in-law boiled-over out of sheer desperation for my cock. I grinned watching the game unfolded. I stood-up and walked inside.

“Where are you going?” shyly said my lover.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I said carelessly, “Mowing the lawn makes me feel sweaty.”

“Oh….” said Cherry.

I stripped my shorts and whistling got into my shower. I washed my face. Suddenly, I heard the shower door opened and shut.

I was blinded and I used my hands to see. I clenched a pair of perfect tits. I heard my poppin’ cherry sighed with pleasures.

I shook my head. “Hey!” shrieked my Poppin’ Cherry. I reached for the soap behinds her. I lathered her breasts with my hands. I rubbed her nipples with my thumbs. She leaned against the wall. Breathing my lover look up at me. My hardened cock pressed himself against her belly.

My index and bird fingers pounding her tight pussy. My thumb stroked her clit. She kisses me. Her tiny tongue wriggled into my mouth.

And, I saw my fingers withdraw from my sex slave’s hole. Bloody remnants of miscarriage.

Then, I seized her ass with both hands and skewered her wettest cunt on my cock. “Gawd, it’s so big—oooohhh!” she whispered into my ear.

I like that my Poppin’ Cherry can dirty talk. My lover can be taller and fitter than my wife. Plus, Cherry hasn’t had a newborn. Her pussy channel is just a little bit snug for my giant cock. I like being a sadistic dom. And, my sex slave is a submissive masochist… only, to me. She has a beta boyfriend who run after her. Fuckin’ man-boy.

One day in the future, Cherry will go off her pills and I will be ploughing her fertile womb. Except, Cherry will blame her cuckold boyfriend.

Ha!

“Wha?” she said her hands clinging to my shoulders. She was moaning and eyes shut down. My wife’s sister babbled on.

I pumped my forearms and her twat was up and down. She responded to the force being on her sore pussy by moaning.

Cherry is my fuck doll. I tell her that.

“Yesssssssss, baby!” she cum a second or fourth times.

I let go of her bruised and stinging ass. She slides down to the floor and my cock piercing her eyeball. She handled my cock expertly and drawing him to her waiting mouth with her hands. I pumped my meat into her willingly throat. She is trapped against the showing wall and my bulking groin. She looked up at me and fondled my balls.

I explosive cum in her mouth. My seeds dripped out her lips and falling to her breasts.

“I am sooooo ready to fuck you sooo hard that my womb will be your baby’s nesting place, master.”

“We’ll see, my Poppin’ Cherry,” I said.

My sister-in-law muttered under her breath, “I hope.”

“Clean up your mess,” I said stepping out of her carnage.

Cherry was on the shower floor on her knees.

“I hope.”

My lover reached up to get her sister’s loam handle. She shoved the handle up her pussy. Cherry rubbed her clit. She moaned.

Bloody wetness trickled down to the drain.

[fernslivers]

Teahouse Jealousy

"He was honest about his desires. That is a swordsman who knows the shape of his soul."

~

Things have been building for a while. Mizu is happy to avoid the topic, in favor of focusing on her mission. Finding yourself exasperated, you accept some help from an unexpected source.

~~

A/N: ITS DONE, FINALLY. Fucking 7600 WORDS of slow-burn mutual pining, bad communication, and jealousy. But hey, I did manage to fit in some spice at the end, hey?

Anyway, this is my first actual fic on here, so lmk what you guys think? Should I stick to lists? :,)

WARNING: this is REALLY LONG. I'm very sorry.

TW: jealousy, mentions of murder, mentions of sex work, SPICE

For this outing, Mizu insists on the boy disguise, your least favorite. You greatly prefer it when you can pretend to be her wife (of course), or even possible meat for the flesh market–because then she plays it up, a hand on your lower back, her voice dropped to an extra raspy register. But that last one is rare; you know the cost that playing that role seems to take on her, and you don't encourage it, despite the tingles it sends up your spine.

And you certainly don't complain about the freedom the boy disguise gives you for movement. But it does limit your ability to speak, as well as blocking your ability to get close to her side…you would never admit the reason you don't like it, but your reproachful expression says enough. She huffs out a sigh.

“Nobody brings a maiden to a brothel. You'll make us look odd,” she tells you, in the tone of voice that brooks no argument.

You wilt further the second she mentions a brothel, zoning out Ringo’s anxious questions; it was bad enough clenching your fists and staying silent while those two women ran their hands over her in Kyoto; now she's actually seeking such a place out? Your stomach squirms. Kyoto, and every moment of that visit, are burned into your brain. You share a trepidatious look with Ringo. You vow not to leave her side for even a second.

~~

Your explicit instructions were to “just look flustered and don't say anything”. That's not hard. You avoid eye contact with the working girls, and stare down at the table while you all wait for Kaji. The atmosphere of sexuality is stifling; it mingles strangely in your stomach with your feelings for Mizu, leaving you feeling on-edge, paranoid about being caught out. You could almost believe that these women, of anyone, will be able to smell the desire on you at a single glance. You've got Mizu’s fingerprints denting the very clay of your soul.

Madam Kaji, when she appears, does nothing to set those fears at rest. Her voice may be melodic, but you can feel her eyes scrape over you like a razor, as if they could peel back your skin and see underneath. You do your best to mimic Mizu's flat stare; after this long traveling together, you usually manage rather well. You've even managed to shoo off a few bothersome pests of your own in the past. This time, though, there's a hard edge to her smile that makes you wonder how much slipped through.

~

For all Ringo says about an apprentice should stay with his master, you somehow seem to lose sight of him in the walk from the corner where you were sitting to the hallway Madam Kaji pauses in. You remain by Mizu’s side. You don't feel any scorn towards Ringo for this. Nobody could say he isn't as loyal as they come, but desire is a powerful force.

Desire. Need. It's why Ringo disappears, and why you don't. He has his own desires to attend to, and you can respect that. But there's nothing in this brothel that you desire more than what you're already standing next to.

Madam Kaji motions to a small pocket of light at the base of one of the hallway panels. There’s a pause. When Mizu doesn't move to look through the peephole, Madam Kaji motions in your direction. “Perhaps the gentleman's apprentice would like to show him that desire is nothing to shy away from?”

You freeze like a cornered deer, meeting her taunting gaze with wide eyes. Her expression says it all; there's a test in this somewhere, a challenge.

Where the hell is Ringo. Trust him to be gone when there's something he would actually want to do. Nevermind on that whole no-scorn thing! You're going to kick him next time you see him.

Your pleading glance at Mizu produces no reaction; she doesn't even look your way. She's simply glaring at Madam Kaji. Challenges have never bothered her; if she doesn't want to do something, she just doesn't. Ugh. Someone needs to do something.

You look through the hole.

…Hm.

Honestly…it's not that bad.

Strange, certainly. The men in ropes, the writing, but you find yourself privately siding with Madam Kaji; it's nothing shameful. Just more of what you had observed while waiting in the main teahouse room. They're not bothering anybody. You consider that there have been worse atrocities you've seen in your travels with Mizu, all the way back to your first meeting.

You shrug up at Mizu. It’s nothing she'll be interested in, nor that she needs to see. She just looks even more impatient at the delay, fingers tapping on her crossed arms. The expression she shoots at Kaji is her classic get on with it glare.

Smirking, Madam Kaji motions to the final peephole. By now, you've lost your hesitation. If you feel anything, you're relieved that this is the last one. This shuffling around on your knees is not only making them sore, it's embarrassing to do with two people standing silently over you, eyeing each other warily.

You peer in.

At first glance, it seems to be just a man and a woman–nothing so strange as the other ones. The man is dressed in dark blue, his hair tied up in a knot like Mizu’s. But then the girl turns to the man, pushing his yukata off his shoulders; it's not a man, but another girl, bared to the touch of the first woman. They kiss, bodies molding together with no hesitation.

You tumble back abruptly, eyes wide, feeling your face flush so fast that the skin on your neck is prickling.

“What? What?” Momentarily distracted from glaring, Mizu looks startled by your reaction. When you shake your head in silence, worried that explaining would give your secret away, she glares suspiciously at Madam Kaji. She's clearly bristling at your apparent distress, assuming you've had a trick played on you. She reaches down to haul you to your feet with a rough tug to your arm, shoving herself half in front of you. “What did you show-...him?”

Kaji’s eyes narrow a fraction at Mizu’s brief stumble on your pronouns, and she smiles, sharp as a knife. With a little click, she slides the peephole shut. “Desire. A complicated thing,” she murmurs in that teasing, seductive tone. “We are not always ready to face it when it first finds us.”

She slides open another full panel, revealing a pleasantly decorated little room. A couple of the girls are in there, already, setting up a table with ink and paper. They look up and giggle when they see you both, their eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks. You can feel them darken again under the scrutiny, and drop your eyes to the mat until the girls leave. When you hear the panel slide shut, you look up to see Madam Kaji’s eyes on you. As soon as you make eye contact, her gaze slide away, to Mizu.

She doesn't look at you again until the moment of Mizu’s proposal.

You both can see the moment that the refusal in Kaji’s eyes wavers, but something else flickers in their depths when she glances between you, and you know what's coming. She wants to talk to Mizu alone.

With Mizu's husky name your desire still bouncing around in your head, obliterating your every other thought but how much you want her, Kaji's desire to exclude you makes you want to bite the woman like a territorial dog. You take a half-step closer to Mizu as Kaji suggests that she take a walk with the gentleman “one-on-one”.

“Perhaps the gentleman’s apprentice would like to enjoy some of the pleasures of my teahouse while…he waits?” She asks sweetly, her smile warm and her eyes hard as gemstones.

Mizu looks at you expectantly, seemingly unbothered by this; she'd probably agree to making you wait on the roof if it got her the information she wanted. You shake your head instead, giving her a look of incredulity in return. Obviously no. When is she going to start trusting you to stay at her side? What do you have to do to prove yourself?

“I haven't got any money,” you reply cleverly, keeping your voice as hushed as you can to disguise it, your eyes flicking up to meet blue orbs like a challenge. You can't really refuse, given that you're playing at master-and-apprentice, but you can make it hard. She can't keep shutting you out. Not this time; now you have an excuse. What prostitute will keep you busy for no money?

A brief light of pure, gremlin devilment comes into her eyes–it doesn't happen often that her rare sense of play is roused, but from what you've seen, that never means good things for the recipient. You should have known better; Mizu never tolerates being maneuvered into allowing something she doesn't want.

She holds the money bag out to you with a little shake to jangle it, and you deflate visibly.

For a moment, there's an unspoken moment of confusion and communication both ways; at first, Mizu holds the money bag out with an almost teasing smirk, clearly indicating let’s see how you manage this one. She doesn't see any danger in it. You can always just sit in the room alone. She's only interested in making a point; this is about negating your excuse.

But when you slump with such an obvious air of rejection, the playfulness drops from her gaze, replaced with a bemused concern. She'll be back in a handful of minutes, why is it such a big deal? This isn’t your fight, you don't need to be here to begin with, much less be stuck with her every moment of the day. So… why does she feel such a pang at your hurt face? You in turn see the momentary flash of confused guilt in her eyes, before she drops the money bag in your hands.

It startles you. You didn't expect that she would care.

Madam Kaji, watching all this and not missing a single beat, says nothing. She claps sharply. Two girls pop out of what seems to be nowhere, taking your hand with an air of false promise in their eyes.

“Ooh. you’re a pretty one,” one purrs, tilting her head with carefully practiced flirtation.

“We almost never see any young and pretty boys,” the other concurs. It’s like being slowly engulfed by the coils of a very nicely perfumed snake. At Madam Kaji’s nod, you’re tugged away, looking over your shoulder at Mizu with a distinct air of betrayal. You fully expect her to turn away, but she keeps staring as the girls lead you back into the room, her expression unreadable.

Even after the door slides shut, she doesn’t move, listening to the giggling emanating from inside, her hand clenching unconsciously on the hilt of her sword. It takes a prompt from Madam Kaji to get her moving again. Face snapping into its usual scowl, she turns and stalks away, leaving Kaji to try and match Mizu’s longer stride in the confines of her kimono.

~

“So, pretty apprentice, what can we do?” Asks the one in green, her dark eyes sparkling as they flick to the money bag still clutched in your hand. “How can we serve your pleasure?”

As attached to Mizu as you are, you’ve never been flirted with by a woman before, and you can’t help the blush. But even that isn’t enough to distract you from the melancholy of being left behind like a pet yet again. Waiting in the cold for hours on the bridge to Shindo Dojo, left in town with Ringo in Mihonoseki, watching her leave with Taigen down that narrow chasm… You shake your head, mouth twisting in tandem with your guts. What if Mizu never comes back? You know the trick she played on Ringo; you giggled about it at the time, you recall guiltily. But you can’t track like he can, even if you’re faster than him. And if she leaves you alone for something like this, what is she planning for the actual attack on Fowler? Maybe you really are just a burden she can't figure out how to shake…

“Why so sad?” The one in gold asks, her sympathy syrupy-sweet. She puts a hand on your arm, but you shift away.

“I'm sorry,” You say, distractedly. You aren't watching your tone as well as you should be. “I would rather be alone. Thank you.”

Silence. They don't move to leave, nor do they try to further convince you. You look up from your despair after a moment, becoming aware of their lack of response.

They're both staring. Studying you. Then they look at each other.

Before you can parse why, the gold-clad girl suddenly lunges forward, catching you by the chin and jerking your chin up, staring at your neck. Your smooth, Adam's-apple-less throat.

“Hey!” You yelp, knocking her hand away; she lets you go readily, already smiling with a distinctly cat-got-the-cream air.

“So that's it,” she says, smugly. “I suspected as much.”

“Is it…?” The other asks fascinatedly. Your eyes dart between them, confused, forboding building in your gut.

“Definitely,” says the first. They both turn to you, looking amused and intrigued.

“Playing dress-up, girl?” Asks Green, smiling archly.

Oh….oh no.

You go cold. “I…I don't know what you…”

“Re-lax. You think you're the first to put on men’s clothing in here? Didn't you see the little show we put on for you?” Gold waves a hand dismissively, talking out over top of you.

“It happens all the time. So, what does your man want? To pretend you're a boy? A new flavor to try? Or some training for you?” Green cuts in, raking her eyes over you. “Is he selling you?”

“He’s–…not–...my man,” you stumble. How to even explain that tangle? Clearly they believe Mizu's disguise, if not yours. You're not about to spill any of those beans, more than you need to. “And I would never stay here.” You pause, suddenly hearing yourself, and bow apologetically. An aching heart is no reason to be rude. “Not that I mean to degrade your work. I'm sorry.”

Both women look at each other, then start to laugh. Clearly they've heard worse.

“Then why do you look so sad?” Asks Gold once her laughter has passed, and this time she sounds almost genuinely interested. She pets your hair, gentle, like an older sibling. “Come on, girl, you can tell us.”

You should just tell them to go. But the room is quiet, and warm, and clean, after months of shacks and forest camping and inns full of leering men. And gods… you're so tired. To unburden yourself to someone would be such a relief. You haven't ever been able to talk about these confusing feelings; the only confidant that you have is Ringo, and you do not trust him with that kind of conversational grenade.

Discretion is the whole point of this place right? There are far worse secrets that they must keep.

Green leans against your shoulder, and this time it feels less sensual, and more like a friendly touch. You're surprised by how it loosens a knot in your chest that you hadn't recognized until now. When was the last time you were hugged?

You sigh. “It’s a long story…”

~

As it turns out, it's a long enough story to require two pots of tea–and then a relocation, as the girls drag you back to the dressing room to re-tell all the juicy details to the rest of the girls.

It's…therapeutic, to bare your heart to a group of open-minded, half-drunk women. They’re clearly connoisseurs of gossip, and they make extremely good listeners; gasping in all the right parts. You can't help but enjoy it a little, finally just venting it all out, lounging with the ever-shifting number of girls as sake replaces the tea. Girls come and go from the room as they head to various clients, but except for one they call “new girl”, who keeps her face turned away from you, they all come over to listen for a while.

(As you're surrounded by girls, slowly explaining the tangled story of your time with Mizu, Mizu returns from her walk with Kaji to find the room empty of you.

She pauses, surprised by her own disappointment. She can't admit it to herself, but she had expected you to have shaken off the girls and be waiting for her. You're always there when she comes back. Something burns in the pit of her stomach to find you gone; after the heavy deal she just made, she has need of the comfort you bring her–not that she'd admit that to herself, either. The images of you, somewhere in the brothel at this moment, half-dressed and flustered, makes her stomach flip. But then she imagines you under some faceless nude woman and her throat tightens. She sits down with a thump in front of the mirror and removes her glasses, studying her own face critically. It must be nice for you to be seeing pretty women for once, instead of her…)

“But why him?” One finally asks, wrinkling her nose, as you pause for breath. She's in a pink kimono–you think the others might have called her Ise. “You're a pretty girl, even in disguise. You could do better. He's hardly a looker.”

Your head snaps up, frowning in offense. The girls giggle at your suddenly icy glare, all warning Ise to duck, and Ise dramatically throws her hands up in front of her defensively. “Alright, alright, don't get your sword in a knot. I'm just saying…”

A couple girls nod in agreement. “Those eyes…” one murmurs. The white-haired girl in the corner turns to glare at her as a few others titter.

“Like a demon,” another says with a shudder.

Your fingers clench against your thighs, brow darkening. “I think they're beautiful.” Your voice is quiet, but hard as stone; the girls all fall silent, looking at each other uncertainly. There's a world of emotion in your heavy tone; a sincerity that they know, better than most, is rare and precious.

It’s Ise that smiles, slowly, with a dark, wicked gleam in her eye. “Do you want an answer?” She asks you bluntly, making you forget your anger in confusion.

“To whether he wants you,” she clarifies with a sigh.

You hesitate. Do you? If the answer is no… gods, that will hurt. And you know in your heart that you won't stop holding out hope, even then. You'll stay. You'll keep loving her. So does it matter?

But what if the answer is yes?

Slowly, wordlessly, you nod, stomach clenching. Ise smiles wider, and reaches for your topknot. “I know a method that never fails.”

~

Mizu looks up when you slide the panel open a crack, brow plunged in a deep scowl.

“I said I didn't–...Oh.”

You duck your head, wordlessly apologizing, even though you’re not even sure why. She only looks marginally less annoyed, watching you come in and sit down against the wall. Ringo is there, too, and he greets you brightly, looking rather pleased with himself. His kimono is slightly askew.

“Where have you been?” Her tone is sharp, her eyes sharper, as she takes in the tousled hair and haphazardly tied clothing on you. The girls had agonized over exactly how much to tousle you. That had honestly taken up the most time.

You shrug a little sulkily, keeping your eyes down. Part of you wants to abandon the idea, now that you've gotten snapped at–is it worth the risk of antagonizing her?--while part of you is still upset at getting left behind again. But the thought of Mizu picturing you doing… that…is making you blush yet again. Ise had explained what they were going to imply you did, which gave you a mind full of images that you know will probably haunt you worse than they haunt their intended target. What if Ise was messing with you? This is never going to work, you're already botching it by getting flustered.

In your mind, your avoidance is a dead giveaway that you're being shady…but to Mizu, the tousled appearance and shamefaced blush give exactly the impression Ise planned, and her fingers clench again, until the knuckles crack. Her lips tighten and thin, but she says nothing further, turning back to the mirror with a faint huff. Silence descends, but there’s a strange tension to the air that even Ringo notices. He glances between you two, gaining the worried expression that always makes you want to immediately reassure him.

“So, how much of my money did you spend?” Mizu abruptly spits at you, as though she's finally thought of an excuse to be angry. There's an unusual amount of venom behind her tone, harsh enough that Ringo’s eyes widen and he sits up a bit straighter, while you shrink in on yourself a bit. Wordlessly, still avoiding eye contact, you reach into your haori and pull out of the money pouch, tossing it to her.

She can tell as soon as she catches it that you haven't spent a single coin. “...Hm,” she says again, heat immediately bleeding out of her voice as her expression lightens. She surveys your disheveled appearance again, quirking an eyebrow.

“So why are you–” she starts, before there's another knock at the door. The panel slides open a crack as Mizu heaves a loud sigh of exasperation, her eyes rolling.

But before she can reiterate yet again to leave her alone, two girls’ heads poke in, and they aren't looking in her direction. They're whispering and giggling, completely unprofessionally, nudging each other, and staring at you.

“That's him,” one points.

“No! Is it really…?” The other gasps.

Both Mizu and Ringo turn to look at you, mirrored looks of confusion on their faces. Your expression is that of a dog facing down a speeding horse cart, unable to move, wide eyed. You regret agreeing to this; you want to sink into the tatami.

Their next whispers turn all three of you into statues.

“Ise says she finished three times…”

“Didn't even charge him…”

“He never even undressed–”

Ringo’s eyes and mouth all drop wide open, looking avidly between you and the door. Mizu is… frozen. Her face has taken on that blank expression that you've learned has all the safety of a rumbling mountainside. You don't dare shift an inch, but you can't help but stare at her. Your eyes slide from her stricken face to her hands; they're slowly curling into fists. Is it… working?

More giggling from the hallway, and something thumps the panel. It sounds like there are more girls gathering in the hallway. Another head pokes in, gets pushed back, and more sounds of muffled tussling leaks into the room. It sounds like most of the girls in the teahouse are having a little too much fun with this; they're probably thrilled to get to act out a little.

“Don’t shove–”

“Let me see! I want a turn–”

“... haven't had an orgasm like that in forever–”

“I can't wait to have a good scream–”

Oh gods above. Your face is crimson. You should have expected that they would go straight to vulgarity. Ringo chuckles with surprised and impressed delight, thumping you on the shoulder with one wrist like a comrade. This is so embarrassing.

One of the girls, braver than the rest, managing to wrestle the others back, calls out, “Mr. Samurai, can we borrow your apprentice?” This produces an absolute cascade of giggles and more heads poke into the door again.

“Yeah, me next!”

“Only after me!”

“You don't need him tonight, right, Mr. Samurai?”

“We promise not to break him–”

Mizu finally moves, moving towards the door with a speed that actually makes your heart clench with fear for the prostitutes. They all fall back, a chorus of shrieks and yelps echoing in the hallway as she almost seems to abruptly materialize in front of them.

“We're busy.”

Oh.

Her voice is so frozen with fury that it's a miracle she doesn't breathe out icy smoke. It’s a tone you've only heard a handful of times, always followed by blood spattering across snow. You can feel that familiar twisting ache of mingled fear and arousal in your core that you've grown to associate with Mizu at her most deadly. But this time it's complicated by a second layer of blending; uncertainty–is she just irritated by these twittering women?--and hope, delicate, frail, slowly blossoming.

Is she…jealous?

She slams the panel closed hard enough that there's an ominous wood crunching noise.

Silence falls. You watch Mizu, warily, as she stands at the door, her fingers still white-knuckling the edge of the panel.

“Wow, what did you do?” Ringo demands. You turn to look at him, startled. You were so focused on Mizu's reactions that you almost forgot he was a second witness. “How does that even work?”

“U-uh…I…” Oh gods, what do you say? You didn't actually do anything! Your idea of arousing is Mizu standing over you after a spar, the tip of her sheathed sword digging into your throat, an icy, smug satisfaction in her eyes. What do normal women find titillating?

“Come on, you gotta tell me. I wanna get with prostitutes for free, too!” Ringo gives you puppy eyes. “How'd you do it without them finding out… you know.” He gestures at your clothing. “Was it your hands? Is that the secret?” He asks, holding up his wrists and looking at them worriedly, as though hoping that that isn't the answer. “Wait–” he squints at you. “Where did you even learn to do anything like that anyway–”

“No more questions.” Comes the snarl from the door.

You glance away from Ringo to Mizu.

She's still got her back to the room. Her shoulders are drawing up in a hard hunch, free hand clenching tight again. The rumbling from the mountain is getting louder. You're not sure whether you should be exulting that she actually seems bothered, or be worried about the upcoming danger if she pops. She's not usually the type to explode, but when she does…

You both fall silent, watching as her shoulders heave in one deep, steadying sigh, before she finally turns around. Her face is composed, back to its usual resting glare, and you feel a bit let down. Maybe she just found it all annoying. All that, for no real answers…

Ringo stays quiet long enough for Mizu to return to her seated position by the mirror, but you can see him fidgeting. Before long, he leans over closer to you. His voice is hushed, trying to be discreet. For Ringo.

“So was it a tongue thing, or–”

THUNK. Mizu’s fist strikes the lap table hard, hard enough to upset the elegant centerpiece. You both jump and turn to look at her, freezing in place.

“If you want to know so badly, go ask them yourself.” Every syllable burns, blue eyes blazing.

Ringo, undeterred as ever, leaps to his feet. “I will!” He chirps, padding quickly over to the door. There, he pauses, bowing to Mizu. “Thank you for the permission, Master.”

Mizu watches him leave, her glare never wavering. After the door shuts, she snaps her gaze back to you. Your heart beats a little faster, as ever, feeling that little tingle that comes with getting her focused attention.

“You.” She jabs a finger at you; you flinch. “You. Don't. Leave this room again tonight. And nobody but Ringo comes in. Got it?”

Oh gods, she's jealous, she has to be, she's actually–

Now probably isn't the time to be cheeky and point out that she didn't put herself on that list. You nod. You've never been so happy to be glared at before. She wants me here. With her.

“Of course,” you say. “That's fine.”

Her glare softens at your voice.

You can see the way her eyes flick to your mouth as you form the words, and your heart flutters again. It's real, it must be, oh gods above– no way that this is happening, no way– You open your mouth again, unsure what else to say, but wanting to reassure her, to tell her that here is the only place you want to be. But before you can do that, there's a knock at the door again.

Mizu’s eyes blaze. She actually growls this time, turning towards the door with the feral speed of the truly enraged.

“I said we're busy,” she snarls, whipping the door panel open hard enough that it rattles the entire wall.

You see her freeze, as a soft, delicate voice rings through the room. “May I serve you?”

A pit suddenly opens in your stomach at the absolute stillness in Mizu’s posture. Even from behind you can tell she's staring at the girl’s face. The voice is so pure, so sweetly feminine that you can picture the kind of face it must belong to; a perfect doll, sparkling eyes, symmetrical features, neat teeth behind full, petal-soft lips. No blemishes, no scars, no days of sweat and greasy hair after too long on the road. Your heart twists; finally, finally Kaji has found someone perfect enough to take even Mizu’s breath away, and your chance with her is gone.

Is this how your little trick made her feel? This pain in your chest must be karma come knocking. The second you're away from this brothel, you’re coming clean; you can always say they just wanted to prank her. But you won't leave her believing it truly happened. No more of this back-and-forth of jealousy–if it ever was that on her end.

But then maybe she won't care by then. And I would deserve that. This pain is wrong, it was wrong to bait her because you were too cowardly to be honest about your feelings. She may have given you moments of jealousy before but they were never intentional. And now–

Mizu takes a step away, turning away from the girl towards you as she walks back to her previous seat. Her expression makes you pause on your internal journey of self-pity. It isn't lovestruck, or lustful. Not a flicker of a blush; she's all business. Her eyes seek yours out, a split-second look that you know all too well. The look that comes with a new, unexpected layer of trouble.

Your eyes flick towards the girl, now revealed as she steps into the room. She's as lovely as her voice would have suggested, tiny, exquisitely made up. But it's not your accurate prediction of her perfection that makes you freeze just as Mizu had. It's that you know her, from that bridge in Kyoto. As before, your every memory of that trip is seared in.

You don't dare try to catch Mizu’s eye again; this might be a problem, but for the moment, the girl clearly doesn't realize her hand has been revealed.

Just like that, the jealousy and pining take a backseat, as they so often have on this shared journey. Once again, you and Mizu are a united front, dealing with a new threat.

And through the chaos that quickly devolves around you, clarity comes to you. You didn't need to play this charade. All this time, all the worrying about who feels what, when that look Mizu shot you a moment ago says it all. In the moment where things got serious, upset with you or not, she trusted you to understand immediately. In the moment of trouble, she looked towards you.

–

When she comes back from her mysterious task, you're waiting in the hallway, too restless to stand Ringo’s chatter and Akemi’s sniping. Akemi had heard it all, of course, in the women’s dressing room, and she wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to needle you, since she couldn't seem to needle Mizu effectively. You don't doubt she'll blurt the whole sorry tale out to Mizu at her first opportunity, and standing in the dark in the hall leaves you with little to do but fret about that.

It hasn't been as long as you would have expected, when she comes back.

You look up at the quiet footfall, and pause, heart clenching at the sight of her face in the shadowy hall. Mizu pauses, too, stopping a little distance away from you, as if afraid to get too close. She's carrying her hat under her arm, and her face looks…gods. You've seen her furious, cold, exhausted, conflicted, even amused.

This is something else, something worse than anything you've ever seen. She looks bereft, hollowed out, her eyes staring ahead as though looking at some horror no one else can see.

In that moment, you move without thought of rejection. Something in her face just calls to you, more deeply than words, drawing you together like magnets.

You push off the wall and step up to meet her.

“Mizu…?” You keep your voice as soft as you can. She doesn't raise her eyes. Instead, you can see the lids lower until they fall shut.

Slowly, you reach up to cup her face; you expect her to push your hand away, but you would have tried anyway. It’s your heart reaching out to touch hers in the only way you can, and it cannot be suppressed. In this moment, even though it's the closest you've ever been, you're not thinking about wanting her, only wanting to soothe her. Strange that your first moment of deeper intimacy should come from this clear pain, surrounded by the trappings of lust itself.

She doesn't fight you. When you bring your hands to the sides of her head, slowly pulling the glasses away, she lets you guide her face down to you, until her head is resting heavily against your shoulder. Her arms remain at her sides, hanging limp. When your hands cradle her head, her hair, she shudders violently for a second with a little choke, remembering the way she cradled another head, and then subsides.

You stand that way for a long time, in utter silence, utter stillness. The only movement is a very faint shivering that suffuses her frame. She's breathing slowly, with an exaggerated evenness as though deliberately forcing herself to do so. Your mind is racing; what on earth could have produced such a response?

Mizu… what did you do.

You already know you aren't going to ask, and make her relive it. Maybe someday, if she wants to unburden herself… but it doesn't matter now. It doesn't really matter at all; you know there's very little you wouldn't forgive her for. And you could see the regret in her eyes, that no matter what heinousness produced this, she feels no peace in the aftermath.

“It was a girl.” You can barely hear her.

“What?”

“I killed a girl tonight.”

Your heart constricts at her quiet voice. She says it tonelessly, unemotional, but you can feel her shoulders tensing under your hands. To her, this is the moment; you, seeing the monster that she is, pulling away, refusing further comfort.

“A girl?”

A faint shift of her head against your shoulder that might be a nod. A chill runs through you; she feels your shudder and braces for the shove, the exclamation of horror.

“Was it…necessary?” You ask slowly, instead, trying to understand. You've never known Mizu to kill an innocent before. There must have been a reason.

You can feel the way the question strikes her, unexpected. When was the last time anyone asked her about why she does what she does?

“...I don't know,” she says bleakly, her voice cracking.

Another long silence; the shoulders grow even more tense. She almost seems to stop breathing. You turn your face to her hair, silently, and feel her body go loose again. There's nothing you can say to fix this; only offer your steady presence.

“... Thank you.” This time the voice has a hoarse, shaky edge. You make a questioning noise, your fingers stilling. You hadn’t realized you'd been stroking her hair.

“For not…pulling away.” Her voice is growing quieter and quieter with each word; she turns her face harder into your shoulder, as though she can hide her vulnerability along with her face. “For not… thinking ill of me.”

“Never.” Your whisper is vehement, your fingers tightening against the back of her head.

“You should.”

You pause; the contrast of her gratitude and disapproval flummoxes you for a moment. You have no recourse but to be honest.

“I knew what this path would be when I chose to follow. I will not reject you for following your ember.”

You're shocked to hear a faint sniffle before she straightens, and even more shocked to feel wetness cooling on your shoulder. She hadn’t made a single sound of weeping; not a sob, not a hitch of breath. You saw no tear slide down her face.

Her expression is a different story; as stoic as ever but for those red-rimmed, haunted eyes. She’s still staring into the middle distance, unfocused. At the sight of her, your resolve snaps; you blurt it out. You can't fix this pain killing her inside now; you can only right the wrong you had done earlier.

“It didn't happen.”

“Mm…?” she looks at you, finally, but it's as if she is seeing someone else.

“The… the girls,” you stumble on your words for a moment. You want to be honest about what happened, but now doesn’t feel like the time to confess love, not when she's so wreathed in this empty sadness. You settle on, “I didn't do anything with them.”

She blinks, starts to focus a tiny bit. “Then they-…and you never…”

You shake your head.

She blinks, then blinks again. She doesn't look immediately relieved, at least not straightforwardly, but she looks strangely more alert. It's as if the weight on her shoulders was heavier, but it was a weight she was more willing to tolerate. Her brow pinches as she seems to think of something.

“I'm…sorry you had to look through those holes,” she says finally, staring down at your feet. Her voice is soft, barely above a breath. “You're… not meant to see all of this.”

“It wasn't so bad,” you reassure her. “I can handle it.”

She shakes her head impatiently.

“This isn't how you should be seeing…I'm…supposed to–…” She stops, looking confused by her own words. You stare at her in surprise. Supposed to what? Protect me? That would be a departure indeed from her constant insistence that you are here of your own free will, that she isn't responsible for you, that she isn't your protector… and so on.

You laugh a little, warmly. It's not funny, any of this, but there's a tiny bubble of something warm glowing in your chest, something that feels as though it's solidified between you, and the icy wall of uncertainty that plagues your every step has begun to trickle away.

“I can protect myself now, thanks to you,” you murmur, ducking your head a little to try to meet her gaze as she hangs her head. The next words are hard to say, but you want her to hear them. “And, truly…I don't think there's a better place in all of Japan than next to you.”

She looks up at you, eyebrows quirking up in surprise; it's the last sentiment she would expect to hear from anyone right now. The eye contact in this moment is lightning-sharp; a myriad of emotions run through her gaze, her face twitching through what looks like guilt, shame… and then a deeper, aching longing. The potency is as intense as every other emotion in her, and it arrests your very breathing.

You know. In that moment, you know; the trickle becomes a meltwater flood, soaking warmth through your ribcage. You’re pulled into the undertow of ocean eyes that glow in the cocooning darkness.

Her lips press together tightly as her eyes flick to your mouth as they did once, hours so. She looks suddenly lost; too emotionally overwhelmed by the events of the night to keep her walls up any longer. Distraction, validation, reassurance… human weaknesses she normally scoffs at. Tonight, her last rest before Fowler, before possible death, she'll let herself be human. She will seek comfort from someone that will touch her like she isn't a monster, confirm to herself that she can be capable of love, softness. That after her revenge, a happy life could be possible for her.

“I'm glad–...” her voice hitches as she leans closer to you, then sways back again, uncertainly. In the dark, her blush doesn't show, but the flustered expression is enough to make your heart suddenly race. “I'm glad that… you didn't. With them.”

You can't breathe. Your heart is in your throat; its rabbiting beat is making you shake so strongly with adrenaline that you have to force your teeth not to chatter. You've been waiting for so long, with never the slightest inkling of hope…

“...I am, too.” In the intimate darkness surrounding you, your whisper feels loud. Her gaze focuses in like a beam of burning light; your own expression says everything.

This time she steps closer again without flinching, and you feel like you might pass out. The hesitant look flickers across her again for a moment, before her brow suddenly furrows. You have a half second to recognize the familiar look of determination that precedes every risky move before there's a long fingered hand curling around your nape, and a pair of thin, sculpted lips on yours.

Oh.

It's as though every muscle in your body melts away in an instant. The second you lean into it with enthusiasm, you’re enveloped; her arms are like iron, clutching you tight. It's every bit as mind-numbing as you had fantasized; the taste of her lips is tea and copper, blood-hot as her tongue slips against yours. Mizu does nothing halfway. She kisses like she fights; overpowering, ruthless, clever and swift. Every twitch of reaction is caught and dragged free of you again and again as that famous adaptability is turned on you and achieving your pleasure. Her hands roam restlessly, mapping over the lines of your body, prompting a squeak when they suddenly squeeze tight, nails dimpling your flesh, before sliding on. You hope that every time her fingers sink in, there's a mark you'll see tomorrow, until she's littered every inch of your skin.

Your mingled breaths are loud in the silence of the hall. Your own hands are in her hair, slipping down her neck, reveling in the shift of the muscles in her shoulders; you can touch her now, you can touch her, she's kissing you, she wants you, gods above–

“Mizu…” You can't stop the soft whine, muffled by her lips; it thrills you to feel her shudder in response to it, her arms tightening around you with a hushed groan. The hand at the back of your neck grasps a hank of your hair like a handle, tugging your head to the side with accidental roughness. The pain sparks like flint against the heat building between your thighs, flaring it to a roar. Your little hiss is choked off by a gasp as she buries her face in your neck and inhales you, deep and greedy, indulging herself, before biting down hard on the soft skin below your ear.

Your grip on her shoulders tightens with a bitten-back cry, lust shooting through you like a grassfire. It runs molten between your thighs, softening your legs until your knees buckle–swift as an arrow, your world spins.

Your spine thumps into the support beam, her front molded to yours as she pins you against it; you can feel her heartbeat pattering against her bindings, the sharpness of her hipbones against your belly. Everything in your body pulses with one hard beat of desire; it thuds from your throat to your fingertips every time you hear that harsh inhale of her panting through her nose between kisses, the soft grunts of response to each slide of tongue and teeth. You don't notice your haori part until cool fingers slip along your ribcage. You flinch with a gasp, your back arching wanton and shameless into the touch. The husky chuckle at your ear makes your core throb so hard it hurts.

Your thighs tangle together without a care to your surroundings. “Ngh–” Another desperate, muffled groan vibrates against the side of your throat when you press your leg up between hers. Her hips spasm and buck, her groan fracturing into something soft and needy–“ah-...ahh”--breath puffing faster over your skin; there's a searing softness pressing against your thigh, already damp through the thick fabric of her pants. In response, the lean muscle of her own leg presses up between yours, hiking you higher against the wall until you’re spread across it, your own weight bearing you down against it with a cruel pressure to the very source of your ache. As you’re yanking her hair free with a high-pitched moan of her name–

The soft sssh-thnk of a door panel makes you both freeze.

“Master? Are you out here? I heard–...oh.”

Mizu slowly raises her head from your neck as you turn your head. Is this how you die? Of embarrassment?

Ringo’s eyes are like saucers; behind him, the faint sound of Akemi protesting spills out into the hallway as the three of you stare at each other in silence. “What? What is it? Ringo? Hey! Untie me! Let me see!”

Ringo opens his mouth, then closes it again. A wide, delighted grin slowly spreads over his face. Without another word, he slowly leans back into the room, shutting the panel behind him.

You both stare at the door for a minute. Akemi's complaints can still be heard from inside. Then you look at each other.

You giggle first, trying to stifle it, horrified at yourself as it bubbles free. “Sorry, s-sorry–” you hiss, more giggles escaping you, edged almost hysterical. It's not funny, at all, but you can't seem to stop.

Mizu watches you, perplexed at first, her mouth twitching as though she's not sure whether she should be laughing with you, or not. Finally she just sighs, too exhausted to give a damn, leaning her head on your shoulder again. This time you don't hesitate to wrap your arms around her, nuzzling into her hair as her own arms curl around you tightly.

It's not okay, nothing is okay, but, this… this is good.

Into the silence, a woman screams.

[alnair-jpg]

In your Olympics au, Will spent a year in Italy where he presumably met Nico. Have you thought about how they crossed paths?

Okay, so first, I'm sorry this took me so long to get to. I've been preparing it for weeks.

Second -

YES. <3

Drew: Thank you both so much for agreeing to chat with me.

Nico: You followed me around for days until I agreed, I could barely piss in peace.

Will: Nico! *Nico shrugs*

Drew: It is true I had to resort to different methods this time as my usual methods are rendered moot.

Will: What?

Nico: She flirts with the athletes, relentlessly. You should have seen how flustered she made Jason. Piper was pissed.

Drew: And yet I still have not gotten to the bottom of their story… Anyways, we’re here to talk about you. You caused quite a stir at the final, Nico. Can you tell us what you were thinking?

Nico: That I had just won gold? And… that there were only two people I wanted to share that with.

Drew: And those two people were?

Nico: My sister… *Nico glances over to Will* and this guy.

Drew: Ah yes, that was quite the gesture, leaping over to the medic area. Will, what were you thinking in that moment?

Will: Just that I was so proud of him. He worked so hard to get here.

Drew: Yes, several years I’m sure. Though is it true Nico that you took a break from the sport after the last Olympics?

Nico: I did, yeah. I needed some space from it. Bianca and I had shared skateboarding for so long it was… difficult. To do it without her. But eventually I missed it and I took some time to find my love for it again. That’s how I met this dork actually.

Drew: Oh yes! I would love to hear more about how you two met! There’s a lot of speculation out there.

Will: It’s kind of cute actually

Nico: I wouldn’t call fumbling over a sprained ankle in broken Italian, cute, sunshine.

Will: Oh yeah? Then why’d I keep running into you days after?

Nico: Okay… it was a little endearing. In a stupid way.

Will, grinning: Anyways, what Nico meant was that we met while I was visiting Venice in my year abroad. I was working as a temp nurse in a few places before I planned to travel around a bit and I happened to be walking by the skate park when he took a nasty fall.

Nico: It was barely anything…

Will: -and without really thinking it through I rushed over to help, because that was what I was there to do, right? Trouble was Venice was my first city and my Italian sucked so I’m pretty sure I asked him if he was in bread instead of in pain. Luckily he took pity on me and switched to English. You must have thought I was so dumb.

Nico: The words meddling American idiot came to mind.

Will: Well when I realized it was barely a sprain I was pretty embarrassed and resolved never to walk past that skate park again. So imagine my surprise when the next day I nearly get run over by a dude on a skateboard.

Nico: You walked into my way…

Will: Sure. Which is why, as an apology, you offered to take me to get gelato which later turned into drinks. And then dinner.

Drew: Real smooth, di Angelo

Nico: Hey, it worked…

Drew: So did you spend most of your time in Venice then?

Will, smirking: No, actually.

Drew: Oh really?

Will: I moved on to Rome a few days after we met and it was another few months before I saw Nico again - sitting outside a gelato place in Florence… nearly 300km from Venice.

Nico: Like I told you, they have the best gelato in Tuscany

Will: And that justifies the three hours of travel?

Nico: Well, I had some other business there too.

Will: Uh huh, sure. Anyways, for some reason I kept running into Nico every few days after that. Eventually, when my temp gig ended and I planned to travel around a bit I told him he should just come with me. Sure enough when I got on the train the next day I found Nico already waiting in the seat next to mine. We travelled around the country together for the next three months. And honestly, traveling with a local made it a thousand times better than what I had planned.

Drew: How sweet! It must have been devastating when it came time to return to the states.

Will: It was… hard. I half expected to see him waiting in the airport when I landed, but he wasn’t.

Nico: I wanted to… but I had to get back to training. Traveling with Will helped me remember why Bianca and I had been so excited about the games in the first place, the new adventures, the new experiences. I realized that just because she couldn’t share them with me, didn’t mean I shouldn’t have them. So I promised Will that if he could get himself to the games, I would see him again, on the podium.

Drew: Truly an Olympic romance for the ages. Does this mean this is the first time you’ve seen each other since Will’s trip?

Nico, nodding: yeah.

Will: With Nico’s training and my work schedule, we couldn’t make another visit work, as much we wanted to.

Nico: It was extra motivation.

Will: I hope he’ll take a bit of a break now, though.

Nico: I think I’m going to have to or both you and Dionysus will have my ass.

Drew: And what do you hope to do with this well earned break?

Will, smiling as he turns to Nico: What was that you said Nico? New adventures and new experiences?

Nico: Yep.

Will: I’m thinking a couple dozen of those.

Nico: As long as I can share them with you.

[cassiemaebarnes]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 8

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 5903

Sorry for the wait!! I got busy this week with exams and work😭 but I made this chapter a little longer to hopefully make up for it! I'll try to get the next part out a little quicker😊

While the others made their way to the meeting, you crutched over to the couch and sat down, not bothering to elevate your ankle. It was feeling a lot better, and although there was still some bruising, it wasn’t very swollen anymore.

You scrolled through your phone for about an hour before you heard the elevator ding and the voices of the others cut through the silence. When you looked up, once again, Bucky was the first one into the common room, coming over and immediately taking a seat beside you. His arm went to the back of the couch and his hand found your shoulder like it was all second nature.

“Hey doll,” he said, smirking at you.

You just gave him a look, but you couldn’t stop the smile from coming onto your face as you let out a little laugh.

Before you could get a word in, the rest of the team started filing into the room one by one, voices echoing and conversations overlapping, but every single one of them seemed to slow their step the second they saw you and Bucky.

“Ugh,” Sam groaned dramatically, dropping into the armchair across from you. “The way you two look at each other makes me sick.”

Tony, trailing behind, sipped from his coffee and raised an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself. It’s kinda cute, actually. Like a dating site commercial. So in love, it’s nauseating.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but didn’t move his hand.

Nat leaned over the side of the couch, glancing between the two of you. “Honestly, I think it’s sweet. Gross, but sweet.”

You groaned into your hands. “I can’t even sit on a couch anymore?”

“You can,” Clint said from the kitchen, “but do it like a normal person, not like you’re starring in The Notebook: Avengers Edition.”

You shot Bucky a sideways glance, and he looked far too pleased with himself.

Steve finally walked in, glanced around at the chaos, and sighed. “Alright, enough. We’re not doing this again.”

“You say that every day,” Sam muttered.

Steve ignored him and turned to you. “I actually wanted to talk to you for a sec. You’re cleared to start physical therapy tomorrow.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“It’ll be light,” Steve added, nodding toward your ankle. “But yeah. That means you should try putting a little weight on it today, see how it feels. Get used to it again.”

You glanced down at your ankle, then at your crutches resting beside the couch. “Okay…I can try.”

“I’ll help you,” Bucky added immediately.

A beat of silence passed before the others cut in.

Sam clutched his chest. “Oh my god, he's her emotional support soldier.”

Tony looked like he was about to cry. “They grow up so fast.”

Steve just shook his head, like he regretted every decision that brought this team together.

--

For the next hour, you were all lounging in the common room while conversations bounced lazily around the space. You’d been sipping water for the last hour, and now…nature was calling.

You sighed and pushed the blanket off your lap, slowly swinging your legs over the edge of the couch.

Immediately, Bucky sat up straighter.

“Where are you going?” he asked, already getting to his feet like he had a sixth sense for when you were about to move.

You gave him a look, amused. “Bathroom.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Okay. I’ll help you.”

You barely had time to react before the others caught on.

Sam practically fell off the chair. “Help her?” he cackled. “What are you gonna do, hold her hand while she pees?”

Nat nearly choked on her drink. “Oh my god, Bucky. Boundaries, man.”

Clint leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning. “Is this a two-person operation now? You gonna give her a pep talk from the doorway?”

Tony didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Let’s just be clear: if you’re gone more than 5 minutes, we’re shutting this whole thing down.”

You were laughing so hard you had to grab the arm of the couch to steady yourself, shaking your head. “I can pee on my own, guys. I just need help walking.”

“I’m just saying,” Sam added, “you two get more domestic every day. I’m waiting for him to start pre-heating the toilet seat for you.”

“Don’t give him ideas,” you wheezed.

Bucky just shook his head and offered you his hand. “C’mon, before they start planning our retirement.”

You took his hand and stood up slowly, still chuckling. “You’re not even denying it anymore.”

“I learned my lesson,��� he said dryly. “Denial just gives them more material.”

As you hobbled your way toward the hall with Bucky at your side, you heard Tony call after you, “Remember to leave the door cracked, lovebirds. We need updates!”

You flipped him off behind your back without even turning around.

And as the two of you disappeared down the hall, the laughter behind you only got louder.

When you and Bucky returned to the common room, you walked in like it was no big deal – you leaning on his arm, walking a little better now but still wincing every few steps. He was quiet and calm beside you, his hand hovering near your waist like he was ready to catch you again if you so much as wobbled.

Naturally, the second you crossed into the room, you were met with more teasing.

Sam sat up straighter on the couch, eyes already glinting. “Well, well, well. Took you long enough.”

Nat smirked from where she was perched on the arm of the loveseat. “Everything come out okay?”

You stopped walking and gave them a flat look. “Really? That’s where we’re going with this?”

Clint let out a low whistle. “You sure you didn’t sprain more than your ankle in there?”

Tony looked up from his tablet. “I’m just saying, you could’ve walked on your ankle with your crutches for assistance instead of Bucky.”

You groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “We were gone for two minutes.”

Bucky sat beside you calmly, completely composed.

Then–

“Well,” he said, voice casual, “I did help her with a few things.”

You froze.

So did everyone else.

“…Excuse me?” you said, blinking at him.

He turned to you with a fake-innocent expression. “What? You needed help standing… balancing…”

You narrowed your eyes. “Bucky.”

He smirked, slow and dangerous, the kind of smirk that meant he knew exactly what he was doing. “I mean, I offered more help. She said no.”

Gasps all around.

“BUCKY!” you yelled, eyes wide as your hand smacked against his arm.

Sam howled, falling sideways into the cushions. “OH MY GOD. He’s unhinged.”

“Buck!” Steve choked, genuinely shocked but laughing anyway. “What happened to ‘respectful silence’?”

Nat was doubled over, her face buried in a throw pillow. “He’s corrupted! He’s fully gone.”

“I take no responsibility,” Tony said, raising his hands. “This is entirely on Sleeping Beauty.”

You were still glaring at Bucky. “You are so lucky I can’t run right now.”

He just leaned back into the couch, completely unbothered. “Just saying…if she ever needs other help…”

You gasped again, smacking his chest with the back of your hand before hiding your face as the room exploded into another round of laughter.

“DID YOU HEAR HIM?!” Clint yelled, nearly in tears. “This man’s got material.”

Wanda wiped a tear from her eye. “Winter Soldier’s gone full flirt mode.”

Bucky glanced sideways at you, his smirk softening just slightly. “What? I’m just being helpful.”

You peeked at him from behind your hands, face burning. “You’re gonna get me murdered by this team.”

“Nah,” he murmured, “they’d never kill the star of their favorite rom-com.”

You let out a helpless little groan and dropped your face onto his shoulder.

And Bucky just wrapped his arm around you like he’d done nothing wrong at all.

--

A little while later, Wanda looked up from the puzzle she was half-attempting with Vision. “I’m bored, we should put on a movie.”

“I second that,” Sam said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Since we can never decide on a movie, we should draw genres,” Wanda suggested. “Make it fair. Everyone writes one, toss them in a bowl, we pick blind.”

Everyone mumbled in agreement, and within minutes, a makeshift bowl of hastily scribbled paper scraps sat on the coffee table.

Steve was chosen as the unbiased picker. He dramatically shuffled them, reached in, and unfolded one with a raised brow.

He stared at it.

“…Rom-com.”

A beat.

The room groaned and cheered simultaneously.

Sam looked personally offended. “You’re kidding.”

Nat grinned. “Let the chaos begin.”

Tony threw his arms up. “YES. We’re going full heart-eyes tonight.”

Wanda turned to you with a knowing look. “You’re getting off easy. Rom-com’s practically your genre.”

You tried to hide your smile and shrugged innocently. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Okay, okay,” Clint called. “What are we watching? It has to be a classic.”

“10 Things I Hate About You,” Nat said immediately. “It’s not even up for debate.”

There were a few half-hearted objections, but no one could argue.

Soon, the movie was up, lights dimmed, snacks passed around, and everyone was claiming their spots.

You were still on the couch beside Bucky, a shared blanket draped over both your laps. His arm was still settled comfortably behind your shoulders, fingertips just brushing your upper arm. You curled your good leg underneath you, your knee resting gently against Bucky’s thigh.

He didn’t move away.

As the opening scenes rolled, the background chatter faded, replaced by soft laughter and the sounds of popcorn crunching.

A little while into the movie, Bucky’s hand – the one not around your shoulders – shifted beneath the blanket.

Without warning, his fingers brushed lightly against your leg.

Then rested right on your thigh, just above your knee.

You froze.

Your breath caught for half a second. The contact was casual – warm and steady – but somehow it made your whole body buzz.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say anything. Just left his hand there, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried to focus on the movie, you really did.

But your heart was pounding.

After a few moments, though, the initial jolt settled. His touch wasn’t demanding or heavy, it just was. And it grounded you, made your chest ache in the nicest way.

You exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the screen again.

And that’s when Sam, of course, turned from the floor, where he was sprawled on a bean bag, and narrowed his eyes.

“Hey.”

You and Bucky both looked over.

Sam pointed at the two of you under the blanket. “What’s Barnes doing under there?”

Your mouth dropped open. “Sam.”

“No, no, I’m just asking,” he said, hands raised. “Because that blanket’s suspiciously still and I’ve seen that man break necks with his pinky. You’re telling me he hasn’t moved in twenty minutes?”

Bucky, still calm, still casual, raised a brow. “I’m watching the movie.”

“Are you?” Clint chimed in from the armchair. “Because from here it looks like your hand’s on a side quest.”

The room erupted into snickering.

“Where’s the hand, Barnes?” Tony called dramatically. “We need visual confirmation.”

The room went quiet for a beat, anticipation thick in the air.

Then Bucky, without missing a beat, deadpanned, “Can’t show you. It’s classified.”

The group howled.

“BUCKY!” you gasped, smacking his chest with the back of your hand as your jaw dropped. “What is wrong with you?!”

He just shrugged, clearly proud of himself, that smug little smirk tugging at his mouth.

Clint nearly fell off his chair. “He said classified. I’m crying.”

Sam was doubled over, slapping his leg. “Is it stuck? Blink twice if you need help, y/n!”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder as the laughter got louder.

Tony clapped once. “Confirmed: he’s gone full feral. I knew this day would come.”

Nat laughed into her mug. “Honestly? Kinda impressed.”

You were trying to bury your face in Bucky’s side now, half-laughing, half-horrified, your voice muffled. “You are never allowed to speak again.”

He just leaned a little closer to you, speaking so only you could hear, voice low and amused. “You’re cute when you panic.”

You turned your face toward him, still flustered but smiling now, and smacked his chest again. “Stop talking.”

The movie played on, but no one was really paying attention anymore.

Not when Bucky Barnes – Mr. Brooding himself – was cracking jokes like it was open mic night.

Finally, the room had quieted down again as the movie continued playing.

On the screen, Kat Stratford stood in front of the class, her voice trembling just slightly as she read her poem.

You felt it coming.

The tight ache in your throat. The sting behind your eyes.

You weren’t a crier, especially not in front of everyone, but something about this scene always got you, and after the whirlwind of the past few days, it hit even harder now.

You blinked rapidly, trying to be subtle, and quickly wiped at the corner of your eyes with your sleeve.

But Bucky noticed instantly.

He shifted beside you, his arm tightening gently around your shoulders. Then, without a word, he pulled back just enough to look at you – really look.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

His brows furrowed slightly in that way they always did when he was focused. Concerned. And then, softly, his hand slipped away from your thigh under the blanket and reached up.

He used the pad of his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your cheek.

You froze.

The motion was so gentle, so tender, your breath caught in your chest.

Then–

“Oh hell no,” Nat said, breaking the silence.

You flinched and turned your head just as she sat up straighter, smirking like she’d just uncovered the juiciest secret in the world.

“Did he just wipe your tear away mid-rom-com?!”

Sam leaned forward dramatically. “That’s it. He’s done for. He’s all in. That was a whole Hallmark Channel move.”

Clint clutched his chest. “We’ve reached peak softness! I REPEAT – peak softness!”

Tony made a fake crying face. “Someone get me a tissue.”

You groaned, half laughing, half mortified, and pressed your hands to your face. “I hate you all so much.”

Bucky leaned back slowly, completely unfazed. “Don’t worry,” he said calmly, “I’ll get you a tissue next time too.”

You smacked his arm with the blanket, which only made the others laugh louder.

“I’m surrounded by emotional disasters,” Steve muttered, sipping his coffee.

Wanda was grinning behind her mug. “No, Steve. You’re surrounded by love.”

As the team slowly recovered from their collective breakdown, you leaned a little more into Bucky’s side – heart still fluttering and face still warm – and whispered just for him. “Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just squeezed your shoulder a little tighter.

As the credits rolled and the soft soundtrack faded out, the common room slowly came back to life.

Sam stretched with a groan, mumbling something about needing real food. Tony announced he was “not cooking for you people,” and Clint was already halfway to the hallway, muttering about laundry. One by one, the others trickled out, Steve heading to unpack, Wanda to her room, Nat grabbing a snack before disappearing into the hall.

You stayed curled under the blanket on the couch, watching the room empty. Bucky stayed beside you, not saying anything, just running his thumb absentmindedly along your shoulder.

When the kitchen finally quieted down again, he turned to you.

“You hungry?”

You turned your head toward him, a little surprised by the question, but your stomach answered for you with a low, unmistakable growl.

Bucky smirked. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You gave a sheepish smile. “Starving.”

He stood and held out a hand. “C’mon. Let’s make something.”

“You’re not just gonna cook for me again?” you teased, taking his hand as he helped you up.

“I mean I could, but what’s the fun in that,” he said, grinning.

You limped your way into the kitchen with him, heading straight for the fridge as he started pulling out ingredients. Bread, cheese, butter, a pan.

“We need to add garlic salt to the bread” you said, already reaching for the spice rack.

“Really?” he said, eyebrows raised.

“Yesss, it makes it 10 times better,” you said.

He grinned and opened the bread bag. “Fair enough.”

You walked over to the stove and grabbed a piece of bread out of the bag, starting to butter it, when you shifted your weight and immediately winced.

“Sit down,” he said, amused. “You’re gonna fall face-first into the skillet.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

You rolled your eyes but gave in, hopping up onto the kitchen island with a slight grunt and letting your ankle dangle. “Happy?”

“Very,” he said, already back at the stove.

You helped from the island, passing him the cheese slices, sprinkling garlic salt on the bread, talking softly while he grilled everything.

When the sandwiches were cooking, Bucky stepped back from the stove and leaned against the counter for a moment. Then he turned and wandered closer – right up to where you were sitting.

He set one hand on the island beside you – not touching, but close – while you continued talking.

The conversation faded naturally, and you glanced up – suddenly realizing how close he was.

His face was just inches from yours, and his body was relaxed, but you could tell he was aware of every inch between you. Or, rather, the lack of inches.

Your heart picked up.

His gaze flicked briefly to your mouth – just for a second – and then back to your eyes.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Then–

Ding.

The timer went off, and the skillet let out a loud sizzle at the same time.

Bucky blinked, like he’d just come out of a trance, and casually stepped back without a word, turning to grab a spatula.

You just stared at his back, trying to pull yourself together as he plated the sandwiches.

He slid your plate into your lap and handed you a water bottle from the fridge before jumping up next to you with his own plate.

The two of you ate your sandwiches right there on the counter like it was the most normal thing in the world – legs dangling, plates balanced on your laps – as your conversation continued.

“You’re telling me,” you said, chewing, “you had this level of domestic skill locked away this whole time?”

Bucky gave a small shrug. “Didn’t think it’d impress anyone.”

You snorted. “Bro, you literally wiped away my tears during a rom-com. You’re already halfway to husband of the year.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a slight pink in his cheeks. “I’m just trying to keep the bar low so I look impressive doing the bare minimum.”

You bumped your knee gently against his. “Smart man.”

After you both finished, the plates were left beside you, and the conversation turned soft and easy, like it always did with him lately. You swung your good leg back and forth beneath the counter, while Bucky leaned back on his hands, head tilted slightly toward you as he listened.

And then, without thinking much, you said, “You know what sounds good right now?”

“What?” he asked.

You smiled. “Ice cream.”

Bucky let out a soft hum of agreement, but the topic drifted. You went right back to talking about something else and you didn’t think anything of it.

A few minutes later, Bucky stood up, walking over to the freezer.

He opened the door, rummaged around for a few seconds, then straightened up with a sigh. “Get your shoes on.”

You blinked. “What?”

He turned back to you, already reaching for his keys from the hook near the back door. “C’mon. I’m taking you to get ice cream.”

Your eyes lit up before you could stop yourself, and you tried to fight the giddy smile that came across your face. “Wait, really? No, Bucky, that’s okay. I didn’t mean–”

He tilted his head at you. “Do you want ice cream?”

You hesitated. “Well, yeah, but–”

“Then you’re getting ice cream.”

You bit your lip to hold back a smile, but couldn’t hide it. “Okay.”

You jumped off the counter onto your good leg as Bucky instinctively reached out to steady you. You walked over to the door and slid on your shoes.

“I just need to grab a jacket from my room real quick.”

But before you could take a step, Bucky reached into the hall closet, pulled something out, and turned back around – holding one of his black leather jackets in his hands.

“Nah,” he said. “You can wear one of mine.”

You looked at him, blinking. “Seriously?”

“‘Course,” he said simply, stepping closer.

He held it out for you and you slipped your arms into the sleeves. The leather was worn and soft, and immediately smelled like him – clean and familiar.

He helped adjust the shoulders, tugging it into place like he’d done it a hundred times.

“You look good in it,” he said offhandedly, but his voice had dropped just enough to make your stomach flip.

You zipped it halfway, glancing up at him. “You really didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I wanted to,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Let’s go get your ice cream.”

And with that, he held out his arm so you could loop yours through for balance and led you toward the elevator.

The elevator dinged softly and you stepped out, the garage cool and quiet this late in the evening.

You both walked around to the passenger side of the car and he opened the door for you, letting you get settled before he closed it and went around to the driver’s side.

You kept up the casual conversation in the car, and it wasn’t long before you pulled up outside a little corner shop, the kind of place that always smelled like waffle cones and childhood.

Inside, it was quiet, just the hum of the freezer and the soft bell over the door. He looked down at the options while you stared into the freezer, eyes wide. “Okay, I forgot how hard this part is.”

“Life-altering decisions,” Bucky said with a smirk. “Choose wisely.”

“You’re gonna judge me, aren’t you?”

“I’m definitely gonna judge you.”

You laughed and ended up pointing to your usual – something sweet and a little over-the-top with cookie chunks and brownie pieces and caramel swirl, of course. Bucky raised a brow.

“Figures,” he muttered, but he ordered it for you anyway.

He went with butter pecan, and you gave him an amused look. “That’s an old man flavor,” you said, giggling while the worker started scooping your choices.

He just side-eyed you, smile peeking through his attempt at an annoyed look. “I am old.”

You continued giggling as the worker handed you your waffle cone and Bucky pulled out his wallet.

After he paid, you grabbed a small table outside, the night air cool against your cheeks as you sat across from him.

You licked your ice cream slowly, then looked up at him. “Thanks for this.”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “Figured you deserved it.”

You gave him a soft smile. That shouldn’t have made your heart skip, but it did.

You continued eating, until a few minutes later, Bucky broke the silence.

“You’ve got…” Bucky motioned to the corner of his mouth.

You stuck out your tongue and licked it, but Bucky just chuckled, making it obvious you missed it.

He leaned forward without thinking.

“Here,” he said softly, reaching across and brushing his thumb against the corner of your lip.

Your breath caught.

His hand lingered for a second too long, eyes flicking down, just once, before he pulled away.

“Got it,” he murmured.

You tried to focus on your ice cream, but you could feel the heat in your face and the rapid beating of your heart like it was trying to break through your ribcage.

When you looked up at him again, he was already watching you.

The moment stretched.

And just like earlier, he didn’t push it.

He finally leaned back in his chair, taking another bite, and said, “so…what’s next after ice cream? You wanna rob a bank or just head back?”

You laughed, grateful for the shift but still feeling that tension humming under your skin.

“Let’s save the bank robbery for our second date.”

He paused for a half-second, then smiled. “Noted.”

On the ride back to the compound, you settled into easy conversation again, still teasing Bucky about his old-man ice cream flavor. When he parked the car and you both got out, you automatically linked your arm through his as you walked to the elevator and got in.

When the elevator doors slid open, you both stepped off laughing, still linked at the arms, walking close like you didn’t even realize how naturally it was happening now.

Bucky was giving you that boyish, slightly smug smile he only gave you, when you rounded the corner into the kitchen where Nat and Wanda were pulling ingredients out of the pantry.

They both looked up at the sound of your laughter.

Nat’s eyes flicked from you to Bucky, taking in the jacket, the linked arms, the flushed cheeks.

Wanda didn’t even try to hide her smirk.

“Wow,” Nat said, closing the pantry door. “Look who came strolling in like they just got back from a rom-com montage.”

Wanda nudged her and grinned. “And in his jacket, no less. Very subtle.”

You laughed softly and gave Bucky a look like see what I have to deal with? “We just went for ice cream.”

“Of course you did,” Wanda said, amused but kind. “Was it good?”

“The best,” Bucky answered easily, eyes on you for a second too long.

Nat raised a brow but didn’t push it – for once. “We’re about to make cookies. You in?”

“Ooooh, yes,” you said. You turned toward Bucky, expecting him to stay, but Nat stepped in quickly with a smirk.

“Sorry, Barnes. This is girls only.”

Bucky chuckled, totally unbothered. “Fair enough.”

You just laughed as you slipped your arm out of his. As he started to walk away, he gave you one last look, warm and lingering. “See ya, doll.”

You smiled. “See ya.”

He turned and walked off, hands in his pockets, still smiling to himself.

As soon as he disappeared down the hall, you started slipping off his jacket, and before you could even get one arm free, the girls jumped in.

“Oh my god,” Nat said, grinning. “You’re so in love.”

Wanda leaned against the counter, hands clasped. “He wiped your tears and gave you his jacket? You two really are straight out of a rom-com.”

You gave them a look, trying not to blush. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky we’re being nice tonight,” Nat teased, taking the jacket and hanging it over a chair for you. “A few weeks ago we would’ve sent a photo to the entire group chat with a ‘look who’s in love’ caption.”

“She still might,” Wanda added with a shrug.

You just shook your head, cheeks warm, but you were smiling too.

You walked over and joined Nat and Wanda at the kitchen island, ingredients spread out across the counter. You all settled into a steady rhythm of measuring and dumping them into the bowl as you talked, soft music playing in the background from Wanda’s phone. It was easy and comforting, the kind of energy you didn’t realize you needed.

Wanda handed you a spoon and sighed. “You’re on stirring duty now,” she said. “My arm’s about to fall off.”

You took it, and as you stirred the thick dough, Nat leaned against the counter beside you and gave you a look.

“So,” she said casually, brushing flour off her hands. “You and Bucky.”

You froze for just a second before looking up at her. “Oh boy.”

Wanda smiled gently and bumped your arm with hers. “Don’t worry, we’re not gonna ambush you. We’re just…curious.”

Nat raised an eyebrow. “It’s happening fast, huh?”

You looked down at the dough for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I mean…I didn’t expect it. Any of it.”

Wanda leaned her elbows on the counter, chin in her hands. “But you’re not freaking out?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “No. That’s the weird part. It should feel like too much too fast, but it doesn’t. It just feels…easy. Like he was always supposed to be part of my life, and I just didn’t realize it until now.”

Both of them went still and quiet for a beat, so you glanced up.

Wanda looked like her heart had just melted.

Nat blinked once. “Wow. Okay. You’re in deep.”

“I know,” you groaned, dropping your head onto your arm on the counter. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s adorable,” Wanda said firmly.

Nat crossed her arms, but her smirk had softened. “You know, for a guy who used to look like he wanted to murder everyone who made eye contact, he’s been grinning like a golden retriever every time you’re together.”

You peeked up from your arm. “Really?”

Wanda nodded. “Like, disgustingly soft.”

“Gross,” Nat muttered. “But also…kind of sweet.”

You sat up a little straighter, a little less panicked now. “You really think he feels the same?”

Wanda smiled, eyes warm. “We know he does.”

Nat grinned and bumped your hip with hers. “And if he doesn’t make a move soon, we’ll force him to.”

You just laughed, heart full and cheeks warm as you continued to stir the dough.

When you were done, you each started rolling the cookie dough, placing them on a baking sheet as the conversation drifted to something else before popping them into the oven.

The first batch of cookies came out golden and warm, filling the kitchen with that perfect, rich smell of sugar and melted chocolate. Nat wasted no time breaking one apart, the chocolate still gooey in the middle, and popped half into her mouth with a satisfied hum.

“Okay,” she said with her mouth full, “we actually nailed it.”

Wanda grinned and grabbed one of her own. “We’re unstoppable.”

You took a bite of yours and immediately closed your eyes. “Oh my god. These are so good.”

The three of you stood at the counter, nibbling on cookies straight from the tray with chocolate smudges on your fingers, laughing in between bites.

Eventually, Wanda grabbed a cloth and started wiping the counter while Nat began stacking mixing bowls in the sink.

“You should take some to Bucky,” Wanda said casually, glancing over her shoulder.

You blinked. “What?”

Nat smirked, not even looking up from the bowl she was rinsing. “You know. Thank him for the ice cream. Offer a peace cookie. Maybe kiss him a little.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you started gathering up dishes and taking them to the sink. “You guys are obsessed.”

Wanda shrugged, very unbothered. “We just support love.”

Nat turned around, still smirking at you. “You’re the one who walked in here in his jacket, glowing like you just got kissed under a streetlamp in a rom-com, and we’re the obsessed ones?”

“I’m just taking him some cookies,” you said, grabbing a plate and stacking a few still-warm ones on it. “That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” they said in unison.

You gave them both a pointed look, but your smile gave you away. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“We know,” Wanda said sweetly.

Nat just pointed toward the hallway. “Go on, don’t keep him waiting.”

You shook your head with a soft laugh and made your way out of the kitchen. Behind you, you could still hear them giggling as you disappeared down the hall.

When you got to his room, the door was slightly cracked, light spilling into the hall in a soft glow.

You nudged it open with your foot and leaned in. “Hey.”

Bucky looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, phone in hand, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up.

“Hey. You brought cookies?” he asked, already standing and making his way toward you. “They smell so good.”

You held out the plate with a smile. “Courtesy of girls’ night.”

He took the plate carefully, his eyes never leaving yours. “I wondered whether or not I would get to taste-test.”

Then, gently, his free hand settled on your lower back as he guided you into the room.

“C’mon, sit,” he said softly, helping you over to his bed.

You walked over to his bed and plopped down, wincing when the pressure was finally off your ankle. You didn’t realize how sore it was until now.

Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

He set the plate down on the nightstand, gave you a quick glance, and without a word, crossed to the little mini fridge in the corner of his room.

He pulled out a small ice pack, walked back over, and knelt down in front of you, gently lifting your leg and setting the cold pack on your ankle.

You blinked at him. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said, not looking up as he adjusted the angle. “You’ve been walking around on it all day. I knew it would catch up to you.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest.

He sat down next to you, close but comfortable, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he picked up the plate again, offering you the first cookie with a soft smile.

You took it as he grabbed one for himself and leaned over and grabbed the remote.

“What are we watching?” you asked as you took a bite.

“I don’t care,” he said, pressing the power button. “You can choose.”

You just hummed and reached your hand out while he immediately set the remote in it. You scrolled through some options before deciding on a comedy movie you’d seen a million times and handing the remote back to him.

“Never seen this one,” he said, taking another bite of his cookie.

“Oh, it’s so funny, you’re gonna love it,” you responded, smiling up at him.

You sat in silence as the movie started, sitting shoulder to shoulder and snacking on the cookies, laughing together after almost every scene.

You swore to yourself you were actually going to stay awake, wanting to see his reactions to all the funniest scenes, but as you were nearing the end of the movie, you could feel yourself drifting off.

You shifted slightly, your good leg brushing his, and let out the softest little sigh. “M’falling asleep,” you murmured, voice barely audible.

Bucky glanced down, smiling as he saw your eyes flutter shut.

“I figured,” he whispered, his voice low, gentle. “You’ve had a big day.”

You just hummed in response as you felt Bucky’s arm go around you, pulling you closer to him.

And just before you slipped completely into sleep, you felt it–

The soft press of his lips on your forehead.

Barely there, but real, warm.

And the last thing you heard was his quiet voice near your hair.

“Sweet dreams, doll.”

--

Part 9 | Masterlist

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[dilfsnatcher101]

24-Hour S.R.

Warnings: cursing

Anon: This is just gonna be a little series atp

Summary: After going ghost for a week the silent man himself takes it upon himself to confront you.

pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Working at a 24-hour café sounded like a good idea once. In reality? It's 12:03 AM, I’m dead on my feet, and the only thing keeping me from collapsing onto the pastry counter is a lukewarm cinnamon roll and spite. This is how it’s been all week. Night shifts, no time to cook, no time to grocery shop. Not that I’ve been home enough to miss a meal anyway. Still… maybe I need to go back to the market because of other reasons.

Ghost… still wondering what his real name is. But seriously I still need my tupperwear back so I have to go see him- I mean get it. 

The record player lets out a soft screech as the needle runs out. I scramble over to change it, swapping in something jazzier, something that doesn’t sound like heartbreak and rain.

The bell above the door rings.

“One second, just fixing the tunes,” I call, slipping the new vinyl onto the deck.

A pause.

Then a voice low and gruff, dipped in something warm and dangerous.

“Where have you been?” I turn around quickly at the voice knowing exactly who it belongs to. 

“Ghost hey- wait how do you know where I work” I say making my way behind the counter as if he’d order. 

I doubt it he looks like he doesn’t drink coffee.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, stepping closer to the counter. “Wanted tea.”

I raise a brow, hand on my hip. “You want tea?”

“I said what I said.” He sits down on one of the stools. “Please.”

I smirk. “That’s what I thought. Now answer my question.”

He groans, running a hand down his mask. My eyes trace the lines of his knuckles as they scrape along his jaw. “Do you always ask so many damn questions?”

“I work night shifts. I live on questions and coffee.”

“Christ,” he mutters. “Fine. I asked around. There’s like a hundred fucking coffee shops in this city. I found yours.” He crosses his arms making eye contact with the steam coming from the pot instead of me which was the first.

I blink. “Wow. Ghost I don’t even know your last name but you hunted me down. That Alfredo must’ve been better than I thought.”

He grunts as a response “You didn’t answer my question.”  he murmured nodding his head as a thank you for the tea. I groan shortly using my arms to show the place off.

“Ive been working these shifts every night, that’s why im not out during the day, im sleeping” I yawn dreaming about resting. 

He hums into the steam curling from his cup. “Thought maybe I scared you off. Didn’t come get your bowl back.” There’s a shift in his tone, barely there. But it’s disappointment, or something that smells like it. 

I soften, letting the sass melt just a little. “Nice try. You’re not as scary as you think you are.” He looks up sharply, like I slapped him with a compliment. Or a challenge.

“I’ve been thinking about stopping by all week,” I add, voice gentler now. “To get the bowl. Obviously.”

I turn to clean a mug before he can catch the lie in my eyes. He leans forward, elbows on the counter. “Well. Was boring without ya. Should’ve come by.” 

That almost makes me freeze

Not the words, but the way he says it. Flat, but loaded. My heart stutters, then speeds up. “You want my number?”

He blinks. “What?”

I grin. “So next time I ghost, you can complain directly.” I hold my hand out for his phone.

He hesitates, then slowly pulls it from his pocket and drops it into my palm. “You’re pushy.”

“You’re welcome,” I say sweetly, texting myself from his phone and saving his number before setting it on the counter. He’s quiet while I do it, eyes drifting toward the window. Street lights flicker outside. The road is empty and quiet, too quiet. “It’s not safe for you to work nights,” he mutters.

I raise a brow. “Excuse me?”

“No protection. No backup. You close up alone?”

I cross my arms, half off the offense, half flattered. “What makes you think I don’t carry protection?”

He looks back at me. Doesn’t answer. Just stares. And it’s a look that says he’s not asking permission. It says he’s already decided. “I’ll walk you home.” I laugh, thinking it’s a joke.

He doesn’t laugh.

“What’s funny?” he asks, deadpan.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s late, I’ve still got like forty-five minutes.”

“And I’ll wait.”

“Seriously?” I blink.

He leans back on the stool, sipping his tea like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah. Not negotiable.” I just stare at him, this man who found me through a city full of cafés, who remembered my damn Tupperware, who sits in the quiet just to be near me. Something warm settles in my chest.

“Well, I guess you can be nice.”

He doesn’t smile.

But he doesn’t deny it either.

p4

[nahoney22]

Liar Liar (Part 9/?)

Part Nine - Boiling Point // >> Part Eight

🫧pairings: Commander Fox X Female!Reader

🫧word count: 5.4k

🫧Chapter Summary: As things start to get creepy at work, you brace yourself for a world of heartache when you finally come face to face with Fox.

🫧Warnings: Angst, angst and angst. Minor burn injury. Lots of crying (mainly myself)

The next morning, nausea settled deep in your stomach, an unpleasant mix of last night’s drinks, too many sweets, and the lingering weight of everything that had happened. You’d left Pia’s pretty late, more than a little tipsy, and now it felt like your body was punishing you for it.

You lay in bed, staring at the chrono on the wall, watching the minutes tick by. You could call in sick. You could just stay here, curl up under the blankets, and ignore the galaxy for a day. But then what? Tomorrow would come, and you’d still have to face this mess.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself up and shuffled into the refresher. The shower was quick, brisk, and did little to clear the fog in your head. Steam clung to the mirror, and when you wiped it away, your own tired reflection stared back at you; eyes still puffy from crying, lips pressed into a tight line.

“You can do this,” you whispered to yourself.

And that’s when you made up your mind to stay in bed.

Well, that’s what you kept saying that you should have done as you walked down the long and seemingly endless hallways of the facility.

You walked with your head down, keeping your pace quick and not stopping to acknowledge anyone. If they were looking at you, you didn’t want to know.

Then, before you even realised, your feet stopped in front of the office door.

Voices carried from inside. You knew them all, of course. But you didn’t move.

What if he was in there?

What if Thire had told people? What if they were all waiting for you, ready to mock your stupidity? The thought alone made your stomach churn harder. You suddenly felt overheated, suffocated by the walls around you.

A deep, rhythmic thumping pounds in your ears. At first you thought it was just your heart, hammering too fast, but then it grew louder. It didn’t match the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. No, this was something else. It was coming from somewhere around you.

You blinked, a chill creeping down your spine but the noise stopped just as suddenly as it had started.

You find yourself looking up, eyes scanning the ceiling that carried the ventilaition system everywhere. You felt cold, uncomfortable. Like you were being watched. Perhaps it was your paranoia, perhaps it was-

“Hey, you alright?” You nearly jumped out of your skin. Whipping around, you saw Thire standing there, watching you closely.

“Uh—yeah, I was just…” Your voice faltered. The words wouldn’t come. It felt impossible to even look at him.

Thire studied you for a moment before resting a firm hand on your shoulder. “C’mere for a second.”

You didn’t protest, letting him steer you away from the flow of clones and officers passing through the corridor. He led you toward a supply closet, opening the door and motioning for you to step inside before closing it behind him.

For a moment, you both just stood there. The dim lighting made the small space feel even tighter.

Thire pulled off his bucket, tucking it under his arm before meeting your gaze. His brows furrowed slightly. “How are you feeling about… y’know?”

You exhaled sharply, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “Like absolute bantha crap.”

Thire sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I bet. But I promise that I haven’t said a word to anyone.”

You nodded, letting out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t know a damn thing about it either,” he admitted. “None of us did.”

That made you look up. “Really?”

He shook his head. “I swear. If I had any idea what Fox was doing, I would’ve called him out on it. We all would have.” His jaw tightened slightly. “That’s… not how we do things.”

Something in your chest eased, just a little. You wanted to believe him, needed to. Because if the others had known, if they’d just let it happen, that would have made it so much worse.

“I appreciate that,” you say quietly.

Thire nodded again, then frowned slightly. “You don’t have to be here today, you know. If you need time, I can cover for you.”

Your first instinct was to brush it off, to say you were fine. But the truth was, you weren’t. And right now, the thought of sitting at your station, pretending like everything was normal, felt unbearable.

“…I might take you up on that,” you admitted.

Thire nodded in understanding but hesitated for a moment before adding, “If you don’t want to stay home however, it might comfort you to know that Fox probably won’t be around the office today. I’m pretty sure he’s running a perimeter sweep in the lower levels with Thorn.”

You mulled over the options. If you stayed at work, you could at least put on a brave face—and knowing Fox wouldn’t be around eased some of the tightness in your chest. On the other hand, if you went home, you’d probably just curl up in bed, cry, and eat something deep-fried and regrettable.

“Okay,” you said, mustering some conviction. “I’ll stay for a bit. Just see how it goes.”

Thire’s face lit up with a smile, and he clapped you on the arm before leading the way out of the supply closet. You stuck close behind him as the door to the office slid open. Your eyes instinctively flicked to the back of the room, where Fox’s desk sat, empty, just as Thire had said. You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

Stone, spinning lazily in his chair, perked up at the sight of you both. “There you are! I thought I was gonna be all on my lonesome today.” He propped his feet up on the console with exaggerated relief.

“If you were, would you actually do any work?” you teased, walking past him and swiping his boots off the console with a quick flick of your hand.

He smirked, completely unashamed. “Probably not.”

Thire rolled his eyes, moving to his station as he muttered, “At least he’s honest.”

You sat down at your usual spot, shifting in your chair, trying to settle into the rhythm of things. But before you could fully drown yourself in work, Stone let out a dramatic groan.

“Kriff’s sake, Thire, did you seriously input the wrong data again ?”

Thire’s head snapped up. “What?”

“This!” Stone gestured aggressively at his screen. “This entire patrol schedule is wrong! The rotations are out of sync. Look, the timestamps are off.”

Thire scoffed, already pulling up his own display. “That’s not possible. I double-checked before submitting it.”

“Yeah? Then explain why we have got troopers patrolling two different levels at the same time when they’re supposed to be covering opposite ends of the facility?” Stone spun his chair toward Thire, arms crossed.

Thire frowned, squinting at his own screen. “That… doesn’t make any sense. I logged everything exactly as it was assigned.”

“Well, someone kriffed it up, and it wasn’t me.”

“It sure as the Maker wasn’t me!” Thire shot back, indignant.

“Oh? So it just magically changed itself, did it?”

“I’m saying maybe you messed with it and didn’t realise—”

“I never mess up reports,” Stone cut in dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like he was some kind of martyr. “Thorn tells me so.”

“That’s the biggest exaggeration I have heard.” Thire deadpanned.

You tried to suppress a laugh as they continued their pointless, but it was no use.

And it was exactly what you needed.

For the first time that day, the weight in your chest lifted. “Okay, okay,” you interrupted, grinning as you shook your head at them both. “Which one of you actually wants to check the system logs instead of arguing like a bunch of shinies?”

Stone and Thire both turned to look at you, then at each other.

“…You do it,” they said at the same time.

You groaned, but there was a small smile on your lips as you pulled up the data. Maybe today wouldn’t be so unbearable after all.

⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅

The system was a disaster.

Patrols were scattered haphazardly, leaving critical areas completely unguarded, and nothing seemed to match up with the official assignments. Even Thire who could be forgetful truth be told, was never this careless. He definitely wouldn’t have made an error like this. None of the would have.

You had spent about an hour sorting through the mess, rerouting troopers, and sending Thire and Stone off on a mission to explain the changes to officers stationed across the facility.

The work was frustrating but effective in keeping your mind occupied. It kept your hands busy, your thoughts focused. For a while, you weren’t dwelling on him .

You were in the middle of cross-referencing the schedules when the office door hissed open. You barely registered it, too absorbed in your task until something warm and wet dragged across your cheek.

“ What the—?! ”

Before you could react, a heavy weight crashed into your lap, nearly knocking you out of your chair. A deep, rumbling growl—more like a pleased huff—filled your ears, followed by another enthusiastic swipe of a tongue across your face.

“Grizzer!” you cooed, with a laugh reaching up to give the beast a cuddle. He wriggled happily, tail thumping against the floor as he nuzzled into you.

“You spoil him,” Hound drawled, stepping up beside you with an amused chuckle. He reached down, wrapping a hand around Grizzer’s thick collar and gently pulling him off before the slobber completely drenched your uniform.

You smirked, wiping your cheek with your sleeve. “I amthe only one who sneaks him treats.”

Hound rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and now every time we pass the supply closet, he thinks he’s getting a snack.” He gave Grizzer a pat before motioning for him to lie down.

As Hound straightened up, his gaze flickered toward your screen. “Have you noticed something’s been weird with the system?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest. “I noticed that some of the patrol patterns aren’t matching up with assigned sectors, and there are gaps where there shouldn’t be.”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Yeah, we’ve been dealing with that mess all morning.” You tapped at your screen, pulling up a few of the more obvious errors. “Thire swears he submitted everything correctly, and honestly, I believe him. This isn’t just a mistake—it’s like someone has actually tampered with it.”

Hound’s brow furrowed, gaze darkening slightly. “You think it was intentional?”

You hesitated. You hadn’t wanted to go that far, but… “I don’t know. Maybe. It just doesn’t make sense.”

He was quiet for a moment, studying the data. Then, shifting his weight, he cleared his throat.

“So… uh.” His tone changed, noticeably more awkward. “How’s it going with that ‘Whisky’ guy?”

Your heart clenched.

For a split second, you didn’t move, staring blankly at the flickering lights of your console as reality came crashing back down. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice even.

“Oh that? Yeah, uh, it’s not going to work out,” you said finally, still avoiding his gaze.

Hound frowned, head tilting slightly. “Why?”

You didn’t want to say. You didn’t want to talk about it so you tried to play it off although there was a bitter truth behind your answer; “He… wasn’t who I thought he was,” you said simply, hoping that would be enough. “I’d rather just leave it at that.”

But Hound’s response wasn’t what you expected. He exhaled through his nose, gaze dropping for just a second—like he was bracing for something. And when he looked back up at you, there was something guilty in his expression.

A terrible, creeping feeling clawed its way into your chest.

Slowly, you turned to face him fully, pulse starting to race. Your mind drifts to him and Fox in the hangar. Angry, intense. When you questioned Hound about it he said it was about a patrol but now you think it’s something else entirely. And then, you remember the rumour about yourself and the Commander and how Hound was the one who first thought it…

Oh no.

Your mouth runs dry. “Hound,” you say, daringly quiet, “do you know something?”

Hound hesitated. Just for a second. But that was enough. The look on his face said everything.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He knew.

Hound had known .

You shot up from your chair so fast it scraped against the floor. Your hands curled into fists at your sides as a choked sound of frustration escaped you, your voice shaking with restrained anger. “You knew?”

Hound held his hands up in defense, already backpedaling. “I—listen—”

“You knew that ‘Whisky’ was Fox, and you didn’t tell me?”

“ I tried! ” he blurted. “I tried pressuring him into telling you the truth, but you know what he’s like—he wouldn’t listen to me!”

Your teeth clenched, fury twisting in your stomach. “So what, you just let me walk into it blind? Let me sit there, talking about him, falling for him while you just—”

“I didn’t want you to hear it from me!” Hound cut in, frustrated. “It wasn’t my place. But, I told him if he didn’t tell you soon that I would tell you.”

You turned away sharply, dragging a hand through your hair as you tried to breathe through the burning heat behind your eyes. Your chest felt tight, your thoughts a cyclone of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

Hound sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I know you’re upset. I get it. I should’ve done something else, but I thought if I pushed him hard enough, he’d tell you.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. Your voice, when you finally spoke, was raw. “I can’t believe you.”

Hound didn’t argue. He didn’t try to make excuses or smooth it over. He just stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders squared like he was standing at attention, ready to take whatever you threw his way.

“So… he did tell you then? In the end?”

You dragged your sleeve across your cheek to swipe away a stray tear, breathing out bitterly. “No. Thire and Pia did. Total accident.”

Hound’s brows shot up. “Thire knows?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. “Not at first. He caught us out together, dropped Fox’s name by mistake, and then Pia put the final nail in the coffin.”

You stared at the console, unable to meet Hound’s eyes. “It all just unraveled from there. A stupid accident.”

Hound’s heavy steps closed the distance as he gently placed a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I really thought Fox would step up and tell you.”

You let out a sharp, humourless laugh, your voice tight. “Yeah, well, you’d think the Commander of the Guard would have the guts to say the truth.”

Before the weight of the conversation could sink any deeper, the office door hissed open and in stomped Thire and Stone mid-argument.

You and Hound instantly stepped apart, both snapping back into something resembling professionalism. You smothered your emotions under a mask, hoping neither of them noticed how tense you were. If Thire had clocked anything, he didn’t show it.

Stone sighed dramatically, flopping into a chair like he’d been through battle. “I need a drink. Or a caf. Or five.” You watch in disbelief as he turned his big, pleading eyes toward you like you were his only hope.

You raised an unimpressed brow, arms still crossed tightly over your chest. “Are you seriously giving me that look?”

Stone gave you his most pitiful expression. “I’ve been on my feet for hours.”

Your jaw dropped. “Me ? I’ve just been sat here for hoursuntangling the entire system while you’ve been off playing hide-and-seek with Thire!” You jabbed a finger toward your cluttered screen. “I saved your shebs.”

Stone clutched his chest like you had wounded him. “Ouch. ” He turned to Thire as if seeking backup, but Thire just smirked and shook his head.

You pointed to the dusty old caf machine in the corner. “There. It’s unloved, but it still works.”

Stone scrunched his nose like you’d offered him poison. “That machine tastes like regret.”

“Exactly,” you deadpanned. “Go make your own ‘regret’.”

He pouted harder, and you finally sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Fine! I’ll go,” you muttered, grabbing your datapad and standing. “I could use a walk anyway.”

“You’re the best,” Stone grinned.

“Uh-huh,” you replied dryly, heading for the door.

As you stepped out into the hallway, the quiet clatter of the office door sealing behind you, you let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. The office drama was one thing, but the storm in your chest about Fox and now Hound… that wasn’t going to be so easy to walk off.

Still, the fresh air of the hallway and the promise of a decent cup of caf were better than sitting in that office for another second.

The corridors were quiet as you made your way toward the caf vendor tucked away in one of the facility’s less-trafficked wings. Your boots echoed faintly against the floor, the faint hum of overhead lights your only friend.

As you’re about to turn into a junction, something caught your eye.

A vent, about two meters up the wall, slammed shut.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your breath catching as you whipped your head toward it. The corridor was still, not a sound, but you were sure you saw it move.

Slowly, you stepped a little closer, peering up at it, but nothing stirred. No air, no voices, just the faint rattle of an old air unit kicking in somewhere deeper in the ducts.

You rubbed your eyes, feeling the lingering heaviness from last night. “Great,” you muttered under your breath, “still drunk.”

Shaking your head, you pushed the paranoia down and kept moving. You’d probably just imagined it. Stress, fatigue, and the emotional wreckage were jsut playing tricks on you.

At the caf vendor, your attention went back to your little mission, punching in each order like you were disarming a bomb. One strong and black for Thire, caf with a triple shot and a splash of cream for Stone, plain and standard for Hound, and your usual sweeter blend.

As you made your way back, four very hot cafs carefully balanced on a tray, you passed the same hallway where the vent had - or as you imagined - slammed shut earlier. Instinctively, you slowed down, eyes flickering up to the wall.

The vent sat still. Silent.

You hesitated, listening carefully. Not even the hum of a servomotor. No scurrying sounds. Nothing.

“Just your imagination,” you told yourself, forcing your feet to keep moving.

Still, even as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the chill.

You pushed through the heavy silence of the hallway, cafs balanced carefully as you made your way back toward the office. But as the door hissed open, you froze in the threshold.

Your stomach sank like a anchor.

Fox stood there, voice sharp and echoing off the walls as he barked at Thire and Stone. His helmet tilted toward them, rage practically dripping from him. “I step away for one day, and the whole system goes to hell! How hard is it to follow protocol?”

But the words didn’t fully land in your mind. Your eyes were locked on him, dread curling in your stomach as the room seemed to close in around you. The first time seeing him since everything fell apart, and the sight of him stole the air right from your lungs. And not in a good way.

Thire caught your eye first, his expression crumbling into a look of guilt and apology. Clearly, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Clearly, Thire had been wrong about Fox being absent today.

You barely registered Stone throwing up his hands defensively or Hound standing stiff in the corner.

Fox didn’t notice you at first—until the end of his tirade, when his helmet turned and he spotted you standing there, frozen. He jolted slightly, visor locking on you in stunned silence.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as your hand trembled, the tray rattling slightly. Before you could get a grip, the whole thing slipped sideways. The cups tumbled and hot caf splashing onto one of the consoles and, worse, onto your hand.

A sharp, broken whimper escaped you as the boiling liquid burned your skin.

Hound moved fast, rushing toward you. His voice was somewhere distant, muffled like you were underwater.

But you couldn’t process it.

You were already backing out the door, breath caught in your throat, and then you were gone—running down the hallway.

The nearest refresher was barely around the corner. You stumbled inside and slammed the door behind you, collapsing against the sink. Sobs raked through your chest as you fumbled to get the tap on, hurriedly shoving your hand under the freezing stream of water.

The burn throbbed beneath the chill, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside you.

You stared at your burned hand, your skin already red and irritated under the running water. But then your gaze dropped to your wrist—the bracelet. The one Fox had given you only yesterday, still fastened snugly like a cruel reminder.

Your chest tightened, rage boiling beneath your ribs. Without thinking, you yanked it off and you slammed it to the floor. Frustration choked you as you gasped, tears spilling faster now.

Then it came—the thumping.

Heavy and low at first, but it crept around you, up in the walls above and behind, like something alive was moving in the ducts. The sound made your breath hitch, heart pounding against your ribs.

“Stop it, stop it…” you whispered through gritted teeth, pressing your palms to your temples, convinced you were spiraling. “It’s just in your head. It’s just your head.”

But the thumping kept going, getting louder, vibrating through the durasteel panels. Then—suddenly—it cut out, vanishing like it had never been there at all.

Your blood felt like ice as you stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to return.

A sharp knock at the refresher door broke the silence, making you flinch. The noise from the walls stayed gone, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing.

You swallowed hard, blinking down at your trembling hands. Your mouth was bone-dry, your mind spinning. It had to be Hound, you had see him coming for you back in the office.

Before you could muster the words to answer, the door hissed open behind you.

“I don’t want to see anyone, Hound,” you mumbled, voice broken.

“How about myself?”

Your eyes snapped up to the mirror above the basin—and there he was. Fox. Standing just inside the door.

Your stomach twisted violently, blood roaring in your ears. “Get out,” your voice was low but shaking.

“We need to talk,” Fox said, calm but firm, stepping further inside.

You spun to face him fully, eyes burning. “Now’s not the best time, so just leave me alone!” Your words echoed in the small room, your breath coming in hard and fast.

Fox didn’t move. Instead, he stepped closer, standing right beside you as though the tension between you didn’t weigh down the air. His gloved hand reached out and quietly adjusted the tap, turning it from cold to lukewarm.

“It’s better this way for burns,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You should head to the medbay.”

You clenched your jaw, staring daggers into the mirror. “Thanks for the advice,” you snapped, your voice sharper now. “Now go.”

Still, he didn’t budge. His reflection loomed beside yours, visor blank but heavy with everything he wasn’t saying. “I’m not leaving,” he said quietly but with that quiet, stubborn authority you’d heard so many times before—except now, it made your skin crawl.

You step back, just out of arm's reach. “Why? So you can lie to me some more?”

Fox’s shoulders squared as though your words physically hit him. “I never wanted to lie to you,” he replied, voice edged with guilt. “You think this has been easy for me?”

You laughed bitterly. “Oh, poor you.” You shook your head in disbelief. “You had a thousand chances to tell me the truth.”

“I know.” He sighs behind his helmet, “I should have told you sooner.”

“You think? ” you barked. “You let me make a fool of myself. I trusted you! I opened up to you and told you everything about me. I was honest and kind, thinking you were—” you bit down on the lump in your throat, voice trembling, “—thinking you were someone else.”

Fox stood frozen, stunned into silence, mouth parted like he had words to offer but couldn’t find any.

You stared at the sink, focusing on the dripping tap as you tried to even out your breathing. Slowly, you straightened your shoulders, forcing yourself to face him again, eyes burning with determination.

“Take it off.”

His posture stiffened, head snapping up. “What?”

“Your helmet.” You nodded toward it, voice sharp but calm. “Take it off.”

Fox hesitated. You could see it in the slight twitch of his fingers. He wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone who wasn’t a General or the Senate, but the way you were looking at him—hurt, angry, betrayed… it cut through his pride.

He finally moved, his gloved hands lifting the helmet, hands barely steady as he removed it and tucked it under his arm. He didn’t look at you, eyes cast to the floor as if the weight of your pain was too much to face.

And as you stared at him, you realised you didn’t know why you asked. Maybe you were still desperately clinging to the hope that Thire and Pia had somehow been wrong, that this would reveal someone else, someone who just resembled Fox.

But there he was. A face you spent swooning over, eyes you had wiped away tears of laughter with, lips you almost…And now it looked so much heavier, pulled down by guilt.

“You can’t even look at me.”

Fox’s head lifted immediately, eyes meeting yours, his grip tightening on the helmet at his side. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.” Your voice cracked.

He flinched at that, eyes softening as if he were searching for words. “I know,” he breathed. “I know, I… I don’t know why I let it get this far. I kept telling myself I’d tell you the truth, but I just… got caught up.”

“I told you my own truths,” you said, voice rising. “I trusted you. I let you in. And you decided I didn’t deserve the same.”

“That’s not what I wanted—”

“You didn’t say a lot.” You cut him off sharply. Your throat was tight with tears threatening to fall. “Was it all just some test? To find out how I really felt about you so you had to come up with some stupid, fake alias to what? To fire me? Because if you never liked me all you had to do was just fire me from the get go.”

“I do like you,” he exasperates, “if i didn’t like you I wouldn’t have taken you to that meadow, I wouldn’t have-”

“Lied?”

He stills and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I didn’t want to lie.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “But you did.” you repeat. “Was… was anything you said to me true? About your future, about how you…” your voice faltered, suddenly quieter, “...how you felt about me…”

Your eyes burned as you trailed off, remembering the first night he’d told you that you were beautiful.

But Fox said nothing. Just stared at you with that same, helpless expression.

His silence stretched just a moment too long.

“Just go,” you breathed, voice thick. “Please.”

“No, wait-”

“I’m done talking, Commander.”

He blinks, and takes a small step closer. “Please call me Fox.”

“Why?” You cry, “I wasn’t able to before, what’s changed?”

Stars, he hated seeing you cry in front of him. More to the point that he was the reason for your tears. “Everything… and I don’t want to leave you like this. You’re hurt.”

“It’s just a burn.” You mutter, turning your gaze away.

“I wasn’t referring to that.”

You sigh, angrily wiping away the tears you had let slip. “Sorry for crying.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” He states.

“You do.” You swiftly retort. “And I’m waiting.”

He shifts in his spot, the brutalness of your words almost scary if not impressive. “I am sorry.”

You scoff. “You're apologising because I asked you to. Not because you wanted to.”

“Wha-?”

“You can leave now.” Your voice was firm, unwavering, even as your fingers trembled slightly against your injured hand. You turned away from him, nursing the burn as though it was the only wound that mattered. “Also, I’m going to put in for a transfer.”

Fox stepped forward again, close enough that his breath stirred against the nape of your neck. “Don’t do that.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, switching off the water. “Do you even realise the position you’ve put me in, Commander?” His title dripped from your tongue like poison as you lifted your gaze to the mirror, meeting his reflection instead of facing him directly. “I can’t even stand to be in the same room as you. I can’t work for you.”

Fox already looked like a man who had been gutted and left to bleed out, but at your words, he flinched, swallowing thickly. “You won’t even know I’m there. I’m too busy dealing with Rik Walder—he’s still loose, and if I hadn’t been so distracted, maybe he never would have—”

Your slow, deliberate turn toward him cut his words dead in his throat.

His mouth snapped shut, the realisation hitting him. Now he had finally said too much rather than too little.

Fox cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably, guilt rolling off of him in waves. “Not that… that was your fault, of course.”

“Out. ” Your voice was cold, final.

He exhaled, defeated, lifting his helmet and sliding it back into place. You watched as his shame disappeared behind the familiar T-shaped visor, the last traces of vulnerability sealed away. He turned for the door, but something on the floor caught his eye.

Fox bent down, retrieving the small, discarded object, and when he rose, he turned to you once more. “I gave you this.”

You barely spared a glance at the bracelet dangling from his fingers, but the sight of it still sent a sharp pang through your chest. For the briefest moment, guilt gnawed at the edges of your anger. But then you remembered.

Who he said he was.

Who he said he wasn’t.

Your lips pressed into a thin line before you met his gaze through his visor. “I’m sure you’ve given plenty of these to other women you’ve tricked.”

Fox inhaled sharply. He took a step closer, voice low, almost pleading as he said your name. “There was never anyone else.” His fingers curled around the bracelet, gripping it like a lifeline. “It was always you.”

Your breath hitched, throat tightening. But, you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Somehow… that doesn’t sound as nice as you think it does.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy, suffocating.

Fox glanced down at the bracelet in his palm, then back at you. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. “Please… keep it.”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. But then, you shook your head. “I can’t.”

His shoulders sagged, the last bit of fight leaving him. He nodded once, accepting the loss. "Get your hand checked, please."

Then without another word, Fox turned and left, his footsteps heavy as the refresher door hissed shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, your breath hitched violently, a choked sob tearing its way free. Your good hand clamped over your mouth, shoulders trembling as tears burned their way down your cheeks.

Meanwhile, Fox strode back toward the office, back straight, shoulders squared, as though he could will himself to be unaffected. The bracelet, now a cruel reminder of everything lost, was silently tucked into one of the pouches on his belt.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, hidden behind the cold, unfeeling mask of his helmet.

"I was still me."

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[talenlee]

M.O.S.H.A

In your world, how can magic go wrong?

Magic is really powerful. Worlds with magic tend to treat it as fundamental to how the world works, it tends to lead to big societal change, and it’s generally, something you put in a story because you give a crap about it. Unless you’re me. But the point of magic system is that they impose themselves on the world, and they change the world. Anything in the world, as you may notice, impacts the world and has by necessity, ways to fail.

Like, bricks are pretty well known and there are still ways that we have rules for handling them in the case of causing dangerous problems. What kinds of things in your universe keep magic from going wrong? And if they’re not there, can magic go wrong?

Noob Trap

In The Belgariad, middling fantasy author and serial child abuser David Eddings describes the idea of the Will and the Word, where a sorcerer can do anything, by shaping their ‘will’ (which is a wonderfully abstracted thing, impossible to meaningfully describe) and uttering a word to give that intention shape. A sorcerer can do anything they imagine in the dreadful world of The Belgariad but there’s one thing they can’t ever truly do: They can’t unmake anything. If they tell anything to un-be, the universe snaps back and they stop existing themselves.

Now, the idea of making something disappear versus turning something into air, that’s a distinction without much difference. The sorcerer who learns that trick suddenly learns that hey, they don’t have to worry about this one potential backfire, because it’s meaningless.

Basically, your magic system might only ever mess up in a way that kills new practitioners who don’t know what they’re doing, concentrating magical power in a larger body of the older folks who got lucky enough to have a mentor or not kill themselves trying anything weird.

Education is the Regulations

Many magic systems that rely on representing colleges or universities (like my own, in Cobrin’Seil) treat the process of learning magic as not being so much as about getting the first spell to work but to make sure the second or third spell don’t blow your hand off. In the context of magic of this type there’s a reference to the idea that there are predictable behaviours, and, as a system that people interact with through thought and intonation and maybe some speckles of fluid or dust, there’s a meaningful problem with attenuation. Basically, if your input is infinitely malleable, your output can be incredibly flexible and if some of your outputs can be, say, explosions then you’re going to be much more interested in making sure those inputs are within reasonable safety means.

This is similar to the ‘noob trap’ situation, but instead of ‘if you learn this one thing you can do dangerous stuff all you want,’ but instead ‘every successful stage of safety you learn opens up near forms of potentially dangerous stuff you can do.’ I particularly like this model (but I would, wouldn’t I), because of how it shows the value of education and infrastructural practice.

Which again: I would, wouldn’t I.

Privileged Administration

You could have magic’s backfires and misapplications being handled by a central authority. Throw magic around in a city and the authorities come along and beat the snot out of you. Of course, if you’re talking about having magic, you can probably use that to harm conventional authorities. In order to properly escalate and respond to magic, then, you need a magical enforcement methods.

This is what Baldur’s Gate 2 calls the ‘Cowled Wizards’ model and it works great if you want a large institutional powerbase your characters can struggle with and which will inevitably be corrupted and exploited by bad actors, as if all power systems of this like have some degree of inevitable corruptibility as they cede sense in the name of maintaining and prolonging their own power like the Catholic Church. Wait we got a bit Brothers Karamazov there. Point is, that this is just cops, but magic, and that works great for all the things you need cops to do, including killing people without any kind of cultural moral reprimand.

Magic Is Inherent and Too Specific

Sometimes a magic system is kept from failures by being isolated to individuals, expressed by the inherent talent for magic that is unlocked often by some kind of traumatising experience, and then after that point, people explore that power. This is a system that expresses magic as a sort of single, specific power tha an individual has and which they have to learn about on their own, or maybe through the benefit of learning a system of magic that other people have in common.

I don’t like this kind of system, because I don’t like when magic is a special gift bequeathed on a minority through accidents of birth. That tends to get you towards the eugenics of the X-Men (but y’know, the X-Men are at least in a universe with eugenics as an established idea where there are people who make meaningful arguments against such things). Inherent, inborn magic and special abilities can work great for controlling the way it changes the world, but it comes along with two questions:

What the fuck is happening

Why haven’t people dedicated their effort to explaining this most important thing in the world?

You see this kind of magic system a lot in some really hack stuff. The only example I can bring to mind that’s worth mentioning here is Twilight but know I also was thinking of some other stuff you might think about but I try not to mention on this blog. But let’s pretend I know enough about Brandon Sanderson to say, yeah, that happens in his work, sure.

Conclusion

One of my favourite things about magic systems is the ways they betray authors not thinking about them out of the immediate experience of the protagonists. I know this is a funny thing because I think I did it in one of my stories and I think in hindsight while I thought about the magic in that world quite a bit, I didn’t do a very good job or present something that was that interesting once you got past the idea that ‘crabs had magic, and humans didn’t.’

But if you’re talking about fantasy cities where people can buy magical scrolls or wands, if you’re talking about a place with magical colleges and magical songs, then you’re going to want to think about them a step further: what’s to stop massive damage to the world and the people using it?

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[mountainrusing]

“But neither of us are really fine, are we?”

Remus flicked his gaze towards Mary, unreadable as he blankly replied, “I can’t answer for you now, can I?”

“Is that an answer for yourself?”

Slowly, he deliberately responded, “What do you think?”

“Are you asking for my opinion on how the fact that you’re in love with James is negatively affecting your mood?”

Remus almost smiled. “When did I ever say I was in love with James?”

“When did you not?” Mary countered.

Then he did smile, head tilted back, hitting the edge of the window frame as he closed his eyes, “Isn’t that a gross exaggeration?”

“What do you think?”

He paused. Pursed his lips. Decided, “Are you asking for my opinion on how much I feel for James?”

She shrugged. “Are you gonna tell me?”

“Do I care for him more than you care for Lily?”

Mary gaped in mock-horror, “How dare you ask such a flagrant question?”

Half-heartedly, he raised his hands in apology, “Then would I be right to assume your answer is ‘no’?”

She placed a hand on her hip, waving her bottle accusingly with the other, “Haven’t you learnt not to make assumptions?”

“What if no one taught me?”

“Can’t you be self-taught?”

A pause. He drawled, “Then does this make me a lost cause?”

Another pause. Mary raised an eyebrow, “What if it made you like me?”

“...D’you think that we’re both lost causes?”

“What if I did?”

“Then you win,” he took a swig from his bottle.

Mary sympathetically patted his shoulder, leaned closer, “Do I get a reward?”

As the bottle left his lips, he sighed wearily, “Why are you still asking questions?”

She smirked. “Don’t you think it’s fun?”

Dryly, done, “Would it offend you if I disagreed?”

She pouted, “Can you find a way to soften the blow of you just breaking my heart?”

Remus rolled his eyes, “Who broke your heart?”

Lily. Myself. No one. “You.” A pause, then she added, “Win.”

“What’s my reward?”

Mary waited a few seconds, before asking, “Can I kiss you?”

Her question weighed between them for almost a minute.

After rolling his bottle between his palms and blinking mechanically, Remus looked at her and cleared his throat, “Aren’t you attracted to Lily?”

She smiled. “Isn’t she kissing the person you’re attracted to?”

He frowned. “What would we achieve by kissing each other?”

Nothing. “Someone.”

Remus kissed her. Closed mouth, a hard press of lips, slightly opening, but closing again, like pecking a chocolate bar but getting no taste from it, trying to savour something to the point that it couldn’t be savoured at all. Just lips, closed, for some time. Some time of having someone. The constant pressure was nice. Light. Mary liked it well enough. Anyway, Remus didn’t seem the type to give out open-mouthed kisses.

In the background, Mary heard a sudden cheer break out, Sirius yelling, “Ay, Remus is kissing Mary!”

Then the sound of Sirius’s heavy footfalls thumping towards them as Remus pulled away, only to be pulled into a headlock by Sirius jeering, “Ickle Remus got his first kiss! And it was a long one,” he ruffled Remus’s hair, pinching his cheeks. “Paddy’s proud,” he smirked.

Remus smiled at him coolly, lifting Sirius’s arm off, allowing him to sling it over his shoulder instead as he leaned back into the wall. He glanced at Mary questioningly, and she shrugged, shaking her head.

Suddenly, Lily and James were there, as if summoned, James dragging Lily by the wrist to the sidelines of the party. His fingers tightened their hold as he stared at Remus as if seeing a stranger. Finally, his voice cracked, “I thought… I didn’t know you were interested in… people.”

The skin over Remus’s cheekbones drew taut. “What, did you think I’d never find someone?”

“No,” James winced, “I just… I thought you’d always be, well, Remus. You know, I thought you’d always be… there…”

“There to watch your every movement because you’re an attention-seeker who wants to wholly occupy his friends’ time?”

“Hey, now,” Sirius removed his arm from Remus’s shoulder. “What’s with you?”

Remus shrugged, nodding jerkily at James, “He’s not denying it.”

James’s cheeks were flushed red, and he shook his head jarringly. “That’s not— I mean— Well, you’re my friend, and you’ve never been interested in anyone before, you’ve always been our Remus, so I don’t see why you need to start kissing people now when you already have everything. You’ve never wanted it before,” he accused again, emphasising the alleged betrayal.

“Okay,” Remus agreed. “I’m not supposed to have any interests apart from you, I’m not allowed to venture outside of your orbit, I must entirely devote myself to you and your antics, I have to—”

“Shut up,” James glared. “That’s not…” he trailed off feebly.

“Alright,” Remus nodded genially, before turning to walk towards the dormitories.

James was frozen for a moment, before letting go of Lily’s wrist and sprinting after him, calling, “Remus, wait!” as his feet thudded up the stairs.

“Well,” Sirius said after a pause. He looked at Mary and Lily. “I’m bored,” he decided, before making his way to the portrait.

Mary scoffed, “He’s off to bully some Slytherins, ain’t he?” she slid a knowing glance at Lily.

But Lily was scrutinising her face fixedly, eyes narrowed in on Mary’s eyes, lips, the bottle in her hand.

— extract from

she’s Black, she’s Broken, she’s Beautiful

[gilmorenights]

You've done Hugo hcs and Nuru hcs, but what about Yong?

I was waiting for this one 😼

First off, he’s the middle child of a huge family. I say middle instead of youngest because it means he’s more easily forgotten, therefore he needs to do more to get the smallest scraps of attention

This ^^ is where I think the whole firework/rocket obsession started. One of his oldest brothers produces fireworks that get exported throughout the seven kingdoms for festivals, making him one of the largest sources of income and the prodigy child of the family. Yong sees this and goes “hey! That’s a great idea! If I could learn to do that, my family wouldn’t overlook me and they’d be proud of me!” But obviously we all know how well that goes

Eventually Yong’s love for fireworks go from being a validation thing to being an art that he genuinely enjoys and can use to protect his family

Yong craves validation, but rarely gets it. My dude just wants someone to say they’re proud of him and mean it, which is why he’s so insistent on helping Varian on his journey. Not only does he want to learn and improve from being mentored, but he wants Varian to be proud of him the way Varian always wanted his dad to be proud of him.

Because of this ^^, he’ll tell everyone on Team Radical he’s proud of them 24/7, but is shocked and on the verge of tears whenever someone actually says it back to him

He’s nosy asf. Growing up as a middle child in a large household had certain advantages, like learning how to eavesdrop. He definitely uses this to his advantage and gets away with it most of the time due to being seen as the innocent baby of the group (Hugo sees right through it of course)

HE IS NOT INNOCENT!!! He is a twelve year old boy. Have you ever met a twelve year old boy? They’re literally spawns from hell. Yong would not be a sweet, naive baby who never knows what’s going on. It’s the opposite actually; he knows more than he should and isn’t above using blackmail just to get the others to do a chore he doesn’t want to do

This ^^ being said, I do believe he’s a sweet person at heart. He’s kind to strangers and believes in second chances but will blow you up without a second thought if you hurt his friends

Hated camping in the woods at first (terrified of animal/bandit attacks), so Hugo would sit with him by the dying campfire and tell him stories until he fell asleep despite Yong protesting that he’s “too old for childish stuff like that”

Ruddiger falls asleep with him when Varian is up too late

Thought Nuru was lowkey annoying when she first joined the group because she kept trying to baby him (they talked it out and he felt really guilty after getting to know her)

Went through an emo phase on the journey after finding out about Varian’s Saporian era (Yong’s phase lasted three days before he gave up)

Absolutely adores Olivia, makes little leaf dresses and acorn hats for her

AROACE YONG TRUTHER 🗣️🗣️🗣️

He models firework displays after his friends the way Varian does elements and chemicals (purple and gold for Nuru, green and gold for Hugo, etc)

Felt jealous of Varian’s family when they first found them because he felt like he was being replaced by all the cousins

Uhhh I think that’s all the main ones I could think of? I really do love Yong, I think he deserves more recognition within the fandom

Thank you for the ask <33