#i dropped everything to reply to this Immediately

[yuna542]

~Yours~

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst

Warnings: 18+, bullying, manipulative behaviour, Smut, under 18 DNI!, pet names, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Overstimulation, explicit smut, confessions, fluff, bdsm, mentions of alcohol, Minsung happening!, Han and Minho in a secret relationship

Word Count: 13K

Note: I really loved writing this. Let me know what you think

"What's wrong?" came Chan's soft voice, catching you off guard.

You blinked, still staring at your phone. You'd been glued to the screen longer than you'd realized.

"Nothing," you answered quickly. Too quickly. You forced a smile and grabbed your makeup kit, pretending to tidy up the mess of palettes and brushes on the vanity table.

Chan raised a brow, slipping his phone into his pocket. He leaned forward in his chair—never a good sign. That meant he didn't believe you. That meant you now had his full attention.

As the stylist and makeup artist for Stray Kids, you'd been spending nearly every day with them for the past few years. The team felt more like family lately, mostly thanks to Chan's warm and grounded energy that pulled everyone together even though it was the most stressful season.

"She's lying," Minho muttered as he walked past, already in his hoodie, bag over his shoulder. The concert had ended an hour ago, but you were still here, frozen in thought, barely making progress packing up. The messages on your phone had taken you somewhere else, somewhere you didn't want to return to.

Minho knew you better than anyone. You owed this job to him. You'd met backstage years ago, when he was still dancing for BTS and you were working as their part-time makeup artist. You always believed in him, and when Stray Kids became his reality, he returned the favor by getting you on the team.

You'd known the boys for a long time. Minho had kept you distant at first, worried one of them would flirt with his best friend. But on tour, things changed. You grew close. Bonds were built. Trust, laughter, late-night chats. And Chan... Chan had a way of making you forget how careful you were supposed to be.

"You're restless... something's bothering you," Chan said, eyes following the frantic way your fingers rearranged brushes that didn't need rearranging.

"In two hours we're flying back to Korea," you said flatly, dodging.

"Y/N," he said gently, but you cut him off with a dismissive wave. "It's nothing. Really."

But your phone lit up again—and this time, you weren't fast enough. Chan caught the name.

"Who's Madison?" he asked, voice casual—but not really.

Hyunjin came closer, overhearing as he set down his controller, apparently done playing with Felix for the night.

"She's... no one. Just a college friend."

The college you'd dropped out of to chase this dream.

Minho, now lounging across the sofa, immediately sat up, and his expression darkened.

"Madison? What does she want from you?"

You closed your eyes briefly and exhaled. You should've said nothing.

"She just wants to meet up. When we get back."

Chan tilted his head, studying you.

Minho stood now. "You're not actually going, right? After everything?"

The others looked between you, confused.

"Who is this Madison?" Seungmin asked.

Before you could reply, Minho cut in—his voice sharp and unfiltered.

"She's a manipulative bitch who used to tear Y/N apart every chance she got. Her and her group of plastic princesses treated her like she was dirt."

You sighed, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. "It was years ago, and you only met her once."

"Once was enough," he growled. "The way she looked at you—like she was doing you a favor by breathing the same air."

And you knew he wasn't wrong.

Madison had been cruel. High-maintenance, charming to the outside world, and poison behind closed doors. She'd called you a friend while whispering about your insecurities, making you feel like you'd never be enough.

"I just want to see if maybe she's changed," you said quietly.

Minho shook his head, already defeated. He knew he couldn't stop you.

⸻

"You work for that band now, right? Stray Kids?" Madison asked. For the fourth time already.

You forced a laugh and nodded, sipping your drink. "Yeah. I'm their stylist and makeup artist."

The table of women—each more dressed-up and decked-out than the last—oohed in excitement. They were the same group from back in uni. Expensive shoes, heavy perfumes, and surgically precise smiles.

The night had started surprisingly fine. You'd hugged, exchanged the usual "You look amazing" lies, and made small talk. Madison had even said your outfit was "so effortlessly cool." But as soon as you mentioned the band's name, her mask began to slip.

"Wait, how did you get into a company like that?" Madison asked, tilting her head like a confused kitten. "That's a huge label. Don't they look for people with real credentials?"

There it was.

You took a long sip of your gin tonic. "One of the members. We've known each other for years. He recommended me."

"Ooooh, insider connections," one of the girls purred, nudging another. "So who is he? Hyunjin? Felix? I heard Felix is close with all the girls."

"No. Minho. Lee Know. We worked together before Stray Kids."

"Ahh. Makes sense. I mean, with a dropped-out degree and... let's say modest experience, it would've been super hard to make it otherwise." Madison smiled sweetly and placed her hand over yours, pretending concern.

"But that's okay! You've always been resourceful."

Your jaw clenched. You wanted to scream. Instead, you nodded. "We've always supported each other. That's how we made it."

Finally, she withdrew her hand—but the smug gleam in her eyes didn't fade.

"I think Changbin's the hottest," one girl blurted, breaking the tension with giggles. "He has that rough vibe."

"I'd go for Han," another chimed in. "Cute, funny, probably a freak."

"God," Madison laughed, sipping her drink. "What about you, Y/N? Eight hot men, and not one tried something? I would've had a boyfriend by week two."

You smiled tightly. "We're all friends."

"Really?" Madison asked, tilting her head. "All that time together, and not one kiss behind the scenes? Not even a late-night affair?"

You shook your head, heart sinking.

"I mean, come on," she laughed.

"If Bang Chan would just smile at me, I'd let him ruin my whole life. You don't think about that? Or do you already have a thing with him?"

The blood drained from your face.

"We're close," you said quietly. "That's it."

"Mhmm," Madison hummed, exchanging a look with her blonde friend. "Well, if you ever get tired of being his comfort person, just give me his number, yeah?"

You blinked at her.

"I mean, idols need someone exciting, right? Someone with class. And let's be honest—you're sweet, but..." She gave you a smile that made your stomach turn. "Sweet isn't always sexy."

You stared down at the table, vision blurring slightly.

"But hey, professional boundaries, right?" she added with a laugh. "That's why you work there and not someone like me."

The table shimmered under the soft lighting of the lounge, half-empty cocktails scattered like fading illusions of a good night. Madison's laugh, high and polished, cut through the murmur of the music like a blade wrapped in silk.

Madison smiled sweetly.

"So be for real. You're really with them now. Like, full-on part of their team?"

You nodded, careful. "Yeah. Styling, makeup, performance looks... I work with their creative director too."

"Wow." She sipped her drink. "I mean, I guess someone has to do that stuff. But I didn't know they'd go for someone so... low-profile. You always were kind of the quiet one, weren't you?"

You tried to laughs softly, brushing it off, but by now everything that was coming out of you, where silent huffs.

„I guess. I just like to stay behind the scenes."

"Oh, totally. It's your thing, right? Being invisible but helpful. Like in Highschool! You always carried my bag and didn't complain once!"

Everyone laughed at this little anecdote about you, which was obviously just to make you even more insignificant.

Another sip. Another smile. The others glance at each other and giggle, unsure if it was a compliment or a slap.

Your heart stings even more, but you hid it with a practiced smile.

Madison leaned in again with that annoying smile.

"And what's it like? Traveling with them? Living in that world—glitz, lights, screaming fans. Do they even see you? Or are you like... furniture?"

The table snickers. One girl fake-gasps, "Madison!" But it's playful. No one's really calling her out.

You're tone is cold by now.

"They treat me well. We're a team."

"Hmm." She stirred her drink with her straw. "That's cute. You're kind of like their emotional support stylist. A little older-sister energy. Or like a pet? No, wait... like a really loyal assistant. You're just always there, right?"

Your throat tightens. You sipped your drink just to have something to do.

Madison changed her tone, syrupy-sweet again

"Back to Chan! Tell us everything."

„Maddy you're obsessed!", one girl laughed.

You stiffened slightly.

"He's so dreamy on camera. Is he like that in person? Or is it all PR and lighting? I just can't believe he's not that hot in real life too.

You hesitated but couldn't resist to smile when you thought about him. His smell, the messy hair and his hugs, which were the best thing after a stressful week when he just wants to see your smile again.

"He's real. Grounded. Kind."

Suddenly she's mock-gasping:

"Awww. You're really blushing. That's adorable."

She leaned over to the others.

"She's totally in love with him. Like she used to be in college. Remember? Her little Badboy-phase? I guess some things never change."

The table bursts into laughter. Your chest burns.

Y/N:

„We're friends... He never... We're just good friends."

Madison tilted her head, pouting.

"I mean, you have to know he's out of your league, right? Like, if he never tried to hook up with you even though you're spending so much time, I mean—men are easy—I think you're just not his type" she waved a hand dismissively.

„He would be head over heels for you though, Mads", some other girl said, all of them giggled in unison.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You wanted to leave so bad.

She smirked.

"Maybe he keeps you around because it's comfortable. Like an old hoodie. Not sexy, but familiar."

Some of the girls held their hand before their mouths, there she added quickly, "Oh my God, that was rude—sorry!" with a laugh, clearly not sorry.

Another girl joined in:

"But for real, if he's single, you should just shoot your shot, Mads. You're totally his type."

Madison grinned.

"Right? I mean, I wouldn't say no to a little K-pop prince. Maybe I'll drop him a DM. Unless Y/N's marked her territory?"

She raised an eyebrow across the table at you like it's all fun, like this isn't a series of sharp little knives landing over and over.

You were barely holding it together by now. It was so much worse than you could imagine.

"He's not a prize to win."

"Aww. Spoken like someone who already lost."

That's it. It was enough.

Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood up, the noise drowned in the thrum of the music.

"I'll be right back.", was everything you could get out without exploding.

No one stopped you.

Not even Madison, who just said over the music:

"Don't cry in there, babe. You'll ruin your eyeliner. And that wing is the best thing you've got going tonight."

You didn't cry in the bathroom.

Not at first.

You stood there, gripping the edge of the sink, cold marble against trembling fingers. You stared at your reflection, at the winged liner Madison had just mocked. At the eyes that looked dull and distant now. Your dress clung to you, your skin too warm, too exposed. You didn't recognize yourself.

You weren't sure if it was the drinks, the music, or the words still echoing in your mind like poison.

"Sweet isn't sexy."

"She's not his type."

"You're like furniture."

You tried to shake them off. You tried to laugh them away like you used to in college. But they hit differently now. Now that you'd spent all this time working your ass off. Now that you'd finally built something real. Now that you—

Now that you were starting to fall in love with someone who probably never even looked at you that way.

Chan.

His name was a weight in your chest.

The warmth of his hoodie when he'd draped it over your shoulders during late-night rehearsals. The way he always remembered your coffee order. The softness in his eyes when he asked if you'd eaten. The jokes. The quiet comfort. His scent on your pillow when you accidentally fell asleep backstage and he'd stayed to keep you company.

And then... Madison's voice again:

"If he's never tried anything, you're just not his type."

Something cracked. Quietly. But completely.

You sank onto the closed toilet lid, pressing a hand over your mouth. Not to muffle sobs—yet. Just to stop breathing so loud. Like the room might hear you fall apart.

You weren't enough.

Not stylish enough. Not hot enough. Not exciting enough. You were just... there. Like an old hoodie.

Tears blurred your vision now, spilled before you could stop them. Your eyeliner was ruined. You let out a shaky breath—then another. And then—

⸻

Your makeup was holding on—barely. Your composure, not so much.

Your fingers hovered over your phone again.

It was the second time Chans name was on your screen. He called you right after he saw that you were online. Almost as he waited for exact that moment.

Maybe it would help.

Just... hear his voice. Talk to him and forget this stupid evening for a second. And if you wouldn't answer the phone he would just be worried.

"Y/N?" came Chan's voice, soft and warm like a lighthouse in a storm. "Hey. Just checking in. Is everything alright?"

You opened your mouth to say yes, but it caught in your throat.

"Y/N?"

"...Hi," you finally breathed. "Yeah. I'm... it's fine. Just loud in here."

"You okay?" He paused. "You don't sound fine."

You tried to clear your throat quietly, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand. "I just needed a breather."

There was a beat of silence.

"You're crying," he said, quiet but certain. "What happened?"

You shook your head, even though he couldn't see. "It's nothing. I'm just being stupid. I shouldn't have come here."

"Is it Madison?" His voice darkened immediately. "What did she say?"

You let out a broken laugh, trying to hold yourself together. "God, where do I start?"

"Start anywhere," he said, softer now. "I'm here."

You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, leaning back against the cold tile wall.

You stayed silent for a while. Trying to hold yourself back, make him believe everything was perfectly fine.

But the moment he said your name with so much concern, everything broke out of you.

"She said I'm invisible. That I'm just... there. Background noise. Not hot, not exciting. Not the kind of girl anyone would choose. All the things she told me back in Highschool all the time."

You swallowed hard. "She talked about you a lot She's really into you, Chan. Maybe you should make a move", your voice sounded mocking, strong, but Chan just huffed.

„I told her we're just friends but she just wouldn't stop..."

Silence.

You kept going, the dam breaking wide open.

"She made it sound like I'm pathetic. Like I'm your pet or something. Said you probably keep me around because I'm familiar. Comfortable. But not sexy. That I'm like some old hoodie—soft and safe but not wanted."

Chan still didn't speak. You could feel how tense the silence was, like the air had thickened.

"She laughed about how I used to follow her around, how I carried her bag in high school. She said I don't belong in the world I'm in now. That someone like me shouldn't be working with someone like you."

You wiped at your eyes again. "And the worst part is, I believed her. I actually... started to believe her again. That I'm not enough. She's right... We're just friends and I'm happy about that, but I'm definitely not in your league."

"Y/N," Chan finally said, his voice lower than you'd ever heard it.

You waited, throat tight. And immediately you regretted everything you said.

"You listen to me right now," he said, steady and calm—but there was fury underneath. "She doesn't know who the hell she's talking about. And I swear to god, if I hear one more word like that out of her mouth—"

"Chan..."

"No," he interrupted, his voice softening but still firm. "You're not invisible. You're the only one I see. Every day, you walk into a room and suddenly the air feels different. Calmer. Better. You're the reason I sleep at night when things get bad because I know you're there the next morning. Doing my Makeup, cheering me up no matter what. Your the reason the team holds together sometimes. You are everything she isn't, and that's why she hates you."

You bit your lip, your chest tightening.

"Please just forget what I said." you whispered. "Falling apart over a stupid night out... I shouldn't have said anything. You're probably busy."

"You don't have to be strong all the time," he said gently. "Not with me."

A pause. Then, lower:

"Where are you right now?"

"Club down by the water," you said quietly. "VIP section. Madison rented a booth."

There was a beat of silence.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm coming."

"No—Chan, you don't have to—"

"I'm already in the car. We're getting back at that bitch, together. You'll see. Just play along!"

And then the phone was dead.

You stared at the screen until it faded black and suddenly you woke up, when you understood that he would really come.

As fast as you could, you touched up your makeup, got your hair done and breathed in and out several times.

The bathroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, trying to collect yourself, as you walked back to the booth.

As soon as you arrived you almost stumbled over your words:

„There she is! What were you doing so long? We thought you ran off", Madison laughed and you didn't need to guess what they talked about when you were gone.

„No, I had a call... It could be that..."

But that's when all of the pair of eyes were averted and glued to the entry of the VIP-Section.

He was actually there, walking in without having to show his ID. The security knew exactly who he was, since the boys were here often.

Bang Chan. Jeans-Jacket thrown over a black Shirt, eyes burning with quiet fury—but softening instantly when he saw you.

He must have already drove off while you were talking on the phone. How could he be here so fast?

His hair was messy, falling into his forehead, his face outrageously handsome and you could feel how the air tensed. All the girls and especially Madison made sounds that almost sounded like chickens.

„Omg that's him", they squeaked.

Immediately you stood up, ran up to him.

You placed a hand on his chest to stop him before he could reach the table and whispered, "What are you doing?"

When you looked up at him, you had to hold your breath. He smiled, wrapped his arms around your waist, and his thumbs slowly began to circle over your hip bones.

"At least pretend you're happy to see me."

"No, that's not... Channie, I don't want them to know I cried in the bathroom like a little girl because they were mean to me. Please—this is just going to get really awkward for you."

He didn't waver, just looked at you calmly, then gently placed his hand against your cheek. He had never touched you like that before.

"You look incredible. That dress is seriously hot on you," he murmured, eyes trailing down your body.

Your cheeks flushed so deeply you thought you might actually faint. What was he doing?

"Come on. Let's have a good night," he said with a smirk and tugged you toward the table.

The whispers stopped instantly the moment you two arrived. Every single girl stared at him in stunned silence.

"Hey," Chan said casually. "I was nearby, called Y/N to see what she was up to, and thought I'd drop by on my way back. Hope that's alright?"

Madison was the first to recover, her voice a squeal. "Yes! Totally! Have a seat!"

She patted the empty spot right next to her, already inching aside, but Chan didn't even glance at it. Instead, his eyes stayed locked on you—and only you.

And then you realized... he was still holding your hand.

Without letting go, he led you around the booth and sat down to your left, deliberately placing you between him and Madison.

The tightness in Madison's jaw could've cut glass.

Back at the table, it was all fake smiles and weirdly timed laughs as Chan settled in beside you like he belonged there. Like he did this every Friday night. His arm slid behind your back, casually draping along the booth's edge, his fingers barely brushing your shoulder. You were hyper-aware of every inch of him, of how close he was, of the warmth radiating off his body.

And the worst—or best—part? He wasn't even pretending. This wasn't some over-the-top performance. He was relaxed, charming, soft-spoken, and all of it was for you.

"Y/N told me you guys go way back," he said, voice smooth as honey, glancing around at the girls with a perfectly polite smile. "That's cool. Always nice to meet her friends."

"Totally," Madison said, her voice tight as she took another sip of her drink, eyes flicking between you and Chan like she couldn't decide whether to smile or scream.

"God, you're even hotter in real life," one of the girls whispered, not even trying to hide it. "I didn't think that was possible."

Chan chuckled politely. "Thanks. But I think Y/N's the one turning heads tonight."

That shut everyone up for a second.

Your heart skipped several beats. Madison looked like she'd swallowed her lip gloss.

He wasn't done.

"You should've seen her earlier," Chan went on, eyes drifting to you again. "I told her she looked good enough to shut down traffic. Guess I was right."

Someone choked on their drink. You didn't dare look at Madison. He was doing that full aware and he had fun with it.

Chan leaned in slightly toward you, voice lower now—just for you. "You okay?"

You nodded, still dazed, not trusting your voice yet.

"Good," he murmured. "Because I'm not letting you disappear on me again tonight."

You blinked at him, startled, but he was already smirking at his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside with effortless grace.

He lifted his glass, still watching you. "You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, drawing out the word like it belonged to you alone.

You nodded stiffly, pulse hammering in your ears.

"Good," he murmured.

Madison's smile faltered. She recovered with another sip of her drink. "So, Chan," she purred, "Y/N tells us you two are just friends?"

He finally turned toward her, but the look in his eyes wasn't curious—it was cold amusement.

"Yeah," he said with a slow, lazy grin. "That's what she says."

The girls around the table giggled, but there was an edge of uncertainty now. Madison tilted her head.

"Just friends," she repeated, trying to sound playful. "But you came all the way here for her?"

Chan didn't miss a beat. "She's worth showing up for."

You stared into your drink, and he reached over, rubbing a hand between your shoulder blades, his touch intimate and familiar.

"I mean," Madison pushed, "that's sweet and all, but don't you usually go for—" She paused, her eyes flicking over you. "Someone a little more your speed?"

Chan raised a brow slowly. "Oh? And what speed do you think that is?"

"I don't know," she giggled, too high-pitched. "Someone a bit... flashier?"

He smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You know," he said, voice smooth like honey over ice, "Loud, shiny, easy to spot. That kind burns out fast."

He leaned closer to you, the side of his thigh brushing yours. "It's the steady glow that stays with you. That's the one that warms you up at night."

Madison opened her mouth to say something, but the waitress arrived before she could, holding a tray of shots.

Chan leaned back, giving you a wink. "Perfect timing."

The table whooped, tension shifting into distraction as glasses were passed around.

"Come on," Chan said, handing you one. "One night off. Let go a little."

You hesitated, but the way he looked at you, like this night was yours and his alone, made you forget everything else.

You took the shot.

Then another.

And another.

„So you're like friends with benefits? Or dating? Come on tell us!", another girl exclaimed and Madison almost killed her, by just looking at her.

Chan tilted his head. "What do you think?"

You tried not to combust on the spot.

„It's pretty much up to her now ..."

You weren't even sure how many drinks you'd had by now. The club was buzzing louder, your skin was tingling, and Chan had moved even closer, his thigh pressed firmly against yours now under the table. There were Shot after Shot, Cocktail after Cocktail. You didn't know how he was able to act that convincing. It couldn't be real, but why would he do all that? Just to get back at them? All that effort just for a small revenge he shouldn't even care about?

The conversations were flowing by now and everyone adored Chan not just for his looks in no time. But he played his part way too well.

He leaned in again, his cologne warm and clean and a little dangerous, and said quietly in your ear:

"You're either ignoring me... or trying really hard not to look like you want to kiss me."

You turned to face him, heart tripping.

"That obvious?" you murmured, lips barely an inch from his, starting to grin like an idiot. You were playing around, trying to get back at Madison, but it felt so real, that your heart was pounding like crazy. And you knew your heart would be shattered at the end of this evening.

Chan gave a slow, satisfied grin and leaned back just enough to look at you properly.

„Only to me."

Before you could reply, ask what this was about, Madison cut in again.

"So, Y/N," she chirped, swirling her drink. "Are you, like, seriously not sleeping with him?"

You blinked.

Chan tilted his head slightly, gaze sharpening like a blade, but his voice stayed calm.

"Madison," he said, smiling like a wolf. "Do you usually talk about other people's sex lives at the table?"

She flushed, laughing. "I mean, sorry, but come on. You're both just so... intense. Like, all the eye contact and brooding. It's kinda obvious something's happening."

Chan shrugged lazily. "Maybe we like keeping things to ourselves. You ever try that?"

"Ouch," someone muttered from the other side of the table. There was giggling. Madison had no chance against the sass of Chan. He was the Leader of 7 chaotic men, who where Teenagers when they started. He knew exactly how to put someone in their place.

You hid a smile in your drink.

But Madison wasn't done. She leaned toward Chan this time, lips pouting, voice syrupy sweet. "I mean, no offense, but it's just... unexpected. I thought you would go for girls who are, I don't know"

"Shallow?" Chan interrupted smoothly.

She blinked. "No. I was gonna say... bolder. More exciting."

He gave a half-smile, slow and dangerous.

"Trust me," he said without taking his eyes off you, "she's plenty bold. She just doesn't need to prove it by being loud all the time."

That shut her up. The entire table went quiet for a second.

You could feel your face heating, but Chan wasn't done. He turned toward you again, resting his arm along the back of the booth, fingers grazing your shoulder and down your arm.

"You know what I like?" he asked you, eyes still locked with yours.

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"When someone can walk into a room and own it, without even trying." He gave you that soft, lazy grin again. "That's hot."

You bit your lip, your pulse thudding in your ears.

Madison scoffed under her breath, but no one was paying attention to her anymore. Not when Chan was looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

Then the shots arrived.

"Last round before we get wild," the waitress announced, sliding a tray onto the table.

"Let's make it a toast," Chan said, smoothly grabbing two and handing you one. He raised his glass and looked around the table.

"To good company," he said. "And knowing exactly who's worth your time."

You met his eyes as you both threw back the shot.

It burned, but it wasn't the alcohol making your heart race.

The energy at the table had shifted, less laughter, more heat. You were tucked comfortably into Chan's side now, your legs brushing under the table, the slow burn of tequila pooling warm in your chest. He hadn't taken his eyes off you for more than a few seconds at a time, and every brush of his fingertips against your thigh under the table felt like a secret promise.

Madison, clearly not used to being ignored, was on her third attempt to interrupt the vibe.

She leaned in again with a sugar-sweet smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So, Chan... tell us, what's your type now?"

You didn't flinch. You didn't have to. Chan beat you to it.

"Madison," he said lazily, his voice thick with amusement, "you'd have to know my type to recognize it."

She bristled. "And I don't?"

He turned his head slightly toward her, but his hand stayed firmly on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, possessive circles, going up to the hem of your dress. They couldn't even see that, but he continued anyway. "If you did," he said, voice dipping lower, "you'd stop assuming it was you."

The table went dead silent for a beat again.

Someone choked on her drink again.

"Oof—damn," someone muttered.

Madison's eyes flicked to you, her smile now a tight line.

„But she is? She's not the usual kind of flashy girl, a idol would want to be with."

Chan just grinned, wide, cocky, like he was thriving on the tension. He leaned in close to you, but said it loud enough for the table to hear:

"That's the point."

You felt your pulse stutter as his fingers tightened slightly on your leg. His thumb now under the soft fabric of your minidress, making you almost press your thighs together.

"I don't do 'usual,'" he added, biting his lip softly while staring at yours dangerously.

"I do addictive."

His voice dropped, rough and intimate, just for you, even though the entire table was pretending not to listen. His thumb slipped a little higher under the fabric of your dress, dragging heat along your skin.

You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck betraying you as he leaned in, slow, deliberate. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, his breath a warm tease against your skin.

"And you, ..." His words came out low and sinful. "You're already ruining me since the day Minho brought you into the company."

Your breath hitched, involuntarily pressing your thighs closer together. His smirk deepened at the movement, eyes darkening like he owned the reaction. Was all this still acting? You couldn't believe this could be real. It was way too perfect to be real.

Meanwhile, Madison was sitting in stunned silence across the table, trying to pretend she wasn't watching every second. Chan didn't even spare her a glance now, his world narrowed to you.

You turned slightly to meet his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Chan..."

"Mmh," he hummed, brushing the tip of his nose along your cheek.

„Channie please... I'm... You...", but you couldn't form a whole sentence, when his hand was less than an inch from your core, still moving up, and you tried to calm yourself. The lace panties were definitely already ruined, even though he didn't do anything.

„If you say my name like that one more time I probably can't stop..."

Your cheeks flushed, but it wasn't from embarrassment. It was the way he said it, full of quiet, restrained chaos. Like he knew exactly what he could do to you, what he would do to you, and was enjoying every second of the buildup. But if this was over and he knew that you on your part weren't acting at all... You could never ever look him in the eyes again.

„You don't have to pretend anymore... I think it's enough", you whispered as soon as Madison chatted with another girl, glancing still at you two.

His eyes were immediately on yours again. You could see the effect the alcohol already had on him, but his eyes were clear, honest. But he didn't respond. There was confusion in his face.

"Fuck it," he muttered suddenly, pulling back with a smug grin as he stood up and reached for your hand. "We're getting out of here."

"Where are you going?" Madison snapped, eyes narrowing.

Chan didn't even look at her.

"Somewhere worth my time."

He pulled you with him, a protective hand low on your back, guiding you through the crowd. The alcohol was buzzing through your system, but it wasn't what made your head spin. It was him. His voice, his touch, the way he owned every room, every look, you.

"Wanna dance?" he asked softly while leading you to the dance floor.

You blinked. "Now?"

"Were at a Club right?," he said, already standing, holding his hand out to you. "Come on. Just a few songs."

You took it.

The music hit you the second you stepped onto the dance floor, warm bass, thudding beat, flickering lights. Chan didn't hesitate. He pulled you close, one hand resting low on your waist, the other brushing your hair back.

The music pulsed through your body, thick bass reverberating through the floor as the club lights painted flashes of red and blue across Chan's face. You were both tipsy, laughing harder than you should at something stupid he whispered into your ear, but the warmth of his hand on your lower back wasn't something you could blame on the drinks.

It was deliberate. Possessive. Hot.

You moved with him, teased each other until your hip rolled against his. You could hear him silently hissing, but his moves were fluent, experienced and very very distracting.

Even though no one was watching you anymore.

Chan leaned in close, his breath hot against your cheek as the beat shifted to something darker, slower. His voice rumbled against your skin, low and wrecked.

"I really couldn't believe you're that blind before tonight..."

You blinked up at him as he twirled you around, lips parted as your breath hitched, your body already melting into his. You stumbled against his chest confused.

"What?" you dared.

He didn't answer. Instead, his hand slid up your sides, until it was wrapped tight around your waist, drawing you flush against him. His hips moved with yours, slow and dirty, like the music was just for the two of you.

And then he said it.

"You think I was just acting earlier?"

His mouth brushed your ear now, every word setting fire to your skin.

"You think I flirted with you at that table just because I had to play along?" He tilted your chin up, making you look him dead in the eye. "Y/N, I've had a crush on you for months. And I thought it was obvious..."

Your breath caught.

His lips ghosted across your cheek, barely touching.

"But I just didn't dare to tell you, since you didn't do anything about it. I figured someone like you wouldn't even look at me twice."

"You're insane," you whispered. You couldn't even believe one word he was saying.

"And you're drunk," he smirked. "Which is the only reason I'm even telling you this now, because tomorrow, I'm gonna pretend I didn't after you finally rejected me."

Your hands were firmly closed around his neck, and you still waited to finally wake up from this unreal dream.

„I had no idea... I thought you're just friendly. I thought I'm not your type... You're lying right? You’re trying to tease me? That's not funny Chan!"

You could feel him chuckling deeply and for at least a few seconds, then he pulled you even closer, his hands brushing up your sides, his thumbs pressing into your skin right under your boobs. He pushed you backwards until you were a bit aside, only a few people were standing or sitting in the back area of the dance floor.

The music wasn't that loud here and Chan wanted to make sure you'd hear every word he would say. You were standing in a lightly lit corner, him still holding you tight. You felt his firm stomach pressed against your body and just looked at him stunned.

You were flushed from dancing and just the right amount of tipsy, when you turned to find Chan watching you not with his usual soft gaze, this time it was darker. Intense. Like he was done pretending.

His eyes closed for a second like he was at war with himself. Then he looked down at you, slow, dragging, and everything he'd ever hidden was suddenly there, plain as day.

"You really didn't know?" he asked, voice low, wrecked.

"That every time you hugged me, I had to fight not to touch you like I wanted to?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

"That when you wore that black dress to the company party a year ago, I had to sit with my hands in my lap the entire night?"

He let out a dry, soft laugh.

"I got hard just looking at you. Couldn't even get up without embarrassing myself."

You swallowed hard, heat coiling in your stomach.

„Chan..."

"I've wanted you for so long it's fucking embarrassing," he said, stepping in even closer, chest pressed against yours.

"I'd leave Aftershow-parties early because you were dancing with the backup dancers and I couldn't take it. I'd lie awake thinking about your body, your laugh, the way you look when you're mad at me."

Your hand pressed against his chest instinctively, either to steady yourself or make sure he wouldn't vanish.

"I used to jerk off in the shower after hugging you, every time after you did my makeup, standing so close in your small tops and shorts," he said, voice barely above a whisper now, eyes locked on your mouth.

He pushed you further back, until your back hit the wall and you were completely at his mercy.

"And then show up the next day at the concert pretending nothing happened."

You felt the breath leave your lungs in one slow exhale, your thighs clenching together as heat rushed down your spine.

"Fuck, Chan..."

"I wasn't acting tonight," he added, his fingers brushing the side of your ribs, up until his thumb brushed over your nipple.

"Not for a second. I wasn't trying to make anyone jealous. I just... finally let myself touch you the way I wanted."

Everything rushed back to you in flashes, his hands on your body while hugging you, the looks he gave you, when you talked about your dates with random guys, the low murmur in your ear, his fingers under your dress earlier at the table.

Every smirk. Every stare. Every time he'd pulled away like it was taking every ounce of willpower. His small comments you never took seriously when you wore your new outfits at work. His friendly teasing when he'd say things like "You're lucky I have self-control" when you showed up in a tight dress you wore only for him, or "You keep looking at me like that and I might forget we're just friends." You laughed it off, not realizing how close he was to meaning every word.

You thought he was just a flirt. Just smooth.

But he'd been losing his mind over you this whole time.

"You hid it so well," you whispered.

He smirked, stepping even closer.

„No, doll. You just weren't paying attention."

As his hands touched your boobs, desperately like he wanted this to happen for a long time, you leaned your head against the wall, looking up at him pleading.

„I can't believe it... It's just that I had a crush on you for years now. And you never gave me anything. It felt like you weren't even aware I'm right there!"

He sighed, looked at the ground for a moment, before his hand wandered to your cheek, caressing your jaw, until he touched your lips softly.

"All those times I pulled away? It wasn't because I didn't feel it. It was because I felt too much."

You swallowed, breath catching.

"I'd touch you, and my whole body would react. I couldn't hug you too long without having to hide how much I wanted you. When you dabbed my sweat away in the middle of shooting M/Vs or when you just sat next to me during movie nights at the dorm..."

His voice was deeper now, rough.

"You'd wear those damn skirts and look at me like I was your boss, talk to me like I was your best friend sometimes, and I'd have to act like I wasn't going crazy."

You blinked at him, overwhelmed by the honesty dripping from every word.

"I tried to be respectful. I tried to be good. But God, every time you laughed, or leaned against me, or whispered something in my ear... I wanted you, thought about bending you over the next surface and finally fucking you like you deserve it…“

He stepped so close you could feel the heat of his body. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, the other other one grabbed your hip again.

"I still want you. So much it fucking hurts."

You let out a shaky breath, trying to keep the walls up.

Your breath hitched.

"I know it's a lot," he added quickly. "I just couldn't watch her tear you down. Not when she doesn't even see you. Not when she has no idea what it means to be loved the way you should be."

Silence bloomed between you, loud and sacred.

„I have dreamed of this for so long... I thought it could never happen. I thought I was imagining things."

"That's my fault," he whispered, forehead resting against yours. "I thought I was protecting you. Protecting us. But I just ended up hurting both of us instead."

You closed your eyes, your heart thudding violently in your chest. Every part of you wanted to believe him. Every part of you wanted to just fall.

„If you don't believe me yet..."

His voice got clearer again, and when you opened your eyes again he shielded you completely from the world. He grabbed your hand and pushed it suddenly against the bulge in his pants. Your eyes widened as you felt how big it felt under your fingertips.

„That's what you're doing to me. This whole evening, all the time..."

He watched you closely, his breath against your lips as you felt his rock hard dick even through his pants.

"Let me make it up to you," he growled, his voice a low rasp against your lips.

„Let me show you what I've been holding back."

You breath stuttered and this time he didn't pull away. His lips crashed on yours but you were already pulling him down into you.

Your mouths crashed together like tension snapping. Desperate. Starved. His hands buried in your hair, yours gripping the collar of his shirt as your bodies pressed and ground against each other like you were trying to crawl inside his skin.

It was hot. Too hot.

You tore away first, gasping.

"I, I need air."

Chan didn't say anything, just grabbed your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and pulled you toward the exit.

You had to pass the booth where Madison sat, and of course, she clocked you immediately.

"Wait a second!" she called out, standing halfway. "Please, just sit with us for a little bit. I want to sort things out. Really."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden plea.

But before you could even think of answering, Chan stepped in front of you, solid, steady, like a wall. Protective in a way that made you want to rip his clothes off right now.

He looked at Madison the way someone looks at a child who doesn't know the damage they're doing. A little pity. A little disbelief. And zero tolerance.

"There's nothing to sort out, Madison," he said calmly, though there was a razor-sharp edge beneath his voice.

„She wasted enough time, trying to be the better person and giving you another chance..."

Her mouth opened like she wanted to argue, but the way Chan's arm slid around your waist and pulled you in close made her freeze. He wasn't subtle. He didn't want to be.

"I'll take her somewhere, were her talents, her hard work and her amazing personality is appreciated," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers.

Madison flushed, jaw tight.

But Chan didn't flinch. Didn't soften.

He leaned in closer to you, hand at the small of your back.

"Come on, baby. Let's go."

You let him lead you past her, heart pounding at the pet name, the heat of his body, the absolute certainty in the way he chose you without hesitation.

And as you walked away, you didn't even need to look back.

Because for the first time, you knew you were the one being fought for.

Outside, the night air hit your skin like a shock, but Chan's warmth was already wrapping around you again.

The night was sharp and cool, the wind biting at your flushed skin. You stumbled into the alleyway beside the club, laughing breathlessly. He steadied you with both hands on your hips.

"You okay?" he asked, a little too soft, a little too close again for you to keep your sanity.

You nodded.

"Tipsy. But fine."

He arched a brow. "Still think I was acting?"

He slipped out of his Jacket and put it over you shoulders, engaging you with his scent.

You shot him a half-lidded look, lips curling. "You're still flirting."

"That's not flirting." He grinned like the devil and stepped into you, pushing you gently back against the brick wall. His hand slid up under the jacket, fingers dragging up your bare thigh.

"This is me losing control."

You were drunk, yes. But you felt everything.

His mouth brushed your jaw, kissing down to your neck with infuriating slowness. You tilted your head back, sighing as his teeth grazed your skin.

"You're dangerous," you breathed.

"Yeah," he whispered. "But only for you."

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him closer. "What are we doing, Chan?"

He looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole.

"Getting a cab. And then..." His smirk returned, but it was darker this time, tinged with heat. "Taking you home."

You felt beautiful.

You felt wanted.

And you kissed him.

Right there, under the streetlights in a dark alley, in the middle of the night, while every inch of you screamed that this moment was real. You kissed him because you'd wanted to for so long. Because no one had ever looked at you the way he was now. Because you needed him to know that even if you didn't feel like enough tonight, you still wanted to be his.

And when you pulled back, he smiled like he already knew.

"Come on," he said. "My place. Now."

He couldn't wait a second longer. He couldn't think of anything else than ripping that damn dress off.

You just nodded.

And when he kissed you this time, finally, fully, like he'd been starving for it, it was everything but gentle.

You tiptoed barefoot behind Chan through the dim hallway, your heels in your hands, the quiet creak of the floorboards under your weight sounding way too loud in the silence of the late hour. You already visited the dorm of the boys but you were mostly at Minhos, Felix, I.N and Seungmins dorm for movie nights.

"Shhh," Chan whispered, shooting you a wicked little grin over his shoulder as he guided you through the apartment like a thief.

„They're all asleep. Hopefully."

Hyunjin, Changbin and Han would be definitely at home since they had some days off after the last concerts. It would be way too complicated to explain what was going on with you and Chan at the moment.

You passed the living room, and there, half-sprawled on the couch under a blanket, you spotted Han, clearly tangled up with someone.

You pressed your hand against your mouth while staring at them.

His hand was buried in someone's hair, soft moans slipping past his lips while there was a fierce makeout-session going on. Netflix already asked if they're still watching but that wasn't the case obviously. There were clothes laying everywhere around, hard breathing and kissing sounds echoed in the dark room.

You blinked, stunned and suddenly Chan grabbed your hand before you could look closer.

"Don't stare. Trust me, you don't wanna know," he muttered under his breath, lips quirking.

You didn't even get the chance to wonder who the hell Han was pressed up against before Chan yanked you forward and slipped the both of you into his bedroom. He shut the door with a soft click, locking it.

Silence. A soft, red glow from the LED-lights in Chans room. It smelled like cedar and clean linen and him.

Then a breath. Then him, suddenly everywhere.

He shoved you back against the door before you could take another step, his body pinning you with an urgency that set your skin on fire.

"You almost ruined me," he growled lowly, his hand wrapping around your throat just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken. "All those nights thinking about you, all those moments I had to bite my tongue instead of dragging you into a corner and making you mine."

His lips crashed onto yours, and this kiss wasn't sweet as before, it was messy, possessive, pure need. His other hand was already hiking your dress up, fingers bruising into your thigh as he lifted your leg around his waist.

"You know how hard it was?" he rasped against your lips. "You'd touch my face, my body while working on those stage-outfits and I'd have to hold back, pretend I didn't want to fuck you against the nearest wall. Pretend I wasn't hard the entire time."

"Chan—"

"No. Tonight, you listen and won't doubt a second how much you're wanted."

His eyes burned into yours, hand slipping into your hair and tugging your head back just enough for his lips to drag down your neck.

"I'm not holding back anymore."

He dragged you to the bed, pushed you down gently, but the glint in his eyes was anything but soft. The dark edge in his gaze made your pulse spike as he crawled over you, slow and controlled like a predator savoring his prey.

Chan grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, while the other traced down the side of your face, your throat, your chest, until you were writhing beneath him.

"I'm gonna wreck you, baby," he whispered against your ear, teeth grazing your lobe. "So no one else ever gets to look at you and wonder what you taste like. What you sound like."

Your breath caught, your thighs pressed together, the heat between them unbearable now. His fingers slid between them without warning, two, confident and slow, teasing, curling just enough to make you gasp and arch.

"And you'll take it, won't you?" he growled, lips bruising against your neck as he moved faster, darker.

"You'll let me ruin you."

And god, you wanted to let him.

Your moan broke open in the dark, echoing in his room like a confession.

„You're that wet for me? And I didn't even know all evening."

He growled, pushing his fingers deep into you before he pushed them into his mouth, tasting you, looking at you from above. You couldn't move with your hands pinned against the mattress.

„You taste even better than I imagined, doll."

You looked him straight into the eyes, your breath going slowly.

„I have touched myself too, you know", you breathed, while he opened your legs with his knee. Watching how your dress slid up, exposing your ass, your soft thighs and the black lace panties which were soaked already.

„Tell me", he demanded, enjoying the desperate whimpering, as he pushed his knee right onto your core.

Then he let go of you, unbuttoned his shirt and threw it aside. You straightened up, eyes wandering all over his abs. Which you adored every time he changed during concerts, when you brought him his clothes.

„When you were changing at concerts or running around half naked in the backstage, pretending you didn't notice the looks you got from all the female staff-members... Or the one time I told you about the terrible date I had..."

He raised his eyebrows.

„The stupid background dancer? I was so jealous back then..."

You nodded, kneeling next to Chan, touching his shoulders, letting your fingers slide over his chest, his abs, down to the hem of his pants.

„The date went terribly wrong because I moaned your name while making out..."

His eyes widened and he grabbed your hips, lifting you up on his lap like a toy.

„That's why he couldn't look me in the eye since...", he laughed, pushing the straps of your dress of your shoulders, kissing your chest while kneading your ass in his hands.

Your little pants were like rewards for him.

„I also touched myself at night, after movie-nights at the dorm. We all we're squeezed together on that small couch, you accidentally touched my tits, my thighs, my back while watching the movie... I was so horny that night."

Softly he brushed your hair out of your forehead.

„I had no idea... I would have let you sleep at my bed and took care of you. But didn't you sleep in Minhos bed that night?"

You cheeks immediately turned red, your ears glowing, while that damn knowing smile of Chan almost made you shy.

„I touched myself when he was asleep next to me... I'm still embarrassed."

But Chan grabbed your chin and pushed his middle against your core to prove his point.

„That's so fucking hot."

He watched your body, and his eyes were shimmering with arousal.

„Strip for me, babygirl and tell me everything I missed during all this time."

He leaned back, as soon as you climbed off his lap and it was crazy to finally tell him all your dirty secrets.

Sensual you started to slip out of your dress, while he watched every move, unbuttoning his pants.

„I'd would always watch you rehearse from the back of the studio or through a cracked door, pretending to be just passing by. But the way you moved, confident and raw, sweat dripping down your neck and your shirt clung to your body... You had no idea, did you? Every time I watched you dance, I could barely breathe."

Your voice was soft and he just shook his head, his eyes wandering all over you body, as you stripped your dress off.

"After concerts you'd sit so close to me, shirt soaked, still catching your breath... and I'd just nod along, pretending I wasn't dying to touch you."

Your lace underwear was hugging your body smoothly. Making him sigh: „so fucking sexy"

Under his breath, while you were taking your bra off, throwing it at the floor.

He reached out, wanted to touch your tits, but you just smiled, fought of his hands and let him struggle for a bit more.

He imagined them in his hands for so long, squeezing and touching them until you'd beg him to fuck you.

But you weren't done.

„You remember those 2 a.m. calls right after those first big events I worked at? Your voice were enough to drive me crazy."

Where his voice was low, gravelly, intimate. You'd talk about anything and everything.

And you'd lie on your bed, completely turned on, fantasizing about him saying those same things with his hands on you.

"You'd talk to me like I was special. Whisper things. And I'd be there... hand between my legs, biting your name into my pillow", you added and he couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed your waist, ripped your panties off of you, and watched your body as you were standing between his legs.

„That time at the airport, you put your arm around me to guide me through the crowd, the chaos there. You always touched me like you owned me, and I hated how much I wanted it to be real", you breathed and whimpered suddenly as he spread your legs with his.

His hands grabbed your hips until your cunt hovered in front of his face.

„I told you I'll make all that up to you. I'll make you moan my name every day", he muttered and you sinked your nails into his neck, when he suddenly sucked on your glistening pussy, holding you up straight while licking through your folds, making your legs already shake. But when his tongue entered you, you couldn't stop whimpering like a kitten.

You could feel his smile against your core, his nose bumping against your clit while he was eating you out.

„Channie please please..."

You couldn't stop bubbling when he finally looked up at you.

„Say it! Come on babygirl."

He licked your juices off of his lips, his hands wrapped around your thighs.

„Fuck me, Chan. Please fuck me."

And that was it.

He grabbed your arms, pushed them on your back and forced you onto the mattress in seconds.

A startled gasp tearing from your throat while your face was pressed into his sheets.

"Did you think I brought you here to play nice?" he snarled into your ear, voice low, rough, a sound that made your knees weaken.

His body caged you in, one hand around your throat, just enough pressure to make you moan, while the other slid up your thigh, dragging your legs apart. Your ass in the air, so he could use you like he imagined it so many times.

You could hear how he got rid of his pants and underwear and then he grabbed your face, pulled you to his chest and you could already feel the size of his dick against your ass.

You barely managed a whisper his name before his mouth was on yours, not kissing, devouring. Tongue demanding entrance, teeth nipping hard at your bottom lip until you tasted blood and moaned against him.

"Been dreaming about ruining you," he muttered, hand sliding between your legs, forcing you on all fours. "Making you cry on my cock. You have no idea the fucking self-control I've had to keep."

His fingers slipped into you, slow at first, but deep, like he wanted to make you feel the weight of every second he'd waited. He growled when he felt how wet you got already with every move he made.

"Fuck. You're dripping for me."

You tried to reach for him, desperate, but he caught your wrists and pushed them on your back, pushing your chest against the mattress, hands trapped  painfully in one of his. The other hand stretched you even more when he added another finger.

You gasped as his palm landed hard on your ass, the sound echoing in the dark room, your body jerking forward against the headboard.

"Count," he growled. "If you lose track, I start over."

"One," you gasped.

Another slap, sharper.

"Two."

"Good girl. You look so fucking good like this," he hissed, voice dark with hunger. He watched the red mark on your soft skin he left. "All mine. I want to mark you up so bad they'll see it tomorrow. The members won't even need to ask."

He was harder than you'd ever seen anyone, panting against your neck as he grinded himself into your bare ass, not even inside you yet, and already cursing under his breath like he was going to lose it.

"You feel that?" he rasped, letting you grind back against his cock. "This is what you do to me. Every time you walked in wearing those little skirts, every time you hugged me and pressed that perfect body against me, I had to go jerk off in the fucking shower just to breathe before I could go on stage."

You whimpered, needy and wrecked and still untouched.

"Please," you whispered, voice shaking. "I want you."

"Oh, baby," he said, pulling his belt free from his pants a slow, lethal hiss of leather. "You're gonna feel how much I want you."

After just a blink of an eye he tied your hands up on your back.

„I want you to cry my name. So every time you'll call my name from now on, I'll think of you, tied up, with my cock pounding into your perfect little cunt."

And with that you felt his tip at your entrance. It was too big, you already knew that. When he pushed himself into you, starting to fuck you so good, you were already seeing stars, you couldn't stop moaning his name like a mantra.

Chan groaned deep in his chest, hips slamming forward as he buried himself fully. His hands gripped your hips hard, pulling you back onto him with every thrust like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough. Like he was trying to carve himself into you.

"Fuck—" he growled, voice shaking. "You feel like heaven. You were made for me, weren't you?"

You could barely answer, your words melted into gasps and broken sounds as he set a relentless pace, every snap of his hips pushing you closer to that edge. You were completely exposed to him. Hands tied, body trembling, senses overloaded. But never once did you feel unsafe, because every brutal thrust was laced with something else. Something raw. Desperate.

Need.

"God, you have no idea what you've done to me," he rasped into your ear, body flush against your back now, chest slick with sweat. "Every time you smiled at me, every time you greeted me in the morning, I had to bite my fucking tongue just to not show you how bad I wanted you."

You whimpered, unable to form a response when he suddenly reached around, fingers finding your clit and circling it with ruthless precision.

"You think this is just about fucking?" he snarled. "No, baby. This is about all the time I waited. All the nights I hated myself for wanting you this much."

You clenched around him, and he hissed. His rhythm stuttered, just once, and then he pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing, yanking your wrists free from the belt.

"Look at me."

Your eyes locked. His were wild, pupils blown, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

"I'm not hiding anymore," he said roughly. "You want the truth? I was jealous every damn time another guy made you laugh. I was furious when you thought I wanted Madison. And I've been dreaming of you, of this, for so long it drove me insane."

He grabbed your thighs and drove back into you, deeper now, with his forehead against yours.

"You're mine now. Say it."

"I'm yours," you whispered, breathless, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt, the pleasure, the emotion, the years of silence finally breaking.

„I can’t hear you babygirl.“

„I‘m yours!“, you moaned, eyes rolling back as he grabbed your neck again, while the sound of skin slapping got even louder.

"You're goddamn right," he growled. "And I'm not letting you go. Not after this. Not ever."

He kissed you then, rough at first, then slower, softer, full of all the things he'd never said. His hand laced into your hair, the other gripping your waist as he rocked into you, lips dragging down your neck. Fucking you even deeper into the mattress.

When you came undone under him, trembling, crying out his name with tears running down your cheeks, he was right behind you, moaning against your throat like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

And when it was over, and your limbs were tangled with his, your bodies a mess of sweat and bruises and silk sheets, he kissed your temple and whispered:

"You're not imagining this time. I'm here. I'm yours. And I'm not going anywhere."

The next morning, you stirred awake to the warmth of sunlight and a weight that hadn't left your side all night. With a quiet sigh, you turned your head, Chan's face was the first thing you saw. With a pleasant sigh you just noticed again how much you adored his face, puffy and bare. His curls were framing his head chaotically while his lips were plush and so kissable, slightly parted, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.

He must have cleaned you up, since you fell asleep immediately after he hugged you tight and apologised for being that rough all over again.

But you never had better sex in your entire life. You watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, your body still wrapped tightly in his arms, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. When the first sunbeams enlightened the room, you couldn't resist, touching his cheek, his curls and his lips. He didn't look real at all and you couldn't believe the last night happened.

Before you could react, he grabbed your hand with closed eyes and kissed your knuckles.

„You're awake?", you asked smiling and he just groaned sleepy.

„Do you keep going if I say no?"

His morning voice was raspy and let you giggle softly.

He slowly opened his eyes, looked at you with a soft smile and pulled you into his tight embrace.

„How are you feeling?"

You cuddled against him under the sheets, pressing your cheek against his chest.

„Good."

„Just good? I feel like flying."

„Ask me again after I showered", you teased him, and he pinched you softly in the side, what made you squeak.

„But hurry okay? Ich won't let you get far away from me today."

As you stood up and searched for something to wear, he smiled so broadly that the sun didn't even had a chance to compete.

„Sure... Just close your eyes and I'll be back in a second", you answered and slipped into a Shirt from him.

„I hope so... I think I'll need another round to start the day. Your pussy is addicting.“

„You horny menace," you snorted with a teasing grin, throwing a pillow at his head.

Chan caught it effortlessly, eyes trailing down your legs as you made your way toward the door in nothing but the oversized shirt. His shirt. His gaze was dark again, hungry, but playful. "You walking around like that and calling me horny? That's not fair."

You smirked, hand already on the doorknob. "Then close your eyes, Mr. Bang. Or deal with the consequences."

"I will. Later," he murmured under his breath, voice low and thick. "And trust me, there will be consequences."

With heat blooming in your cheeks, and between your thighs, you slipped out of his room, the air in the hallway cooler against your skin.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light left on overnight. Your skin still tingled from the feel of Chan's mouth, his hands, the way he'd claimed you like he'd been waiting for years

The apartment was quiet, only the faint sound of the city outside humming through the windows. You tiptoed down the hallway toward the bathroom when a door creaked open and,

"Shit," you gasped, nearly running into Minhos big and very naked chest.

He was shirtless, his hair a mess, lips slightly swollen, and his eyes wide when he saw you. For a second, neither of you spoke. Your gaze instinctively dropped to the deep scratch marks down his torso, leading all over his back and a very familiar Hoodie in his hands.

Han's hoodie.

Your mouth opened a little.

Minho froze like a deer in headlights, then raised a single brow.

He froze when he saw you. You froze when you saw him. The smell of sex was sticking to you both.

The puzzle pieces clicked, violently.

Minho gave you a long look, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk. "You're not really the sneaky type, you know."

Your cheeks flushed, but you lifted your chin. "You either, apparently."

His brows raised, caught. "Touché."

"Han?" you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged a shoulder, smirk still lingering.

"Oh my God!" you blinked, mouth now fully parted. "You were the one on the couch with Han tonight..."

Minho tilted his head, a sly smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn't exactly hiding it, was I?"

Your cheeks flushed as you remembered what you'd seen the night before, Han tangled up in someone's arms. You hadn't realized it was Minho.

"I thought... I didn't know, you are..." you started, but he just waved a hand.

"Don't overthink it." he added with a smirk.

„Most people don't know... Just Changbin at the moment since he can’t knock on doors like a normal person being... I wanted to tell you, but seems like you had secrets yourself..."

Before you could respond, Han's voice came from inside the room. "Minhooo, honey, come back to bed, your abs look too good to be wasted standing out there."

You raised your brows. "Wow."

Minho shrugged and stared at the shirt you were wearing.

"Yeah."

There was a pause. He slipped Hans Hoodie over his head. For Jisung it was oversized but it fit Minho perfectly.

"I mean, you and Jisung? I knew you two were close, but..."

"Not really public knowledge," he said, now fully dressed but barefoot, raking a hand through his hair.

„But I guess you and Chan aren't exactly trying to stay hidden either."

You blinked. "You... know?"

Minho chuckled under his breath. "Sweetheart, you're wearing his shirt. Just his shirt in fact... Those marks on your wrists are very obvious as well. And I just walked out of Han's room when you sneaked out of his. We're kind of in the same boat."

Just now you realised the red marks on your wrists, which were probably caused by the belt, Chan used.

You crossed your arms.

"You're not worried? About... you know, Chan being your leader? I'm just your stylist."

Minho leaned against the doorframe, eyes glinting. "Should I be? You're not just our stylist. You're my best friend and Chan is family. It could be worse, right?"

You shrugged, uncertain.

He took a step closer.

"Look, whatever's going on with Chan... you're not just some random girl. Trust me, I've seen the way he looks at you."

Your heart fluttered.

"He's all bark usually. But you? You make him lose control. That says something."

You bit your lip, glancing away. "It's just... weird. All of it. I've had feelings for him for so long."

"And now he's the one tangled in you," Minho said softly, with a knowing glance. "About time he made a move. His lovesick blabbering wasn't bearable anymore."

Then, his smirk widened again. "Just... try not to be that noisy next time. We do share walls, you know. Or at least let us join…“

You gasped and slapped his arm, scandalized.

He only laughed and went back to Jisungs room without any further comment.

You slipped quietly back into Chan's room after your shower, the soft creak of the door alerting him. He was sitting up now, shirtless, hair messier than before, his bare chest catching a sliver of morning light.

He looked up instantly, eyes narrowing with gentle concern.

"You okay?"

You nodded, closing the door behind you. "Yeah... just ran into Minho in the hallway."

Chan's brow lifted. "Minho?"

You walked over, crawling back into the sheets, the warmth of his body pulling you back in. His hand instinctively settled on your waist like a magnet, grounding you.

"Yeah," you murmured. "Apparently, he spent the night with Han."

There was a pause. Then—

"...What?"

You looked up at him, lips curving. "I know. I thought I was being scandalous sneaking out of your room. Turns out there was a secret relationship in front of us all this time."

Chan blinked, then burst out laughing, chest shaking beneath your cheek. "Han and Minho? Seriously? They spent the night? Like fucking and stuff?"

"I literally walked in on Minho sneaking out with Han's hoodie. There were scratches all over his body..."

"Oh my god," he groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. "That little punk didn't tell me anything. Both of them... I thought Han was seeing a girl secretly."

Chan exhaled deeply, then gave a dry laugh. "That little shit. No wonder they've been acting weird the last few weeks."

You tilted your head. "You really didn't notice?"

"I thought they were just being... clingy. Han's always affectionate towards Minho, and Minho's Minho, he acts like he's annoyed but leans into it anyway."

You looked up at him, mischief playing at the edge of your mouth. "What if he says the same about us?"

Chan tilted his head, eyes darkening. "There's a difference. I want everyone to know."

Your heart stuttered.

He said it so casually, but the possessiveness in his tone sent heat through you.

"I told Minho," you said softly, watching his expression carefully, "That this wasn't just random. That it's... serious to me."

His gaze locked with yours, something deeper flickering behind the dark brown. "Did you?"

You nodded. "I said you weren't just some fling. Because you're not. And I've had feelings for you for way too long to pretend this is casual."

Chan reached for you then, dragging you fully into his lap, hands gripping your thighs. "Say that again."

"What part?"

"The part where I'm not just some fling."

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his jaw. "You're not. You've never been."

His grip tightened. "I swear, I've been going insane wanting you. Knowing you were right there all this time, acting like you didn't see what you were doing to me."

You smiled against his skin. "You didn't make it easy either."

He pulled back, brushing his lips against yours without kissing you. "I didn't want you to feel like that... But now? Now I'll make damn sure no one else gets the chance."

His words were low, heated, edged with that same fire that had pulled you under last night.

You pressed your forehead to his. "You jealous of Minho and Han stealing the scandal spotlight?"

He growled softly. "Jealous that they got to touch each other last night... while you were in my bed screaming for me? Never.“

You shivered.

Chan's lips curled. "Now be a good girl and remind me what you were wearing when you ran into Minho..."

You laughed. "Your shirt."

"Damn right."

⸻

[zoe535]

Someone to Love

Part 3

Pazzixmoms

The emergency room smelled like antiseptic and anxiety. Azzi sat with Zaya clutched tightly to her chest, her hoodie pulled around her like armor, eyes darting every time someone coughed or a monitor beeped. Paige was next to her, one hand wrapped around her shoulder, the other fiddling anxiously with the strap of the diaper bag.

“She’s not crying anymore,” Azzi whispered, like that fact itself was terrifying. “That’s... probably good?” Paige said, but even her voice wavered.

Azzi shook her head. “She was screaming. Then she stopped. I don't think that’s normal Paige.” Paige leaned closer. “You did the right thing coming here.”

“I didn’t do anything right,” Azzi said. “I panicked. I freaked out. She was gagging and arching her back as if she was in pain and I—God, I thought something was really wrong.”

“You’re not supposed to have all the answers, Az,” Paige said gently. “That’s why we have doctors.” Azzi didn’t reply. She was too busy counting Zaya’s breaths. Each tiny inhale felt like a miracle.

After what felt like hours (it was 20 minutes), a nurse called them in. Paige carried the diaper bag and the portable car seat while Azzi followed, bouncing Zaya gently in her arms, whispering the same quiet reassurance over and over: “You’re okay. You’re okay. Mommy’s got you.”

They were led to a small pediatric room, where the overhead lights were too bright and the exam table looked too big for someone so tiny. Azzi didn’t want to lay Zaya down.

“Let me hold her for this” she said quickly, her voice raw.

The nurse gave her a kind look and nodded. “That’s totally fine, Mom knows best.”

Azzi blinked at the word.

Mom.

Her.

She swallowed.

The nurse gently took Zaya’s temperature, listened to her breathing, felt her belly. The baby whined, kicked softly, but didn’t cry. “Any fever?” the nurse asked.

“No, I dont think so. Just nonstop screaming, weird gasping, arching her back...” Azzi rattled it all off in a single breath.

“Has she been feeding?” “She tries,” Paige said. “But she’ll latch, suck for like five seconds, then cry. Like it hurts.” The nurse nodded, scribbled notes, and smiled softly. “You’re not alone. Let me grab the doctor.”

Azzi looked at Paige as soon as she left. “Do you think I brought her for nothing?” “No,” Paige said firmly. “She looked like she was in pain. You trusted your instincts. That’s what moms do.” “I feel like I’m messing everything up.” “Baby...You’re not.”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just rocked Zaya back and forth, back and forth, her eyes never leaving her baby’s face.

The pediatrician came in five minutes later. Young, kind-eyed, and calm in a way that made both of them feel like maybe the floor wouldn’t fall out from under them.

He introduced himself, then gently took over the exam. Zaya didn’t like it—she started crying again the moment he pressed on her belly—but the doctor remained calm.

“I know this is hard to see,” he said. “But the good news is, she’s strong. Her lungs are working just fine.”

“What about the back arching?” Azzi asked quickly. “And the way she curled up, and screamed like—like she was in pain—”

He nodded. “It sounds like colic. Possibly a touch of reflux, too.”

Paige frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Basically, her digestive system is still maturing. Some babies experience intense discomfort from gas, trapped air, or acid moving up from their stomachs. It’s not dangerous, but it feels awful for them. And for you.”

Azzi’s eyes filled. “So... she’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” he confirmed gently. “She’s uncomfortable, not unwell.”

Azzi let out a breath that trembled into a sob. Paige reached for her hand immediately.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” the doctor added. “Colic is common. This is not a reflection on your parenting.”

“But she’s in pain,” Azzi whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “And that’s heartbreaking. But you’re doing everything right by being here. We’ll give you some tips on soothing techniques—gas drops, upright feeding, baby massage. This will pass. I promise.”

He wrote down instructions and left them with pamphlets. As soon as he stepped out, Azzi leaned against Paige and cried silently. Paige held her tightly, Zaya tucked between them like the smallest, fussiest heartbeat in the world.

They left the hospital just before midnight.

°~°~°~°

Back home, the house was dim and quiet. Azzi changed into an oversized shirt and flopped onto the couch while Paige laid Zaya gently in the bassinet—only for her to start crying again within seconds.

Azzi sat up. “I got it—”

“No,” Paige said quickly, already scooping the baby back up. “You rest. Just... give me a shift, okay?”

Azzi looked torn. “Are you sure?” “Positive. You need a break. Like, a real one. Let me do this.” Azzi hesitated—but her body gave her no choice. She nodded, then laid back down with a soft exhale. “Wake me up if she gets worse,” she mumbled. “I will.”

Paige smiled and headed to the nursery. Zaya fussed in her arms, squirming, making tiny angry noises as Paige sat down in the rocking chair and turned on the low humming sound machine.

“Alright, Zay-Zay,” she whispered. “It’s you and me tonight.”

She tried walking. Rocking. Swaddling. Laying her on her forearm in the classic colic hold. It worked for five minutes, then Zaya started again.

Tiny legs attempted to kick. Her little belly tensed. “It’s okay,” Paige murmured. “You’re okay.”

She warmed a towel and gently pressed it against Zaya’s stomach, just like the doctor had suggested. That seemed to help. The crying softened.

“Good girl,” Paige whispered. She rocked her again, humming softly. Not a lullaby—just something slow, off-key, but constant. Zaya whimpered. Then settled.

By the time Azzi peeked in two hours later, Paige was still rocking—eyes barely open, Zaya asleep against her chest. “You’re still up?” Azzi asked softly. “Barely,” Paige whispered back, smiling. “You’re a superhero.”

“Shh. You’ll make me blush.” Azzi crossed the room and kissed her temple. “Thank you. I mean it.” She said as she gave her a soft kiss on the lips.

“Anytime,” Paige said, eyes closing. “This is what we do.”

°~°~°~°

Morning came gently, quietly almost too quiet. Zaya was still asleep. For now.

Azzi stood by the doorway of the nursery, arms folded over her chest, just watching. Paige slept curled up in the rocking chair, head back, one arm loosely around the baby.

The room was filled with soft light.

Azzi smiled.

This wasn’t what she imagined motherhood would be like. Not even close. But this—this chaos, this exhaustion, this deep, aching love—it was real. And it was theirs.

She walked over, knelt down beside them, and whispered, “Switch with me. Your turn to sleep.” Paige stirred. “Is it tomorrow already?” Azzi chuckled. “Something like that.”

She lifted Zaya gently and carried her into the living room. She laid her down on her chest as she curled up on the couch, watching the soft rise and fall of her breathing.

Zaya made a tiny noise and wriggled, but didn’t wake. Azzi rested her hand on her back, her eyes fluttering shut. Her mind finally quiet.

Azzi finally got a little peace in all the turmoil that has been happening in her life these past few days.

She watched Paige as she went upstairs, wondering how she got so lucky.

[divadepreshawn]

𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader ×popstar

Okay, that was a little thing I wrote now just to advance the story further. FaceTime is definitely going to be a recurring thing You went on tour WC: 1 324 This was a little idea I had while washing the dishes, don't take it too seriously. part six

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10:00 PM

“Where are you right now?” he asks, his voice low and focused, his gaze briefly shifting from the open file to the computer screen.

“In Stockholm,” you reply, shuffling through a pile of disorganized papers in front of you. The hotel room is quiet, the heavy curtains muffling the sounds of the city. You pause for a second to pull on your sweatshirt. “For now. I’m catching a flight to Brussels early tomorrow.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Shouldn’t you be home too?” you reply with a smile.

“Okay, fair enough. Jack’s with Haley this week. I’m trying to get ahead on the paperwork and… keep my mind busy.”

“You want to keep my mind busy? That’s great, because I have a million things to tell you.” You shift in your chair, giving up trying to find the paper you needed. “Did you know that almost a third of Stockholm is covered by water?”

He stops writing and turns to look at you. “No, I didn’t.”

You continue to gesture dramatically with your hands. “They have fifty-seven bridges. Fifty-seven! It’s like a civil engineer’s paradise.”

“I really don’t know how you find time to learn this stuff,” he says, shaking his head with that half-smile that makes you want to get on a plane and face an eleven-hour flight.

You shrug. “I find time for a lot of things.”

“I see.”

The last week has been… interesting. You’ve gone on a date with an FBI agent, poured your insecurities out to him, and kissed him.

And now you’re on a FaceTime call with him. Everything is normal. Clearly a sequence that would exist in some kind of manual in the magazines you read as a teenager.

You hadn’t exactly named your relationship. But after the conversation at the restaurant, it was clear that you needed to take it slow—test the waters first. And if everything went wrong, you could still have a friend. A good friend, by the way. Someone who understood you. Someone you could count on, knowing that he wouldn't charge more than you could offer. But looking at him now…

His shirt was slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the defined arms that were usually hidden under the fabric. His tie was loose and almost careless.

Being honest? You were tempted to break the deal and ask him to marry you.

He notices your sudden silence, putting down his pen completely, paying full attention to you now. “What is it?”

You bite your lip, trying to contain a smile that threatens to escape. “Nothing.”

“You're lying.”

“Damn profiler.” You roll your eyes, feigning impatience. “I was just looking at the decor in your office. Did you actually read all those books?”

He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest with an amused smile on his lips. “No, I haven’t read them all. Now are you going to tell me what you’re really thinking or do you need to be formally interrogated?”

Your gaze immediately drops to his arms – you wonder if he’s doing this on purpose just to test your sanity.

You blink your eyes in mock innocence. “It depends.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Of what?”

“Can you turn off the cameras in the interrogation room? If so, what material is the table made of? Is it sturdy? Can you guarantee that no one will peek through the mirror?”

The surprise quickly passes over his face, replaced by a crooked, curious smile. “What exactly are you insinuating?”

“Insinuating? Me?” You place a hand on your chest. “Please, Hotchner. This is field research. I’m developing a paper.”

His laughter bursts out from the other side – without any attempt at restraint. He tilts his head back for a second, his eyes closing briefly – trying to assimilate what you just said.

“You’re impossible,” he said, his voice still thick with laughter. “A paper, yes? Where will it be published?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Unfortunately, it’s confidential. But I can send you a copy.”

“Please include graphs, I want to understand the methodology.” He quickly looked away to the corner of the screen, checking the time. His brow furrowed then. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest so you could write some tomorrow?”

“Yes,” you agree, reaching for your notebook. “I’m doing that right now.”

He narrows his eyes, trying to decipher if you were serious or just joking.

“Are you going to try writing now?”

“Yes,” you repeat with a smile. “You’re a good inspiration. In fact, so good that I could freestyle it right now.”

He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, a skeptical – and amused – glint in his eyes. “Freestyle? I need to see that.”

You rest your notebook on your knee, already opening your phone to choose one of the bases Lana sent you. “Okay. But you can’t laugh.”

“Okay, I won’t.” He raises his hands like an oath.

“Okay, tell me a word, anything.”

He looks around the office, as if it were part of a criminal observation exercise. Your eyes wander over the table, papers scattered around, until they stop at a small snow globe on the shelf next to it. “Christmas.”

“May baby Jesus forgive me.” You mumble before pressing play on the audio.

“Think I only want you under my mistletoe I might change your contact to Has a Huge North Pole You said you like my stockings better on the floor Boy, I've been a bad girl, I guess I'm getting coal, oh”

He frowns, before his eyes widen a little. A short laugh escapes, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “That escalated fast.”

“Let me come warm you up You been out in the snow Baby, my tongue goes numb Sounds like: Ho-ho-ho”

He leans forward, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Oh my God…” he mutters.

“I don't want Santa's elves Underneath this ol' tree Here's a lil carol I wrote It's about you and me (me) You're my wish list Lookin' at you got me thinkin' Christmas Snowflakes in my stomach when we're kissin' And when you're comin' down the chimney Oh, it feels so good”

A disbelieving laugh escapes his lips. "Okay, you're insane," he says, chuckling softly. "I can't have you, Morgan, and Garcia in the same room, the world wouldn't take it."

“I need that Charles Dickens You'll be Santa Claus and I'll be Mrs I'll take you for a ride, I'll be your Vixen I don't even know, I'm talkin' Christmas”

He arched an eyebrow “Are we just talking about Christmas? Really?”

“I'm talkin', I'm talkin' (ah) I'm talkin' deckin' all the halls I'm talkin' spikin' eggnog I'm talkin' opposite of small I'm talkin' big snowballs” You got a new toy for me I'm out here trimmin' the tree I caught that holiday glee My true love gave it to me I'm talkin' (talkin'), I'm talkin', I'm talkin' (talkin') I'm talkin', I'm talkin', I'm talkin' (na-na-na, blah, blah, blah, blah) Ah, ah, ah, ah (ah) I'm talkin' chestnuts (talkin') I'm talkin', I'm talkin' Look at all those presents, that's a big sack Boy, that package is too big to gift wrap Woke up this morning, thought I'd write a Christsmash How quickly can you build a snowman? Think fast”

When you finish singing, still half laughing, he blinks slowly – half dazed, trying to process what he just heard.

“Okay.” He keeps his eyes fixed on you, somewhere between confused, fascinated… and maybe a little scared. “So many things to point out.”

He holds up a finger, listing: “First, the fact that you managed to improvise an entire Christmas-themed song in seconds. Amazing.” He holds up another finger. “Second, your ability to create double meanings so quickly… with consistency. Scary.”

He pauses slightly, as if searching for the exact words. “That was one of the most bizarre and genius things I’ve ever seen or heard in my entire life.”

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English is not my first language are sorry for any mistake

If you have any ideas to contribute to the sequel I will be happy to receive them :)

tag: @duchesz @midnghtprentiss @jazzimac1967 @queenofnothng @leathynn @camihotchner @yourallaround-simp @pastelpinkflowerlife @padlockedheartsreading @tomhiddlestonforever-blog @michasia24 @sweetpianoxoxo @l-a-u-r-aaa

[the-original-skipps]

|| When You Reject Their Confession. || Blue Lock Reactions ||

i really do like my angst so might as well im super open if anyone has any suggestions on what you wanna see them react to next also really sorry about chigiri's part im not 100 percent happy with how i wrote it

cw: angst. heartbreak. resentment/hate. self deprecation in nagi's part. overall sad vibes.

Isagi Yoichi. Bachira Meguru. Chigiri Hyoma. Nagi Seishiro. Itoshi Rin. Itoshi Sae.

"I'm sorry but I can't return your feelings."

❥ Isagi could feel his heart shattering on the spot. Feeling as if something is pulling him down underwater. His chest feels tight, it feels hard to breathe. You probably saw how his face fell at your words. How embarrassing. Isagi does his best to rise to the surface as he pushes this undeniable pain aside to reassure you. Even when you dealt a heavy blow to him, seeing you look so guilty and worried for him still brings him pain too.

Very fiber of his being is resisting his command to smile. To put on a reassuring smile that could wipe off that sad look off your face. Oh, what you said earlier? It's fine, don't worry about it. It can't be helped if you don't return his feelings. It doesn't bother him! It does. He wants nothing more to sink into the depths again but for now he has to bring back your smile.

"I-It's okay, I'm fine! I'm fine..."

❥ Bachira's immediate reaction is to burst into laughter. Good one, you got him good! He tells you as he calms down from his fit of laughter. Only when you don't laugh along does the truth slowly settle within him. He feels his stomach drop. Oh, you meant it.

Bachira feels as if a tidal wave had swallowed him whole, he sees your mouth moving but he can't hear the words you're saying. Everything just feels so numb. He puts on a smile, brushing off your apologies - telling you that it's alright. Even when you turn around and leave he finds himself rooted to the spot. His hand that was previously waving you goodbye suspended in the air. Only when he's sure you're no longer within earshot do the tears start to flow.

"I guess we're better off alone, huh?"

❥ Chigiri is quick to put on a small smile. He can sense that you feel incredibly guilty for rejecting him. You should, you should feel guilty a voice in his mind nags him. The red head does his best to push those thoughts away. He feels the urge to twirl a stand of his hair, a nervous habit of his but he resists. He doesn't want to show any kind of weakness in front of you.

He teases you that you'd get wrinkles with how hard you're frowning. That is what he tells himself to keep himself from frowning too. Chigiri does his best to act like his usual self. Biting his tongue back from the sarcasm that threatens to leave his lips. Bitter. It all just tastes so bitter. He'll put up with it just until you leave.

"Smile, that look on your face doesn't suit you."

❥ Nagi just stands still for a moment staring at you blankly. He just remains silent to he point it's making you nervous until you see him nodding slowly. As if he's just now comprehending your words. Nagi doesn't say much afterwards, only replying with a few words as he normally does. It's as if the earlier situation didn't happen at all.

Everything just feels numb, there's a ringing in his ear but he chooses to ignore it. He casually waves goodbye and only when you're out of sight does his arm lifelessly drop. Of course, you'd reject him. He's nothing more than lazy scum who barely manages to take care of himself. You probably see him as nothing more than a nuisance. It's nothing new. He should be used to it by now. Nagi finds himself letting out a sigh.

"What a hassle."

❥ Rin looks unbothered by your words. However, if you look closer you would have noticed the twitch of his eye. His lips curling into a deeper frown. His hands itching to be clenched into fists but he holds himself back. Rin could burn a hole through you with how hard he's staring at you. He doesn't say anything else, wanting you to hurry up and disappear from his sight.

Only when he knows you're gone, does he run a hand through his hair in exasperation. Wanting nothing more right now than to kick a soccer ball far far away. Hoping that these awful feelings would disappear along with it. It was stupid idea to begin with. One that reminds him of the naivety of his past self he never wants to be again. Dammit. Curse you, for making him feel this way.

It's all your fault.

"Damn this...!"

❥ Sae doesn't even bat an eyelash. A blank expression on his face even when you apologize to him. He retains the picture of calm and collected as if you've just told him that the weather today is nice. Sae doesn't say anything, only responding with a single "okay". Following it up by announcing that he's leaving. He's done what he's come here to do - there's no reason to stay any longer than necessary.

With each step he takes walking away from you, he feels his heart getting heavier and heavier. He looks unbothered but in his mind, all that he could think about are your words - repeating over and over again. Briefly wondering if the outcome could have been different, if he had done something else. He's quick to dismiss the thought. It's weak and unpleasant. Sae doesn't want to admit that it bothers him way more than it should.

"What a waste of time."

[holyblonded]

negotiations | always sunny in australia

pairings: arsenal wfc x teen!reader

summary: your contract is under negotiation, causing unrest on the team

notes: i feel like i am slacking in the chickie fics 💔

Leah Williamson couldn’t sleep. Her sheets were tangled like the mess in her head, the clock taunting her with every passing minute that nothing was changing.

How could she possibly sleep when her entire world was in shambles?

Some might call her dramatic. Leah would call them wrong.

Your one-year contract with Arsenal was coming to an end, and negotiations were happening behind closed doors— closed, locked, and apparently soundproofed doors that Leah had no access to. Every time your agent was asked about your future, she gave the same vague response,

“I’m doing what’s best for Chickie.”

Which was sweet. Noble. Responsible. And also not nearly enough information for someone who had basically appointed herself your co-parent, moral compass, part-time chauffeur, and emotional support footballer.

So yeah, Leah was stressed. But she wasn’t alone. Across London, your actual legal guardian was also losing it. Leah’s phone buzzed next to her pillow. 2:47 AM. She picked it up faster than she had in her life. “Finally,” she whispered.

“Are you alone?” Sam’s voice came through, dead serious.

“Yes. Are you?”

“I’m in the laundry room with the dog. No one suspects anything.”

Leah sat up. “Is your team ready?”

Sam let out a low chuckle. “Everything is set in place. Vic’s on standby. Kyra’s been bribed.”

Leah smirked, already proud. “Good. My team’s been briefed. Beth’s got the snacks, Lotte’s baking passive-aggressive pies. We’re ready.”

There was a pause. A dramatic silence only two women plotting to emotionally manipulate a child into signing a football contract could share.

“I’ll be dropping off the package at approximately 8 AM,” Sam said finally, solemn. “Make sure everything’s in position.”

“Roger that.” Leah saluted into the phone.

That’s when the bedroom door creaked open.

Leah whipped around and yelped, fumbling the phone and almost knocking over her bedside lamp.

Elle stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one perfectly sculpted brow raised in judgment. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

Leah blinked. “Uh. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Elle’s voice was suspiciously calm. “Because that nothing sounded like you were coordinating a covert operation with a woman in a laundry room.”

“I don’t—there’s no covert—” Leah was stammering now, panic painted all over her face.

Elle raised a hand. “Leah Cathrine Williamson, if you are plotting behind Chickie’s back—”

“I’m not!” Leah shouted, then immediately winced and lowered her voice. “I’m not. I swear.”

Elle walked in, graceful and terrifying in her silk pajama set. “She’s a kid. And yes, she might joke and act chaotic and get away with everything because she’s adorable, but you have to respect her decisions.”

Leah opened her mouth.

“I’m not done.”

Leah closed her mouth.

“Her contract is her choice. You can’t bribe her or manipulate her or—”

“Sam already gave her a custom pair of cleats with ‘London’s Little Terror’ printed on the side,” Leah mumbled.

Elle stopped mid-rant. “You what?”

“I didn’t do it! Sam did! And Mario offered to do her Spanish homework for a month, and Kyra promised to make TikToks with her every day, and—”

“Leah.”

“What?!”

“She’s fifteen.”

“I know. That’s why we’re doing this!”

Elle opened her mouth to reply, but Leah was already up, throwing on a hoodie. “I’ve gotta go.”

“To where?!”

“To the Emirates. The cakes need frosting. I gotta be there when she walks in.”

“You are deranged.”

Leah, already halfway out the door, just grinned and shouted back, “We all are, babe. She’s ours.”

Elle stood there in the doorway, blinking at the chaos her girlfriend had become.

Somewhere in the darkness, the real MVP of Arsenal, Chickie, slept peacefully, unaware that the next morning was about to be full of suspicious pies, emotional bribery, and thirty very dramatic people pretending they weren’t all completely obsessed with her.

Vic, Kyra, and Beth stood pressed against the wall in the hallway like they were part of a low-budget spy movie. Arms crossed. Expressions intense. Suspiciously casual. Beth had even shoved a protein bar halfway in her mouth like she was definitely not trying to cover for something.

Renee walked by, clipboard in hand, eyes squinting at them as she slowed her steps.

“Alright. What are you three planning?”

Immediately, all three said, “Nothing,” in perfect harmony like it had been rehearsed. Beth even smiled with all her teeth… too many teeth.

Renee narrowed her eyes. Vic stared ahead like she’d never committed a crime in her life. Kyra fiddled with her sleeve like she wasn’t plotting emotional warfare. Beth blinked, possibly trying to look innocent but instead looking like someone hiding a raccoon in her bag.

Renee took one step forward, and they all visibly tensed. “I’m going to ask one more time—” she began, but a voice called from the end of the hallway.

“Coach! We need you in the physio room!”

Renee gave them one last squint and reluctantly turned on her heel. “This isn’t over.”

As soon as she disappeared, the three of them exhaled dramatically like they’d just evaded a SWAT team.

Then there you were. Just walking down the hall, blissfully unaware, humming a Laufey song under your breath.

They all exchanged a look.

“Now,” Beth said.

Vic reached out like a ninja and yanked you by the sleeve into the nearest door, Kyra shutting it behind you with suspicious speed and determination.

You stumbled into the physio room, blinking at the snacks scattered around, chips, cookies, juice boxes, a suspicious number of croissants.

“Um,” you said.

Beth locked the door.

Vic grabbed your shoulders gently but with great purpose. “We won’t let you out until you spill.”

Kyra pointed at you with a banana. “Where are you going next season?”

You blinked at them. “This is dramatic.”

“You’re dramatic,” Beth mumbled through a mouthful of gummy bears.

You giggled, plopping onto the padded physio table like you were being held hostage by puppies instead of professionals. “You guys are actually crazy.”

“Crazy in love with our baby Chickie!” Vic wailed, flopping down beside you and cradling your arm. “Just tell us. We can’t take the suspense.”

“I can’t tell you,” you said, still laughing.

“Okay, fine,” Kyra muttered. “Time for temptation.”

Vic leaned in, deadly serious. “I will do your homework. A full week. Even the maths.”

Beth gasped. “Not the maths.”

You tilted your head. “All of it? Even history?”

Vic flinched. “…Even history.”

You giggled but shook your head. “Can’t. Sorry.”

Kyra crossed her arms. “Then I’m calling Sam.”

You looked her dead in the eye and said, “Do it. She’ll probably join your little rebellion and bring snacks.”

Kyra blinked. “True.”

Beth, meanwhile, said nothing. She simply reached into her bag and pulled out a sparkly, glitter-covered sign that said in bold bubble letters: STAY.

With three glitter hearts and your name spelled out in rhinestones.

You burst out laughing, sliding off the table. “You guys are unwell.”

“We love you,” Beth said. “Let us have this.”

You opened the door, still giggling, and as you walked out, you threw them a grin over your shoulder.

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough… if your muffins are good enough.”

The door shut behind you, and all three girls stared at each other in stunned silence.

“She’s messing with us,” Vic whispered.

“I knew she was a menace,” Kyra said.

Beth sighed, hugging her sparkly sign. “I respect it.”

Leah had been patient. Painfully, torturously patient. She’d watched the others try. Watched Vic bribe, Kyra threaten, and Beth basically create an arts-and-crafts-based emotional hostage situation. But now… it was her turn. And she wasn’t going in with snacks or sparkles. She was going in with emotion.

“Hey Chick,” Leah said casually, hands in her jacket pockets, head poking into the rec room where you were minding your own business, watching a video of a squirrel on a skateboard.

You turned, suspicious. “Hi…”

“Fancy a walk?” she asked, voice light, but with a slightly manic glint in her eyes.

You narrowed yours. “A walk.”

“Just a casual one. Around the facility.” Her smile was too nice.

You sighed. “You’re gonna guilt-trip me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

You considered that, then stood up. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The tour began at the entrance of the training complex. Leah made sure to slow her pace as you passed the front wall, where a massive photo of your mid-goal-celebration was printed on the side of the building.

She stopped dramatically and gestured toward it like she was Vanna White.

“Wow,” she said, her voice dripping with reverence. “Would you look at that. Who’s that? Is that Chickie? Huh. Wild.”

You squinted up at the photo. “That’s from the Brighton match, you told me I celebrated like a gremlin.”

“A powerful gremlin,” she corrected, before continuing on.

She led you through the hallway lined with photos and memorabilia, kits, trophies, all the stuff that said “This is Arsenal and We’re Kinda a Big Deal.” And every few feet, she’d stop and point something out.

“Remember this?” she asked, tapping a picture of you and Leah laughing after your first match. “You were so nervous you nearly put your shin pads on backwards.”

You groaned. “Leah—”

“And this one,” she continued, pointing to a shot of you hugging Beth after a last-minute assist. “Everyone cried. Even me. And I’m so emotionally stable.”

You snorted. “Lies.”

They passed the physio room. She paused at the door.

“Just the other day I saw Vic, Kyra, and Beth dragging you in here like it was a hostage situation,” Leah said. “And what did I do? I let it happen. Because this is your home. A loving home. Where kidnapping is done respectfully.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think this is subtle?”

“Nope,” she said brightly. “But is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

Then Leah upped the stakes. You two walked outside now, onto the training pitch, where everything was calm. The sun was just setting, casting a warm light over the grass. Leah pulled her hands out of her pockets and looked at you, suddenly soft.

“You know,” she began, voice quieter now. “When you showed up, I didn’t know what to expect. You were all wide eyes and nervous energy and this massive heart that you tried to hide under your hoodie.”

You looked down at your feet, kicking at the grass.

“But you got under my skin so fast. In a good way. You made me laugh again, made the team lighter. You talk too fast and steal everyone’s drinks and I caught you naming the training cones once.”

“Stanley and Patricia,” you muttered.

“Exactly,” Leah grinned. “And when you’re not around, it feels weird. Quiet. Too grown-up. Like something’s missing.”

You tried to hide your face in your sleeve. “This isn’t fair.”

Leah stepped closer, gently bumping your shoulder. “My mum asks about you every time we talk. You’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger. The crowd chants your name. You’ve got your face on three walls. You’re not just part of the team, Chickie. You are the team. You’re Arsenal.”

You looked up at her with a soft little frown. “Why are you saying all this?”

Leah smiled, so earnest it made your chest ache. “Because I love you, kid. And I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you. But I know I have to respect whatever you choose. Still, if there’s any part of you that wonders where you belong… just know, it’s here.”

You blinked hard, tears threatening. “So… manipulation. But make it heartfelt.”

Leah shrugged. “Pretty much.”

You sniffled, laughing through it. “You’re such a loser.”

“But am I a convincing loser?”

You threw your arms around her waist and buried your face in her hoodie. “I can’t say. I’m emotionally compromised.”

Leah smiled, hugging you back tightly. “Good. My job here is done.”

She walked you back in, a little skip in her step, muttering under her breath, “Sam owes me five bucks.”

It was a perfectly normal afternoon. Or at least it should have been.

You were hungry, minding your own business, just trying to make your way into the cafeteria for some pasta and possibly a suspiciously dry brownie. You pushed open the door, walked in and the entire room fell silent.

Not quiet. Silent. Like, “a pin could drop and echo” silent.

You froze in the doorway, tray in hand, eyes scanning the sea of teammates who suddenly couldn’t meet your gaze.

Steph stood up first. “I, uh, just remembered I left my… shampoo on the pitch.”

You blinked. “Your shampoo?”

“Yeah. Real slippery stuff. Can’t risk it.” She bolted.

Kyra followed, gripping Vic by the elbow like they were hostages escaping a war zone. “We have… stretching to do.”

“In the broom closet?” you asked flatly.

“Dynamic stretching.”

Beth pretended to get a phone call. “Oh look, it’s… the Prime Minister. Gotta go.”

You watched her sprint out with the phone screen clearly off.

One by one, they all trickled out, Caitlin muttering about an “urgent email,” Laia claiming she had “a soup emergency,” and Katie just yelling “NOPE” and walking away at full speed.

Within seconds, the packed cafeteria was empty. All except one person.

Lotte. Sweet, chaos-immune Lotte Wubben-Moy, who sat at the very center table with a suspiciously large pie sitting in front of her. She looked up at you with those innocent, hopeful eyes, and gestured to the seat across from her.

You sighed.

You made your way over slowly, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. You sat down, slid your tray aside, and looked at the pie.

It had “DON’T LEAVE” spelled out in carefully crimped crust letters. It was a lattice-crust plea for emotional commitment.

You stared at it. “You baked your feelings.”

Lotte smiled like this was normal behavior. “It’s blueberry. Your favorite.”

“I thought my favorite was peach.”

“I found that out after this one was already in the oven,” she replied, without missing a beat.

You kept staring at the pie, then at her, then back at the pie. You reached for the fork and the whipped cream. Lotte leaned in, eyes wide, waiting for the emotional moment and you just dug in.

With no hesitation, no comment. Just a bite. Then another. Like the words weren’t even there.

Lotte looked personally offended.

“You’re just… eating over the message?” she said, horrified.

“Yup,” you mumbled around a mouthful of flaky, guilt-ridden crust. “It’s good pie.”

“The message, Chickie,” she said, poking at the edge of the tin. “Are we ignoring the part where it says not to leave us in baked lettering?!”

You shrugged and took another bite. “Seems dramatic.”

Lotte gaped. “You are suddenly emotionally unavailable in the worst way.”

“Yup,” you said again, voice cheerful.

“Do you even care how much we’ll miss you?”

You paused, looked at her for a second, really looked, and then reached out and picked up the whole pie tin.

“Thanks for the snack,” you said with a wink, and walked away, pie in hand.

Behind you, Lotte dramatically collapsed onto the table like a tragic Shakespearean hero. “I BAKED MY SOUL INTO THAT CRUST!”

From down the hallway, you yelled back, “AND I’M TAKING IT TO MY ROOM!”

It started out as a simple mission. Well. As simple as anything gets when the team has collectively decided to break every ethical guideline in the “Contract Negotiation Interference Handbook” to figure out whether you were staying at Arsenal or leaving for another club.

Alessia had been quiet at first. Watching. Waiting. Letting the others attempt their wild schemes, Vic’s emotional monologues, Kyra’s threats, Beth’s glitter posters, Lotte’s pie-shaped manipulation. All good efforts. All massive failures.

So Alessia decided to take a different route. A calculated one. A bribery one.

You were sitting on one of the benches outside the training ground, minding your business, trying not to crack under the collective weight of a team who had turned into a desperate cult of affection.

Alessia approached with a calm, neutral expression. A shoebox in her hands.

You blinked. “What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said casually. “Just something I thought you’d like. No pressure. No questions. Just a gift.”

You looked suspicious. “This isn’t a trap?”

Alessia gave you a beatific smile. “I’m not Kyra.”

Fair point. You opened the box. And then you saw them. Bright. Yellow. Boots. Custom-made. Kangaroos embroidered on the sides. “CHICKIE #1 GUNNER” printed across the heel in bold white lettering. Your eyes widened like dinner plates.

You didn’t speak. Not immediately. You just stared at them. Then sniffled. Then blinked. Then let out a soft, high-pitched squeak as your bottom lip trembled.

“Oh—oh no,” Alessia panicked. “Are you crying?”

You nodded, aggressively. “Th-these are the most b-beautiful boots I’ve ever seen!”

Alessia winced. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I thought this would make you—oh, Chickie—”

You were already hugging the box to your chest like it was a newborn child. “You know yellow’s my favorite color and kangaroos are my favorite animal and that slogan—you remembered my slogan—”

Alessia awkwardly sat down beside you, patting your back as you fully sobbed into the cardboard. “Okay, alright, breathe. It’s okay. They’re just boots. Special boots. Very cute boots. But boots.”

“I love them so much,” you wailed.

“I know, honey, I know.”

That’s when Leah stormed into view like a general on a battlefield. “Less! I told you to get the info out of her, not her tears!”

“She cried when she saw the boots!” Alessia defended, hands raised.

“They have kangaroos on them!” you sobbed, holding them up like Simba in The Lion King. “And my slogan, Leah!”

“Oh my god,” Leah muttered, rubbing her temples.

Alessia leaned into you again and whispered, “You sure you don’t wanna just hint at your decision? Maybe one boot tap for yes?”

You shook your head violently, tears still streaming. “This is such a sweet gesture. I—I—” You hiccupped. “I want to wear them forever.”

Leah sat down with a thud. “I hate it here.”

Alessia shrugged, gently pulling you into a side hug as you sniffled into her shoulder. “Honestly? I think I won.”

“You got her snot on your hoodie,” Leah said, unhelpfully.

You clutched the boots tighter. “I love you guys so much.”

“Still not telling us anything, though,” Leah said.

You shook your head with a tiny smile, eyes wet, nose stuffy, heart full. “Nope.”

Alessia sighed. “I gave her kangaroo boots and all I got was this emotional breakdown.”

Leah muttered, “Add that to the shirt.”

Kristie knew before you did. Of course she did. That’s the curse and blessing of being loved by someone like Kristie Mewis. She just knows.

She doesn’t ask, not right away. She doesn’t push or poke like the rest of the squad. She watches you stumble around with your hair a mess and your brain even messier. She brings you snacks. Ruffles your hair. Says things like “wherever you go, we’re gonna love you anyway” which is so annoying.

You try not to think about the decision when you’re with her. You talk about everything else. You help her decorate the nursery. You watch her wobble dramatically around the house, hand pressed to her lower back, dramatically asking, “Will you still love me when I’m just a human beach ball?”

You tell her she’ve always been a beach ball, but like… a really hot one.

You both giggle. She throws a pillow at you. But then one night, it gets quiet. Too quiet.

It’s late. The house is dark. Sam’s already passed out on the couch with a cookie halfway in her mouth.

You crawl into bed next to Kristie. You’re still wearing your oversized hoodie, the one with the red Arsenal crest faded from too many washes. You burrow yourself under the covers, half trying to disappear.

She doesn’t say anything. Just waits. And eventually, with your cheek pressed against her shoulder, you whisper, “I have so many options, Kris.”

“I know, baby.”

“Like, real ones. Barça. Lyon. City. A team in the NWSL even called.”

“I know.”

“They all say the same things, like it’s going to be the perfect step, or a new chapter, or a great financial move. But…” Your voice cracks a little. “It all just feels wrong.”

Kristie hums, rubbing your back slowly. “Because it’s not home.”

You nod, hoodie pulled up so she can’t see your teary face.

She keeps stroking your back, soft and patient.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you mumble, “if I’m just scared of change. Or if I’m making the easy choice. But then I see the girls at training, or hear Leah yelling at me from three rooms away, or I remember how Beth brings me strawberry milk when I’m sad, and I think… this isn’t the easy choice. It’s the right one.”

Kristie tilts her head and kisses the top of your hair.

You take a shaky breath. “I said yes.” A pause. “I’m staying.”

There’s no dramatic gasp. No over-the-top celebration. Kristie just holds you tighter and murmurs against your forehead, “Good. You’re home.”

You smile into her shirt.

“I mean,” she adds after a beat, “you still owe me like two months of foot rubs for the emotional toll of this whole saga, but yeah—home’s a good start.”

You groan. “Can’t believe you emotionally supported me just to invoice me.”

Kristie laughs. “Kid, this is the Mewis Package™. Love, emotional stability, and accountability. You signed up the second you crawled into my lap that day after your first press conference and cried about Sam feeding you spoiled Vegemite.”

You roll your eyes. “You still bring that up.”

“You said it tasted like regret and burnt rubber. I’ll never forget that.”

She leans down and kisses your forehead again. “We’re so proud of you, Chickie. No matter what. But I’m really glad you’re staying.”

You grin. “So… can I stay in your bed forever too?”

“Okay, no,” Kristie says, laughing. “One child at a time. The baby hasn’t even arrived yet and I already have one Chickie curled up like a feral hoodie goblin.”

You stick your tongue out and nuzzle closer. “Too late. I live here now.”

Kristie sighs. “I’m gonna have to get a bigger bed.”

And you both fall asleep like that, hoodie goblin and soccer mom, curled up safe, home, and finally, finally at peace.

The locker room was silent. Like the kind of silence that pressed in around your chest and made it hard to breathe. The kind of silence that came after goodbyes, after endings, after heartbreak.

No one said it out loud, but they all felt it. The tension was thicker than a milkshake on a summer day. It hung in the air like fog, heavy and impossible to see through. They were all waiting.

Lotte sat with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Kyra had her head against the wall, arms crossed tight across her chest. Vic was half-hunched in a corner, pulling at the strings on her hoodie like they’d unravel her anxiety. Alessia scrolled aimlessly on her phone, not even looking at the screen. Even Beth wasn’t smiling.

Leah paced. She’d been pacing for ten minutes straight, muttering to herself under her breath like she was delivering a dramatic monologue in a Shakespearean tragedy. Lia had given up on getting her to sit down.

“Do you remember when she first arrived?” Alessia asked suddenly, voice soft.

A murmur of agreement went through the room.

“She walked in with the biggest hoodie I’ve ever seen,” Kyra added. “And said, ‘Is it always this cold in England, or is this a punishment?’”

They all laughed, even if it was a little watery.

“She used to get so nervous before games,” Lotte said, a smile tugging at her lips. “But then she’d go out there and nutmeg someone twice her size.”

“And that one time she tackled Leah during training and then offered her a gummy bear as an apology,” Vic said through a sniffle.

Leah paused her pacing just long enough to scowl. “She launched herself at me like a cannonball.”

“But you ate the gummy bear,” Kyra pointed out.

Everyone chuckled.

“She changed this team,” Beth murmured, voice cracking just slightly. “Made it warmer. Lighter. Louder. Better.”

A hush settled again.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do without her,” Alessia said. “It’s not just about football. It’s—” she swallowed, “—not seeing her every day. Not hearing her giggle when she sneaks biscuits into the physio room. Not having her throw herself across the locker room just to give you a hug after a bad game.”

“I miss her already,” Vic mumbled.

“She’s not even gone yet,” Leah said, almost defensively. But even her voice was trembling. “She’s just… deciding.”

The door creaked open.

Renee walked in with a grin so wide it was practically criminal. She had something tucked under her arm. A laptop. And a gleam in her eye.

“Right,” she said, “everyone pay attention.”

They all straightened, alert. Hope sparked, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Not yet. Not until they were sure.

Renee opened the laptop, turned it toward them, and pressed play.

The screen flickered. And there you were. Wearing your kit, hair pulled back, standing in the middle of the training pitch with a nervous, excited smile.

Your voice was soft but clear.

“Hi. Uh, surprise? I guess. I’ve been thinking a lot, and it hasn’t been easy. But the truth is…” You looked into the camera, eyes bright. “I’m not done here.”

The room exploded. Beth screamed. Kyra started yelling. Vic burst into tears so aggressively she dropped her water bottle. Lotte stood up and immediately sat back down like her knees gave out. Alessia looked like she was going to faint.

And Leah? Leah fell straight to the floor like a Victorian woman being struck by a scandal. Lia didn’t even try to catch her this time. She just sighed and rubbed her temples.

“Oh my GOD,” Leah gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I thought I was going to have to start watching Barça matches.”

Beth was crying so hard she couldn’t speak, just waving her arms around like she was conducting an emotional orchestra.

And then the door opened again. And there you were. Smiling. Calm. Hoodie up, but your Arsenal crest proudly peeking out from underneath.

“Told you I was good at keeping secrets,” you said with a cheeky grin.

You didn’t even get the chance to take another step before they swarmed you. Like a pack of overexcited puppies, they tackled you in a group hug that nearly took you down. Arms wrapped around your waist, your shoulders, your legs. Someone kissed your cheek. You were pretty sure it was Beth. Vic buried her face into your side, sobbing. Alessia just held your hand like you were going to disappear again.

“Don’t do that again!” Lotte said between tears.

“You scared us!” Kyra added.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere without written permission from the group chat,” Vic sniffled.

“Yeah,” Leah added, pulling back just long enough to point a very stern finger at you. “We’re implementing another buddy system.”

You laughed. Overwhelmed, flushed, happy beyond belief.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, hugging them tighter. “This is home.”

They all squeezed you even harder. And in that cramped, chaotic locker room, full of laughter and happy sobs and glittery signs and people who loved you. It really, truly was home.

[bratzkoo]

WGM episode 6 | dk

episode 6: the argument

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: seokmin x reader Genre: fluff Rating: PG-13 Word count: 3k~ Warnings/note: fluff, fake marriage, and real feelings. cursing, seokmin curses a lot in his head.

summary: WE GOT MARRIED is back. Seokmin and Y/N pairs up to shoot 10 episodes for a special. Turns out, there are more things happenings off-camera than what meets the eye.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @ateez-atiny380 , @aeerio . @vernons-wifey12 , @odevote118 , @btskzfav , @codeinebelle , @syluslittlecrows, @minghaofied , @ikbennatas , @armycarat2612

requests are close, but you can just say hi! | masterlist series masterlist | previous episode | next episode

[Opening sequence: Highlights from Episode 5, focusing on their successful cooking adventure and scrapbooking]

Narrator: "Every marriage has its challenges. Today, our newlyweds face their first real test as they work on decorating their shared home!"

---

Seokmin arrived at their apartment carrying a small bag of personal items the production team had requested he bring for their "home decoration" episode. The PD had been suspiciously vague about the exact nature of today's filming, only telling him to bring "things that represent your personal style" and that they would be "making the space more personalized."

It seemed innocent enough, but something about the PD's too-casual tone had set off warning bells in Seokmin's head. Six episodes in, he was starting to recognize the signs that the production team was angling for drama.

DK Junior was thriving on his windowsill in the dorm, having received possibly excessive attention from not only Seokmin but all twelve of his members. The tiny succulent had become something of a group mascot, with Hoshi insisting on talking to it daily about his tiger agenda and Joshua carefully monitoring its watering schedule.

"You're overthinking this," Joshua had told him that morning as Seokmin fretted about what to bring. "It's just decoration."

"But what if my taste clashes with hers? What if she hates everything I bring? What if—"

"Then you'll have your first fake argument," Joshua had replied pragmatically. "Which is probably exactly what they're hoping for."

Seokmin's stomach dropped at the thought. He and Y/N had been getting along so well—maybe too well for the producers' liking. Reality shows thrived on conflict, after all.

I'll just be agreeable. Go with whatever she wants. No drama necessary.

The production crew was already setting up when he arrived, arranging cameras to capture every angle of the living room. The PD greeted him with that same suspicious smile.

"Today should be interesting," the PD said, practically rubbing his hands together with glee. "Couples often discover a lot about each other when they decorate together."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Seokmin replied, aiming for casual confidence but landing somewhere closer to desperate hope.

"We've provided some décor items to choose from," the PD continued, gesturing to several large boxes in the living room. "Plus whatever you and Y/N brought personally."

Seokmin peeked into one of the boxes and immediately grimaced. Who would voluntarily put a neon pink flamingo lamp in their living room? Were they decorating a home or a tacky tourist gift shop?

The doorbell rang, and Seokmin felt the now-familiar flutter in his chest that appeared whenever he was about to see Y/N. Six episodes in, and that feeling hadn't diminished at all. If anything, it had grown stronger, which was becoming increasingly problematic for his mental wellbeing.

He opened the door to find Y/N looking casual and pretty in jeans and a loose sweater, carrying a tote bag that presumably contained her own personal items.

"Ready to channel your inner interior designer?" she asked with a smile that made his heart do that stupid skippy thing it always did.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Seokmin replied, stepping aside to let her in. "Though if you've seen my dorm room, you know design isn't exactly my strong suit."

"I haven't, actually," Y/N said, and there was a brief, loaded moment as they both registered that she was referring to his actual living space, not their fake apartment. A reminder of the reality that existed outside this manufactured marriage.

"It's basically just posters and piles of clothes," Seokmin said quickly, trying to dispel the sudden awkwardness. "With the occasional abandoned water bottle for artistic flair."

Y/N laughed, and the tension dissipated. "Sounds like art to me."

The PD approached, clapping his hands to get their attention. "Let's get started! Today's mission is to decorate your shared living space in a way that reflects both your personalities. You'll each have areas you can personalize, plus common spaces you need to agree on together."

Seokmin and Y/N nodded, both seemingly fine with this concept.

"One more thing," the PD added, his tone far too innocent. "We've divided your decorating budget unevenly to simulate real-life situations where couples might have different resources to contribute. Y/N, you have 70% of the budget. Seokmin, you have 30%."

Wait, WHAT?

"That seems..." Y/N began, looking uncomfortable.

"Realistic!" the PD finished for her. "Many couples deal with income disparities. It's all about how you navigate it together."

Seokmin could almost hear the production team's thought process: Let's create an artificial power imbalance and see if they fight! BRILLIANT TELEVISION!

"We'll be fine," Seokmin said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Right?"

"Of course," Y/N agreed, though she still looked uncertain.

And with that ominous beginning, their decoration challenge was underway.

---

The first hour went surprisingly smoothly. They divided the apartment into zones, agreeing that each would have primary say over certain areas while consulting on shared spaces. Seokmin would focus on the entryway and balcony, Y/N would handle the bedroom and bathroom, and they'd collaborate on the living room and kitchen.

"These options are... interesting," Y/N said diplomatically as they sorted through the décor items provided by the production team.

"That's one word for it," Seokmin agreed, holding up a lamp shaped like a monkey. "I personally would have gone with 'nightmare-inducing,' but 'interesting' works too."

Y/N laughed, setting aside a particularly garish vase. "I think they're testing us."

"Or trying to ensure our apartment looks terrible on camera," Seokmin suggested. "Maximum embarrassment potential."

They managed to sort the items into "maybe" and "absolutely not" piles, with the latter being significantly larger. The atmosphere remained light as they worked together, making jokes about the worst items and finding a few genuinely nice pieces among the chaos.

Then came time to actually start arranging things, and that's when the trouble began.

"I was thinking we could put the bookshelf here," Y/N said, gesturing to a spot along the main living room wall.

"What about over there instead?" Seokmin suggested, pointing to the corner. "It would open up the space more."

Y/N tilted her head, considering. "But this wall is completely empty. It needs something substantial."

"We could put artwork there instead," Seokmin offered. "Something colorful to brighten the room."

"But then where would we put the books?"

It was such a small thing—the placement of a bookshelf—but Seokmin could sense the PD perking up at the first sign of disagreement, like a shark smelling blood in the water.

Stay calm. Be agreeable. This is just a TV show.

"You know what, you're right," Seokmin conceded quickly. "The bookshelf would look great on that wall."

Y/N gave him an odd look. "You don't have to agree with me just to avoid an argument, you know."

"I'm not," Seokmin lied, his ears immediately betraying him by turning red. "I just... reconsidered."

"Uh-huh," Y/N said, clearly not buying it. "Well, now I want to hear your idea properly. Why the corner?"

Seokmin hesitated, caught between his desire to keep things harmonious and the challenge in Y/N's eyes that suggested she wouldn't respect him if he just caved.

"I thought it would make the room feel bigger," he explained. "And we could use the wall space for photos or artwork that would add more personality."

Y/N considered this, then nodded slowly. "That's actually a good point. Let's try it your way first, and if it doesn't work, we can move it."

The compromise felt like a victory, and Seokmin relaxed slightly. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

But the bookshelf was just the beginning.

---

"A cactus garden on the balcony?" Y/N questioned, looking dubious. "Don't you think one plant child is enough responsibility for us?"

"DK Junior needs siblings," Seokmin insisted. "Plus, cacti are basically impossible to kill. They're the perfect plant for neglectful parents like us."

"I am NOT a neglectful plant parent," Y/N protested. "DK Junior was thriving under my care!"

"He was lonely," Seokmin countered. "Look at his little spiky face and tell me he doesn't need friends."

Y/N tried to maintain her serious expression but cracked, laughing despite herself. "You're ridiculous. Fine, cactus siblings it is."

Another crisis averted. Seokmin was starting to believe they might make it through this episode without the drama the PD so clearly wanted.

Then came the living room rug debate.

"The blue one," Seokmin said, pointing to a navy patterned rug they'd found among the options.

"The red one," Y/N countered, gesturing to a burgundy rug with a subtle design.

They stared at each other, both surprised by their sudden impasse.

"Blue would complement the couch better," Seokmin argued.

"Red would add warmth to the space," Y/N replied.

"Blue is calming."

"Red is energizing."

"Blue matches the curtains."

"We can change the curtains."

They were at a standoff, neither willing to budge. The PD was practically salivating in the background.

JUST AGREE WITH HER, Seokmin's brain screamed. WHO CARES ABOUT A STUPID RUG?

But something in him rebelled at the thought. Why should he always be the one to give in? This was supposed to be their shared space—even if it was fake and temporary. Didn't his opinion matter too?

"I really think blue works better with the overall design concept," he said, trying to sound reasonable and not stubborn.

Y/N crossed her arms. "What overall design concept? We've barely started."

"The concept we've been building," Seokmin insisted, gesturing vaguely around the room. "The... cohesive aesthetic."

"What cohesive aesthetic? The 'whatever Seokmin wants' aesthetic?"

Okay, that stung a little.

"That's not fair," Seokmin said, his voice quieter. "I compromised on the bookshelf. And the kitchen backsplash. And the bathroom towels."

"And I compromised on the balcony plants and the entryway mirror and the dining chairs," Y/N countered.

They were actually arguing. A real argument, not just the manufactured conflict the PD had tried to engineer. Somehow that made it worse.

"Fine," Seokmin said, feeling a knot form in his stomach. "Let's go with the red rug."

"No," Y/N replied, shaking her head. "Now you're just giving in to avoid conflict again."

"What do you want from me?" Seokmin asked, frustration edging into his voice. "If I disagree, we argue. If I agree, you're upset that I'm not standing my ground. I can't win here."

The cameras were capturing every word, every expression, and Seokmin hated it. This felt too real, too raw to be entertainment.

Y/N took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm herself. "I want you to have an actual opinion and stick to it. Not just go along with whatever I say because it's easier."

"I do have opinions," Seokmin protested. "I just... I don't want to fight over a rug."

"It's not about the rug," Y/N said, and there was something in her tone that suggested they were suddenly talking about something much bigger than home décor. "It's about being equal partners. Even in disagreement."

Seokmin felt something shift between them—a new understanding forming beneath the surface of their staged marriage.

"Okay," he said finally. "I want the blue rug. Not because it matches everything or for any practical reason. I just like it better. That's my honest opinion."

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Thank you for that. I still prefer the red one."

They stood at an impasse, both holding firm to their preferences but neither wanting to escalate the tension further.

"So what do we do now?" Seokmin asked quietly.

"What real couples do," Y/N replied. "We find a third option we both like."

Together, they went back through the remaining rugs, searching for a compromise. Eventually, they found a purple rug with a subtle pattern that incorporated elements they both appreciated.

"It's not blue," Y/N conceded.

"And it's not red," Seokmin added.

"But it's nice," they both said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise before breaking into laughter, the tension finally dissipating.

The PD looked disappointed by their resolution, but Seokmin couldn't bring himself to care. This felt like a genuine victory—not just avoiding conflict, but working through it together.

---

As the day progressed, they settled into a new rhythm, more honest in their opinions but more creative in finding middle ground. The apartment gradually transformed from a sterile, generic space into something that genuinely reflected both their personalities—bright and warm, with touches of whimsy and comfort throughout.

"It actually looks good," Y/N said with surprise as they stood back to assess their work.

"Did you expect a disaster?" Seokmin teased.

"After seeing that monkey lamp? Absolutely."

"I still think we missed an opportunity there," Seokmin said seriously. "Nothing says 'sophisticated adults' like primate-shaped lighting."

Y/N laughed, bumping his shoulder gently with hers. "Maybe for our anniversary. Nothing says 'I love you' like a monkey lamp."

Our anniversary. The casual reference to a future milestone in their fake relationship sent a pang through Seokmin's chest.

Remember, this isn't real. There won't be an anniversary. This all ends after episode 10.

The thought was more painful than it should have been.

"One final touch," the PD announced, bringing in a photographer. "We need some couple photos for the walls."

They posed for several pictures—some formal, some silly, all creating the illusion of a shared history that didn't actually exist. Seokmin found it increasingly difficult to remind himself that this was all for show as Y/N laughed in his arms, her smile genuine and warm against his chest.

When the photos were printed and framed, they worked together to arrange them on the wall above the sofa—the same wall they'd debated using for the bookshelf hours earlier.

"You were right," Y/N admitted as they hung the final frame. "This is better than a bookshelf would have been."

"We were both right," Seokmin corrected gently. "Just about different things."

Y/N smiled at him, a soft, private smile that the cameras probably couldn't fully capture. "Look at you, being all mature about conflict resolution."

"I'm a very mature person," Seokmin insisted with mock seriousness. "Just ask anyone. Except my members. Or my manager. Or anyone who's spent more than five minutes with me."

Y/N laughed, and something warm settled in Seokmin's chest. Their first real disagreement, and they'd worked through it together. It felt significant somehow, even in the context of their manufactured relationship.

"That's a wrap for today!" the PD called, looking disappointed that their argument hadn't escalated into something more dramatic. "Great job, everyone!"

As the crew began packing up equipment, Seokmin and Y/N stood in the middle of their newly decorated apartment, surveying their work.

"I'm sorry I got frustrated earlier," Y/N said quietly, when the nearest microphones had been turned off.

"I'm sorry I wasn't being honest about my opinions," Seokmin replied. "You were right—it wasn't fair to either of us."

"We figured it out, though."

"We did," Seokmin agreed, feeling oddly proud of that fact.

There was a beat of comfortable silence before Y/N spoke again. "This place feels different now. More like..."

"A home?" Seokmin suggested.

"Yeah," Y/N said softly. "More like a home."

---

Later, after the crew had packed up and they were preparing to leave, Seokmin found Y/N standing by the photo wall, looking thoughtfully at their pictures.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, coming to stand beside her.

"Just thinking how weird this is," she replied. "Creating all these memories for a show. Sometimes I almost forget it's not real."

The admission sent a jolt through Seokmin. Did that mean she sometimes felt it too—that blurring of lines between reality and pretend?

"I know what you mean," he said carefully. "It's kind of surreal."

Y/N turned to face him, her expression more serious than usual. "Today was good, though. Real. Even the disagreement part."

"Especially the disagreement part," Seokmin agreed. "At least it was honest."

"I'd rather have honest disagreements than fake harmony any day," Y/N said, and something about the way she said it made Seokmin wonder if she was talking about more than just their on-camera relationship.

Before he could pursue that thought, the PD called from the doorway. "We're all packed up! You're free to go!"

The spell broken, they gathered their belongings and headed for the door. As they stepped outside, Y/N paused.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she said, digging in her bag. She pulled out a small object and handed it to Seokmin. "For your cactus garden vision."

It was a tiny ceramic pot with a cartoon face painted on it—the perfect size for a baby succulent.

"For DK Junior's first sibling," Y/N explained with a smile. "I saw it at a shop last week and thought of you."

She thought of me. When cameras weren't rolling. When it wasn't for the show.

"It's perfect," Seokmin said, turning the tiny pot in his hands. "Thank you."

"See you next week," Y/N said, her smile softening his heart in a way he couldn't afford to examine too closely.

"Next week," he echoed, watching her walk away.

Later that night, as he placed the empty pot on his windowsill next to DK Junior, his phone buzzed with a message.

Y/N: Our place looks good. You have better taste than you give yourself credit for.

Our place. Two simple words that shouldn't have affected him so much.

Seokmin: We make a good team. Even when we're fighting about rugs.

Y/N: Especially when we're fighting about rugs. That's when you finally got honest.

Seokmin: I'll remember that. Next time I'll start with a strong opinion about curtains.

Y/N: Looking forward to it. Goodnight, opinionated husband.

Seokmin: Goodnight, equally opinionated wife.

He set his phone down, smiling despite the complicated emotions swirling in his chest. Each episode, each text, each moment spent together was making it harder to remember that none of this was real.

And as much as that terrified him, Seokmin couldn't bring himself to wish it was any other way.

[vivalas-vega]

fine line / part four

ok last one for the night !! again, so sorry to my followers that don't care about the mcu, very sorry for spamming your dash :( don't know for sure when the next part will be coming but I'm actively working on it!! enjoy and please please please let me know what you think!

fine line / mcu x reader / part four

part one / part two / part three

summary: Three kids from Brooklyn. A war that asks too much. And a woman with secrets stitched into every seam.

to be tagged in future works, please turn on post notifications for @vegaslibrary

word count: 2.8k

warnings: (not specific to this part, but for the series as a whole. this fic is 18+, you are responsible for your own media consumption). language, angst, drinking, smut, violence, references (and descriptions) of bucky's abuse within hydra, canon-typical situations - this is the mcu y'all, shit will get a little crazy, and a little devastating

Early 1945

You got the assignment in a burned-out church in northern Italy. The message came folded into the binding of a field manual, passed through five hands and two borders to reach you. The words were sparse, the tone unmistakable:

Extraction required. Austrian alps. High priority, dangerous terrain. Low probability of return. You’re the only one close enough to make the drop.

You’d accepted without hesitation, but before you moved you sent a message of your own. Not to command, not to any handler… to a name you hadn’t spoken aloud in months, and you knew it wouldn't arrive before you did.

It took three days to track them down; a whisper in a tavern, a smudged map pinned to a wall, a soldier who recognized your eyes and lied to his captain so you could pass… but you did find them, just after dusk, in a makeshift camp nestled in the dense woods near the border. Fires burned low, tents were pitched with weary hands, mud clung to everything and the air was heavy with smoke and frost.

You stood in the tree line, half-shadow, watching. Steve looked nothing like the boy you’d left behind. He moved differently– taller, stronger, but somehow still Steve. He laughed at something Bucky said and the sound carried like it belonged in another life. And Bucky… he looked older, not in the lines of his face but in the way he held himself. The war had soaked into his bones and left its mark and it was then that you finally stepped out of the woods.

It didn’t take long for Steve to see you, Bucky preoccupied with something in his tent. He was halfway to you before anyone even registered movement, his face shifting from disbelief to something softer, something a little broken. “Button?” 

You smiled, small and tired. “Took you long enough,” you said, just above a whisper. He caught you in a hug that lifted you off the ground and for the first time in years, you let yourself melt into something comforting… grounding. “You look good,” you said as he set you down carefully. “Huge. But good.”

“You look… thinner,” he said, cautiously, concerned.

“I haven’t been eating much sausage,” you replied, lips twitching and he shook his head despite his grin. You heard a rustling from behind him and peered around his large frame to meet the eyes you so desperately needed to see… and he stood there in quiet shock, unable to move, questioning his grip on reality.

“Hey, Sarge,” you said, breaking through and he let out a sharp exhale. You could see the weight drop from his shoulders. He was on you so quickly you hadn’t even processed the first step he’d taken and you felt emotion immediately swell in every inch of you as the arms you called home cradled you so closely, so tightly.

“You never write,” he murmured into your hair.

“You never wait,” you teased as he pulled back to hold your face in his palms, touch so featherlight it seemed he was scared he’d break you. Looking at you now, he wasn’t sure he could hold on to you. He pulled you right back in, hand cradling the back of your head as he tried to feel every inch of you pressed against him. You were here, you were real and breathing in his arms. 

Finally, he whispered, “I thought you were dead.” You pulled back, just enough to look at him, not far enough to separate your bodies.

“I was, for a little while.” His eyes flickered over your face, noticing all the little differences. Your sharper cheekbones, a scar above your brow you didn’t have before, the way you carried yourself now, like a blade drawn halfway.

“You’ve been in deep,” he stated and you nodded. “Too deep?”

You almost smiled, “depends on who you ask.”

He didn’t. He just cupped your jaw like you might slip from his fingers, he wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t, and ran a thumb along that sharper cheekbone. “You’re meaner.”

“And you’re dirty and bleeding.”

He looked down at a scrape on his knuckle and huffed a laugh, “so, really not much has changed.” Steve had watched from the side for a moment, he needed to see the two of you like this as much as the two of you needed to feel it. Three kids from Brooklyn, brought back together through blood and secrets, somehow surviving it all… and then he slipped away while the two of you slipped into his tent, knowing you needed more than you could have in the middle of camp.

Bucky didn’t say a word as he lit the lamp low and shrugged off his coat, unfastened his boots. You watched in silence, trying to convince yourself this was back then. The routine was the same, the setting was not. You crossed the space and kissed him like it was the first and last time all at once. Slow, aching, deliberate… then quick, fiery, desperate. His hands came to your waist and drew you in, and he felt your whole body shudder against the heat of him.

He peeled you back layer by layer, scraps of you littered around the tent, and pulled you onto a makeshift pad on the floor… not much by way of comfort but it didn’t matter. You didn’t need any more than this right now. You hadn’t stopped fighting, not for a single moment, since you’d left Brooklyn, and that fight was still in you right now, a habit you couldn’t seem to drop, not even here. Not even in his arms.

The need in your chest was bubbling and overflowing and it made your movements sharp, and a little frantic, but Bucky cut through it all. He grabbed your hands and pinned them on either side of your head, and gave you a steady look before dipping down to kiss the soft skin of your neck. He took his time, not leaving even an inch of your skin unmet, unloved by his lips, and with each gentle movement you slowed, you melted.

“There she is,” he muttered, sending a shiver up your spine, and while he still had your hands pinned you used your head to nudge him back up to you, to meet your gaze. You tilted just slightly, asking for something he’d never deny you, and he captured your lips again in slow, languid movements. Savoring you, because who knew when you would have each other like this again? 

He started to kiss down your body but you shook your head, pulling him back up to you, “I need you,” you whispered, completely broken and full of such longing it cracked his chest in two. Perhaps there wasn’t enough ceremony as there should have been, but it didn’t matter. When he pushed into you, you both exhaled in relief. Low and absent of any tension. Your legs wrapped around his hips, hands cradling his jaw like you were scared he’d leave, and you could feel tears stinging your eyes as you pulled him down for another kiss.

Pleasure bloomed in every fiber of your being, each slow drag and snap of his hips driving you towards something you wanted to stave off as long as you could. You didn’t want this to end… just like that night back in Brooklyn, you wanted to stay right here with Bucky, just like this, for the rest of your life. You hooked his leg, a new move you’d learned for much different situations, and flipped your bodies, your knees settling on either side of him as he looked up at you in awe.

His hands roamed every inch of you, committing each soft sigh and whimper to memory as he traced a set of bruises along your rib cage, and you leaned down to press your chest flush against his, hips rocking back and forth in a way that made it hard to think of anything but each other’s name. It felt like something of the old you was being put back together, while the new you was being ripped apart at the seams. 

You let out a gasp when he bucked his hips to meet yours, a new angle that made you slump against him, unable to do anything but take what he gave you. A hand threaded through your hair, gripping at the base and pulling, not sharply but enough to feel a dull, delicious ache. “Want to see you,” he muttered, and you nodded softly, the movement pulling tighter against your scalp and coaxing a moan from your lips. His head tilted at this, just slightly as he analyzed your reaction, the way you’d clenched against him and something flipped… and it wasn’t just you. 

“You’re not delicate anymore,” he hummed against your lips, hips snapping harder against yours and you tugged at the strands of his hair, just like he had with you.

“Never was,” you managed to get out but words were lost when he grabbed a leg and hooked it over his shoulder. Your nails raked along his skin as he took you, and you were never more content to submit to anything in your life. For just a brief moment you could pretend this was it. You were Bucky’s girl, and nothing more. You weren’t a spy, constantly on the move, on the run. You weren’t headed for a mission you may never come back from. For just a brief moment, you got what you always wished for. You and Bucky and a bed, nothing else.

You unraveled when a hand rested on your throat, featherlight but steadying against the motion of your bodies, and he wasn’t far behind. You locked yourself around him, keeping his hips flush against yours as warmth coated your walls, not wanting to let go of any part of him, and he let his forehead rest against yours as you both tried to catch your breath. Your hands softly traced every inch of him, moving from his back, to his chest, his shoulders, then his face. You held him against you, fingers splayed across his jaw, “I am so in love with you I think I’d throw it all away to run away into these woods right now, if you asked.”

He shifted the two of you slightly, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, hooking your leg over his hip and not letting himself pull out of you… not just yet. He wanted to keep the two of you as close as possible, for as long as possible. “I’m so in love with you I’d say yes if you did,” he murmured, hand carding through your hair as he gazed down at you. “Are you asking?”

You took in a deep breath, “I don’t think I can.”

He nodded, “I don’t think I could mean it if I said yes.” You dragged the pad of your thumb across his lip and he kissed it softly, pulling a smile from you. “How long are you staying?”

“Until first light,” you answered and he sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t enough, but it never would be.

“Where are you going?”

“North. Austria.”

“That’s deep,” he replied, pain evident in the way his voice stretched, like it was about to crack. “How dangerous?”

“I might not come back,” you said, deciding not to lie to him. Part of you wanted to, to give him hope that everything would be just fine, but you thought that was cruel… to not prepare him for that possibility. 

His grip on you tightened, “then stay.” he said. “We’ll find a place for you, a job that’s worthy of you. Frankly, we could use you here, Button.”

You smiled softly, “you don’t even know what it is I do,” you said, but he shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. We need it. We need you.”

“You know I can’t,” you said, pressing your forehead against his. “We all have jobs to do, Bucky.” 

“You’ll come find me when it’s all over?” he asked and you nodded, pressing your lips to his. Telling him everything you didn’t have enough words for, and when you felt him twitch inside you, you just pulled him closer, deeper, and let that be enough.

The camp was quiet as you moved through the shadows between tents, the kind of hush that felt like the world was holding its breath. Like it knew today was a big day. You thought this would be easier, leaving the same way you’d made him promise to back then, but it wasn’t. Each step felt like a betrayal, felt like a painful sludge through molasses, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. If you’d seen the way he looked at you, not fully awake but eyes full of admiration, you wouldn’t have been able to do it at all. There was still a war to be won, and you played a part in that. You couldn’t abandon when it seemed you were so close, even if some part of you thought you deserved to be selfish now. You’d given enough, let someone else do the rest… but you couldn’t. You had to see it through.

Steve was already up, because of course he was. He sat near the dying fire, poking the embers with a stick and a cup of steaming coffee in one hand. He didn’t even look up when twigs cracked beneath your boots. He knew it was you, that’s why he was here. “You could’ve stayed long enough to let him wake up.”

You hesitated, then lowered yourself beside him, letting your bag hit the ground with a thud. “It hurts less this way.”

He nodded slowly, “that’s what Bucky thought, too. When he left you.”

You gave a dry laugh, no real humor in it. “We’re great at running away, the two of us.”

“Maybe,” he replied. “But not from each other.” That sat between you for a while, warm and honest. You reached for his mug and took a sip without asking, and he let you. He’d let you take anything he had to offer.

He didn’t press you for details, even though he wanted to. He just sat beside you and watched the sky shift from violet to gray, until finally, he said, “you gonna come back?”

You didn’t answer right away. “I want to.”

“That’s not the same as will.”

You looked down at your hands, “no. It’s not.”

Steve glanced towards the tent, “he’s gonna wake up and be furious.”

“I’m counting on it,” you said, trying not to smile. You turned to look at him, to really soak him in and without even thinking your hand trailed along his arm, feeling the expanse of muscle and you breathed a soft laugh. “It’s unbelievable.” you said. “Almost didn’t when I caught a photo of you in a newspaper. Thought someone pasted your face onto someone else.”

“Feels that way sometimes.” You let your hand fall but you found his instead, wrapping your fingers around it and pulling it into your lap. You clung to it like you would a life raft, and he gave you a soft squeeze, but you could still feel the strength beneath it.

“I knew I was right to believe in you,” you said softly. “You’ve made me prouder than I was back then… which is a lot.” 

“You always were,” he said with a slight chuckle. “And you always knew just what to say… When it felt like nothing made sense anymore I thought ‘Button believes in me, believes I can do this, and she’s always right’. Kept me going.”

“I’m scared,” you replied, more honest than you expected to be but Steve knew how to pull it out of you without even trying.

“I know,” he said, hand still firm in yours. “But I’ll be here when you get back, so will Buck.”

You smiled, barely. “So, that’s your job now? Waiting around for the people who run?”

He looked at you now, and his voice was quiet but sure. “No. But it’s what I choose.” Something about that made your chest ache, for just a moment. “Ten minutes before the whole camp’s up. Not enough, is it?”

You shook your head, not wanting to get up. Not just yet. Just like you had back on that tiny cot somewhere in Brooklyn, you turned and threw your arms around him, hugging him so tightly he could feel how strong you’d become since he last saw you. 

“I love you, Steve Rogers, you know that?” you asked, the words the exact same, but with a different kind of weight.

“I feel it no matter how far away you are,” he replied, slightly muffled by your hair. “I hope you feel it, too.”

You nodded against him, pulling away and cupping his face to press a soft kiss to his cheek, committing him to memory the way you had Bucky. “I’ll see you on the other side?” 

“See you on the other side.”

prev / next

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 6 - Reverse

Mark of Dean series master list

18+. 10.7k words. Broken hearts. Depression. Guilt. Dubious consent. Lots of hurt.

“Fished you all, suckers!” Charlie exclaims, raising her hands over her head, doing a little dance despite the fact she’s sitting down. Sam smiles at her excitement while Castiel shakes his head in utter confusion.

“I don’t see what a card game has to do with any sea creatures,” he says. “Apart from the fact that you could not play this underwater. The cards would get wet. That seems highly impractical.”

Charlie throws Cas an unbelieving look while Sam scoffs, stands, collecting the empty beer bottles.

“Anyone up for another round?” he asks. Charlie does finger guns at him and even Cas nods, despite the fact that he doesn’t really get drunk. Sam turns to you when you don’t answer.

“You want another one?” he asks.

You blink, pushing your thoughts aside, then look at your bottle. You’ve barely touched it.

“I’m good,” you say, forcing a quick smile onto your face. Sam nods, then moves to the fridge.

You take a slow sip, the warm beer feeling strange in your mouth. You keep your eyes on the table because you can feel Charlie’s and Cas’ gaze on you.

“We could play something else,” Charlie suggests, voice over-the-top cheery and you look up at her. “I think I saw a pack of UNO flying around somewhere last time I was here.” You shake your head.

“It’s fine, really,” you answer but Charlie’s already standing up.

“I’m gonna see if I can find it,” she says, just as Sam’s coming back.

“Charlie, it’s fine,” he says, a slight urgency in his voice and you know exactly why. “Let’s just play another round.” Charlie widens her arms.

“You’re all just scared that I’m gonna beat your asses at UNO, too,” she says, not getting the hint. “So where is it? Don’t hide it from me, cowards.”

“It’s in Dean’s room,” you reply, looking up at her. Charlie’s arms sink down immediately, and the smile drops off her face.

“Oh,” he says, voice quiet.

“I got it for him as a birthday present last year,” you explain, feeling bad about ripping Charlie out of her attempt to make this evening somewhat enjoyable so harshly. 

You still remember it, Dean opening the small package, an amused look on his face. He watched you while you explained that it had been your favorite game as a kid, and it would give you something to do in motel rooms or on long evenings at the bunker other than drink and watch TV. Dean had one of those strange genuine moments where he hadn’t made a joke, had thanked you and said you’d have to teach him how to play it. If you hadn’t been trying to hide the blush your already intense crush on him was causing you, you might have noted how strange it was that he didn’t know the game.

You’d like to ask him about it now. How it can be that he never played it.

The thought physically hurts your heart. You want nothing more than to hear his voice, see that soft smile when he realizes something means something to you. You would give everything for it. To see it again.

Sam sits down in his chair opposite you again, handing out the beers and distracting you from your memories. You let out a slow breath.

“I’m kind of tired,” you say, not looking at any of your three friends sitting around you. “I think I’m gonna turn in.” You stand, slowly. A month ago, even last week, they would have tried to convince you to stay. Now they don’t. They’re used to you disappearing at some point, locking yourself in your room. 

As you begin walking away from the table, you don’t look back at their faces. You know exactly how they look. Forlorn, worried. Sam looks so sad sometimes that it makes you want to sob. But you don’t. Not in front of them anyway.

Your room is cool as the bunker sometimes is, and you could simply turn the heating on but it feels like too much work. Instead, you walk over to the bedside table where your phone is. Usually you don’t go anywhere without it anymore, but last night, before falling into fitful sleep, you forgot to plug in the charger. You woke up to it having turned off in the night. You panicked. What if he called and you hadn’t been awake?

Of course he didn’t call. Still, even now, there’s that moment before you wake the screen where you wonder if there will be a message. That intense hope, the possibility that everything is about to change, to be better. But there’s no new messages. You sit at the edge of the bed with a deep sigh.

As your nightly ritual dictates, you dial Dean’s number and hold the phone to your ear. It rings - and that alone, that fills you with so much hope and desperation - and you close your eyes, imagine him somewhere, seeing you calling and reaching for the phone, answering, You imagine it so intensely that you almost believe you can bend the world to your will, make him pick up.

But he never does. There’s a click, and then you hear his voice: “This is Dean’s other, other cell. So you must know what to do.” And then another click and silence.

There’s so many things you want to say. I miss you, and I love you. Please come back to me. You want to beg him to let you know he’s okay. Want him to tell you where he is, so you can come and find him.

Why did you leave me?

You don’t think you’ll forget that morning for as long as you live. Waking up, your body so burned up and tired you were hoping for death for a second. And then looking up, Dean standing there. Dean, who you had become one with the night before in a way you didn’t think was possible. And he was holding a knife.

You’d seen the way the Mark was changing him. There was no denying it, no matter how much less and less you cared. Not for a second would you have thought that its wrath would ever be turned on you. But right then, you were sure that it had.

And all you wanted was for him to know that you understood it wasn’t his fault. That you knew that he was simply losing the battle against it. Hope that maybe one day he could forgive himself.

And then he left. Left you lying there, stumbled out of the room and drove away. You sat there for a long time, unmoving, deadly quiet. Waiting for him to come back. Only he didn’t.

Eventually, you got up. Got dressed. You couldn’t find your phone, and then you realized that it was probably in the Impala, probably having dropped from your pocket when Dean laid you down on the backseat after choking you out. To protect you. He did that to protect you.

So you walked outside, and then kept walking. No goal, no idea where you were. You were lost to your thoughts, lost in your head, kept thinking over and over. How could Dean leave you? How could he?

And then, that sudden pain. A sharp stab behind your eye, like you’d eaten ice cream too fast. It lingered for a few seconds, and then it was gone.

Eventually, someone stopped their car for you. An older lady, asking you if you needed help. You lied, said your car had broken down and your phone was dead. She allowed you to use hers. 

You tried Dean’s number first. Of course you did. No answer, and that terrified you more than anything. The only other number you knew by heart was Sam’s.

You waited in a diner, hour after hour after hour. No money on you, so all you could get was tap water. Eventually, a woman working there took pity on you, bought you some fries. You wolfed them down as if you hadn’t eaten in weeks. 

Sam picked you up, half a day and a million weird stares by strangers later. You looked like you’d been beaten, abused, but the one person who asked, the woman who bought your food, you told you had been in a car accident, which, technically, you had been. Her gaze dropped to your throat, to the necklace of red bruising fingerprints, the one Eldon had given you.

“Mmh hmm,” she said, as if she knew something about you you didn’t. Eyed Sam something fierce when he finally showed up. It almost made you laugh. How ridiculous, the idea that Sam could be the cause of your injuries. How absolutely ridiculous.

Sam filled you in, on the drive back. About how Cas had shown up, had healed Charlie while Sam had figured out the spell that could undo the Mark.

“Why didn’t you wait?” you asked, looking over at him. Sam had pressed his lips together, didn’t answer. But you knew why. Because he had been scared Dean would stop him.

Neither of you heard anything from him for three days. Kept calling, texting. The only sign of life you got from him was one message. It arrived when Sam and you were calling contacts late in the evening, going through traffic surveillance. Sam is the one who got the message, not you, and even that fact hurts so much you can’t think about it. Only four words.

Don’t look for me.

Of course you and Sam didn’t stop. Neither of you had that in you. But as the days turned into weeks, the two of you realized one thing: Dean doesn’t want to be found.

You notice that you’ve been staring at the wall opposite you, the phone still raised to your head. 

“Dean…” you say, not sure what else to add. What are the magic words that will finally convince him to come back to you? There’s a beep, telling you the time to record has ended.

There’s a knock on the door and you hang up the phone, put it down.

“Yeah?” you say and then the door opens, slowly, and Castiel steps in.

He gives you a careful smile, then walks towards you, finally sitting next to you on the bed. Both of you are quiet for a minute.

“I’m not very good at card games,” he finally says and you turn your head towards him. “So I thought I’d check on you.”

“I’m okay,” you say, and it’s almost not a lie because it is so obvious that you’re not. Still, Castiel nods. You’re both going along with it.

“He just needs time,” he says, turning to you slightly but you avoid his gaze. “A human carrying the Mark, it… it must have been very difficult. Losing it again even more so.” You nod, but it’s just in the hope that Cas won’t stop hammering home the point. Dean is in pain. Dean is unwell. And he’d rather go through it alone than with you by his side.

“Yeah,” you say, just a sound to make. But Cas isn’t done.

“And the effect it likely had on you, too,” he says and you pull your shoulders up, really not wanting to have this conversation with him. You’re not even sure if he knows about the birds and the bees. “You have to be patient with yourself, your system might not be totally flushed–”

“Cas,” you say, voice small, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“It will take a while for things to go back to normal,” he continues, and you almost laugh at that word. Normal. It’s an alien concept at this point. 

“Sure,” you say and Cas stops, looks at you again, and this time you look back, see he’s pressing his lips together. He was trying to convince himself more than you, and he just realized. You raise your hand, lay it over his, squeeze briefly.

“It’s okay,” you say, now comforting him. “You’re right, it’s all gonna work out.”

Castiel studies you for a second. He must miss Dean too, you realize. The two argued more often than they didn’t over the last months, things often nearly coming to a head between them. But he loves Dean, just like Charlie, just like Sam, just like you.

And still he’s not here.

“You wanted to rest,” Cas says, bringing you out of your thoughts. You can’t even be mad at him for wanting to excuse himself. You’re not great company right now. 

He stands, nods at you again, then turns to leave. When he reaches the door, he throws you another look and you give him a reassuring nod. With that, he leaves.

With a sigh, you lie down on the bed. Stare at the phone on your nightstand. Your eyes close and you dream.

You dream that he comes to you in the night.

It’s dark and he’s merely a silhouette, but you would recognize Dean anywhere. The breadth of his shoulders, the noises he makes even when he’s perfectly quiet, the feel of his skin on yours. 

He walks in, and you’re not sure if he opened the door or if there never was one. Either way, it’s his room now. You only live here.

He gets on the bed and you reach out towards him, but he’s so far away. Your fingertips brush over him, but you can’t grasp him. Not until he wants you to.

He climbs over you and you could cry from happiness. You can’t see his face - it stays in shadow, no matter how close you drag him towards you. But it doesn’t matter. You know his features so well.

The knife enters you at the same time as Dean does. Wetness gushes, warm and thick, but in his arms none of it matters. He thrusts and so does the knife, and you would take being stabbed a million times if it means having him close.

“I forgive you,” he says and you nod. 

“I don’t,” you say. “We have to get up.”

But Dean shakes his head. You don’t fight him. You never do.

There’s a loud knock and you roll over with a groan. The door flies open and for a moment you’re sure something bad has happened. 

“Found us a case,” Sam says, hands on narrow hips, open face looking down at you.

“Sam,” you mumble, “what the fuck. Let me sleep.” You hear him chuckle.

“You’ve slept for half a day,” he says. “Come on. Get up. We’re getting out of here.”

You make sure Sam knows how annoyed you are when he passes you the thermos filled with coffee. He’s driving so he keeps looking at the street, but you don’t take the thermos from him, stare him down until he’s forced to look at you. He does, expression curious and chuckles when he looks out the front again.

“What crept up your ass and made you so damn jovial?” you ask, finally taking the coffee from him. Sam shakes his head, still smiling.

“I just woke up and I was tired of feeling sorry for myself,” he says, then throws you a challenging look. “You should try that sometime.” Your mouth drops open. Who is this person? You can’t think of a good retort, so you pour yourself some of the coffee, blow on it, sip it.

“What’s the case?” you ask after a few minutes of quiet. Sam reaches forward, grabs some papers off the dash, passes them to you.

“We’ve got three more hours to drive,” he says, throwing you another look. “Study up.” 

You make a face which he just barely misses.

The waistline of your tights is digging into your stomach, the suit jacket is too warm and your hair is up in a way that is annoying you to no end, but worst of all of these things is needing to admit that Sam was right.

The case is distracting you.

You are talking to the roommates of the college student, Frankie, who died under mysterious circumstances - disemboweled in his room, which was locked from the inside. You’re asking them questions, watching for their responses, weird formulations, testing carefully if there might be something unusual about what happened. Damn it. You forgot you actually used to enjoy this. The study of it. Same as the research.

Sam and you walk outside when you’re done, and you look up at him just as he loosens the top button of his shirt.

“So that Brad guy…” you start, and Sam is already nodding.

“Yeah, he definitely has something to do with it,” he confirms. 

“Think it had anything to do with those magic mushrooms he gave Frankie,” you continue, just as the two of you reach the car parked outside and you turn back to Sam with a dramatic raising of your eyebrows. “The ones he claims he found? Who eats mushrooms they found? ”

Sam chuckles, agreeing, and then you turn to the side where Dean would usually be to continue the joke and he’s not there.

It’s like a punch to the chest. It’s like someone sucking all air out of the room, even though you’re standing outside. It’s like realizing you lost a limb, and it will never be reattached.

You look down quickly, hoping Sam didn’t notice. You open the door on the passenger side and when you look at him you’re pretty sure he hasn't. 

“Hold on,” Sam says and you freeze. He looks down the street, squinting against the sun. 

“Let's go for a walk,” he says. “There's a park down there I saw earlier. We've been cooped up all day.”

You don't want to go to a park. You want to crawl back into bed and marinate in your heartbreak. But you're pretty sure Sam's gonna be insufferable if you suggest that, so you decide to spare yourself the battle.

“Sure,” you say, and close the door again.

Sam and you don't speak as you walk down the street. The park is kind of small and shitty, but there are children running around, screaming and playing, there's people strolling and you can't deny that it has a sort of soothing effect on you.

“So,” Sam says, and you stop in your tracks, turn around to face him, “when are we gonna talk about all this? About Dean?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, immediately defensive, but it seems like today you can't get one over on Sam.

“I know you don't want to,” he says before you have a chance to reply, “but you have to. You can't keep carrying this on your own. And I know that if the roles were reversed, you wouldn't let me shut myself away either.” You look down.

“Sam,” you say, and this time he waits, lets you speak. You sigh. “I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

You look up at Sam again. He's looking over your head, frowning, thinking, and then his eyes land on something and a smile starts spreading on his face.

“I know just the thing,” he says. 

Sam towers over the other people standing in line at the ice cream cart. He looks out of place there, in his suit, everyone else dressed for the warming weather. When the two of you reach the front, he orders.

“Two soft serves,” he says, then turns slightly to you, eyes narrowing in thought. “One with caramel sauce and one with chocolate sprinkles.”

You shake your head a little, can’t help the distant smile sneaking onto your lips as you watch Sam pay, then take the two cones. He turns, looks over your head again, then nods. 

“Let’s go sit down,” he says.

There's a bench, a little bit off to the side and once you're sitting, Sam passes you the soft serve with the sprinkles. You take it, take a small bite. It's soft and sweet. You bite down on a sprinkle.

When you look back at Sam, he's shoveling some of the ice cream into his mouth with a tiny wooden spoon. Of course he does. He's serious even about eating soft serve.

“Do you wanna start?” he asks, only looking at you once he's finished the question. You lay your free hand in your lap, watch him.

“Is that what we do?” you ask, trying to make your voice sound sarcastic but not mean. “We go around the circle and share?”

Sam takes another spoonful, only giving a small smile in response. Not indulging your destructive words. It makes you feel a little bad about them immediately.

“I can start too,” he says, sensibly scoops up some caramel sauce that is threatening to drip off the side of his cone, before he turns to you.

“I'm… angry,” he says, nodding along a little, lips pressed together when he briefly pauses. “And I’m ashamed of myself for being angry.” You look at his face, and you see it there, the shame he's talking about.

“I know that Dean did what he thought he had to,” Sam continues. “That he got the Mark because he really thought there was no other way to kill Abaddon. But it's also… it's what he does, you know?”

He grimaces, shrugs, spoons up some more ice cream.

“Dean barrels ahead, and it's all for good reason,” he says, briefly chewing on the inside of his lip. “And it almost always leaves a bigger mess than we had originally.”

You look down at where you’re holding the ice cream and a drop of the bright red strawberry sauce is just running down on your finger. You should move your hand, wipe it away, but you simply lack the energy in that moment.

“I don’t understand why he would leave,” you say, still looking at the drop of ice cream, because it is easier than looking at Sam. “I don’t understand why he would stay away. I thought…” You take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

I thought he loved me, lingers on your tongue, but you can’t say it. Saying it out loud, in the daylight, in front of Sam, seems wrong. Dean and your love is a thing for the dark, something you whisper to each other in secret.

“I think he’s just terrified by what he did,” Sam says and you blink, look at him. He’s studying you carefully. “I think that’s why he’s staying away.”

“But we did it together,” you say. Sam presses his lips together, and he might not want to hear it, but it’s the truth.

“I know, but–” he starts, eyes going to the ground, but you interrupt him.

“I killed that Eldon guy, Sam,” you say and his eyes snap back to you. “I did that.”

“You know,” Sam says, quickly, “there’s no telling if maybe being that… exposed to the Mark couldn’t have had some kind of effect on you too. I mean, we don’t know how this stuff really works.” 

You try hard not to scoff. Sam’s just trying to be kind, trying to make room for the possibility that you weren’t acting under full capacity. And maybe you weren’t. Maybe the Mark did have an effect on you - all the times you felt feverish when Dean wasn’t around, the sudden outbursts of rage, bashing Eldon’s skull in. He deserved it, deserved every second of it but that doesn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it. Something you’d never thought possible before. 

“Then I’m the only one who understands him,” you say, voice small. “Why wouldn’t he want to be with me?”

It’s more vulnerability that you’ve allowed yourself in front of Sam so far. Because this is what it all boils down to in the end, what you’ve really been asking yourself - why has Dean left you? Not Sam, not Cas, not Charlie. You.

The small cone of ice scream looks even more tiny in Sam’s hand, and you stare at it. There’s voices carrying over from the park nearby and a soft breeze is blowing. It feels unreal, all of it. The sun hurts your eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say, then need to swallow.

“I know,” Sam replies, and it’s too much work even to look at him. “I know.”

You look down when you hear a dripping sound - something red has dripped onto your shoe. For a second you stare at it. Wonder if you’re so soaked in blood now that it will just always be there, before you realize it’s strawberry sauce.

Sam and you make it back to the motel. There’s less of the unsaid in the air between you two and it feels good, even though you didn’t really come to a conclusion on anything.

On the drive back, you turn to him, unsure whether you will regret what you were about to say.

“You know,” you say, and Sam throws you a look, showing you he’s listening, “Dean said that you… that you wanted me. When he still had the Mark.”

Sam looks out the front, then shifts where he sits.

“Listen,” he says, voice apologetic, “no offense, but… I don’t.” You chuckle, and Sam gives you a surprised look.

“I’m actually really glad to hear that,” you say and he grins, nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re more like a really annoying little sister.”

“ Annoying? ” you ask and it’s his turn to chuckle. Both of you are quiet for a while, but you have to say what’s on your mind.

“I wonder why he said that,” you say. Sam is quiet, then clears his throat. 

“You think maybe he was trying to isolate you?” he asks, not looking at you.

His words feel like quicksilver in your veins. Dean would never try to isolate you, you know that. But the Mark? Maybe that’s a different story.

Back at the motel, both of you dive into research. Your brain feels strangely rejuvenated from the time outside but in the end, you're still no closer to figuring out who disemboweled Frankie, the victim.

“Time we pay Brad another visit,” Sam says.

It’s getting dark by the time the two of you make it back. You’re walking up to the front door when Sam raises his hand, makes you stop. The door is open, the wood splintered where someone kicked it in.

Both of you draw your guns, proceed quietly and slowly. Sam pushes open the door and you follow him. You make it a few steps into the quiet, dark hallway when you hear sounds in the other room.

Carefully, you advance. Someone is there, definitely, and Sam waves at you to go the other way around, cut off their possible escape route. You stay close to the wall, in the shadows, and when you reach the corner that leads to the kitchen, you take a slow breath, then round it, pointing your gun.

Whatever you mean to say, freeze or hands in the air or something else, doesn’t make its way up your throat. Instead, it remains in your chest, your lips parted without any sound coming out of it as you see what’s there at the end of your barrel.

Dean is just reaching for his gun too, but same as you, he completely freezes. He’s frowning, looking concentrated, and in the next second, when he realizes it’s you, his features go slack, his eyes widen. Sam rounds the corner only a few seconds later, and he too stops moving.

Dean is looking at you, something soft and lost in his face. He looks… frightened, you realize. You barely have time to take him in when he looks away, turns as he hears Sam behind him.

Sam is equally dumbfounded. He lowers his gun and for a moment, despite how broad and tall he is, he looks like a little boy when his eyes land on Dean.

Sam says his brother’s name and one corner of Dean’s mouth twitches.

“Small world,” he says, voice raspy. His voice. It feels like you’re hearing it for the first time in years. Sam is slowly shaking his head as he holsters his gun.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, unbelieving, as he steps closer to Dean. Dean puts his gun away too, turns a little to Sam.

“Guessing the same thing you two are doing,” he says, carefully throwing you another look, then quickly looking away. “On the hunt for a Rakshasa.”

“Rakshasa?” you say, and this time Dean’s glance doesn’t make it to your face. He looks in your direction and then it’s like he stops himself from going further.

“Yeah,” he says. “Turns out Brad must have invited it in for some reason, and it's been making itself at home here. Only the it got hungry, and Frankie was unlucky enough to be the only one home.” Sam blinks a few times, like it's all becoming so clear to him suddenly.

“They can make themselves invisible,” he points out and Dean nods. "That's why it looked like Frankie was alone in his locked room when he was killed." You try to tune into the conversation, but you can only listen, watch Dean. Watch him move, the way he does now, movement you know so well, have watched for years. 

“Any idea where it is now?” Sam asks, and you don't understand how he can be acting so casual at seeing Dean again. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, steps to the side, then points at something behind the kitchen counter. You see a hand there, splayed on the floor, and a few drops of blood.

You step forward before you think about it. Three long strides take you to the other side of the kitchen counter. 

Brad is lying there. The Rakshasa is rolled up next to him, bleeding, eyes ripped open, and Brad's not faring much better, blood and other things coming out of his mouth, his nostrils, bulging under his shirt. He’s dead, disemboweled, just like his roommate.

You feel sickness crawl up your throat quicker than it ever has before. You rush from the room, find the guest bathroom you remember from coming in and a second later, you’re bent over the toilet, puking your guts up.

It’s Dean. He’s in the next room. You almost can’t believe it, almost sure that if you walk out there, he’ll be gone, some kind of hallucination. But when you’re done gagging, you can clearly hear two voices in the next room - Sam and Dean. 

You wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, reach up and flush the toilet. There’s a soft knock on the door frame of the bathroom, since you neglected to close the door in your rush.

To say you’re disappointed that it’s Sam is an understatement. You feel a little shaky so you run your hand over your mouth again.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tone gentle and you nod immediately. 

“Yeah, just,” you say, “been a hot minute since I've seen someone's guts on the outside.” A lie. You saw lots of guts on the outside in the Styne mansion. Did some gutting yourself. Sam nods.

“Just stay here, okay?” he says. “We’ll take care of it.”

He’s gone again before you can answer. Usually, you would want to be out there, see how they do their job, learn. Be near Dean, because he might teach you something, might lean in to explain something to you. But now you smell like sick. Now you have no idea if Dean will even look at you, never mind teach you something. 

You sit down on the floor, lean your back against the tiles of the wall. There’s some dust on the floor across from you, and you stare at it while you listen to Sam and Dean move in the next room, exchanging the occasional sentence. 

You know what Sam is doing. He’s trying to act normal, trying to act like it’s not a huge deal to have Dean near again so as not to scare him away, but you saw the look on his face. The pure fucking pain and hurt and longing. He’s just good at hiding it. Unlike you. 

It’s a while before you dare to move again. You stand, your legs luckily not feeling too shaky, and then you walk over to the sink, open the cabinet over it. There’s some mouthwash and you gargle some of it along with some water. Then you step back into the hallway.

It seems your timing is perfect, because just then, both men step out of the kitchen. They’re throwing looks over their shoulder at whatever they have done, the crime scene they have fixed. Your eyes land on Dean immediately.

The three of you step outside. The air of early evening is cool and refreshing, and you take deep breaths of it through your nose.

No one speaks, for a minute. Sam looks around, pretending he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, addressing both you and Dean, “we haven’t had dinner, we should grab some. Dean?”

It breaks your heart to see Sam putting on his act. He was so gung ho about taking things into his own hands, and you in yours, about not letting life make decisions for you, but he’s just as thrown by his brother being here as you are. You carefully look at Dean, check his reaction.

“That’s alright, Sammy,” he answers. You see the forced lightness on Sam’s face cracking.

“You gotta eat,” he says and Dean smiles sadly, looks at the ground. He raises his hand, scratches at his stubbled jaw. 

“I think I should get back to it,” he says, to no one really, and then to your absolute horror, he starts walking across the front lawn. You don’t mean to stop him.

“Dean!” you call out, when he’s just about to start down the street - he must have parked away from the house, not in front of it, like you and Sam did. He stops, his hand on the gate and slowly turns back as you walk towards him. You stop a few feet away from him, wary of crossing that final distance.

“Are you okay?” you ask. Dean’s chewing on his tongue, but then he looks up, right at your face. You look at his in turn, this face you’ve seen make a million different expressions. You’re not sure what you see there, but you know that he’s not coming back.

He lets go of the gate and starts walking down the street without answering. You watch as he becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. You don’t feel your fingers.

Dean makes it back to his motel room at the other end of town. He opens the door, manages to put his gun on the table without submitting to the urge to shoot himself in the head, and then he sits at the edge of the bed, shaking hands pressed against his knees.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He let his guard down. How the fuck did he not know you and Sam were working the same goddamn case as him?

He leans forward, puts his face in his hands. Think, he wants to scream at himself. He should just leave. Grab as many of his things as he can pack in a minute and get on the road again. Everything he owns right now is stuff he’s bought in the last weeks. It would be easy to throw it all into the car and just disappear.

This is how he’s been doing it, the way he’s always been doing it. Pack up, leave, go wherever the next case takes him. That blip of calling the bunker his home - it’s over now, and he’s just gonna have to live with that. It’s fine. He can deal with that.

What he can’t deal with is seeing Sammy. His little brother was nearly buzzing from how hard he was trying to keep it together. Nothing new to Dean, to be the disappointment of his family, to be good for nothing but getting people worried. Sam’s probably used to it too, but that doesn’t make it better.

But you? You’re the last person he wanted to see. Well, you’re also the person he wanted to see the most. If you would have looked happy or indifferent or even angry - he’s played through each of those scenarios in his head a million times. He didn’t expect you to look so broken though.

Not that he doesn’t know what he’s done. Not that he doesn’t know that he’s probably ruined your life. He just preferred thinking you maybe hated him for it. Instead you asked him if he was okay. If he was okay 

He nearly died on that stretch of road when the Mark was ripped from him. And then he didn’t and he wished he had. When the layers and layers of protection the Mark had provided him were suddenly gone, when he looked back at the previous weeks, at the pain and the blood and at you - that’s when he wanted to die.

But Dean doesn’t have that in him. He doesn’t have the ability to give up, even though he fucking wished to the heavens then that he did. So instead, he picked himself up. Got all the essentials. And went to work.

And yet somehow he still ran into you. Maybe he can’t escape that - whatever reckoning is coming. Maybe this is the punishment he’s been running from all along. Maybe you deserve your shot. 

So Dean picks up his phone and begins typing.

Sam and you don’t talk when you make it back to the motel, nor when you go to buy some food, both only picking at it. You exchange the necessities, and then you sit in front of the TV and you don’t talk again.

All the show of optimism has gone out of Sam. He looks utterly defeated. You’re probably not faring much better. 

You say good night to each other and you turn your back to the bed Sam is in. You see the screen of your phone light up, but you’d have to extend your arm to look at it, pick it up, and that seems like too much work. So you don’t.

The next morning, Sam offers to get coffee. You’re pretty sure he just wants to be alone for a bit, so you thank him and accept. You’re brushing your teeth when you check your messages.

There’s one from Dean.

We need to talk, it says. Can you come meet me?

Then the address of his motel. You stand there, toothbrush no longer moving, just staring at the words.

You walk out of the motel room five minutes later. Sam has the car, but you don’t mind stretching your legs. As you’re walking down the street, you smooth down the dress you put on. Suddenly, you feel foolish. You wanted to look pretty. Pretty for Dean. You only brought the dress since it’s part of your standard, dress-up wardrobe. Witnesses are more likely to trust you the softer and more feminine you seem. And now you’re wearing it for Dean. Maybe hoping for the same effect.

The motel Dean is in is run down. You look for the room number he gave you, flex your hands. Then you knock.

There’s movement on the other side of the door and then it opens and you’re looking at Dean. He seems surprised to see you - maybe he didn’t expect you to actually show up.

“Hey,” he says, voice clipped. “Come in.” He opens the door wider and you enter his room.

It’s bare bones. There’s never much spreading out with how briefly you usually stay anywhere during a case, but it looks like Dean hasn’t even done that. The room seems completely untouched. Maybe that means he hasn’t brought anyone here. You blink at your own thoughts.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Dean says, sounding so formal, so wrong , that it makes you uncomfortable.

“You asked me to, so…” you answer, avoid looking at him.

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, leans his elbows on his knees, and interlocks his hands. There’s an old brown armchair across from where he’s sitting, so you sit down in that. Its seat is worn from use and you sink into it, deeper than you expect. It doesn’t make you feel particularly tough or big or strong.

“I thought we should talk,” Dean says, and you hate how he avoids looking at you. Like there’s something shameful in the air between you. You shift in your seat.

“Okay,” you reply, hoping that if your voice is shaky he won’t hear it on those two syllables.

Dean rubs his fingers over his mouth, thinking.

“What we did,” he says, still not looking at you when he corrects himself: “What I did… I’m so sorry.” He looks up, at you finally, and he really is sorry, you can see it. You run your palm over the back of the other hand, the sound of skin on skin loud in the room. 

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” you say, your voice quieter than you mean for it to be. It’s not fully the truth - there are a million things. Leaving you, not answering your calls, ignoring your messages. But you’re so willing to forgive all that, if only it means that you get him back.

“What I did to you, that wasn’t right,” Dean continues, and it’s fine, it’s okay, if he’s sorry about the last weeks then you can forgive him and move on. But then he adds: “Being with you, that was… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You feel as though someone has pulled a lever and made the floor drop away from under you. You’re hoping, praying that this must be some kind of misunderstanding.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a shuddering breath leaving you.

“What happened between us,” Dean continues, and then he finally looks at you, “our relationship . It’s, I… I took advantage of you.”

There is a fuzziness at the sides of your vision. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I don’t think—” you start, but then stop, need to swallow. “That’s not what happened.” You blink, and then Dean is really looking at you, searching out your gaze.

“Yes, it is,” he says, voice clear, and you don’t understand why he is doing this, why he is saying these things.

“No,” you simply say, and Dean exhales slowly.

“The fact that you think that,” he says slowly, “that I’ve convinced you that this is okay… it’s not. It’s wrong.” You make an involuntary sound in your throat.

“I’m almost twice your age,” Dean says, as if that means anything , as if that somehow undoes everything you’ve done together, everything he’s done for you, everything you’ve done for him. As if it somehow strikes the lies you’ve told for each other from history, the moments of ecstasy. Like they suddenly don’t mean anything anymore.

“So?” you ask, finding Dean’s gaze, and you see him clench his jaw. “I don’t care. That doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Dean replies, voice calm. You feel your lips shaking, feel like such a stupid girl, such a child .

“So what?” you ask, voice snotty with the tears building in your eyes, but you sound petulant nonetheless. “This was all just the Mark? None of it was you?” And Dean doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t leap in to say that no, actually, it was him.

“It wasn’t,” he says, “not really.”

You’re on your feet before you know it. Your entire body is shaking and there’s a pain in your chest, in your heart, that you’re sure is gonna kill you. Tears are blurring your vision, but you don’t care.

“I didn’t do this to you!” you say, voice shrill and Dean frowns at you. “I didn’t—I didn’t take advantage of you, or, or, I didn’t do anyth—” A deep sob interrupts you and your hand flies up to your face, the back of it pressing against your nose, but the tears are coming hard. You feel like you’re sliding into hysterics. Dean slowly stands, careful, as if you’re some kind of wild animal he needs to be careful in approaching.

“I didn’t say that,” he says, actually extending a hand towards you to calm you. “That is not what I—of course you didn’t take advantage of me. It’s the other way around.”

“B—but you said it was all the Mark,” you reply, voice blubbering, and part of you thinks you should be ashamed of that, but you can’t be. The sadness and hysteria in your chest feels almost ecstatic and you can’t stop it. You can’t have Dean leave you, not want you anymore. Especially not by being this nice, this soft.

“Y—you weren’t yourself, and I, I abused that,” you continue, momentarily regaining some control over your shaking and crying. “I kept coming back, and you couldn’t say no, because of the Mark.”

Dean’s hand drops, as if in slow motion, and he blinks, his eyes remaining closed for a second. He seems tired. Exhausted. His lets his shoulders hang.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, voice gentle. “Yes, the Mark… controlled me in a way, but I still should have done differently.”

“And now you’re back in control,” you say, and you feel something build in you, something that hurts more than anything else has ever hurt before. “And you don’t want me anymore.”

Dean’s eyes widen. His mouth moves, but no words come out. It hurts almost more than him saying yes. That you gave yourself to him, did all those things with him, but he can’t even be bothered to love you. That you will never get him back, no version of Dean. But then he takes a step closer to you.

“Of course I want you,” he says, green eyes focused on you. “Of course I do, but it’s not right. I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t care,” you say, stepping closer to him, and you want him to understand that what you have is special, is different, it’s not what it looks like from the outside, what someone would interpret it as. You’re not some poor, groomed thing, you love him and he loves you and he has made you feel things you’ve never felt before. And not just the sex, that too, but even that, it has to mean something , right? Two bodies can’t possibly connect that well without it meaning something. The way he protected you, the way you became a team, became one, the way Dean was willing to kill for you, to do anything to protect you. No one’s ever loved you like that. How can you go back to not being loved this way? It’s impossible.

You say all that, or some of it, mumble other parts. You’re not sure if you’re making yourself understood, but Dean steps closer again. His hands land on your shoulders and you want to throw yourself at him, into his arms, just have him hold you, tell you everything’s gonna be alright in that gruff voice of his. But he looks at you, so impossibly soft, the way he can only look at you if he’s willing to let you down now.

“I can’t—“ you choke out, trying to move away, but you misjudge how hard Dean is holding on to you. You stumble a little, and he grabs you, holds you, and he’s so close, brow knotted, lips parted, and you press yourself up, lips meeting his, but barely.

Dean immediately returns the kiss, his hands shooting up to hold your face, pull you closer against him. Stars explode in your head at the absolute bliss of touching him again, of holding him.

But then Dean pulls back, and the cold rushes in again. He’s shaking his head before his lips have even stopped touching you. You notice he’s breathing heavier, and so are you. How attuned you are to each other. It can’t just mean nothing.

“No,” Dean says, swallows hard, “we can’t.” But you don’t let him continue, kiss him again, wrap your arms around him in the hope he can’t escape you. That he won’t want to.

“Dean,” you moan against his lips, still watching his face. “Please, please, I need to feel you.” Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and he looks like he’s in pain, in beautiful, blissful pain.

You let one of your hands drop, bring it to his crotch. You press against him through the jeans fabric, needy, desperate. Dean’s breath hitches and his hands wander down to your hips, fists bunching up the fabric of your dress but he doesn’t move it up, seems to just need to hold on to you.

“Stop it,” he says, but you can’t, you won’t. Instead you press your lips against Dean’s jaw, feel it tense under your touch. In response, you open your mouth, bite him there. Dean flinches, breath coming faster. Your hold your teeth clamped over the bone for a few seconds. Then you let go.

“Please,” you say, before you wrap your lips over the spot you just bit, suckle on it. Dean groans and you know he’s yours now, he has to be, he can’t leave you like this.

But then suddenly he’s pushing you back, surprisingly rough. You stumble a little and stare at him, eyes ripped open. Dean’s chest is heaving, and his face is set.

“I said no ,” he says, voice clear and loud. You feel anger and hate flare in you. It’s clear. It’s beautiful.

“You don’t get to decide this,” you say, your voice so raw it hurts your throat. You step closer to Dean and shove him, hard. He must not expect the move, because he needs to take a step back to balance himself. You push again, this time to no avail. He’s unmovable. You can’t get him to love you, and you can’t even get him to fall over. You feel so weak.

“ Fuck you!” you almost scream at him, and then you raise your fists, pummel them against Dean’s chest. “How could you do that to someone!? How could you do that to me!?” Your fists come down again but then Dean grabs your wrists, secures them in place. His face is torn between horror and grief. Disgust at his creation.

His hold on your wrists tightens, the pain making you snap out of your deliriousness and at the same time fanning the flames of your anger. Of your need. You try to rip them free, but Dean holds them fast, but you are thrashing at him in a way that disregards your own safety. Dean can hold on to you, but he can’t control you pulling your arms back and forth. You’re gonna dislocate your shoulder, he suddenly thinks, terror shooting through him. And when you do, he’ll still be holding your wrist.

So he pulls you in, brings you close to his body, turns the two of you. He needs to stop you, somehow, stop you from moving, stop you from hurting yourself. But not from hurting him , he thinks, because he deserves every fucking punch you throw at him.

He’s not sure if he pushes you down onto the bed or if you drag him or if it’s something in-between. What he knows is that suddenly, he’s falling, and he can’t stop the way his body smashes on top of yours, because he doesn’t let go of your wrists. Then you’re there under him, still thrashing, still fighting him, pushing against him, because you want to be close or because you want to get away, he’s not sure.

Dean will never forget the shame he feels in that moment, the second he notices his body responding to you under him like that. The way your neck is stretched and the way your hips are trying to buck up, only stopped by his pinning yours, sends his mind back to the night he spent buried deep inside of you, just like this. The way he became part of you in a way that made him sure the same blood ran through your veins.

But then you scream, something unintelligible, and Dean is back in the moment, back there, on that bed, where he’s pinning you down while you’re fighting him, and he’s sure for a second he’s going to be sick. He lets go immediately, begins rolling off you to the side, but to his surprise, you push against his shoulders, roll with him.

Dean brings his hands up, not sure what he’s going to do, but his own momentum allows you to roll with him, get on top of him. He’s still terrified of touching you, of grabbing you again, hurting you, so he has his hands slightly raised in front of his chest, not sure what to do with them. He doesn’t expect what happens next.

You push yourself up on your knees, one arm holding you off the mattress, the other shooting down between your legs. Dean hears the metal of his belt and it’s like the sound is coming from far away, before he understands what’s happening. His hands shoot to your legs, pushing up to touch the sweet, soft skin of your thighs and he feels all his blood leave the rest of his body. He squeezes the skin there, hard, while the tug deep in his stomach becomes as violent as a storm. He pushes your dress up far enough to see your underwear. 

He knows the pair, knows how they smell when he’s been teasing you for a while. Knows the feeling of them against the pads of his fingers. He stares at them and he can’t look away.

You are opening his jeans now, and Dean reaches one trembling hand forward, between your legs, pushes your panties to the side by hooking his index finger into the seat. You’re wet, and he could sob from that feeling, the dampness between your lips, all for him, only for him. He’s ruined you, but he’s ruined himself in the process.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, take him out, as you begin stroking him. Frantic, too fast, and it hurts but Dean moans at the pain. Let him feel it for a thousand years and still he wouldn’t have paid for what he did.

He’s hard already, but you tug at him again, one, two, three times, and then you push yourself higher, line him up. You’re not looking at him, instead you’re looking down, concentrated, and Dean wants to change that, wants to look at you, to make sure you are aware of what you’re doing, but then his tip touches you and it’s like all his senses suddenly are captured by this.

You sink down at him with an intense whimper and Dean wants to scream, wants to sob and cry from how good you feel, how perfect. He shudders for a second, the ecstasy of you almost too much, before his hands go up to cup your face again. He wants to see you, needs to see you.

But this time, your hands go around his wrists. You pin them down on the mattress next to his head, and Dean doesn’t fight you. You stare at his face, eyes wet, lips parted, strands of hair falling into your face. He’s pretty sure you’re a goddess. You must be, to subjugate him like this.

“You don’t get to touch,” you say, voice hard but clear. There might be a distant tremor in it, but Dean is willing to ignore it. “You don’t deserve it.”

And you’re right, he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve it. But then you begin moving, begin rocking back and forth on him and now it’s Dean who’s whimpering, as your wet, warm tightness begins rubbing over him. Your eyes flutter closed, your eyebrows going up a little as your face relaxes.

You begin riding him, slowly. You are concentrated, completely focused on extracting your pleasure from him. Dean’s just a body in that moment, and his chest fills with the voice of heaven at that. Maybe he can repent, after all.

You continue riding him, slowly, but somehow not gently. Every single movement is for your benefit, not his. It throws Dean back and forth between the shores of pleasure. There are some movements that make him sure he’ll burst in only a second, and some that make him want to grab your hips, dictate how you move. But your hands are still on his wrists, and while it wouldn’t be much of a battle for Dean to make you let go, it feels like metal shackles holding him down. The way they ground him, make him absolutely yours.

He starts coming closer, starts to feel the urge grow. His balls are tight and he wants nothing more than to fill you up with himself. Maybe through bodily fluids he can somehow make you understand how sorry he is. No, what is he thinking? Maybe he’s losing his mind.

But you keep moving, occasional small noises in your throat as you keep chasing your own end. So Dean holds back. He wants to flex his ass, drive up into you, pick his own rhythm rather than being victim to the unsteady, unreliable one of you. But he can’t do that. He needs to let you decide, because you’re right – he doesn’t deserve it.

After what feels like a torturous eternity, you begin picking up your pace, lips parting wider as you locate the perfect spot, perfect angle at how you want Dean to make you come. He can feel it, too – the spot he keeps hitting, the way it makes you wetter and wetter, makes him slide in easier and easier, and you are so goddamn soft.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, but he can’t come, he mustn’t come. It’s not about him. You begin tightening on him, and Dean groans as you envelop him, breathing hard, movement stuttering more and more. Dean forces his eyes open to see you, and you are shaking, mouth ripped open in a silent scream. There are tears running down your face, dropping onto his t-shirt.

You drop forward, just as it finishes, only for a moment rubbing yourself against him, then still. Dean doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare do anything to continue, even though he feels like if he doesn’t come now, he’s going to implode. He’s not sure he can hold back if you move.

You do move, then, but only to push yourself off him. He slips out of you, almost gasping, as you crawl and stumble off the bed, nearly topple when you reach the side and stand. Dean’s hand goes to his cock, torn between the handful of strokes it would take to let him finish and between covering himself, hide his shame. He presses his hand against himself, stomach twisting at the promised relief. It would be so easy so just move his hand a little more, imagine it's you.

His eyes must have fallen shut but they fly open when he hears the room door open. For a second, he panics at the thought that someone has found the two of you, has seen him like this then he looks in that direction and it's you opening the door.

So Dean has no choice but to tug himself away, groans at the feeling, and stumbles after you.

You’re walking across the parking lot in quick strides and he catches up with you in only a few steps, grabs your arm but you pull it from him immediately.

“ Don’t touch me,” you hiss and Dean raises his hands, shows you he won’t.

“I can’t let you leave like this,” he says. He sees you open your mouth to say something, but then you don’t. You stare him down, fire in your eyes and it makes Dean love you a thousand times more. Your chest is heaving and your lips are slightly parted. You look beautiful and terrifying.

“Let me call Sam,” Dean says. “To pick you up.”

He watches as you hold on to your reserve and then let it slowly slide from you. You look around once, at the parking lot, and then you nod. Both of you don’t talk as Dean leads you back to the room.

You sit in the brown armchair again while he calls Sam, don’t look at him, don’t speak. Dean leans against the wall at a distance, his entire body still feeling like he has ants crawling all over him. His erection is still painfully pulsing in his jeans.

Sam’s there ten minutes later. Dean opens the door when he knocks. He looks worried, but then he looks past Dean into the room, must see the bed, the blankets disturbed and messy, sees you, eyes down, arms crossed as you walk towards him and Sam’s expression changes. His jaw tenses and he presses his lips into a line.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says as you walk past him, but you ignore him, walk past Sam out of the room. Sam looks after you, then turns back to Dean.

He could probably have seen the punch coming, but right then, he doesn’t. Sam’s fist hits him square against the side of his face, and Dean’s back meets the door with a bang. His hand goes up to his jaw and he grunts, squeezes his eyes shut at the intense pain blooming in his skull. Sam meant for this one to hurt.

By the time he opens his eyes again, Sam is walking away. Dean looks after him and you for a second, then closes the door.

He stands there, hand still on the doorknob, not moving. He’s pretty sure that if such a thing is possible, he’s about to burst into a million pieces, just fall apart on a molecular level. He stands there for a few minutes and when it doesn’t happen, he moves forward, drops himself down on the bed.

He pushes his face into the bedding. Somewhere, somehow, there must be some of you, some of your smell, your presence. He takes deep, hard breaths, hoping to find it, hoping to find anything of yours. His hand slips into his jeans and he wraps it around his aching cock, tries to imagine your face.

But he can’t. As if his brain is trying to punish him, to keep any chance of peace from him, his mind refuses to settle on your image. Instead, when he closes his eyes, he sees blood. 

He finds a whiff of you, eventually. Just the tiniest bit there, he’s sure. He presses his nose into the fabric there, gives himself a few hard, rough strokes. He comes with a whimper and a sob and then he lies there.

He wishes the bed was your lap. He wishes he could curl up, make himself small, and just be held by you. By your soft hands. That’s all he wants.

Instead he lies there, in the cold bed. Somewhere someone yells, and someone honks a car, and Dean feels utterly alone. 

[bloodtwin]

──────────────────────────────

Anonymous sent: Myshka has arrived!! *sits in puck's lap* "Mermer."

──────────────────────────────

Oh, yikes. It's not that Puck doesn't like cats. He loves cats, but they don't normally love him. He doesn't blame them. Cats are smart creatures; they can likely tell he's not one to be trifled with. Perhaps they see their own fickle nature reflected back at them, and it turns them away. Or he scares them. Whatever the reason, Puck tends to admire them from a distance rather than up-close.

So, to have one in his lap like this ⸻ so trusting, so vulnerable & exposed ⸻ he almost PANICS. Tenses, hands awkwardly hovering in the air because he doesn't know where to put them.

Cats are soft & squishy little things. Too squishy. Too adorable. So small in comparison to his hands. They remind him of someone. The truth is, he has something of a dog-like reaction to them, as he is wont to do. He either wants to PLAY with them or he wants to EAT THEM. If he's around a cat for too long, he always gets the urge to squeeze them until they ⸻

. . . Mermer ？

Puck blinks. It takes him a second to decipher the accent, but then the meaning of the word is clear. This cat thinks he's its mother. Oh. Oh, that is so cute. His heart swells, and he can't help but reach out to stroke Myshka's fur, tentative & mindful of his claws. With a gentle laugh, he says, ❝ Silly kitty. I'm not ⸻ ❞

Um. Why Is His Tail Wagging. Probably just because it's cute. Nothing to do with the idea of being perceived as a MATERNAL FIGURE for a FELINE. That would be weird, right ？He's not a cat. He's not even a woman. He can't be a cat's mother. This is ridiculous.

But Puck can't seem to hear his own thoughts as he scoops Myshka up into his arms like one would cradle a baby, holding him close. ❝ Hello, my son. ❞

[fisheito]

@halfetirosie @fallencelsetial Reply that makes me cheerfully repeat it outloud . then Reply that makes me instantly drop my smile

[umilily]

i've been here for less than 2 days and i'm already exhausted by this household.

[rosetintedgunman]

@eighthjuror - Continued from here

-

Phantom's irritation didn't appear to faze the trespasser. In fact, Wilford had crouched down so he could adjust a sparkler. It was letting off pale red sparks. It worked wonderfully with the glitter!

"If I was on th' other side of th' counter, I wouldn't be able ta reach th' stuff," answered Wilford in a matter-of-fact tone. "Besides, there's only so much pullin' pints an' makin' gin and tonics a fella can do. An' anyway -" He lifted the glass so he could compare the drink to the actual owner of the bar, "- it suits ya. Bit more colour makes th' world a lot better."

[byanyan]

once a thread gets bumped off the first page of my drafts, i completely lose track of it and i hate that sm...

[bibleofficial]

i loveee the ‘no response is a response’ bitches 😭😭 like oh u think just bc ur not replying its u conveying ur lack of interest ? well i THINK ur just not RECEIVING my messages, so i’ll send more ❤️

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘���𝐔 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The soft melody from his expensive royal-looking piano had drawn you in. Xavier was elsewhere in the living room, probably asleep. You couldn’t resist pressing a few keys, trying to recreate the tune he’d played yesterday. As you leaned over to reach a higher note, your sleeve caught on several keys, and with a sickening crack, they snapped loose.

Your hands flew to your mouth. Three keys hung at awkward angles, completely broken from their moorings. The room suddenly felt too small, your heart pounding as tears welled in your eyes.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him in the doorway. His eyes widened slightly at your tears.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I was just—I didn’t mean to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence as your voice cracked.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He walk towards you, then knelt beside you, hands gentle as he took the broken piano keys from your trembling fingers.

“The piano...” you managed. “I broke it... I’ll pay for repairs, I promise...” you stammered, wiping at your eyes.

Xavier glanced at the damaged instrument, then back to you. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he sat beside you.

“It was an accident,” he said simply, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his warm palm cupping your face. His touch lingered there, gentle and reassuring.

“But it’s your piano,” you insisted.

“The keys were already weak,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s already old, and I’ve been meaning to replace it.”

When you still looked uncertain, he added, “I don’t want you to be upset. Things break, and it’s okay.”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact yet somehow gentle—made you feel like the broken piano truly was insignificant to him. In Xavier’s quiet, straightforward way, he’d made it clear that your distress concerned him far more than any damaged items.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The hospital had called Zayne in for emergency surgeries three nights in a row. When you woke up early on his rare day off and found him already at his desk in the home office, surrounded by patient reports, you decided breakfast was in order.

You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing a tray with coffee and toast, just as Zayne reached for a folder. Your foot caught on the edge of his rug, and before you could regain balance, hot coffee splashed across his desk—directly onto the stack of patient reports he’d brought home. Dark liquid seeped into what looked like hours of meticulous work.

“I’m so sorry!” Your voice pitched higher with panic, ignoring the stinging pain on your palms. “Zayne, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Your hands shook as you tried to salvage the papers, only smearing them further.

Zayne stood immediately, his chair rolling back. The stern lines of his face were there, but not directed at you.

“Stop,” he said firmly, holding your hands away, and taking the tray from your shaking hands and setting it aside before you dropped it too. “Leave the papers.”

Tears welled up despite your efforts. “Your reports, all your work... I just—I just ruined your day off... I’m really sorry…”

Zayne set the papers aside and surprised you by taking your warm hands in his, turning them over to examine your skin.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, his voice soft.

You shook your head.

“Good.” He guided you to sit in his chair. “These are just copies. I can print them again.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of affection that contrasted with his authoritative tone. “I keep digital backups of everything, so don’t worry. And don’t feel bad about an accident you couldn’t control.”

He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, then reached for his phone.

“The reports can wait. Let’s order some breakfast, and I’ll get us something to heal your palms.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Rafayel’s studio windows, casting a golden glow across his workspace. You’d come to surprise him with lunch since he often forgot to eat when absorbed in his art.

As you walked between tables covered with half-finished projects, your bag caught on something. You turned to see a delicate sculpture teetering on its pedestal—a twisted form of glass and clay that Rafayel had spent weeks perfecting. Your heart stopped as it fell, shattering against the floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.

“Oh…! No, no, no,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. Your fingers trembled as you tried to gather the larger pieces, tears blurring your vision.

“What happened? I heard—” Rafayel’s voice cut off as he entered the studio. You looked up, seeing his expression shift as he took in the scene.

“Rafayel, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke as you continued frantically collecting shards. “I can find someone who can repair it, or—”

“Hey, hey, stop!” He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside you. “Leave it. You’ll cut yourself.”

When you continued reaching for a particularly sharp piece, he gently captured your hands.

“Your art…” you said, tears now falling freely. “I broke it...”

“It’s just clay and glass,” he said, pulling you away from the broken pieces and into his arms. “I can make another whenever I want.”

“But this one was special—”

“Not as special as you are to me.” Rafayel’s arms tightened around you as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re going to hurt yourself on these pieces,” he whispered. He rocked you gently until your breathing steadied, then pulled back to wipe your tears with his thumb.

“Besides,” he added casually, “now I have an excuse to try that new technique I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wanting to replace that one with something new anyway. Do you wanna see, cutie?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The wind through your hair, the purr of the engine between your legs—there was nothing like late-night rides on Sylus’s custom motorcycle. He’d let you borrow it occasionally, knowing how much you loved the freedom it gave you.

The evening ride had been your idea. “Just around the perimeter,” you’d suggested, and Sylus had agreed because honestly—what wouldn’t he do for you?

You didn’t see the oil slick until the bike suddenly skidded, then tumbled, throwing you clear but scraping across the pavement with a horrible screech of metal on asphalt. Pain shot through your arm as you landed hard.

He swore he’d never been so scared before. He just ditched his motorcycle and was at your side in an instant, his typically composed face taut with an emotion you rarely saw—fear.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kneeling beside you, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you. “Where does it hurt?”

“The motorcycle—” you managed, tears forming as you looked at the mangled vehicle. Half the custom bodywork was destroyed, the handlebars twisted beyond recognition. “I’m so sorry—I’ll pay—I’ll—”

“Forget the motorcycle,” he snapped, voice sharp but hands gentle as they examined your scraped arm. He was mad at himself for letting the situation even happen.

You’d never seen him this shaken—Sylus, who always had a plan, who always remained calm and controlled.

“I shouldn’t have—” he cut himself off with a sigh before carefully helping you sit up. His fingers brushed your face, wiping away tears and examining you for injuries with tenderness. “I’m just glad the feisty kitten is all okay.” Sylus’s expression shifted to relief, though concern still lined his eyes.

“I’m sorry it got wrecked…” you whispered again.

“I have others,” he said dismissively. “Stop thinking about it.”

When he helped you to your feet, he kept his arm firmly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The destroyed motorcycle lay forgotten on the road behind you as he carried you away to his own.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The storage room in Caleb’s work room was cluttered with mementos from his piloting days. You were searching for an old photo album when your elbow knocked against something on a high shelf.

You turned just in time to see the model spacecraft—the intricate replica of Caleb’s first fighter that you’d given him last year—tumble and crash onto the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere, the delicate wings and engines breaking apart on impact.

Panic seized your chest as you dropped to your knees. Caleb had spent two days putting it together; you remembered how his face lit up with boyish excitement when you’d presented it to him. Now it lay in ruins.

Frantically, you gathered pieces, trying to fit them back together, but your shaking hands only made things worse. You were so focused on your desperate repair attempt that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Hey, what are you doing in—” Caleb’s voice cut off abruptly.

You looked up to see him staring at the broken model, he looked surprised but his gaze softened when your eyes met, and tears welled in yours as you held broken pieces in your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could say more, he was on the floor beside you, pulling you on his lap, into a tight embrace. His arms were firm around you.

“Hey, hey, hey… it’s okay. It’s just a model,” he murmured against your hair, his voice steady and reassuring.

“But you worked so hard on it...”

He pulled back slightly, brushing tears from your face with a gentle thumb. His smile alone radiates comfort as he looks at you.

“Then we’ll build a new one together,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I bet we can make this one even better.” He looked down at the pieces scattered around you both. “Maybe add some modifications here and there, what do you think?”

His warm laughter finally broke through your guilt, and he held you close as if the broken model was the furthest thing from his mind.

Based on this request.

[dollyfetti]

“do you think we’re soulmates?”

“i don’t believe in that shit.” katsuki’s hand tangles in your messy hair sprawled against the pillow he fought you over and ultimately gave to you with a small roll of his eyes.

you huff against his chest, frowning at his words. “you don’t think we were meant to be?”

“hell no.” he grins almost a little mockingly

“why not..?” you mutter, thankful your face is out of his sight because your disappointed expression is really quite laughable.

it’s silent for a long moment, and in the dark room, you assume he fell asleep. you sigh, cautiously readjusting your position to be more comfortable as you shut your eyes, ready to sleep.

that is until his hand drops from your hair onto your arm, rubbing small circles. “i don’t think i’m meant to be with anyone.” he whispers, staring up at his ceiling, still covered in glow in the dark stars from when he was a kid. “i think i just got lucky.”

you keep your eyes closed, half asleep as you respond immediately, “well, i don’t believe in luck. everything happens for a reason, suki.”

“that’s your prerogative, i guess.” he hums, his motions slowing down against your arm, resting there lazily.

“mm,” you wrap your arms around his torso, your cheek smushing against his chest.

another long moment passes, and katsuki’s still staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“you asleep?” he murmurs, careful not to wake you if you are.

“no, baby.”

he nods to himself, leaning down to plant a kiss on your head. “okay. i love you. thank you.” he whispers before resting back on his bed and shutting his eyes.

“thank you for what?” you reply, smiling softly at his affection.

he shrugs lightly before sleep takes over him, his arms engulfed around you without another word.