#i just finished and need to play it again

[em1i2a3]

All The Small Things

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Serum Enhanced!Fem!Reader!

Warnings: No warnings, just pure fluff, we have an established relationship already going between Bucky and Reader, there’s also an age gap (it’s referenced kind of but it’s not specified)

Author's Note: As I’m finishing up all my big bois (my 20,000+ word posts) I thought I’d continue contributing to the fluffiness of Bucky Barnes. I got to see Thunderbolts last night and I’m literally going again today. Such a freakin banger of a movie, loved it and I’m excited to keep writing with all the ideas I got!! Hope y'all enjoy this one tho :)

The second you stepped into the apartment you knew that Bucky hadn’t left his office all day.

It was easy to connect the dots.

The place was quiet, not just from the absence of sound but from the absence of life. It was as if you were home alone, even though you knew that wasn’t the case at all. There wasn’t any soft music playing from the Bluetooth speaker Bucky always forgot to turn off, no low humming of the kettle, not even the smell of a fresh pot of coffee, it was just pure stillness.

Sam had messaged you an hour and a half ago to tell you he would be out for the night and that he fed Alpine, and that had told you everything you needed as he would never do that unless Bucky was too tied up to do it himself.

You slowly closed the door behind you and dropped your bag to the ground with a soft thump, and like clockwork, you heard the little taps of nails against the wooden floor.

Alpine bolted down the hallway like a snow-dusted rocket, skittering towards you like she had a fire lit under her tail. You smiled, opening up your arms to her so she could jump up into the space with a quick hop. Her heavy purr immediately clouded your senses, as her paws pressed into your chest.

“Hi baby girl…” You laughed, scratching behind her ears, “Sam told me you’ve been wreaking havoc around the place but it sure doesn’t seem like that to me hmm?” She chirped proudly, nudging her face against yours, her little pink nose wetting your skin. You kissed the top of her head proudly.

”Did you miss me, or are you bribing me with love so I will give you a second dinner?” You asked jokingly, running your hand down her spine, until Alpine meowed again.

”That’s what I thought.” You lowered her gently to the floor and gave a final affectionate pat, “No second dinner, but I’m going to need you to make sure your father hasn’t turned into furniture, please, cause I don’t hear that stupid keyboard.” She trotted away from you, with her tail flicking behind her, taking your orders loud and clear.

You let out a small sigh and straightened up, cracking your back in the process before brushing off some of the stark white fur Alpine left clinging to your jacket. You padded quietly toward the kitchen, your fingers already tugging at your sleeves before shrugging the fabric off your shoulders.

The kitchen was your area of solitude after arriving home from work, it was where you found peace, and it eased your mind after stressing all day. Of course, it wasn’t just because one of your hobbies was cooking, it was also the thing that brought you and Bucky together after living your own lives for the day, and it always made you look forward to coming home.

You draped your jacket over the back of one of the island stools, smoothing it down absentmindedly before heading towards the large fridge. The big stainless steel doors still gleamed like they were new, even though they were riddled with fridge magnets, grocery lists, and little nose prints from Alpine. There were word magnets spelling out obscure messages, some of them reading like broken up haiku’s, mostly from Bucky rearranging them mindlessly while waiting for coffee. Your brows furrowed at the latest one.

“I married a traffic cone–our kids are just wet noodles.” You whispered under your breath, before smirking and shaking your head. You reached out and opened the door slowly, a soft chill spilling out onto your face as the ice cold light flickered on, nearly blinding you.

Your eyes scanned the semi-organized shelves, trying to get ideas on what to make for dinner.

Top Shelf: Oat, Almond, and Regular milk because everyone in the house had their own preferences, an aggressively large bottle of sriracha that had somehow survived three moves, and two glass meal prep containers Sam left–each with exactly one bite left inside of them.

Middle Shelf: Three eggs, a quarter block of sharp cheddar, a large block of mozzarella, an open jar of sweet pickles, half a lemon wrapped in wax paper, and a head of lettuce that had seen better days.

You let out a soft sigh, tapping idly against the door, scanning lower.

Bottom Drawer: A sealed pack of tortillas, a loaf of sourdough bread, one lonely stick of butter, and two green apples–crisp, bright, and firm to the touch when you reached in and picked one up.

“Guess we’re gonna do something simple tonight.” You murmured.

Grilled cheese, apple slices, and maybe a bowl of kettle chips that you stashed away in the back of the pantry, if they weren’t gone at least. Bucky rarely admitted to late-night snacking, but with the loud crunch of those chips it was pretty easy to know when he was sneaking around.

You placed the apples gently on the counter, before grabbing the cheese from the middle shelf and collecting the loaf of bread and butter from the bottom drawer, heading back to the counter with full arms, nudging the fridge closed with your hip.

You laid everything out in front of you, and commenced your routine. You sliced, arranged and layered cheese between the sourdough bread, buttering both sides of the sandwich before prepping the frying pan, letting it slowly heat up as you washed both apples in the sink beside the stove–surprised that Sam actually washed his dishes.

You let the apples rest on a clean towel and turned your attention back to the pan, letting your hands move on pure instinct. You threw a piece of butter in, hearing the loud sizzling, as you reached for one of the prepared sandwiches and pressed it into the heat. The familiar scent of butter and crisping bread instantly curled through the kitchen, while you reached for a spatula in one of the drawers to make the toasting even.

You moved with ease, but your thoughts, as always when cooking for Bucky, were heavier, like a thick drip of molasses. The memories always arrived when it came to this ritual, and it always gave you a pang in your heart.

Bucky never talked about his relationship with food much, not directly at least, but over time you were able to piece most things together. He had his tells. The way his fork sometimes hovered over a plate for too long, like he was waiting for permission to eat it even though he didn’t. Or the way he picked apart meals that were unfamiliar to him, dismantling them until they were mush. Or the way he never said no, even when you knew something didn’t sit right with him–because he had a fear of disappointing you.

The first year with him was difficult. He’d spent so long eating only what HYDRA allowed–processed, bland, gloop as you liked to call it–that he completely forgot how real nutrition tasted. To them it was enough to fuel the machine but never the man. He once told you, in the dead of night with your legs tangled and his breath warm against your bare shoulder that everything tasted like glue, or pencil shavings, or just static, and it stayed with you.

Once you got him over the hurdle of simple variety it opened plenty of doors. You made him every version of a sandwich you could think of. Ham and cheese, turkey and greens, BLTs with crisped bacon and soft tomato. Some days he could handle a little mayonnaise, a hint of onion, maybe pickles, others just butter, and some days he’d surprise you and ask for a little hot mustard and then pretend he hadn’t the next day.

You also made sure to change the sides too; apples, strawberries, grapes, sliced cucumber with a little salt. He favored plums when they were in season, or clementines when they weren’t on the sour side. When peaches were ripe and available, you would slice them thin and watch him savor every moment in having them, because you didn’t just cook for him.

You learned him, and that was something nobody really did, or at least the ones that did had left by this point. Maybe that’s why it meant so much–even now– to make him things he’d actually eat.

You flipped the sandwich, and were greeted by the perfect shade of gold–edges crip, center soft, cheese pooling at the corners. The sound of sizzling was almost soothing now, a him of comfort beneath the heavy weight of your thoughts. You pushed on through the routine though, toasting both sandwiches perfectly and placing them onto separate plates after slicing them diagonally, moving on to the apples soon after. Bucky took his plain, you took yours with a light drizzle of honey, and you arranged them accordingly in fanned out half moons.

The tea was the last step out of all this, which was supposed to be the easiest, or so you thought. You did your usual approach, fill the pot, and wait, then you collected the tea bags, and added whatever fix-ins were required. Bucky took a bit of lemon and nothing else. You on the other hand took honey, milk, and sugar, which always perplexed Bucky because he couldn’t imagine how it tasted with the food. It only took a minute and a half for the kettle to start whirring, but right when you reached out to take it off the burner, the steam hit your wrist, scalding and sharp.

”Shit!” You hissed, jerking your hand back, going to clutch the area out of pure instinct, but with how quick the pain came, it was gone even quicker. You tilted your forearm toward you, watching the redness fade before your eyes like it always did. The skin washed itself clean on its own. No burn. No mark. No evidence of an unwanted steam incident. You let out a shaky sigh, closing your eyes for a moment to ground yourself before returning to what you were doing, only this time with more caution in your actions.

You were used to the little miracles your body performed; the healing, the reflexes, the slowing down of aging, and you were appreciative of it, even though you didn’t use it outside of that. Not since you met Bucky, and not since life became close to normal.

You never dwelled on it. Not when your mornings were spent in shared silence with Bucky, curled up in bed whispering to one another and giggling, and certainly not when your nights ended with his arms around your waist and Alpine draped like royalty over the both of you.

You were living the life you wanted, or trying anyway.

But for all the forgetting you did, Bucky thought about it any time he saw the effect of the serum course through you, because he knew the one thing you never said aloud anymore.

You had a choice, and he didn’t, and it gutted you every time the conversation came up, or when someone referenced it in general.

It wasn’t that you regretted taking it, but when you learned what they had done to him–what they had stolen, and warped, and ripped out–it made everything curdle inside you. You remember crying in the quiet of his room, trying not to wake him because your transition to super soldier had come so easy but his came with such pain and anguish.

You shook yourself out of your thoughts and began to stir the tea gently, tapping it off the lip before setting everything onto a tray and rushing over to the pantry to throw a snack bag of the kettle chips on there too for good measure, then you began your descent down the hallway.

The door to his office was cracked open already, probably from Alpine’s invasion, and as you got closer you could hear the clicking of his keyboard, it was quick and steady, with no stops in between, like he wasn’t contemplating his next words. You saw the soft steady glow of his desk lamp beckoning you to come closer as you nudged open the door with your foot.

”Congressman Barnes,” You said, your voice light and teasing, “Your legislative aide is here to make sure you don’t starve yourself to death while rewriting Section Four.” His typing stopped in an instant, as he looked up from his computer. The second his eyes found yours the tension in his jaw softened and a crooked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

His hair was slicked back neatly–though a few strands had started to fall loose near his temple–and his striped tie was draped over the back of his chair like a white flag of surrender. He wore a dark blue button up shirt which had become crinkled from the way he was slouched over his desk, but he still looked godly. He was done for the night, and you could see it in the way his shoulder dropped the second you entered into his line of sight.

“Well,” Bucky started, clearing his throat from the hours of silence, “For a second I thought I was having a stroke when I started to smell toast, but I’m happy to realize that’s not happening.” You shook your head, stepping further inside the book filled office, your feet dragging across the thick rug that lined the floor.

”Lucky you I’m not the harbinger of death,” You replied “Just the bringer of carbohydrates.” You added, placing the tray on his desk, watching as he pushed himself out from under it so he could wrap his soft arms around you, tugging you gently into the narrow space between his legs. You moved without protest, your hands automatically wrapping around his shoulders, while he tilted his head up to find your face.

“Hi,” He murmured, like he was telling you a secret. His eyes crinkled with affection, the kind that reached deep into the corners, where his laughter lines had started to live. You reached for him in those moments, smoothing his hair back, seeing the soft silver threads along his temples, the signs that he was slowly aging. It was beautiful to see it, and you didn’t say a word to him about it.

”Hi,” You whispered back, leaning down to press a kiss to his mouth–just enough to melt into. His hands flexed gently at your waist as he brought you closer to him so he could give you a longer one, like he’d been waiting for it all day and you were quenching his desire for it. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to see his face again, your nose brushing his while your thumb traced the line of his jaw. He opened his eyes, looking up at you with the soft, warm, glassy blue irises, closing them when you kissed his nose.

”Quit trying to distract me from my mission. You need to eat.” Bucky sighed. a gentle sound of surrender.

”Alright, alright,” He said, his mouth curving into a wry smile, glancing toward the tray behind you, “Bring the carbs over here before I vanish into dust. You know I can’t resist your meals.” You huffed a laugh and reached behind you, carefully balancing the platter in your arms as you shifted it from the corner of his desk right to the spot in front of him. He made room quickly, pushing a few documents around, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the food in front of him.

You slipped up onto the desk, crossing one ankle over the other, watching as he reached for the sandwich first, looking at the way the crust on it glistened in the light. He hummed for a moment before taking a large bite, which was almost half the sandwich. You smirked, watching him chew, then pause. His eyes shut slowly, as if the taste short-circuited something inside his nervous system.

”My god,” He groaned softly, leaning back in his chair, “Did I tell you I love you today?” He asked, almost in a pained way, like he doesn’t tell it to you enough, which he does.

“Yes Bucky.” You said, smiling down at him, as he devoured another bite of the sandwich like it was his first meal in days. There was something boyish about the way he ate your food, the satisfaction, the way he voiced how pleased he was, the look of him closing his eyes and sighing. It was the best compliment you could get from someone you loved so much.

”You know,” He muttered around one of the bites of apple that he had picked up, “We should really consider opening a sandwich shop. You’re good at making all kinds of them, and I’m good at managing…We could call it Bread and Bucky,” You rolled your eyes at him, laughing at his proposal.

”Absolutely not.”

“Come on!” He exclaimed, moving his chair towards you, “It’s catchy! Bread and Bucky–bread being you, obviously, because you're soft and warm and comforting, and me…Because…Well I’d be your best customer and the manager.” You shook your head, taking a bite of a slice of your own apple.

”You flatter me, but you know pharmacy is my life.” He let out a small laugh, leaning back in his chair again, keeping himself close to where you were perched.

”Yeah…I know…I know…How was work anyways?” You shrugged, taking another bite of the apple.

”Busy, and burning. Same as always. That teenager came in again, the one with a new prescription every other day. He told me the government is watching him this time around.” Bucky raised his brow.

”Is this the same one who thought he was poisoned by that fast food mascot?” You nodded.

”Yep, same kid.” Bucky shook his head.

”I’m really admiring the creativity of that kid, it’s a new thing every week.” You smirked.

”Well, when the doctor will write any prescription for you, I guess that’s what he needs to do to spice things up.” Bucky snorted and picked up another slice of apple, chewing slowly as he watched you. The corners of his mouth were still twitching with the remains of a grin, but his eyes were softened again, less amused now–just full of the admiration he had for you.

You reached for the mug of tea you made for yourself and blew on it gently, taking a small sip, letting the sweet, nectar-like flavour swim down your throat, keeping your eyes on Bucky’s, catching him leaning back in his chair again, glancing at your knees, like he was thinking for a moment, contemplating his next moves, calculating if it was the right time or not.

“What’re you thinking about?” You asked, squinting at him with a devious look in your eye. Bucky set his apple slice down on the edge of his plate and brushed the crumbs off his button up shirt, coming closer to you.

”I’m thinking…I want to spend every day of my life with you.” You blinked down at him, not because the words surprised you, but because of how he consistently said these things with such softness in his voice that it never failed to make your heart seize. He reached for a slice of your apple, twirling it once between his fingers before glancing back at you, holding it up in front of your face.

”Marry me,” He said, the words low and steady. No grin this time. Just pure sincerity, “For real.” You let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking your head.

”Bucky, that’s the fourth time this week you’ve asked me…”

”I know.”

”And you’ve been asking me every other day for the past three months.”

“I know.” He responded again, his pupils dilating, almost like he was being serious this time around.

“You already know what my answer is.” You said gently, setting your tea down on the desk.

”Still,” He said, his voice a touch raspier now, “I need to keep hearing it. I like hearing you say it.” You sighed, leaning toward him, reaching out to brush your fingers along his jaw, watching as he smiled and closed his eyes.

”I’ve said yes a billion times over.” You whispered, “And it’s always going to be a yes no matter how many times you ask.” He wet his lips, before looking up at you, like he was memorizing every inch of you, and then with a slow inhale, he shifted his hand to the top drawer of his desk. Your brow furrowed the second he slid it open.

”What’re you doing?” You asked, voice soft. He didn’t answer right away, which made you lean forward slightly, unsure of what he was grabbing, until you saw what was resting inside.

A small, black velvet box.

Your breath caught in your throat and your jaw went slack, your lips parting as your eyes flicked from the box to his face, and then back again. You could feel your heart pounding in your ears, and the blood rushing to your cheeks and chest. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

He picked up the box with such tenderness that it made your throat tighten, like he was handling something precious, something out of this world. He held it in his palm, while his vibranium hand opened it slowly, revealing a delicate ring perched right in the center of it.

It was a hazy greyish blue sapphire stone, something that you had always wanted, something that Sam had asked you about exactly three months ago. You had rifled it off to him, a sapphire stone with a little halo of tiny tiny diamonds around it with a silver band, and that was what was in the box.

You were stunned into silence, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe, as tears began to cloud your vision. Bucky glanced up at you, smiling gently.

”I was going to actually propose on our trip last week,” He said, thumbing the corner of the box with his nail scratching against the velvet, “Had it all planned; hike in the morning, breakfast by the lake…But then…” He chuckled softly before continuing, “You got the flu,” He glanced back down at the ring, then back up to you, “Then I realized, I didn’t even need to plan this, I didn’t need to find a moment…I already had one and I had it every time I was with you.” You stared at him, your fingers curling slightly against the edge of the desk to steady yourself.

“This is our life and I want it every single day, until we go grey…If you’ll let me-“ You were already reaching, as you practically crawled off his desk and into his lap, his arm instinctively opening to catch you. The box was still in one hand between the both of you while you cupped his face with and kissed him breathless. He smiled into it, a little stunned himself now by how quick you moved.

“I take it that’s another yes?” He mumbled against your lips, as you tried to continue to mesh your mouth on his.

”Yes,” You whispered, pecking his lips again, “Yes, that’s another yes.” He laughed at your excitement, pulling back a little so he could adjust and grab the ring from the box.

”Then give me your hand,” He said, his voice drawing low. You held your left hand out, seeing it tremble a little as he slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, like he had taken a sizer and measured your hands during your sleep or something. Bucky looked at you with glassy eyes.

”Jesus Christ you’re my fiancée.” He let out a small laugh as you leaned back into him to kiss him again. It was short, and calming to him.

”I love you so much Bucky.” He smiled.

”I love you too…Jesus I love you too.”

[nakylvr]

— DESCENDING

sophia laforteza x fem!reader

summary: after your first mission together and sophia staying the night in your apartment, you don't hear from her again. until one night you're awaken by knocking on your door, revealing the girl.

warnings/tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, mild language, marvel!kats au, kate bishop!sophia, yelena belova!reader

hell yeah we back on our marvel!kats agenda 🙂‍↕️ deadpool!dani next? let me know 😋

you fucked up.

after the first mission with sophia became a mess with her getting shot and ultimately ruining what was the original plan, you were put "on hold" for missions for some time. you assumed she told the director what happened, and to say you were irritated would be an understatement. you were pissed off. this was your job, you lived off this. for days you had been sitting in your apartment doing nothing, letting time flow by as you drank more beer than you knew you could.

it was another normal night. you were on your couch, legs propped up on the coffee table with a beer in your hand and a few scattered on the table around your feet. you were half-awake watching the television and what it was playing.

and then the knocking came. hard and fast.

you jolted up, grabbing your knife from your table and slowly heading to your front door. you peer through the peephole and your gaze falters, putting your knife down and opening the door, revealing sophia.

she's a mess. hair tousled, scratches across her face and her glasses cracked in the center of the left lens, her shoulders slouched like she's about to pass out.

"sophia?" you let out. "what are you–"

"i didn't know where to go," she wheezes in response, her voice raspy.

the words stick with you for a moment before you shake it off and grab her arm to pull her inside. closing the door behind you, you turn and really look at her. she looks like shit. but you know better than to question what happened, for now, at least.

"come with me," you say, grabbing her arm and gently pulling her with you to the couch. "ignore the mess, i wasn't really expecting anyone." you add before going off into your kitchen.

sophia didn't even notice the beer bottles scattered around, her head pounding too much to even hear your words as she practically collapsed onto the couch. when you come back, her eyes are nearly closed.

"hey," you say softly, making her look up at you. "here's this." you hand her a ice pack wrapped in a towel.

"thank you," she manages to get out, taking the ice pack and holding it against her shoulder.

you stand there silently for a moment, debating what to do. and just as you open your mouth to speak, she beats you to it.

"i'm sorry for showing up like this," she murmurs, her eyes barely open.

"it's alright," you reply. "what happened?"

"nothing," she says quickly, shaking her head.

"okay." you nod, sitting down beside her. "do you need anything?"

"i don't know," her voice is barely above a whisper. "i just...needed someone."

you're taken aback by her response, but try not to show it, putting the cocky smirk on your face like you always do. "someone that tried to kill you?"

"someone that saved me," she says after a moment, making your breath catch in your throat. she looks over at you then, her eyes glossy with tears that she's trying to hold in. "i think i really messed up, yn." her voice cracks softly.

your smirk immediately disappears from your face the second she looks at you. "why?" you ask softly.

and the dam inside sophia breaks. she's bursting into tears the moment after you ask her why, and you instantly panic, not knowing what to do. "i-i thought i could do it on my own, b-but they followed me a-and i didn't have my equipment a-and–"

you're wrapping your arms around her shaking frame before she can finish, pulling her close to you as she buries her head in your shoulder. she's sobbing now, fully crying in your arms. "it's okay," you say quietly. "it's okay, you're safe here, i promise. i promise."

sophia holds onto your shirt in a tight bundle in her hands while she cries, barely hearing what you're saying over her sobbing. but she hears it. and it just makes her grab you tighter, the words hitting her like a truck despite only a few being spoken. your hand runs through her hair in slow, soft movements, bringing her closer to you when her cries amplify.

you don't know what to do. never once in your life did you think that she could be like this. she was always so strong, and didn't take anyone's shit. but here she was, breaking down in your arms like she was an entirely different person.

before you can even begin to think of something to say, sophia's crying slowly quiets. she doesn't move, a few sniffles coming from her, but she doesn't move or say anything. her arms remain wrapped around your torso, gripping your shirt tightly as if you were going to disappear. you glance down at her, not knowing if you should pull away first or if you should stay.

"are you okay?" you ask quietly.

"yeah," she replies in the same voice. "can we stay like this for a minute?" she hesitantly asks.

"we can stay like this for as long as you want," your response is immediate, your voice still being soft.

she doesn't say anything after that.

you're not sure how long you stayed in that position. and you honestly thought she might've fallen asleep sitting up with how quiet she was. until she finally unravels her arms from you and removes her face from your neck. her eyes don't meet yours for a minute, as if she's trying to think of what to say.

"i'm sorry about that." is what she ends up with.

you shake your head. "it's nothing, i don't mind," you reply. a moment of silence passes between you two before you speak again. "are you gonna leave now?"

another moment passes.

"do you want me to?" sophia asks.

"no." you shake your head.

"okay." she nods.

"okay," you say. "so what now?"

sophia takes a second to respond, not knowing either. "you got anything to eat?" she eventually responds.

"yeah." you nod. "i can make you–"

she suddenly stands, making you stop. "no offense, but i doubt you can cook something when the last time i saw you eat something it was mac and cheese out of the pot. i'm sure i can make something," she says bluntly, back to her normal self.

"i–uh–okay," you stammer over your words.

and for the first time, a smile curls on her lips. and then she's turning around and heading towards your kitchen, leaving you sitting there dumbfounded.

you sit there for a few minutes, hearing the clanking noise of pots and pans hitting each other before getting up and walking over to the kitchen. standing in the doorway, you watch as sophia appears to perfectly move around your kitchen like she had been there before. her hair swayed as she walked around to find the items she needed. her shoulders weren't scrunched up anymore, now relaxed and not tense. and despite the crack in her glasses, she looked peaceful as could be.

you felt a tug on your heart watching. for so long, you had been alone. you lived the same day every day. wake up, go to work, come home to no one, drink until you passed out, and repeat it. you had lived this way for so long now, that just seeing someone else in your home had you feeling things you weren't familiar with. and it scared you. you couldn't even remember the last time you were genuinely happy. you couldn't remember the last time you laughed. you couldn't even remember the last time you smiled genuinely. every day the darkness grew bigger, the void becoming more appealing to jump into and never come back. but at this moment, you wanted to stay.

"yn?"

you're shaken out of your thoughts when you hear your name, blinking a few times and seeing sophia looking at you.

"are you okay?" she asks.

"huh?" you let out. "i'm fine," you answer.

she studies you for a moment, clearly seeing past your lie but deciding to not say anything about it. "then help me with this," she tells you before looking back at what she was cooking.

"yeah, yeah. okay." you regain your composure and start helping her.

but that feeling doesn't entirely leave you throughout the night. you're not sure entirely what it means, and it terrifies you. you don't know what's going on in your head anymore or what to do. you're stuck. but so is sophia. and maybe that means something.

[nobigsecrets]

Bucktommy number 48 for the kisses prompt please!

48. …out of habit.

When they kiss again, it happens out of habit. Muscle memory, if you will.

It's been at least a month since Bobby's funeral, Tommy thinks. It could be four weeks or maybe five, he's not sure. It doesn't matter.

They've been living in some sort of limbo ever since, though. Ever since he took Evan home after that fateful night at the lab. He'd meant to make sure Evan would be safe, if not mentally then at least physically. He'd meant to tuck Evan into bed, maybe wait until he'd fallen asleep and then silently leave. But Evan had grabbed his arm, had all but clung to it, had looked at Tommy with red-rimmed eyes and whispered a broken, barely audible, "Stay. Please."

So Tommy had stayed.

Had lain in bed next to Evan, fully clothed, holding his hand.

Had been so full of his own grief that nothing felt real anymore.

Had stayed more nights at Evan's place then his own.

Had kept his distance as best as he could while still trying to be there for Evan as much as needed.

They haven't talked.

At first, they didn't talk at all, words failing both of them after what had happened. Then the funeral came closer and talking got a little easier. Organizational stuff at first. Reaching out to the other 118ers. Sharing memories and stories of Bobby, too, eventually.

Their first shifts after came and went and neither did Tommy offer to leave nor did Evan ask him to go.

Living together feels more comfortable than it should. Grief is still thick in the air and maybe that is why there's no room for the awkwardness that, realistically, should be expected. The irony isn't lost on Tommy that it was Evan's question to move in together that had broken them up initially.

Technically, they're still broken up yet here they are. Cooking dinner together. Eating together. Doing the dishes together. Spending the evening together on the couch, maybe not sitting as close to each other as they used to, but close enough that Tommy can feel the warmth radiating off of Evan.

Tommy's got a basketball game on on the TV and Evan's got his legs propped up on the coffee table, computer on his lap, researching--Tommy squints--the moon of all things and that's new. That he's taking interest again, that he's sharing random facts with Tommy again. It's still a long way to alright for both of them but Tommy sees the old glint flicker back into Evan's eyes when he starts yapping at him about tidal forces and how they're causing earthquakes on the moon, "they're actually called moonquakes, Tommy, how cool is that?" and Tommy knows they're on the right track.

It's a few minutes later, Tommy has just focused his attention back on the game that Evan scoots closer, holding his computer so that Tommy can look at the screen, too.

"Found some footage of the moon quaking," he says excitedly, leaning in and Tommy suddenly finds himself caught up in Evan's touch, his warmth, his smell in a way he hasn't allowed himself to notice... since. He soaks it all up greedily, all but ignoring the video playing on the computer screen and brings his arm around Evan's shoulder without thinking about it.

Evan immediately tilts even closer towards Tommy, like he's on autopilot, too, and they still fit together so perfectly. The video ends and Evan looks at Tommy expectantly--and then their eyes lock for a second and Tommy can't tell who leans in first but then they're kissing and it feels exciting like their first kiss and familiar like they never stopped doing this at the same time.

Tommy could get lost in the feeling of Evan's soft lips against his own but much too soon it's Evan who pulls back. Their eyes meet again and Tommy can't, for the life of him, decipher Evan's expression. He feels panic claw at his heart and he starts, "I didn't mean to--" without knowing how to finish that sentence.

Evan shoves his computer onto the coffee table without looking, something clatters to the floor but it doesn't matter because then he turns and cups Tommy's face between both his hands and kisses him again.

Send me a Ship and a Number and I will Write a Kiss

[munsonsmixtapes]

A Guiding Hand

Simon "Ghost" Riley x virgin!fem!reader

You call a sex hotline looking to get some relief Ghost is happy to help.

cw: MDNI (18+) masturbation, dirty talk, use of nicknames

special thanks to @robinfeldt98 for giving me this idea!

Your hands shake as you type in the number on your phone. Your roommate gave it to you when you told her about your…problem. But now you’re afraid to commit, to actually call the number that you’ve typed in. You just stare at it, willing yourself to hit the green button but you just can’t. 

You finally press it and the speaker button then hurry across the room, hoping that they’ll hear that no one is on the line and hang up. That’s what you’re hoping for but all of that goes out the window when you hear that husky, British voice. 

You slowly come over to the phone after he’s greeted you, approaching it like you would a strange noise in your home. 

“Hi.” You finally get yourself to speak and your heart rate picks up when you hear a deep chuckle. 

“There she is,” he replies. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” You know you should give your name out to random men over the phone but this is his job, certainly he wouldn’t do anything creepy with that information-at least you hope not. 

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he repeats, the name coming out slowly like he’s getting a feel for it on his tongue. It sounds so…hot when he says it. ”I like that. I wonder what it would sound like during climax.” It sounds like he’s close to the receiver and it’s almost like he’s whispering it to you in your quiet bedroom and it causes a shiver to skate down your spine. 

Simon is never usually this forward. There’s usually a script that he created to make the calls flow easier, but you seem so nervous that he feels like he needs to take a different approach. He’s treading lightly, not wanting to scare you off. 

He doesn’t know why, but you seem…different from all the others. You’re not flirting with him like everyone else does. This is clearly your first time and since he started this job, this is the only time he’s wanted to be sweet and gentle. 

“So what’s the reason for your call, y/n?” He asks, his voice somehow getting even lower and you feel yourself getting wet already. How is he able to do that? 

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name first?” You ask and he chuckles again, making your heart leap again. 

“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Ghost.” 

“Ghost.” You don’t want to admit that you like it. That you can imagine yourself moaning it over and over even though you’ve never done that before. You’ve never done-well, anything. And that’s why you’re calling. To hopefully get some relief. 

“It sounds even better when you say it. So, what’s the reason you’re calling, sweetheart?” The nickname causes your cheeks to heat and you can’t believe how easily you’re playing right into his hand. 

“Well-“ you cut yourself off, unsure to tell him the truth without sounding weird. “I’ve never-I’ve never had sex before.” 

“I see,” is all he says in response, waiting for you to finish your explanation. 

“And I’ve never…masturbated either so I guess I’m just looking for some relief. To take some edge off.” 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. How would you like me to help? You call the shots.” 

“Me? Why me?” You hate the idea of being in control. You want to be told what to do and how to do it. You’ve never done well in an authoritative role and he clearly has all the experience so you’d much rather have him take the reins. 

“Hey, let’s take a deep breath, darling.” he says. “In,” he says and you both suck in some air. “And out. Good,” he says once you’ve breathed all the air out. “I’m happy to take control if you want me too. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m yours for the night.” 

No one’s ever said that to you. No one has been so…eager to please you in this way and now you kind of wish you knew what Ghost looked like. If he’s as hot as his voice. You’re sure he is but you don’t know why. You want him to be here with you, knowing that it would ease your mind to have him standing in front of you.

But maybe it’s for the best that this is over the phone. You’d hate for him to see just how nervous he’s making you. How hot your skin feels, how your heart hasn’t stopped racing since he answered the phone. 

You’re so grateful that your roommate isn’t home. The wall between your room is so thin that you just know she’d be able to hear everything and you shudder just thinking about  her overhearing this conversation. 

“You take the lead,” you tell him and even though you can’t see him, Simon is grinning from ear to ear, loving the suggestion you’ve just made. He’ll be submissive some other time. Tonight, he’s going to make you his whore. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he chuckles. “So you’ve really never touched yourself? Let’s start there. What are you wearing, y/n? Something hot?”

“Unfortunately not. Just a big t-shirt and panties. I-I was about to go to bed but I just can’t sleep.”

 Even though Simon has no idea what you look like, the outfit you’ve described is making him hard beyond belief. He closes his eyes, imagining sitting you down onto your bed, spreading your legs wide as he kisses you gently, pulling down your panties before fingering you until you beg him to stop, until you clench around him, screaming his name as you orgasm. 

“Ghost?” You ask and he’s immediately snapped out of his little fantasy. For the most part, doing this doesn’t really do anything for him. He’s done it so often that it’s just starting to feel like his job. But the fact that you want him to help you get yourself off-and for the first time-well that fills him with the kind of confidence he hasn’t had in a long time. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. “I lost focus imagining you in what you described. What I’d do if I was there.” His voice is deeper, more seductive and you feel your panties getting progressively more wet the longer the conversation goes on. He’s imagining scenarios too? God, you wish he was here. “Where are you?” 

“In my room.”

“Alright, first, I want you to lie on the bed.” You do as he asks and wait for his next instructions. Your phone is by your head now as you imagine him hovering over you, whispering into your ear. 

“Are you on the bed, sweetheart?” He asks, his voice so gentle and you feel your heart warm at how gentle he’s being with you. You just know that other men wouldn’t be so nice.

“I am,” you confirm with a nod even though he can’t see you. 

“Now I want you to take your panties off and spread your legs wide for me.” You slowly take your panties off and toss them to the side before pulling your t-shirt up to your waist so it doesn’t get in the way. You then spread your legs wide, already wet as can be even though nothing’s happened yet. That’s just the effect that Ghost has had on you, suppose. 

“And once you’re ready, I want you to press your ring and middle fingers together then insert them. Your pace doesn’t matter. Go as fast or as slow as you’d like. This is all about you.” 

You bring your dominant hand up and hover it over your face as you do as he asks, you then take a deep breath, letting your eyes flutter shut as you slowly bring your hand to your cunt. You make a sound when they make contact, just the tips of your fingers sliding inside. 

You make a whimpering noise at how foreign it feels and Simon feels his cock straining against his jeans at the pretty sound. God, he thinks he’s going to come. 

“Does it feel good, princess?” He asks in a whisper and this nickname is your favorite of the ones he’s called you tonight. 

“So good,” you reply, pushing your fingers in and out of your cunt. You can’t believe you’ve never done this before. If you had known how good it felt, you would have done it a lot sooner.  

“A little faster. Can you do that for me?” You pick up your pace and all of these noises you’ve never made before start spilling from your mouth as your free hand bunches up the sheets that are underneath you. You spread your legs wider to give yourself more access and it makes all the difference when your fingers get deeper, reaching a spot that feels better than all the rest. 

“That’s it, princess,” Simon responds. “Just like that. Doing so good for me.” He’s now palming himself, so close to whipping it out and getting himself off, but he can’t. This is about you and he doesn’t want to get distracted from helping. Maybe if you call again, he can convince you to switch roles. “Fuck you’re so hot.” 

You’re close already, you can feel it. The movement mixed with Ghost’s encouraging words is making your head spin, making you feel dizzy. This is unlike anything you’ve felt before and now you understand why so many people do this regularly. 

“Ghost, oh my god,” you whine as you finally reach your peak, back arching, your cunt clenching around your fingers. Hearing you moan his name, he lets out a little whimper, knowing that he’s going to take care of himself as soon as the call is over. He has no idea how the hell he’s going to be able to do any calls after this. It’s the best one he’s ever had and now he hopes you call him all the time just so he can hear your pretty nosies again and again. 

“Fuck,” is all you’re able to say as yoou’re coming down, your body sticky with sweat as you remove your fingers.

“You did so good,” he says, his voice soft again, sounding so different from just moments ago. “How do you feel, princess? Bet you feel so good, don’t you?”

“So good,” you agree. 

“Well, I guess my job here is done. Same time tomorrow?” His tone is making it sound like he’s joking, but he really does want you to call tomorrow. And every day after that.”

“It’s a date,” you reply, your voice sounding a little tired.

“Alright, same time tomorrow. I’ll keep the line open so you just call this number again. Now go clean up and get some rest, princess. You’ve earned it for being such a good girl.” The line goes dead and you just lie there, not sure you can go to sleep after that, already counting down the minutes until you can call Ghost again. 

part two

[1982grapejuiceblues]

Just For You

Official Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Stranger Lanes Part 6

Summary: As the group sets out on one of their annual summer hikes, Y/N and Harry fall into step with each other in a way no one can ignore. What begins with playfulness and banter slowly deepens into something quieter and more private, drawing them closer over the course of the day. They tease, they laugh, they push boundaries—both physical and emotional—and by the time they slip away for a moment alone, their connection has fully shifted. In the stillness of the woods, they don’t rush. They don’t define anything. But something between them clicks into place, and when they return to the group, it’s clear to everyone: something has changed. As night falls, they find comfort in the quiet spaces between the chaos, carving out something entirely their own.

Warnings: Lingering tension between characters due to shared romantic history | Emotional vulnerability and personal reflection | Playful but physical interactions | Flirtation, banter, and light innuendo | Light jealousy and subtle group dynamics shifting | References to betrayal and complicated past relationships | Physical closeness and quiet intimacy | Conversations around family dynamics

A/N: I have no words, I just love them. As always, comment or reblog to be added to the taglist! Love ya <3

Word Count: 13.7k

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The morning didn’t start all at once. It crept in slowly, stretching itself over every room of the lake house like a film of soft light, glancing off mugs of half-finished coffee and sleep-mussed curls and the creak of bare feet on old wooden floors. Someone upstairs had opened a window too early, letting in the sound of birdsong and lake wind and the far-off splash of oars hitting water. Somewhere else, music was playing low through a speaker left forgotten the night before, a playlist shuffling with the kind of lazy shyness that seemed to understand no one was ready for volume just yet. The whole house felt like it was breathing deeply for the first time—exhaling the tension of travel, of accidental arrivals, of shared spaces, of lingering stares and internal recalibrations. And for the first time since they arrived, Y/N could feel something close to rhythm settle into her bones.

She stood on the edge of the hallway near the stairs, one hand curled loosely around a chipped mug, still warm from the kettle. The smell of lemon tea drifted upward with the steam, though she hadn’t taken a sip. Her eyes followed the faint lines of sunlight streaming in from the living room’s east-facing windows, already starting to cast long slants across the floor. Below, voices murmured—quiet enough that she couldn’t make out words, but familiar enough to tug something calm loose in her chest. It was the sound of her friends becoming themselves again. No longer negotiating rooms or posturing around exes. Just easing into the weightless hours of a day with no plans.

She exhaled slowly and took a sip.

The first taste was sharp, citrusy, sweet.

Downstairs, Harry laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even directed at her. But it struck something square behind her ribs—the memory of his voice against her shoulder the night before, the smell of coffee and soap and worn cotton, the hush of breath as he’d curled unconsciously closer in his sleep. The shift between them had been subtle, yes, but now, after everything, it no longer felt small. It felt like a step had been taken, silently but without question. As if the ground between them had closed itself overnight, the friction replaced by something warmer, something threaded with a quiet want neither of them had dared speak yet. She wasn’t rushing to name it. She didn’t need to. Not when it was living so clearly in her body, humming beneath her skin, making her want to lean closer even when they were already side-by-side.

By the time she came down the stairs, the kitchen had bloomed with motion. Ali was holding a carton of eggs like it was her life’s work, instructing Eli and Claire on pancake ratios with the steady command of someone who’d taken charge of group meals since college. Jules sat cross-legged on the counter, peeling a banana with deliberate slowness as she flipped lazily through the playlist queue. And Harry—Harry was leaning against the far end of the sink, half-dressed in sleepwear and sunshine, curls damp at the edges, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He looked good. Effortlessly good. But more than that, he looked at home. Like the tension that used to keep him standing just outside the room had lifted sometime in the early morning light, and now he was all in—quietly, calmly, without demand.

His eyes met hers the second she stepped into view. The corner of his mouth tipped up, slow and private, like something he’d kept waiting just for her. She didn’t smile back—not immediately—but something inside her chest did. Something unspooling and warm and a little bit unsteady. She moved past the table without a word and brushed her hand against his as she reached for the jam.

It wasn’t a test. It wasn’t performative. It was just a touch. Just a soft, I know you’re here.

And he let his fingers curl just slightly toward hers before she pulled away.

No one said anything. But she didn’t miss the way Ali’s head tilted.

After a while, Eli called for a vote on which hike they should do first, and everyone made exaggerated groaning noises about elevation and sweat and sunburns. The group’s usual chaos resumed. Plans were tossed around, misheard, repeated louder. There was talk of swimsuits and sunscreen, of who needed to borrow a daypack and whether the cooler had enough sparkling water. It was the kind of kinetic buzz Y/N usually loved, the dizzy rush of the day lifting off. But this time, she didn’t feel the need to lead it. She let herself hang back, just a little, and watched Harry instead—how he listened without interrupting, how he offered to carry the cooler before anyone asked, how he kept glancing over at her like they were still sharing something unspoken.

Because they were.

They hadn’t named it. They hadn’t touched anything beyond shoulders and shared breath. But everything had changed. She could feel it in her hands, in the shift of her balance when he stood near her, in the way her smile tugged a little more easily into place when he looked her way. It wasn’t just playful anymore. It was slow. Careful. Steady in its unfolding.

And she didn’t want it to stop.

-

The trail cut wide and slow through the woods behind the lake, dappled in morning light that filtered in and out with every step. It wasn’t difficult—not in elevation or distance—but it was long enough to demand intention. No one could be half-present on this trail. You had to commit to it. To the breath, the movement, the hum of insects buzzing around your ankles. You had to let your legs find their own rhythm and your lungs learn the shape of effort again.

And for once, Y/N didn’t mind being breathless.

The group stretched into their usual patterns—Ali leading with a clipboard and trail app and Eli following close behind, narrating imaginary documentaries about local squirrels. Jules drifted between conversations, sunglasses oversized and commitment to cardio minimal. Claire and Ben hung back, too close and too quiet, like their closeness had to be seen to be believed. And somewhere near the center—steadily orbiting beside her—was Harry.

She didn’t look at him much. Not directly. But she felt him. Felt the way his stride matched hers with an ease that was either practice or instinct. Felt the way he kept slightly behind her on the inclines, like he was waiting to offer help without saying it. Felt the way his presence didn’t fill the space, but settled into it—quiet, grounding, constant.

They didn’t speak at first. Not really. There wasn’t much to say. The hike filled the air with enough sound—the crunch of boots on dirt, the wind through the trees, the rise and fall of someone’s laughter echoing off the canopy. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was… charged. Not tense, not uncomfortable. Just full of something waiting.

It wasn’t until they hit the first bend in the trail, the sun splashing gold across the rocks, that he spoke.

“You good back there?”

She glanced sideways, breathing steady. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m just checking in on your cardio. All those blueberries haven’t exactly screamed stamina.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, biting back a grin. “Says the man who almost passed out in the cereal aisle because he couldn’t decide between granola or frosted flakes.”

“That was a life-altering decision.”

“It was a breakfast decision.”

“Same thing.”

She laughed—light, easy, without hesitation—and it shocked her how good it felt. How safe. The woods echoed it back at her, soft and slow, and Harry smiled like he’d waited all morning to hear it again.

They kept walking.

-

Later, when the group stopped at a lookout point—halfway up the ridge, perched high over the lake—Y/N found herself settling near a wide stretch of rock beneath the trees, shaded and cool. She dropped her backpack beside her, pulled her water bottle free, and stretched out her legs with a low sigh. Her calves ached in a good way. Her chest was flushed with sunlight and something warm that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Harry sat down beside her a minute later. Not close. Not touching. But close enough.

She didn’t lean in. Not yet. But she let the silence between them stretch again. Let the energy swirl quietly until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“You hike often?”

Harry shook his head, twisting the cap off his water. “Not really. But I do enjoy pretending I’m the kind of person who owns a CamelBak.”

She smiled into her bottle. “You’re doing great.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it with my whole chest.”

He tilted his head toward her, one brow lifted. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m growing.”

They sat in the hush after that, trees rustling overhead, Ali’s voice carrying softly through the trees as she explained how glacial movement had carved the edge of the lake. Y/N could hear Ben and Claire bickering again near the overlook, just loud enough to annoy, just quiet enough to pretend it wasn’t happening. And for once, she didn’t care. She didn’t feel dragged into it. She didn’t feel folded under by the weight of what they’d done.

Because she wasn’t sitting next to them.

She was here. Next to him.

And that changed everything.

-

The hike back down was supposed to be easier.

Gravity handled most of it. The group’s energy had shifted—less organized, more loose-limbed and sun-warmed. Someone had started a playlist on a tiny speaker. Ali let her clipboard droop under one arm and stopped pretending the map mattered. Eli threw a stick into the woods and dared everyone to guess if it was poisonous. The air had gone syrupy with heat and laughter and the kind of softness that always followed a view that took your breath away.

But Harry wasn’t thinking about the incline anymore.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N walked just ahead of him, loose ponytail bouncing with every step, shoulders swaying with the same kind of ease she’d had that night in the kitchen when she’d leaned into him without saying a word. She wasn’t flirting. Not exactly. But she wasn’t not flirting either.

She turned back once—just briefly—to check the path, and her eyes caught his, bright and amused like she already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn’t told yet. He couldn’t help it—his mouth curved in that slow, too-easy way that always got him in trouble. She didn’t blink. She just raised one brow like oh, you think you’re charming? and then turned back around.

He followed. Of course he did.

-

They fell behind the group just slightly, not enough to make a scene, but enough to feel like the air belonged to them. The space between their steps narrowed. Their voices dropped. There was a kind of hush to it—not silence, just something softer. Something unspoken but crackling just beneath the skin.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said eventually, adjusting her backpack strap with one hand, not looking at him.

“Just enjoying the view.”

Her head tilted, skeptical.

He let it hang there for a beat.

“Not the trees,” he added, voice low.

She rolled her eyes, but the color in her cheeks deepened just slightly, and he counted that as a win.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to come up with a proper insult.”

“You say that like you didn’t spend the last mile dragging your feet on purpose so I’d walk behind you.”

She glanced at him, smirking. “You think I did that on purpose?”

“I think you know what you’re doing.”

She snorted softly. “If I wanted your attention, I’d be way more creative than that.”

He grinned. “Don’t sell yourself short. It’s working.”

She made a strangled noise and shook her head, but her laugh floated back to him, light and unguarded. He wanted to pocket the sound. Bury it somewhere deep for when this trip ended and the world crept back in.

-

A low branch dipped across the trail, and she ducked beneath it with the grace of someone who’d hiked this path before. Harry followed, but not quite as smoothly—his backpack caught on the edge and yanked him backward slightly.

“Need help?” she asked, not even bothering to hide her smile now.

He tugged the strap free and fixed his curls, letting his ego recover with a dramatic sigh. “No, I’ve got it. But thank you for your overwhelming concern.”

“I’m just saying, it’s good to know who the liability is if someone rolls an ankle.”

“I’m not the one hiking in Converse.”

She looked down at her shoes like she’d forgotten what she was wearing, then shrugged. “Style over safety.”

“An icon.”

They rounded another curve, sunlight bursting through the trees, the lake visible again in flashes through the leaves. The air smelled like moss and woodsmoke and sun on damp earth. The kind of scent that made everything feel a little slower, a little fuller.

He didn’t reach for her hand. Not yet. Not with the others just ahead. But he walked close enough that his arm brushed hers every few steps. And when she didn’t pull away—when she stepped closer instead—he felt something settle in his chest.

Not a decision.

A knowing.

-

The trail opened up again near the bottom of the ridge, flattening into a wide clearing that buzzed with the kind of midday heat that turned every breeze into a blessing. The lake glinted just beyond the trees, its stillness a promise of shade and coolness and temporary escape. The others had pulled ahead, clustered near the trailhead’s wooden signpost and debating whether to swim first or eat, their voices tangled in heat-heavy laughter.

Y/N lingered in the last patch of shade before the clearing, her hands on her hips and her breath just slightly unsteady—not from exertion, not really. Just from him.

Harry had stayed close the whole way down, orbiting without asking, matching her pace without needing to be asked. Every step, every bump of shoulders, every sarcastic comment and quiet laugh—it had all added up. Layer by layer. Breath by breath. Until now, as the trail eased into open space, her body felt wound tight with the effort of not leaning closer.

He caught up to her where she stood, one hand pushing his curls back from his forehead, the other holding his water bottle like a prop.

“We made it,” he said, voice low, breath just a little ragged.

“Barely,” she teased, her eyes still trained on the shimmering sliver of lake beyond the brush. “I was about two minutes from leaving you behind.”

“Oh, please. You’ve been drafting off my effort the whole way down.”

She turned to face him, her grin blooming slow. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I do. It’s a cycling term.”

“Then you definitely don’t know what it means.”

He laughed, sharp and delighted, and before she could react, he bumped her shoulder with his. Not lightly. Not gently. Not the casual nudge they’d passed back and forth all morning.

This one had weight to it.

Playful. Yes.

But intentional.

She stumbled half a step to the side, then turned on him.

“Oh, really? That’s how we’re doing this?”

He widened his eyes innocently, already stepping back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You just—”

“Gently encouraged your stride?”

“That was a full-body check.”

He shrugged. “You looked like you needed motivation.”

She narrowed her eyes. Took one small step toward him. “You wanna go?”

His grin turned feral. “Always.”

And before she could respond—before she could even calculate what the hell was happening—he bolted.

Right past her.

Laughing.

And it hit her: he was running. Full sprint. Toward the lake. Like he’d been waiting for an excuse to go all morning.

Her heart flipped.

And then she took off after him.

-

The clearing blurred under her feet. Grass kicked up behind her. The sun beat down on the back of her neck as she followed the sound of his laughter, his footfalls heavy but quick, his silhouette cutting ahead through a line of tall trees. They reached the lakeshore in a burst of movement—sand and sun and the screech of seagulls overhead—and by the time she caught up, she was breathless with laughter.

He stopped just at the edge of the dock, spinning to face her, hands on his hips.

She slowed to a halt a few feet away, panting, eyes bright.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

She bent over, catching her breath. “You cheated.”

“Fair and square.”

“You shoved me.”

“Gently guided.”

She lunged forward—not to hit him, not to shove him, but to tag him, like they were eight years old and high on too much sun. He darted back with a laugh, and she chased again, and then they were circling, wide and laughing and glowing.

And then—

He caught her wrist.

Soft. But sure.

Her body stopped on instinct. Not because she was startled. But because the touch froze her.

He was holding her wrist.

Not tightly. Not possessively.

Just… holding it.

And looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that existed.

Her breath hitched. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Her skin felt like it had been lit from the inside.

Neither of them said a word.

The laughter between them hadn’t died—but it had changed. Slowed. Deepened.

Turned into something else.

She didn’t pull away.

He didn’t let go.

-

His hand didn’t move. Not right away.

It was still on her wrist, fingers light, just enough pressure to let her know he was there. And she hadn’t stepped back. Not an inch. Not even as the others’ voices started drifting closer—Ali shouting something about sandwiches, Eli laughing from across the trees. The group was coming. The moment was going to break.

But she didn’t care.

Not yet.

Because Harry’s eyes hadn’t left hers.

Not for a second.

And in that split second of stillness, in the low press of his hand and the way her own pulse thrummed under his fingers, everything between them dropped into place. Not explained. Not declared. But known.

She should’ve said something. Teased him. Brushed it off. But her body refused to move in that direction. Her muscles locked in the hum of whatever this was, whatever it was becoming. And she didn’t want to break it with a joke.

So she took a breath—just one—and then moved.

Fast.

She twisted slightly and shoved his shoulder. Not hard. But enough to jolt him backward two steps on the dock, enough to say I see you. I’m not just going to let you win.

His mouth opened in mock offense. “You’re dangerous.”

“You were asking for it.”

“Was I?”

She arched a brow. “Every second.”

He stepped closer. Close enough to invade her space. But not close enough to touch.

“And what exactly do you think you’re gonna do about it?”

She didn’t answer.

She darted past him.

And that was the end of the standoff.

-

He didn’t think.

He chased.

His feet pounded the wood of the dock, his breath catching in his chest—not from the run, but from the sound of her laughter breaking just ahead of him. She’d flung her arms out like wings, sprinting for the end of the dock, hair trailing like a ribbon behind her. She looked free. Sunlit. Barefoot and completely unguarded.

And he had never wanted anything more than to be the reason she kept laughing like that.

He caught up just before the edge—one long stride closing the distance—and grabbed her waist, spinning her in a blur of limbs and laughter and sun.

She gasped—one bright, breathless noise—and he lifted her off the dock.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, and her head tipped back, laughter spilling straight into the open sky.

“You wouldn’t dare—” she half-screamed.

He spun again. “You don’t think I will?”

“I will take you down with me, Styles.”

“You’d drown before you won.”

“I have no pride. I will cannonball us both.”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped her.

She shrieked, flailed, elbowed him in the side—then wriggled free and landed with a thud on the dock.

And the second her feet hit the wood, she launched herself at him.

-

They wrestled.

It was absurd.

Two fully grown adults on the sun-warmed edge of a dock, tangled in limbs and laughter and breathlessness, half-heartedly trying to pin each other without falling into the lake. It was all hands and arms and no strategy. Her fingers curled in the hem of his shirt. His arms locked loosely around her waist. Her knee knocked into his thigh. He twisted to avoid the jab and accidentally pulled her into him.

And then—somehow—they stopped.

Still tangled.

Still laughing.

But stopped.

Because she was in his arms.

Her chest against his.

His hand on the small of her back.

And her face tilted up to his, mouth parted, breath short, eyes impossibly wide and full of something that hit him like a freight train.

The laughter was gone.

What was left was silence.

And want.

-

They didn’t kiss.

Not here.

Not yet.

But they could have.

They were close enough.

Her body wasn’t shaking from the run anymore. It was shaking from him. From the way he’d held her, from the way her hands had found his shoulders like they belonged there, from the way his breath was hitting her cheek like something meant.

She didn’t move.

He didn’t move.

And then—someone shouted their names from the trees.

They stepped apart.

Slowly.

Gently.

But not regretfully.

Harry didn’t look away as she stepped back. He didn’t laugh again. He didn’t break the tension with a joke.

He just nodded.

One small, devastating nod.

And she nodded back.

-

They walked back in step, neither of them talking, neither of them touching, but somehow still together in a way that had become undeniable.

It was in the way their arms swung just a little closer than necessary. In the way their shoulders brushed and neither pulled away. In the way Y/N looked straight ahead, calm and unflinching, like she was too busy feeling the weight of something new to entertain any pretense of small talk.

Harry felt it too. Felt it in the sweat at the back of his neck, in the buzz still humming beneath his skin. His hands twitched with the memory of her laugh curling against his chest. Her hands on his shoulders. The scramble of limbs and warmth and closeness that had felt like something between a wrestling match and a dance.

And now they were walking back through the trees like none of it had happened. Like it was just another hike. Just another run to the dock. Just another moment.

But it wasn’t.

And the group saw it before either of them could pretend otherwise.

-

Ali was the first to spot them. She paused mid-sentence, her mouth still open from whatever she’d been saying to Eli, her brow lifting slowly like she couldn’t believe she was witnessing this in real time. She didn’t say anything. Just exchanged a look with Jules, who followed her gaze and bit the inside of her cheek trying not to smirk.

Claire didn’t look up. But Ben did. His expression went flat. Cold, almost. Y/N didn’t return it.

Harry could feel every flick of attention as he followed her into the clearing. The way the air quieted. The way the others’ eyes trailed over his shirt—wrinkled, damp, one sleeve stretched where she’d grabbed him. The way Y/N’s hair was half-falling out of its tie, cheeks still flushed, eyes bright.

They were trying to play it cool.

They weren’t succeeding.

-

She dropped down onto the edge of the picnic bench with slow control, like her legs were still half-tuned to motion and the rest of her hadn’t caught up. Her pulse hadn’t returned to normal. Her skin was still warm in places that had nothing to do with the sun. And the others—her friends—were all watching her like something had been confirmed.

She met Ali’s eyes across the table.

Ali blinked once. Tilted her head. Smiled.

Nothing was said, but everything was said.

Harry sat down beside her, not close enough to be obvious, but close enough to make it clear that he was choosing this seat. That he wasn’t backing off or shying away or pretending like the tension wasn’t laced through every second of the last half hour.

Eli tried to break the silence. “You two look like you just ran from the cops.”

“We ran to the dock,” Harry said, casually grabbing a water bottle and twisting the cap with one hand. “And maybe chased each other a bit.”

Y/N leaned forward, voice calm. “Friendly sprint.”

“Did you trip? Why’s your hair doing that thing?”

She blinked. Shrugged. “Wind.”

Ali raised a brow. “Violent wind?”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “That explains the grass in your hair.”

Y/N reached up automatically and pulled out a small leaf.

Harry took a long sip of water.

Jules chimed in again, lazy and sly: “It’s funny how neither of you wants to explain why your shirts look like they’ve been in a tug-of-war.”

Claire finally spoke.

“We heard you,” she said.

Her tone was clipped. Tight.

Y/N looked at her slowly. “Heard what?”

“The shouting.”

Harry didn’t even flinch. “It’s called laughter.”

Ben snorted under his breath. “Right.” Then cleared his throat. “So… are you guys a thing now, or what?”

The silence after that was heavy.

Claire shifted in her seat.

Y/N didn’t look at either of them. She just tilted her head toward Harry and let the smallest smile pull at her lips.

“You okay with letting the answer speak for itself?” she asked him quietly.

Harry looked at her for a second—soft, steady—and nodded.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

No one pushed further.

They didn’t need to.

Because the way Y/N and Harry looked at each other said more than any admission could have.

-

Lunch happened in pieces.

The group fell into the kind of gentle midday lull that always came after exertion and sun—sandwiches pulled from coolers, fruit passed around in mismatched Tupperware, the crunch of chips mixing with soft background music and someone’s half-committed attempt to make a playlist. Ali and Jules sat cross-legged under the trees with their water bottles tucked against their thighs, debating the difference between “tired” and “burnt out.” Eli was still insisting someone try the off-brand peach soda he’d packed from the gas station four days ago. Claire lingered on the edge of things, sunglasses too large and unreadable. Ben had disappeared entirely.

And through it all, Y/N sat at the far end of the picnic bench with her legs curled beneath her and a plum in her hand, her thumb running absent little circles along the smooth skin.

Harry was just behind her, sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet swinging over the water. He hadn’t said much since they returned. Hadn’t done anything dramatic or obvious. But she could feel him there, close enough that her pulse didn’t know how to rest.

The food was good. The shade was cool. The group was mellow in that rare, fleeting way—when everyone was too full and too sun-warmed to try too hard. There was a softness to everything. A golden hum in the air. And even though her shoulders had relaxed, her chest hadn’t stopped aching.

Because she wanted to be next to him again.

Not because it was expected. Not because the group was watching. Just because being near him felt easier than being anywhere else. Like something in her body moved better in his orbit.

And she knew—without needing to look—that he felt the same.

-

She rose quietly and crossed the distance.

No one said anything. No one even blinked.

She sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his, and let her feet dangle over the edge of the dock just like his. Their knees bumped. Neither of them shifted.

Harry glanced at her but didn’t speak.

She held out the plum wordlessly.

He took it. Bit into it. Passed it back.

The silence between them wasn’t charged this time. It wasn’t pulsing with tension or jokes or anything they needed to prove. It was just still. Easy. A slow kind of gravity that pulled them into each other without having to try.

They watched the ripples on the water.

They breathed in the same rhythm.

And in that moment, Y/N realized something that made her throat tighten.

She hadn’t thought about Ben in hours.

Not once.

Not even when Claire’s voice sharpened or when a song played that reminded her of late drives and too-long summers.

Not even when Harry smiled at her the way he had—like she was something new.

She hadn’t compared.

She hadn’t second-guessed.

She’d just been in it.

With him.

And she wanted to stay.

-

The group moved like a slow wave, lifting in motion but never quite breaking. Sandwich wrappers were folded up and tucked back into canvas bags. Water bottles were recapped, backpacks zipped, sunglasses slid into place like shields against the inevitable heat of the walk back. Someone yawned. Someone else started humming. The energy was still soft, but it was no longer sleepy—it had shifted into that familiar stretch of late afternoon, where the air starts to carry the echo of what’s been shared.

Harry stood from the dock first and turned to offer Y/N his hand.

She looked up at him with a brow raised, amused. But she took it.

Her fingers slid into his easily. Her weight shifted forward, her sandals gripped the dock edge, and when she was on her feet again, she didn’t let go right away.

Neither did he.

It wasn’t a moment that asked for an announcement. No one around them gasped or stared. But Ali saw it. Jules too. Even Eli—bless him—let out a little whistle under his breath that made Claire glance up from her sunglasses and then immediately look away again.

It didn’t matter.

Because Harry had no intention of stepping back now.

He let go when she was steady, sure. But he stayed close. Close enough that his shoulder brushed hers as they followed the others toward the tree line. Close enough that her arm swayed into his on every third step. Close enough that when Jules cracked a joke about “group dynamics shifting in the humidity,” Harry didn’t even blink.

He just smiled.

Because yeah. Things had shifted.

-

It was almost funny how differently everyone moved now.

There was no official declaration. She and Harry hadn’t made any kind of show of it. And yet, the jokes came faster now—softer, but sharp-edged with curiosity. The glances were longer, less guarded. The teasing had evolved into something else. Not mean. Not even probing. But full of recognition.

Everyone could see it.

She could hear it in the way Ali said “How’s the couple at the back doing?” without even turning around. In the way Eli offered to trade hiking partners like it was a school dance. In the way Jules asked what snacks Harry had “picked for her” and didn’t bother clarifying who her was.

She could feel it too.

In the way Harry kept adjusting his pace to match hers. In the way his fingers brushed hers now and then—always casually, never gripping, but lingering. In the way her body leaned toward his like it had stopped asking for permission.

And it was all so easy.

That was the strange part.

It didn’t feel like a new beginning.

It felt like a return.

Like they’d been circling this version of each other for longer than either of them had realized. Like all the noise between them—everything that used to keep their eyes narrowed and their walls high—had finally gone quiet. And what was left was this.

Warm. Open. Quietly certain.

Y/N didn’t need to look back to know Ben and Claire were walking somewhere behind them.

She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder. Didn’t need to listen for them.

Because they weren’t what mattered anymore.

What mattered was the trail ahead. The sunlight pooling between trees. The way Harry’s voice dropped when he leaned closer to say something only she could hear.

And the way it made her smile without even trying.

-

The house came into view like a mirage—low-roofed and sunbaked, its windows glinting against the haze of the afternoon heat. The trail thinned behind them as the group shuffled up the drive in loose clusters, every step slower than the last. Shoes scraped against the gravel. Water bottles swung at half-hearts. Someone let out a long, theatrical groan as they reached the porch steps, and someone else laughed just loudly enough to disguise the sound of another foot catching a loose plank on the deck.

Y/N reached the front door first, her hand resting on the knob while she fumbled for the key Ali had handed her before the hike. Her other hand still buzzed faintly from the quiet moment just five minutes earlier—Harry’s fingers brushing hers one last time as they’d turned onto the path. It hadn’t been an accident. It hadn’t lasted long. But it had sent a warm thrum all the way up her arm that hadn’t quite faded.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside first.

The cool rush of indoor air made her eyes sting. The temperature difference was sharp and immediate, and the stillness inside felt oddly sacred after the noise of the trail. For a moment, all she could do was stand in the entryway and let her lungs adjust. It smelled like old wood and lemony cleaner and the faint, familiar whisper of yesterday’s coffee.

Behind her, the door creaked open again.

Harry stepped in second.

Of course he did.

And with a quiet clatter of bottles and bags, the others followed.

-

It didn’t take long for the house to fill again—with chatter, with footfalls, with that familiar summer energy that only settled into a place once everyone had made it theirs. Shoes were kicked off. Backpacks dropped. Someone turned on a fan in the corner of the living room that whirred like it had something to prove. Claire opened the fridge with a dramatic sigh and announced that they were “critically low” on something she didn’t bother to finish naming. Eli immediately volunteered to eat “whatever’s expired.” Jules collapsed onto the couch and demanded someone feed her grapes.

And Y/N?

Y/N drifted into the kitchen, not because she had a plan, but because her legs carried her there.

She opened the fridge and stared into the cool light like it held some kind of answer. Her fingers found a jug of water, her other hand fumbling for glasses without looking.

A moment later, Harry appeared beside her.

Again.

No fanfare. No commentary. Just a quiet arrival. A shared breath.

His hand brushed hers when he reached for the second glass.

She looked at him then—not long, not pointedly, but long enough.

Long enough that she didn’t have to say anything when she poured the water and nudged the glass toward him.

He took it.

Their fingers grazed again.

And neither of them moved away.

-

The others were scattered now—drifting toward bedrooms, couches, bathrooms, anywhere with airflow and a horizontal surface. A few half-hearted attempts at planning the rest of the day floated across the room, but no one really grabbed onto them. They were all in the slow exhale after movement. The kind of quiet that settled in the ribs, content to just be.

But even in that stillness, he felt it.

The way the others’ eyes flicked toward him and Y/N more often now. Not staring. Not interrogating. But curious.

There was a new rhythm to the house, and they were the tempo now.

He didn’t mind.

He took a sip of water and leaned against the counter. Y/N stood beside him, half-lit by the sunlight pushing through the open window above the sink, her skin glowing, her cheeks pink, her eyes soft.

She looked at peace.

And he wanted to keep her that way.

She glanced at him then, lips curving gently. “Thanks for not dropping me in the lake earlier.”

He chuckled. “Thought about it.”

“Not sure you could’ve handled the splashback.”

“You’re underestimating my core strength.”

She smiled, and it reached all the way into him.

He didn’t say anything else.

He just stood there.

Next to her.

Right where he wanted to be.

-

They moved through the house like a secret.

Not trying to hide. Not putting on a show. Just existing in a kind of new, quiet rhythm that made the rest of the group feel like background noise—not unimportant, not invisible, just… less in focus.

The kitchen had emptied by now. Jules had migrated to the porch with a book. Eli and Ali were arguing softly over who got control of the Bluetooth speaker. Ben was still absent. Claire had retreated to the upstairs bathroom under the pretense of a sun-induced migraine. And in the quiet between those moving parts, Y/N leaned against the countertop next to Harry and let the silence hold.

Her skin still felt warm from earlier. Not the sun—though the sun had done its part—but from him. From his voice, his laugh, his arms around her on the dock, the way they hadn’t let go fast enough. The memory of it sat heavy in her chest now. Not heavy like burdened. Heavy like full. Like something new had settled just under the surface and didn’t want to leave.

Harry opened the freezer, pulled out two popsicles—one red, one purple—and wordlessly held them up like a bartender offering a drink list.

She pointed to the red.

He handed it over.

They unwrapped them in sync, the plastic snapping in that sharp, familiar way, and leaned against opposite ends of the counter like they hadn’t just spent the last half hour tangled in each other’s space.

But they had.

And it was still all over her skin.

-

The popsicle dripped down his thumb, and he didn’t care.

Y/N licked hers like she wasn’t thinking about it, but he could tell she was. Her mouth curved every time her tongue caught the melting juice at the corner, and she smiled when she noticed him watching.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t even pretend to.

Something had shifted since this morning—not snapped, not sparked, but warmed. Like someone had left a window open in the middle of the house and now the air inside was changing whether they wanted it to or not.

He liked it.

Liked her.

Liked the ease. The tilt of her voice when she said his name. The curve of her back when she laughed and didn’t bother to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

She knew he was.

She knew.

-

“What now?” she asked eventually, around a mouthful of cherry ice.

“Swim?”

“Too hot.”

“Movie?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Feels wrong to sit in the dark on a day like this.”

“Board game?”

“You just want revenge after I beat you at trivia.”

“I want balance restored to the universe.”

She laughed, and it came out light and easy, like it belonged in the air.

Then she glanced sideways at him and said, “Want to go for a walk?”

He blinked. “Didn’t we just do eight miles?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Different kind of walk.”

“What kind is that?”

She met his eyes.

“The kind where no one else comes.”

And just like that, his breath caught.

She didn’t mean it suggestively. She didn’t say it with weight or flirtation or anything even close to a smirk. But it hit him anyway—deep and warm and true.

A walk.

Just them.

No one else.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

-

The house didn’t shrink as she left it, but it felt like it did.

The second she stepped past the porch and into the space between the trees—where sunlight slanted through the branches and the sound of the group dissolved into distant thuds and murmurs—something opened in her chest. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just a slow unfurling, like a breath she hadn’t known she was holding had finally been allowed to leave.

There was no trail for where they were headed. No destination. No need to fill the space with conversation or perform the closeness they’d been toeing around all day. But the shift in energy was immediate. She felt it in the way the soles of her shoes pressed more deliberately into the dirt. In the way the air around her warmed despite the shade. In the way Harry fell into step beside her without saying a word, as though he’d been waiting for the cue all day and now that it was here, it needed nothing more than a look.

She didn’t glance at him yet.

She didn’t have to.

His presence was a tether.

Solid. Quiet. Close.

Her hands were still sticky with the sugar from the popsicle he’d handed her. The cherry flavor had long since faded, but the aftertaste lingered—bright and artificial and a little too sweet. Her lips stuck slightly when she pressed them together, and she swiped her tongue along her bottom lip out of habit. The humidity clung to her in patches, where the sweat from the hike had never fully left, and the breeze barely moved through the pines now that they were deeper in the woods.

She wasn’t sure why she’d suggested the walk.

Not really.

It had come out of her mouth before she’d fully thought it through, and when Harry had looked at her like yes, that, her brain had gone quiet.

Maybe it had something to do with the way he hadn’t let go of her hand right away when they’d returned from the dock. Or the way he’d stood behind her in the kitchen, quiet and close, like he didn’t want to get in her way but also didn’t want to stand anywhere else. Or maybe it was the way the others were looking at them now—not just curiously, but like they knew, like they were cataloging each touch, each glance, each moment and wondering what had changed.

Y/N had spent her entire adult life learning how to manage other people’s attention. She was good at it. A professional, even. She could navigate a faculty meeting with one raised eyebrow and a well-timed exhale. She could redirect conversation away from herself with the ease of someone who’d been practicing since she was a teenager. And yet here, with Harry, she didn’t feel like hiding.

She just felt like being.

The trees around them thickened slightly, enough to swallow the sunlight in long beams and cast the forest floor into strips of gold and green. Harry walked slowly. Purposefully. His arms hung loose at his sides, his gait lazy in the way that only came when his guard was down. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the house, and yet somehow she felt more connected to him now than she had through any of their earlier back-and-forths.

It was strange, she thought, how easily the silence sat between them. Not strained. Not heavy. Just there. Soft and shared.

She picked up a twig with her toe and kicked it ahead of her on the trail. “You always this quiet?”

Harry looked over, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth. “Only when I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Her brows lifted, surprised at his honesty. “You think there’s a wrong thing to say right now?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts and let his gaze track a squirrel darting across the brush before he spoke.

“I think,” he said, slowly, “that there’s a lot of things I could say. And some of them… I’m not sure you’re ready to hear yet.”

The warmth that had been coiled in her chest twisted, then pulled tighter. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even heavy. It was gentle. A soft touch at the edge of something neither of them had named.

“And what if I am?” she asked, quieter than she meant to.

Harry looked at her.

Really looked.

And then—just as slowly, just as softly—he smiled.

-

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

He hadn’t meant to say anything at all. The quiet had been good—weightless in a way that felt rare between two people who hadn’t known each other well just days ago. And now here they were, walking a dirt path that didn’t lead anywhere, held together by whatever had settled between them since the night of the grocery trip.

Still, when she asked if he was always this quiet, the words had come out without calculation.

It wasn’t just the sun-warmed calm of the woods that loosened his tongue.

It was her.

The way she looked at him when she wasn’t trying to be understood. The way she tilted her head like she already knew what he meant but wanted to hear it anyway. The way her voice dropped into something barely-there when she asked, “What if I am?”

Ready.

Like maybe she was.

He could’ve said a dozen things. Something teasing. Something noncommittal. But instead he looked at her and smiled. Just that. Just the truth of that smile. And then kept walking.

She caught up to him a few paces later, their shoulders close again, feet moving without purpose.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence lightly, “what exactly would be so dangerous for me to hear?”

He exhaled, amused. “Thought we were letting it go.”

“We were. But then you went all cryptic woodsman on me.”

“Cryptic woodsman?”

“You know, with the quiet and the vague truths and the meaningful glances.”

“I’m just trying not to ruin the walk.”

“You’re failing.”

He looked at her, and her grin widened.

It hit him all at once, then—how easy it had become, how he didn’t feel like he was performing anymore. Not even behind sarcasm. Not even behind old habits of emotional sleight-of-hand. He was just… here. Himself. With her.

And it didn’t scare him.

It settled in.

Like it had been waiting.

-

She didn’t know what she’d expected from the walk, but it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t this feeling of clarity—quiet and low and persistent. It wasn’t the comfort of falling into step with someone who didn’t need her to explain herself. It wasn’t the slow-burning hum of her pulse every time Harry said something in that voice, his voice, with its patient rhythm and careful humor and unspoken undertow.

She glanced down at her feet, at the way her shoes scuffed dust up from the trail. She didn’t feel nervous. But she did feel aware. Of her limbs. Her breath. The faint ache in her knees from the earlier hike. The slight stick of sweat at her temples. The shift in gravity every time he came close enough to cast a shadow across her shoulder.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” she said, voice light.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I don’t remember there being a question.”

She rolled her eyes, stopping short in the path. “What would you say if you thought I was ready?”

He stopped too.

There was no one around now. Not within earshot. Not within view. The woods stretched in every direction—quiet, dappled, just barely moving with the wind.

Harry looked at her like she was the only real thing in it.

He took a step closer.

“You want the truth?” he asked.

“Always.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“I think,” he said, low and warm and steady, “that you’re not half as hard to understand as you want people to believe. I think you notice everything. I think you hold it all in, and you don’t let people know how much it means to you. But I think you care. A lot.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Tried not to shift her weight too obviously.

Harry continued, his voice softening further. “I think you watch the people around you more than you watch yourself. And I think it’s exhausting. But you do it anyway. Because you don’t trust that anyone else will.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

Her throat was tight.

Her heart had pressed up into it like it couldn’t stay still in her chest anymore.

She should’ve made a joke. Changed the subject. But instead, she asked, “And you? What do you think I haven’t noticed?”

He smiled at that.

But it wasn’t cocky.

It was bare.

“I think,” he said, “you noticed that I hate running on concrete. That I always drink the last half of my coffee cold because I forget about it. That I only sing along when I’m alone in the car, and I only do it if the windows are up.”

He paused.

She waited.

“I think,” he said again, slower now, “you noticed that I’m still figuring myself out. Even now. And I think that scares me less when you’re around.”

She felt that one behind her ribs.

Felt it all the way down.

-

They kept walking.

They didn’t need to talk after that.

The silence came back, but it wasn’t emptiness. It was full of something golden and growing.

At some point, they passed a narrow wooden fence that curved along the far edge of the forest. It was old, half-fallen, mostly overtaken by moss and ivy. Y/N paused to touch one of the posts—gently, like it might dissolve under her hand.

Harry watched her.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just figured you’d be the type to notice things like that.”

She turned. “Like what?”

He shrugged one shoulder, casual. “Quiet corners. Places that no one else looks at.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where the best stories start.”

She raised a brow. “You really believe that?”

He smiled.

And then, just as he stepped forward and reached out to tug a pine needle from her hair, he said it:

“Yeah. I’m starting to.”

-

She didn’t suggest stopping.

She didn’t need to.

The moment they reached the edge of the clearing—a slight rise in the trail flanked by low grass and a patch of mossy boulders that looked like they’d been dropped there centuries ago—they both paused without speaking. The silence between them hummed. Not with awkwardness. Not with indecision. Just… something that said here. That said this is where we rest now.

Y/N moved first, slipping between two stones and sinking onto a flat, sun-dappled patch of moss. She tucked her legs beneath her, hands loose in her lap. The heat of the ground seeped through the fabric of her shorts, grounding her in a way the conversation hadn’t. She needed to stop moving. Not because she was tired, but because whatever was buzzing under her skin was getting louder, and motion only made it worse.

Harry followed her without a word, stepping into the space and sitting cross-legged just across from her. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t glance around. Just folded his hands loosely in his lap and met her gaze like it was the only thing worth seeing.

For the first time since they’d left the house, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt charged.

Like whatever had been building between them had reached a point where it couldn’t hide inside the hike or the banter or the soft, careful looks anymore. The air between them was thin with it—heat, breath, silence. It wasn’t about the group. Or the trip. Or anything that had happened before.

It was about now.

And neither of them moved.

-

She looked like she was trying to decide whether to speak or stay still forever.

He knew that feeling.

It was one he carried in his chest every time he stood at the edge of something good and had no idea if it would still be there once he reached for it. But there was something about the way she sat across from him now—open without trying, knees curled in, hands loose, jaw tight with everything she wasn’t saying—that made him want to ask.

Made him want to know the things she didn’t give away for free.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly.

Her eyes didn’t flinch. “So are you.”

“I’m trying not to say the wrong thing, remember?”

She smiled. But it was slower now. Different. Not teasing. Not light.

Just quiet.

Measured.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” she said.

The request didn’t sting. It wasn’t sharp. But it landed.

He blinked once, stunned—not by the boldness of it, but by how gentle it felt coming from her. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a challenge. It was an invitation. A door, cracked open.

He looked down at his hands.

Then, after a long moment, he answered.

“When I was fourteen,” he said, voice low, “I wrote a song for someone. Didn’t show it to them. Didn’t even keep the paper. But I remember the lyrics.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Do you still write?”

He hesitated.

“Not really. Not like that.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Felt stupid. Too much. Like I was doing it for the wrong reasons.”

“What were the right ones?”

Harry looked up at her again, eyes steady now.

“I guess I didn’t know then,” he said. “But I’m starting to figure it out.”

Y/N didn’t push.

Didn’t fill the space with anything unnecessary.

She just nodded, like she understood, and let the moment stretch.

And God, this was worse than any kiss.

Worse in the best way.

Because it meant something. And he wasn’t ready for what it meant, but he wasn’t running either.

He was here.

-

The silence didn’t rush to be filled, and that might’ve been the most jarring part. It didn’t lean toward awkwardness or stumble into rambling just to have something to occupy it. It was full, dense, thick with quiet understanding, and yet completely natural in its weight. Y/N had never been one for long silences. Not really. She liked noise, liked rhythm, liked the assurance that conversation gave her—a way to know that the other person was still with her, still engaged, still moving forward. But with Harry, it felt different. Like she didn’t have to prove she was present or interesting or worth the pause. He just stayed across from her, unmoved, unreadable in a way that wasn’t cold or distant, just intensely focused, like he was observing her in real time and trying to memorize every flicker of change in her expression.

She could feel the heat of him even from where they sat. The space between them wasn’t wide, but it wasn’t narrow enough to be obvious either, and still, it felt like it pressed in on her from all sides. Her skin was too warm, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was the kind of warmth that bloomed slowly in her chest, radiating out through her arms and legs like it was being drawn toward something. Every breath she took made the air feel thinner, not because she was nervous—though God, maybe she was—but because she was too aware of the space her body occupied and how close he was to filling it.

She looked at his hands first. They were resting on his knees, loose but alert, fingers slightly curled like he was prepared to react at a moment’s notice. Like if she reached for him now, he wouldn’t pull away. He might not meet her halfway, but he wouldn’t flinch. And that small difference—the not knowing if he’d come forward, but knowing he wouldn’t leave—was enough to send her stomach into a slow, twisting knot that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

When her gaze finally rose to his face, he was already watching her. There was no flicker of embarrassment, no sudden shift of attention like he’d been caught. He meant to be looking at her, and he made no move to hide it. She held his gaze, blinking once but otherwise still, and let the tension build. Let it stack higher and higher between them like stone on stone. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. There were no fireworks. No sweeping music. Just the earthy scent of pine and sun-warmed bark and the hush of a forest that didn’t care what happened between two people on the edge of something.

Her voice was quieter than she intended when it finally broke the silence. “You do that a lot.”

Harry didn’t ask what she meant. He just raised his eyebrows, a small tilt of his mouth giving the ghost of a smile.

“Watch me like you’re trying to read something I haven’t written yet,” she clarified.

That brought the full smile out. Small, sure, steady.

“Maybe I am,” he said, but his voice didn’t carry the smugness she might’ve expected. It didn’t flirt or poke or tease. It just… was. Honest. Warm. Settled like a truth that had been waiting to land.

Y/N shifted, arms wrapping loosely around her knees. Her body leaned slightly forward, instinctive and unintentional, but she didn’t pull back. She wanted to say something else, something with teeth, something that would level the field again and keep her from feeling like her heart had crawled too close to the surface. But nothing sharp came. Nothing clever. Just a quiet hum beneath her ribs and the recognition that for once, she didn’t want to play defense.

So she gave him something back.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to do when you look at me like that,” she admitted. “Like I’m supposed to know what comes next.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, thoughtful, eyes narrowing like he was filing that away.

“You don’t have to know,” he said, voice soft but not delicate. “I’m not expecting you to.”

She let that settle. Let it bloom in the silence.

Let herself feel the impact of being met exactly where she was.

Let herself feel the way he wasn’t rushing her, wasn’t pressing her, wasn’t turning this into a declaration or a demand or a game.

He was just here.

And so was she.

-

The quiet had thickened to the point that it wasn’t really silence anymore. It had become something else entirely—something suspended and weighty, like humidity right before a storm, or the space between two breaths when you’re waiting for someone to say your name. They weren’t speaking, but they were both very much in this moment, like they could hear the hum of what was unspoken between them if they stayed still long enough. There was no movement, not even a nervous shift. Just stillness, dense and stretched thin with proximity and patience and tension that neither of them wanted to break but both of them were leaning into more and more with every breath.

Y/N’s fingers were splayed against the moss between them, her skin still warm from the hike, still a little tacky with sugar from the popsicle back at the house. She hadn’t planned to move them, hadn’t made a decision in her head, but her body acted on something quieter and more instinctual—curiosity maybe, or want. Her hand drifted forward across the soft, sun-dappled stone. Not a dramatic gesture. Not a bold one. Just enough that her pinky brushed the side of his.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything. But her stomach twisted as if she’d shouted.

Harry didn’t move right away. But she could feel the awareness in him shift. His fingers flexed slightly, resting still for a moment before curling—just a little—around the outside of hers. Not a grab. Not a reach. A response.

She turned her palm over, and he met it. No hesitation, no pause, just warmth. His hand slid into hers like it already knew the shape of it, like his fingers had been molded to fit hers, even if neither of them would’ve admitted that out loud. She breathed in, shallow and quick, then let the air fall out of her like it had been caught in her lungs for days.

He didn’t let go.

She didn’t ask him to.

“I didn’t think I’d ever do this with you,” she said after a long beat, voice soft but steady, her eyes fixed on their joined hands.

Harry’s thumb grazed her wrist. “Hold hands?”

“Sit still.”

His laugh was low and warm and a little closer than before. “Yeah, you’re usually more of a pacing type.”

“Shut up,” she murmured, but she was smiling now, a real one, the kind that tugged at the corners of her mouth without asking first.

“I’m serious. You don’t do this. You don’t… stop.”

She looked up at him then. “Do you?”

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Only when I want something to last.”

The air went tight again. Her chest filled with it, caught under her collarbones and held there like she wasn’t allowed to let it go yet. She knew what he meant. He hadn’t said it plainly, but he didn’t need to. It was in the way he was looking at her now—like this quiet between them was more than just a moment to enjoy. It was a decision. An intention.

Y/N didn’t move, didn’t pull back, didn’t tease. She didn’t try to laugh it off like she usually would. She just held his hand tighter, her thumb brushing slowly over the back of his, her body warm all over and anchored in something deeper than she could explain.

“I notice things about you too, you know,” she said finally.

His brow lifted, curious and soft. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You always pick the least direct path on a trail. You lean forward when you’re thinking, like you’re already walking into the next sentence. You—”

“Alright,” he said gently, squeezing her hand, his voice low and amused, “say one more and I’ll start getting a complex.”

“I wasn’t going to stop.”

“Figured.”

He smiled, and she felt it—not just saw it. She felt it like it pressed right into the center of her chest and stayed there.

The sun shifted slightly, and their shadows leaned closer across the moss.

Y/N tipped her head to the side, still watching him. “Do you think this is stupid?”

Harry’s face sobered, but not harshly. “What?”

“This,” she said, gesturing to the space between them with a slight nod. “All of it. The group. This trip. You and me.”

He didn’t answer right away, and for a second she thought he might shrug or laugh it off or say something clever. But when he spoke, his voice was low and firm and made her heart ache a little.

“I think this might be the first thing that doesn’t feel stupid in a really long time.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked back down at their hands, their fingers still laced, skin warm and steady, and she didn’t say anything more.

Because there was nothing else that needed saying.

-

The quiet between them had thickened into something dense and familiar, something that didn’t demand to be broken but made room for truth if it wanted to be spoken. Y/N didn’t shift where she sat. Her hand stayed loosely curled in Harry’s, thumb moving slowly along the side of his, not because she was nervous but because she needed something to tether her to the moment. It felt like it could float away if she didn’t stay grounded in it, if she didn’t pay attention. The sunlight had shifted since they’d first sat down, casting longer shadows across the moss, cooler now, more golden than white. She could feel the weight of the day settling around them, not heavy, but sure.

“How many days are left?” she asked after a long stretch of stillness, her voice low and calm, like the answer might settle something inside her if he got it right.

Harry turned his head slightly, brows pulled together as he counted. “Two,” he said. “Just tomorrow, and then we pack up the morning after that.”

“Two,” she repeated, quieter now. The word sat differently than she expected, heavier maybe, or sharper around the edges. “That’s not enough.”

His fingers shifted against hers, not a squeeze, not quite, just a subtle reaction, like he’d felt it too. “I know,” he said, his voice soft and threaded with something she didn’t want to name.

She let the silence settle again, only this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that curled around her ribs and whispered that the end was coming whether she wanted it to or not. She tried to focus on the warmth of his hand, the steadiness of it, the way he didn’t let go even as the minutes stretched on and the world around them started to cool.

“It’s strange,” she said, her thumb drawing an unconscious line across the back of his hand. “It feels like it’s just starting. Like I’m just now catching up to myself.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”

Neither of them looked away.

After a moment, her voice dropped even quieter. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I could settle into something this easily.”

He tilted his head. “Settle into what?”

She gave a small shrug, like she didn’t want to define it. “This. The quiet. You. All of it.”

Harry let that sit between them before replying. “Maybe it’s not about ease. Maybe it’s just… right place, right time.”

“Or wrong time,” she muttered, half to herself, then looked up. “You talk to your sister much since you got here?”

He smiled at that, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah. She texted me the other night after we sent that picture from the dock. Wanted to know who the ‘girl with the sarcastic grin’ was.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t say me.”

“Course I did.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s slander.”

“Truthful slander,” he said, and his thumb traced an arc against her knuckles.

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Not by much. She thinks that makes her morally superior.”

“It might,” Y/N teased, then added more quietly, “Jess would agree. She’s older than me too.”

“She the one we met back at the house?”

“Yeah. She’s my… everything person, I guess. If I’m falling apart, she knows before I do.”

He nodded like he understood. “Mine’s the same. Bit bossier, maybe.”

“She ever give you hell about relationships?”

Harry snorted under his breath. “Constantly. She told me before this trip that if I didn’t come back with at least one good story, she was revoking her right to defend me.”

“Sounds like something Jess would say,” Y/N said, and for a second the two of them just sat there in the shared understanding that sisters had a way of seeing you before you saw yourself.

He looked at her then—not quickly, not sharply, but with that same gentle, anchored attention he’d given her since they’d stepped into the woods. “Does she know what this is?” he asked, the question quiet but pointed.

Y/N hesitated, then smiled. “She’s already bought stock in it.”

Harry grinned. “Smart woman.”

“I know.”

The air felt softer around them then, but heavier too, like they were stepping closer to a ledge they didn’t know how to name. Two days. That was it. Not enough to undo anything, but maybe enough to see it for what it was. Maybe enough to let it take root before everything outside this place tried to pull it away.

-

She didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not back to the house, not back to the group, not back to the way the real world pressed in around the edges of everything that had finally gone quiet inside her. This was the first time in weeks—maybe longer—that she hadn’t felt like she needed to be on guard. Not for anyone else. Not even for herself. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t proving. She was just sitting in the woods with a boy who made her forget how many versions of herself she usually carried around to stay protected. And maybe that should’ve scared her. Maybe it still did. But it also felt like a relief she hadn’t realized she needed until it had already wrapped itself around her.

Harry’s hand was still warm in hers. Still steady. Still sure in that quiet, unobtrusive way that said he didn’t need to be holding her to make his presence known—but he liked that he was. And she liked that he did. She liked the way he moved through silence like it didn’t intimidate him. Like he didn’t feel the need to fill every second with something clever or easy. She liked the way he let the weight of her quiet hang in the air and didn’t ask her to lighten it.

Two days.

That was it.

And somehow that number had started to ache in her chest like it meant more than just a countdown. It meant borrowed time. Measured space. A trip that wasn’t built to carry what was beginning to form between them. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it was the right kind of temporary. But it didn’t feel like something she could fold back up when it was over and tuck away in a drawer. This—whatever this was—had shape now. Weight. Breath. A rhythm she was already learning by heart.

She looked down at their hands again, where his thumb traced an easy line over the edge of her palm. She could memorize that, she thought. The pace of it. The warmth. The quiet confidence in his touch that didn’t ask for anything but didn’t shy away from the truth of what it was either.

“I don’t think I expected to feel like this,” she said, voice low and careful, but not tentative.

He didn’t look surprised. “Like what?”

She let the silence stretch before answering, like the right words might rise out of the air if she gave them time. “Like I’ll miss you.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak right away either. But the way his fingers stilled slightly against hers—just for a second, just long enough to register—told her he’d felt the weight of that too.

“I will,” she said. “Miss you.”

He turned his head then, slow and deliberate, until his eyes met hers again. And there was nothing easy in them now. No teasing. No half-grin. Just that open, unguarded gaze that felt like it saw past whatever she hadn’t said yet.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t swept up in heat or urgency or anything designed to carry weight. It just was. And maybe that was why it landed the way it did—deep, quiet, true.

She didn’t speak again after that. Neither did he.

They didn’t need to.

-

Harry wasn’t ready to stand. Not yet. He could feel the clock ticking behind his ribs, some slow, invisible count closing in on the moment they’d have to rise from the mossy patch of shade and walk back into a world that hadn’t seen them like this—quiet and settled and entirely changed. The others wouldn’t know what happened out here. Not really. They’d joke, maybe, tease them, fill in the blanks with their own narratives. But they wouldn’t know. Because the story wasn’t something loud. It didn’t arrive in a kiss or a confession or anything so dramatic. It had built itself in the stillness, in a silence that most people would’ve missed. But Harry hadn’t missed it. And neither had she.

Her hand still sat in his like it belonged there. Not clutched. Not held too tightly. Just there, warm and aligned and honest. Her breathing had gone steady a long time ago. He could feel the rhythm of it, low and unhurried, like it had finally caught up with the truth of the moment and decided not to race past it. She hadn’t looked away from him since she said she’d miss him. And he hadn’t dared speak until now, not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because the weight of it was too dense to move around until he found the right way to place it.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, voice low, rough from disuse and something else he didn’t want to name.

She looked at him, quiet, ready.

“I keep thinking about that first morning,” he continued, “in the car. You were sitting there, arms crossed, that coffee cup clenched like it’d personally betrayed you.”

Her mouth twitched. “It was early.”

“It was war,” he said, the corner of his own mouth tipping. “And I remember thinking, I could survive this trip if she never talks to me again.”

She laughed then, soft and incredulous. “Jesus.”

“But then you did,” he went on, slower now, not smiling anymore. “You talked to me. Not all at once. Not easily. But… enough. You started asking questions, biting back at mine. You rolled your eyes. You gave me hell. And I started to look forward to it.”

She tilted her head, her expression settling into something quieter.

Harry let the silence sit for a beat before adding, “I didn’t expect this.”

“Me either.”

“I didn’t think I’d want to give this version of myself to anyone here. Not after how it started.”

She didn’t say anything, but her thumb pressed into the center of his palm.

He exhaled slowly, like the words needed space to fall into.

“But I do,” he said. “I want to give it to you.”

Her chest rose slightly.

“I don’t know how much of it you even want,” he went on, voice soft and slow and careful, “but every version of me that’s come out since we left the driveway-”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just let the quiet answer for her.

And then, before he could overthink it, before the weight of it shifted into something heavy instead of full, he added, softer now, but no less certain—

“It’s just for you.”

-

By the time they emerged from the woods, the sky had turned a bruised gold, soft at the edges, slipping toward dusk. They walked slower now, like the path back was longer than it had been on the way out, like each step toward the house carried more weight than the last. Y/N didn’t drop his hand until the clearing opened and the backyard came into view, not out of fear or uncertainty, but because some small, private part of her wanted to keep the moment theirs just a little longer. As if the trees had been holding something sacred, and stepping back into the open would let it dissolve.

The house buzzed with sound—music playing low from the porch speaker, laughter from somewhere deeper inside, the muffled thud of footsteps crossing the upstairs floor. The day had stretched on without them, as it always would, and the group didn’t pause just because two people had wandered off to fall into something quieter. But the second they stepped out of the tree line, the air shifted.

Claire noticed first. She was seated at the far end of the outdoor table, drink in hand, sunglasses pushed back into her hair. Her posture didn’t change, but her gaze followed them with the kind of sharpness that came with interest disguised as boredom. Beside her, Ben turned too, his mouth tightening—not with surprise, not with warmth, but with some unnamed edge that made Y/N’s skin prickle, though she refused to look directly at him.

Harry didn’t falter. He walked just behind her, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that the silence between them didn’t feel broken so much as carried. There was no announcement. No explanation. Just the quiet presence of two people who’d gone somewhere together and returned different.

Ali caught sight of them from the open kitchen doorway and grinned wide enough to slice the tension straight through. “There you are,” she called, cradling a beer against her hip like it was a microphone. “Thought you’d disappeared into the woods to build a new life.”

“Tempting,” Harry said under his breath, just loud enough for Y/N to hear. She bit back a smile, elbow nudging against his as they reached the porch steps.

“We figured you got lost,” Ali said, stepping aside as they climbed onto the deck. “Or maybe just sick of our faces.”

Y/N leaned against the railing, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Maybe we just needed a break from the chaos.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Ali shot her a look that was almost too knowing, then glanced at Harry. “You look very refreshed. Enlightened. Like a man who’s been changed by nature.”

Harry gave a small bow. “The trees spoke. I listened.”

Ben’s voice broke in then, low and sharp from where he stood refilling a drink near the patio table. “You two get caught in the rain, or are you just glowing on purpose?”

The joke landed flat. Claire laughed anyway. Ali didn’t.

Y/N turned toward them, posture calm, face unreadable. “Just a walk.”

Harry didn’t add anything, but the weight of him beside her, the way his arm hovered just near hers, the subtle line of his smile that hadn’t left since the clearing—all of it told a different story.

The others drifted around them—voices, music, the rustle of chairs and clink of bottles—but the shift had settled like fog, low and noticeable. No one said it outright. No one had to. Whatever lived between them now had a pulse. And it was loud enough to feel, even without a sound.

Ali lingered at Y/N’s side as the others turned away, her eyes following Claire and Ben without subtlety. “They’re not thrilled,” she said under her breath.

“That’s alright.” Y/N replied, her voice even.

Ali grinned. “You two look… good together.”

Y/N glanced at Harry. He was talking to Eli now, nothing serious, but his body still angled toward her like he hadn’t forgotten she was there. She felt the echo of his touch in her palm. Heard his voice again—just for you—like it had been said a lifetime ago instead of less than an hour.

She nodded. “Feels good.”

-

It was nearly dark by the time she slipped inside. The kitchen had thinned out, the sink full of dishes no one had the energy to finish, the counters littered with half-empty bags of chips, a trail of condensation rings marking where the night had landed and left again. Music still played low from the living room—someone had queued up something nostalgic, soft and summery—but most of the group had moved outside or upstairs. The house felt different now, quieter. Not empty, but settled. Like it had been holding its breath and was finally letting it go.

Y/N wandered toward the fridge, not because she was hungry but because it gave her something to do with her hands. She wasn’t used to this feeling—this soft hum under her skin that wasn’t nerves or adrenaline, but something else entirely. Something like awareness. Of the moment. Of herself. Of him.

She heard Harry before she saw him—his footsteps, light and familiar now, and the sound of the screen door creaking closed behind him. When he stepped into the kitchen, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded loosely, eyes finding hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t look away.

They stood like that for a while, the silence between them stretched thin but not tense, just full. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken because it wasn’t trying to prove anything.

Then, softly, she said, “I keep thinking someone’s going to say something.”

Harry tilted his head. “About us?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “They already are. Just not out loud.”

She laughed under her breath and shook her head. “I guess I thought it would feel different. More complicated.”

“Maybe it still will. Later.”

“But not now.”

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

She moved toward him without meaning to, drawn by something she didn’t need to name. She stopped just short of him, barely a breath between them, and looked up. His eyes were darker in the dim light, but steady. Warm. Anchored.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, and this time, it felt real.

He reached up then, fingers brushing her arm lightly, just enough to remind her he was there, like she could’ve forgotten. The touch wasn’t possessive. Wasn’t a question. It just was, and it felt better than any conversation she might’ve had with the group that night. She let herself lean into it, just slightly, just enough to rest her hand on his chest where the fabric of his shirt had warmed with the day.

It was a simple moment. Unremarkable, probably, to anyone else. But it made her throat go tight.

“Do we need to figure out what this is?” she asked, quietly, not because she wanted an answer now but because she wanted to know if he was thinking about it too.

He shook his head slowly. “Not yet.”

And somehow, that felt like exactly the right thing.

The kitchen light flickered once, then steadied. Outside, someone whooped loudly on the porch, followed by laughter. But in here, with his hand brushing slow circles along her forearm and her fingers curled against the seam of his shirt, the world felt narrowed down to one point. One connection. One breath.

He smiled again, softer now.

And she didn’t look away.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Taglist: @this-is-tiny-mia @goldensunflowerssss-blog @notsosweetcreature @ohmygoldboots @pradastardust @hsbbyhunny @meganrose139 @reeadyreeady @harrys-flower-vol-6 @sunshinextemptress94 @somebunnybaby @justsimplybands @witch-rry @millsadoresyou@watermelon-medicine@pink-watermelon-cherry @babegoalsreads @namoreno @fairyjuicestyles @pologoonies @mp-269 @musicforastylesrestaurant @finelinereading @sigh-mon-reads @tonystaank @slut4phoebe @messyemmy @sasasstyle @officerslay @taliarosej00 @stylesftcher @stardustvalentyne @harry-winkes @cassofheartsss @xairaa @honeymoonluvv @loverrryxo @eggnoggs-world @drewrry @harryscherries28 @hannah9921 @harryscowgirl @maudie-duan @1dcurlycarrotlover @ofthedaisypersuasion @sunflovverharry @eggnoggs-world @theastrologie @loverofhsandallthings1d @pink-watermelon-cherry @youbringmeback @justhereee @ottawaoutlander @liascardigan11 @st-ev-ie @choppedgalaxynerd-blog-blog @honeymoonluvv @angeldavis777 @behindmygreyeyes @spinninc @lomlhstyles @ofthedaisypersuasion

Next Part (Coming Soon)

[secretl1fe0fm3]

I think I would just die if you wrote something about f!reader being needy and obsessed with Billie’s boobs, like wanting to touch and squeeze and suck on them! Ugh!

Btw I’m obsessed with your writing, I can’t get enough <3

undo ~ billie eilish x fem!reader

warnings: smut, soft dom!billie, sub!reader, praise kink, boob play, oral fixation, implied cannabis consumption, established relationship

an: anon!!!! you know me so well :3 thank you so much for your request!!! (this fic is literally just me projecting oh my god, my gf can vouch for me) but i hope you enjoy <3 cmon 1975 title :P

18+ minors dni!!!

The movie had long faded into the background, some indie film flickering dimly across the TV screen. The joint you shared burned out in the ashtray a few minutes ago, leaving the room hazy and the air thick.

Billie lounged against the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out, foot idly nudging yours. Her baggy sweats hung low on her hips, and the tight, white tank top she wore clung to her in all the right ways. The kind of cling that made it impossible not to look.

And you were looking. Again.

Your chin rested against your palm, eyes barely hiding the way they dragged down from her jawline to her chest, where the soft curve of her breasts pushed against the white fabric. No bra, and you’d known that the second she walked out of your shared bedroom this morning.

“You’re not even pretending to watch the movie anymore,” Billie murmured, voice smooth, like she was already half amused.

You blinked, startled, caught, but didn’t look away.

“…What movie?” you said quietly, and way too honest.

Billie let out a low laugh, her lips curving as she tilted her head toward you, dark hair falling across one eye. “Mmhm. That’s what I thought.”

She shifted on the couch, just slightly, just enough for her tank top to pull tighter across her chest, and your breath hitched. God, she knew what she was doing.

“You’ve been staring since we finished the joint,” she went on, the edge of a tease creeping into her tone. “What’s got you so needy, baby?”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but you didn’t answer. You couldn’t, your mouth going dry from the weed and desperation. You only swallowed and glanced at her mouth, then back to her chest.

Billie smirked, lazily stretching her arms over her head, the motion lifting her shirt just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. “Say it,” she purred. “Go on. I know what you want.”

You inhaled slowly, then met her gaze. “…Can I touch them?”

Billie didn’t answer right away. She just looked at you, her eyes hooded as a lazy, knowing smirk formed on her lips as she cocked her head. You could feel your pulse thumping hard in your neck, heat pooling low in your belly as you waited, already teetering on the edge just from looking at her.

She leaned in, her fingers curled under your chin, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. She guided your face up until your nose grazed the soft underside of her jaw. Smoke still lingered on her, that soft musk of weed and something distinctively Billie, and it made your head spin more than the high.

“Go on, baby,” she said in a low murmur, voice thick and close to your ear. “You’ve been patient… Take what you need.”

You didn’t even bother responding as you slipped into her lap like it was instinct, knees straddling her hips, thighs pressing tight against hers. Your hands were on her chest a second later, palms reverent as they molded to her through the thin cotton of her tank. The soft weight of her breasts made your fingers twitch, kneading and squeezing gently, then rougher when she didn’t stop you.

Billie’s breath hitched, her smile lazy and pleased. “There you go. Look at you,” she cooed. “My desperate girl…”

You whimpered, dragging your hands up to tug the tank down, exposing her breasts, her nipples already stiff from your touch and the cool air of the room. Your mouth was on her before you could stop yourself, lips wrapping around her nipple with a low moan as your tongue flicked against her slowly, tasting her. You latched on, suckling slow, drawing her deeper between your lips like you couldn’t get enough.

Billie exhaled a soft laugh above you, carding her fingers into your hair and gripping gently, nails grazing your scalp. “Fuck… That’s it, sweet girl. Just like that. So good for me.”

Your hips twitched at the praise, grinding ever so slightly against her thigh as you sucked harder, tongue swirling and lips wet against her skin. Every tiny sound she made only pushed you further into a needy hazy state.

“You love them, huh?” Billie whispered, breath hot against the top of your head.

You whined against her, nodding slightly without letting her nipple leave your mouth. Your other hand blindly reached for her other breast, kneading it with fervor. She chuckled softly, the sound so full of affection and warmth it made your chest ache.

“Good girl,” she purred, tightening her grip in your hair just enough to make you whimper, your mouth vibrating against her nipple. “You look so pretty with your mouth full.”

She leaned back more fully into the couch, letting her legs sprawl lazily apart while you stayed tucked against her, your mouth working her slowly and deliberate. Her fingers never stopped petting through your hair, stroking your head, her other hand slipping under your shirt at your lower back to pull you in even closer.

Billie’s eyes were half lidded, her body content beneath yours, while you suckled lazily at her breast like you belonged there. You’d made it clear with your mouth, with your hands, and every desperate sound you gave her, that you didn’t want to stop.

“Just keep going, baby,” Billie whispered, her voice raspy from the smoke. “Take your time… I’ve got you.”

You moaned softly in response, tongue tracing a slow, wet circle around her nipple before you closed your lips around her again, settling in against her. Billie’s chest rose and fell gently beneath your cheek, her nipple wet and swollen from your attention, and her fingers never stopped running through your hair.

The movie played on, unnoticed, as Billie held you to her, letting you have exactly what you needed.

my masterlist

[sqgeism]

anaxa and phainon with a reader who has nightmares? :c (i havent slept in a week plz help me ╯︿╰)

hru doing btw? i hope ure good <3

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

love mail — hi anonnie!! thank u for the request, and yes i'm doing well ♡ ≡(＞。＜) i genuinely miss my colors sk bad... writing this in a bus since i wanna finish up some requests! hope you're alright anonnie :( hugs n kisses ! i hope u sleep good soon MUWAH

i don't think anaxa gets nightmares often, but he knows you do. actually, you got one on the very first night you two began sleeping together.. queue a somewhat panicked anaxa who is unsure how to help.

now that you two have lived together for a while, he's been trying to find different ways to help. big or small gestures, whatever stops your trembling form and shaky breaths.

one night, while you sleep in and anaxa stays up late in his lab — his usual silence is changed by a knock on the door, attention shifting from his research to something more important; the pretty little thing at his door. "it's bothering you again?" he doesn't even hesitate, turning his chair around as you throw yourself into his lap, curling against him to fit nicely as anaxa sighs. not of annoyance, far from, just.. worry. "i'm here if you need me. must it be words of comfort, or just a shoulder to lean on, i'm here."

hands that he's believed were unloveable slowly rub against your back, and in this moment anaxa can only think; they are safe here. it isn't exactly a statement, no, he's processing it. you find comfort in the shell of the person he once was, when he believed that no one could love him for who he was. yet you're here, seeking his warmth, his existence. to hide away from the nightmares that eat at you.

anaxa's research is forgotten, he doesn't mind. he'll be there for as long as you need him.

waking up panting and afraid sets something off in mydei, and he's just as fast to get up as you are. he turns on the bedside lamp and gently cups your face, guiding you to look at him and ground you back into the moment. you're not in a nightmare, you're home. you're with him, as you should be. unlike the terrors that rob you of peaceful slumber, you're with the embodiment of assurance.

slowly, carefully, he rubs your cheeks with his thumbs and shushes you softly. "you're here," he mumbles, kissing your temple in a way that lingers. "nothing can hurt you. not when i'm at your side, i'll sooner burn the bridges between life and death than let something hurt you.

if you fall back asleep quickly, he cuddles you as the big spoon and whispers comforting scenarios for you. hoping it'll trick your mind (the only form of manipulation he'll do) and give you sweet dreams instead. his firm, warm arms keeping you safe and quick to wake you if you start fussing again.

if not, and you seem to be too shaken to fall asleep, he'll help you do things you love to calm you down. tracing his markings, asking him questions or stories of his life, and his personal favorite.. letting him kiss all his favorite parts of you. honestly, just an excuse to lavish you in affection, but he's glad it helps. it soothes the silent battles of his mind, after all.

phainon's probably the most lighthearted of the three, when you jolt up from the initial nightmare, he's already holding your hand and letting you squeeze him as tight as you need it. sometimes, he lets out a fake wince so you snap out of it for a second out of concern, he takes that opportunity to compose himself and tease you about being a worrywart. he notices you frown, but begin to smile as he brings your hand to his lips — kissing your knuckles as he offers an ear to listen.

should you choose to talk about your terrors, phainon takes your words seriously and sincerely. he rests on your lap, or the other way around, and you play with each others hair depending on how it's positioned. (you like how soft his hair is, it kind of looks like cotton candy..) he listens to you and comforts you with little words of affection. "i'm so sorry, i'm here for you", "that's horrible. but you're here now, alright? i love you." and something along the lines of; "nothing will ever happen as long as i'm here, okay? i'll make sure of it."

if you don't, either too tired or just don't want to talk about it, phainon tries to make you laugh instead. embarrassing tales of his adventures, stupid jokes, even showing you saved videos on his phone. little things that he's noticed help you greatly.

and when you finally yawn, and he knows his job is done, he lets you lay on top of him and 'cages' you there. listening to the heart that beats for you as you drift off again, a reminder that you'll never be alone when you wake up, because you know you'll always have someone waiting for you.

[pb5luvr]

azzi’s savior

a/n: this might be controversial but yall need to chill on shyanne getting waived. people are acting like she’s never gonna be able to play basketball again damn.

3rd POV

it all started with a movie night, a normal occurrence for the uconn women’s basketball team. it was the end of the week and to wind down, the team piled into someone’s dorm, eyes glued to a the tv, passing around popcorn. this week, deciding to spice things up, kk had suggested they’d watch a scary movie.

“yeah! we haven’t watched any scary ones recently!” ice said excitedly.

“i’m down for whatever,” aubrey responded.

azzi, tucked into paige’s side already, frantically looked around the room to see if anyone had another idea. to her dismay, everyone was on board with this whole scary movie idea. paige, sensing her girlfriends discomfort, gently nudged azzi’s shoulder.

“hey,” she said softly making azzi look up at her, “we don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”

“i’ll be fine,” azzi shook her head, “it’s just a movie, i know none of it’s real.”

“alright, but if you ever wanna leave, let me know,” paige said, turning her head back to the tv as kk started the movie.

as the movie played, azzi had tried to convince herself that she was fine. even though after every jump scare she tucked her head further into paige’s neck, she was determined not to be a wuss and finish watching the movie. paige, more focused on azzi than the movie, would squeeze azzi just a little tighter everytime she jumped.

eventually, the movie finished and azzi was determined to get out of there as fast as possible. she practically dragged paige out of kk’s dorm as she beelined for her own room. she was already dressed in her pajamas for the night so all she needed to do was brush her teeth and take 17 melatonin gummies to hopefully get her to sleep.

when her and paige finally got comfortable in bed, azzi’s eyes stayed open, scared that if she closed her eyes for even a second, she would open them to some creepy girl standing over her. paige knew her girlfriend was scared. she also knew that azzi was petrified of the dark, so, she offered to sleep with a night light in an attempt to soothe azzi’s fears.

“i’m not five paige,” azzi protested when paige asked if she wanted to sleep with a light on.

“i know, but i want you to actually get some sleep tonight,” paige responded.

“it’s just an embarrassing fear,” azzi said, “i’ll be fine.”

or so she thought.

even with paige’s hand rubbing soothingly up and down her back, arms protectively around her, azzi couldn’t fall asleep for the life of her. suddenly, azzi sat up and reached for the bottle of melatonin gummies that sat on her night stand. clearly the two she had already taken weren’t doing the job.

“woah, slow down partner,” paige said, pushing azzi’s hand away from the container.

“i can’t fall asleep though,” azzi said, getting frustrated with her fear.

paige frowned as azzi went to lay her head back on paige’s chest.

“what can i do to help baby?” paige asked softly.

“i don’t know, tell me about your day or something, hearing your voice makes me feel better,” azzi said.

paige smiled softly before starting to rant about her day. to her—and azzi’s—relief, azzi had drifted off the sleep and knowing that her girlfriend was okay, paige finally fell asleep as well.

it was two am when azzi had woken up from her short slumber. thankfully, she hadn’t had any nightmares, but she really, really had to pee. and she was not about to go alone.

“paige,” she whispered, gently shaking her awake.

paige stirred a little before opening her eyes, just a bit, “what? what’s wrong?” she asked.

“i have to pee and i don’t wanna go alone,” azzi said softly, vulnerable.

paige stretched her arms out and rubbed her eyes before swinging her legs over to edge of the bed to stand. azzi smiled to herself, wondering how she got so lucky that her girlfriend would do anything for her. azzi happily stood up as well before paige reached her hand out and laced their fingers together. just as paige was about to open the door, azzi swore she heard something in the hall.

“wait,” she stopped paige, “did you hear that?”

paige listened for a second, “no? i think you’re just hearing things baby.”

azzi stayed still for a moment before deciding that maybe she was just hearing things and let paige open the door. azzi clutched to paige’s side as paige led them down the hall to the bathroom.

“i swear to god if you’re gone when i come out of this bathroom we’re breaking up,” azzi said firmly.

paige let out a soft laugh, “i would never leave you az.”

when azzi finished, paige laced their fingers together once more before leading azzi back down the hall to her room. out of the corner of her eye, azzi saw something standing and shot her head in that direction before letting out a scream and throwing herself into paige.

turns out, it was just ice.

still, azzi swore she felt her soul leave her body.

“what? what’s wrong?” paige asked confused and oblivious, still instinctively wrapping her arms around azzi.

“oh my god ice you scared the shit out of me!” azzi mumbled loudly, her head still tucked into paige’s neck.

“i scared you?” ice said, her hand on her chest, “you just screamed bloody murder!”

all azzi could do was let out a deep sigh before she lifted her head from paige’s chest.

“can’t a girl just get some water in her own dorm anymore?” ice mumbled as she brushed past paige and azzi.

“you good now?” paige asked, holding back a smile.

azzi shot her a death glare, “yes i’m fine,” she said as she dragged paige back to her room, “let’s go.”

when the two got back to azzi’s room, paige laid on the bed while azzi sat up with her arms crossed. even though paige knew how bad azzi’s fear of the dark was, she still found azzi’s reaction just a little funny.

“it’s not funny,” azzi said as she turned to face away from paige.

“c’mon you have to admit it was a little-” paige started before azzi cut her off.

“no it wasn’t paige,” azzi shot back, “now don’t tell me it was funny again or else i’ll start crying, seriously.”

“okay, okay,” paige said as she grabbed azzi’s wrist, “not funny, i’m sorry angel.”

“you better be,” azzi mumbled as she reluctantly laid her head back on paige’s chest. even though she was pissed off at her, there’s was no way in hell she would be able to fall asleep without paige by her side.

before azzi got comfy again, she reached out for the container of the melatonin. again.

“azzi,” paige started.

“please?” azzi pouted at her, “just one more. i’m definitely not going to be able to fall asleep naturally after that.”

paige was silent before she finally gave in, “fine, one more.”

azzi happily grabbed one out of the container and popped it in her mouth before laying her head back down on paige’s chest. even though she had paige, her real savior of tonight was that damn container of melatonin.

[baronessvonglitter]

Behind Closed Doors

husband's best friend!Joel Miller x f!reader | WC: 2.1K

Summary: Your husband comes home early and walks in on you with his best friend - Joel Miller.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit. Adultery. Cuckolding. Threat of murder/violence. Exhibitionism. Voyeurism. Breeding kink. If it's not your thing you don't have to read. Reader is married (see Adultery above) and able-bodied with female anatomy but no description otherwise. No y/n. If I've missed anything please let me know!

A/N: this is the follow up to hbf!Joel head canon which I promised but have been remiss in working on until today. It was practically finished already! 🙌🏼 I'm on a roll this week.. I'm just glad to be getting these ideas out and on paper your screen.

fun fact for today: I have never cheated on anyone. Does a kiss count as cheating? If so, then I change my answer and I did cheat once. Oops.

dividers by @strangergraphics 👑

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO HER??"

Your husband walks in to find you with his best friend Joel Miller. The guy he's been friends with since fourth grade, who played on the football team with him in junior high, who took the fall when he crashed his parents' car after a party one night, who was his wingman for years before he found you.

That same man is in his bedroom, fucking you, his lawful wife, while you're on all fours on the bed, taking his cock as if you've done so a dozen times before. He doesn't know that you actually have.

Joel falters slightly, his rhythm off a bit as he's taken by surprise by your husband's coming home early.

"Don't stop!" You squeeze your nails into Joel's thigh. He looks at your husband with an icy stare and gathers your hair in one hand to give it a little tug.

"I won't stop, darlin'.. he can watch me fuck ya." And you squeal as he snaps his hips against you, this time with a fury.

Your husband steps further into the room, his blood boiling as he yells at Joel with a voice that sounds like venom. "I SWEAR TO GOD, MILLER, GET OFF MY DAMN WIFE OR I'LL BLOW YOUR BRAINS OUT!"

You groan in frustration. "Honey, get out!!"

Your husband is shocked to hear you yell at him like this, especially in the situation you're in.

"GET OFF MY WIFE RIGHT GOD DAMN NOW OR I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"You're a bit too late for that," Joel says, his voice surprisingly even, before he starts to move in you again. His voice is like silk when he speaks next. "Darlin' did you want me to stop?"

"Please don't stop," you whine, pushing your hips back against his to keep him moving. Your actions and the pleading in your voice make him moan softly and his body reacts on its own. He looks back at your husband, making direct eye contact with him as he starts to move again.

"You hear that? She doesn't want me to stop."

You whimper as he moves again. The squishy sounds you make fill the room along with your sighs.

"YOU'RE A SICK SON OF A-" your husband yells, stepping forward as if to put a stop to it, but Joel gives him a warning glare.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he growls. "You come one step closer and you're gonna find out just how sick I can be."

His words make your stomach flutter. "Joel.. he's not gonna do anything."

But Joel doesn't take his eyes off the man as you speak, and he pulls your hair tighter. "You don't know what he wants to do.. he wants to kill me for what I'm doing with you right now."

"He won't kill you," you gasp at his hair pulling. "He won't kill you. He's in shock."

Your husband can't believe what he's hearing coming from you. He's shocked and angry. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" he yells suddenly, but Joel doesn't like that at all, and he snaps his head back at your husband. "Don't talk to her like that," he says firmly.

"Joel," you whine again. "Just ignore him. I need you.."

Joel looks at you again, seeing how frustrated and annoyed you are, and he can't ignore you. Especially when you say you need him. He looks at your husband again, his grip on your hair loosening. "She said she needs me," he says, almost challengingly.

With a huff you get up, straddling Joel. "So rude to keep me waiting," you murmur, riding him.

He looks up at you, his hands coming to automatically rest on your hips before he looks over at your husband, his eyes still carrying that possessive look. "You heard her," he says without taking his eyes off your husband, "You interrupted us."

"Get out!" you say, frustrated.

Your husband's veins almost pop out of his skin from how angry he is, but he doesn't leave, only looking between the two of you. "You two are SICK," he says in a disgusted tone.

"You're sick for staying and watching," you pant, leaning down to kiss Joel.

Your husband looks like he's about to explode, but then you lean down to kiss Joel and his eyes darken at the sight.

You swear you've never heard a deeper tone than when Joel growls, "Get out" in a firm and menacing voice. "Your wife and I are gonna finish what we started."

"Listen, honey," you try to reason as you slow down, grinding on Joel. "Joel's under our roof -- oh god! -- and while he's under our roof he's our guest -- ooh! right there -- and while he's our guest this is gonna happen."

Your husband looks absolutely bewildered by your reasoning, his face almost turning purple with restrained rage. "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" he yells at you, but Joel has heard enough. "Keep your voice down. You're interrupting," he says firmly, gripping your hips a bit tighter, trying to get you to keep going.

You focus back on Joel, riding him the way he likes. "You feel so damn good.."

He groans softly and looks at you, his hands gripping your hips tighter, trying to get you to keep the pace on him a bit faster. Your husband is sitll in the room but Joel almost forgets about him when you ride him like that. "God, baby, you feel so goddamn good," he says, breathless. "You like ridin' me like this?"

"Yes! Oh you're so deep!" You ride him faster.

The way you ride him is almost maddening, and Joel can't do anything but let you take control of him. He groans and grunts lowly, the feeling of you on him making him almost lose his mind., He looks up at you like he owns you but then he suddenly realizes that your husband is still in the room watching, He looks over at him again, his eyes dark and possessive. "She likes ridin' me, don't she?"

Your husband's face is even redder now and looks like he's about to scream at you, but Joel interrupts him before he gets a chance to open his mouth.

"Keep your mouth shut," he says, his voice firm and low. "I'm still not done with her."

Your cries grow louder. You scream his name until you come.

"Goddamn baby, you are so perfect," he pants, his hands digging into your hips a bit harder, as if he's holding onto you for dear life. Your husband looks beyond horrified, like he can't process what he's seeing and can barely keep it together when Joel looks over at him again. "Her man doesn't like it when I make her moan like that," he says with a smirk.

You're still squeezing him with your aftershocks, whimpering and sweating. Joel is so close behind you, almost completely lost in you and how you look and sound on top of him, trying to keep yourself up. He squeezes your hips as you ride out your aftershocks and he groans lowly as he feels you still squeezing around him. His eyes meet yours and he give you a possessive look, the need to claim you written all over his face.

He looks over at your husband, who's still watching you from the corner of the room, and speaks in a low, huskier tone. "You see her? I bet you've never seen her come like that. Have you ever even made her come?"

Your husband is speechless, looking like he wants to yell at the both of you, but he can't talk. Joel sees the look on his face and he smirks before looking back at you again. He suddenly grabs your hair as he thrusts up into you and makes you look at him, his voice low and deep, a challenge in his tone.

"Who do you belong to, baby?"

"You, Joel." you whimper. "I belong to you."

He growls lowly at your reply, the possessive need in him taking over him completely. He knows your husband is still watching but he doesn't care. He wants you to say those words, he wants you to look at him and tell him you're his.

He pulls your hair a bit harder and puts his other hand on your hip, pulling you down on him again. "That's right, baby, you're mine," he says in a low growl.

Another orgasm crashes through you as you're stuffed full of him. You coming again, squeezing him so perfectly, is almost enough to make him explode right then and there. He groans lowly again, his voice like gravel as he feels you squeezing down on him. He leans his head back, almost like he's fighting the orgasm, trying to prolong the moment and make it last.

"Fuck, baby, you're going to make me come," he groans and then looks at your husband, taunting him.

"Want you to come, Joel. Want you to fill my pussy," you whine.

Your words and how they come out in a needy, impatient whimper are like music to his ears. His head is clouded by the need to claim you and make you his. He looks at you again, his eyes almost feral, then he looks at your husband once more. "You hear that?" he says huskily. "She wants me to fill her up."

Your husband looks like he's about to combust, his veins visible in his neck from how angry he is. Joel just looks at him, his eyes dark and a smirk on his face, his breathing still heavy and his voice huskier than usual. "Does that make you upset?" he asks, his tone mocking.

Your husband is in shock and struggling to find words. but before he can speak Joel suddenly looks back at you, his eyes darkened even more. "You want me to fill you up, baby?" his hands digging harder into your hip. "You want me to come inside you?"

"Fill me up," you beg. "Put a baby in me," you say, knowing it can't happen anyway but you have to shock your husband.

The idea of knocking you up makes everything in Joel feel primal. He looks at you, his eyes almost feral, possessiveness radiating from him. "You want me to breed you, baby? You want me to fill you up and give you a baby?"

"Yes," you moan. "Want you to fill me full.. let my husband watch you get me pregnant."

When Joel glances at your husband he's almost surprised to find him with his cock out, pumping it, spitting on it to make it glide.

"Yeah, fuck your fist. That's all you're gonna get while I'm here," Joel grunts to your husband. Then he flips you over, his hips housed between your thighs as he slams into you, relishing the loud cries coming from your mouth.

"Ain't gonna fill ya until you come for me, baby," he says, nearly gasping for air. "Gotta earn my cum, baby. Gotta earn it so I can put a little Joel in your belly."

His thumb circles your clit, moving clockwise then counter-clockwise, gentle and insistent unlike the way he's moving inside you, hips pistoning as he works you into another frenzied orgasm, wrenching one from you as easily as he always has.

Tightening and pulsating, lightning runs through your veins as you let go with a loud curse, body arching up, taking in every blessed inch of him. "Good girl," Joel coos, slamming into you until he's at the edge, and then he turns to see your husband, still crying and pumping his useless cock with his fist. With a snarl, Joel maintains eye contact as he pumps you full of his cum, fucking you until the last drop is deposited deep inside you, and when he finally pulls out he uses his tip to softly push it back in when it starts to dribble.

"There, baby, so glad I finally got to cum inside you.." he places a kiss on the corner of your mouth, smiling as he sees your blissed-out expression. As an afterthought he glances at your husband, his fist full of come that spilled over as he watched you two.

"Not that I don't love usin' that pretty little mouth to swallow up all I've got," Joel adds fuel to the fire. "Or that tight little ass. I love fillin' up that tight lil' hole.."

With a smirk he rolls off you, gently caressing your belly, imagining it swollen, jiggling with baby kicks and your tits getting big with milk. "From now on I'm the only one who gets to come inside you, darlin'. Gotta make sure it sticks."

tagging those interested from the head canon: @itwasntimethatdidit40 @milla-frenchy @everybodylovedcontractors @probablyreadinsmut

@tateypots @eviispunk @thedilfdiaries @lanielooo21 @sunnytuliptime

@cxrsed-angel @joelalorian @myownwholewildworld @lilac-boo

@sawymredfox @aurorawritestoescape @604to647

@chewingbunny @sighofthetimez @coolranchdavidian

@tammythr @notgoingtomalta @amyispxnk @lokischocolatefountain

@megangovier @almostempty @tuquoquebrute @jinxispunk

@hotgirlbedtimescenarios @frannyzooey @la-vie-est-une-fleur29

@rabreu1414 @inept-the-magnificent @letsgobarbs @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu

and if I've forgotten any please forgive me 😅

[enhaeil]

BEAUTIFUL ! ☆ 엔하이픈

"the way that gucci look on you amazing ... but nothing can compare to when your naked"

beautiful - bazzi

sensual moments with enhypen !

c/w: suggestive esp more in hyung line ... nothing explicit tho actually fluffish!!

heeseung

you saw a couple on Instagram who bonded by cooking together while only wearing lingerie and boxers, and decided to try it with heeseung.

several aromas filled your kitchen as music blared on your bluetooth speaker.

you were standing by the counter, stirring something in a bowl while heeseung watched the meat cook on the stove. as it simmers, heeseung makes his way behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying to the beat of the music playing.

"mm, aren't you supposed to watch the food!" you say, giving his hand a light slap as it starts to roam lower.

"oh i'm watching the food, baby. i'm watching ..." he says, biting his lip as his eyes roam to your ass that's peeking out your lingerie dress. you'd be lying if you said you didn't want him to take you right here and now, but he could at least let you finish cooking first.

"go do your job, then maybe i'll think of giving you some." heeseung has never moved so quickly.

after several attempts to touch you and a few 'almosts', the food is completely cooked, and you and heeseung are chowing down, despite the sensual tension that could'nt even be cut with a knife.

as you guys finish the last bites, a silence falls over the table before you're the first one to speak.

"race you to the bedroom?"

jay

tonight, jay rented out a room at a luxury hotel. there was no special occasion. no valid reason. he just wanted time with his wife.

you guys just got back from the dining hall, both wine drunk and full of food. despite your drunken state, you didn't fail to notice how handsy jay was with you the whole night, and it continued in the confinement of your room.

as you stood in the mirror, you feel jay come up behind you, the heat of his body sending chills down your spine.

"you looked so beautiful tonight, love." he says, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. he lets his hands roam over your waist, pushing you closer against him as if he wishes you could morph into one ... and he does.

you tilt your head to the side, giving him full access to press kisses against your neck, his hips absentmindedly pushing into you from behind. once he presses a kiss on your weak spot, you can't help but let out a soft moan.

"jay ... i need you, like now."

he doesn't waste a breath, as he picks you up and lays you on the bed, licking and kissing the parts of your body that are already revealed to him.

tonight was gonna be a long night.

jake

what a mess of a first date.

the food was burned, your dress ripped in the most embarrassing way, and now ... your power decided to go out.

you and jake sit in the middle of the floor, huddle next to each other while the thunder roars outside. there's a bit of an awkward yet comfortable silence between you two as you sit with two phone flashlights and a candle.

"22% ... what's your phone on?" you ask jake, breaking the silence.

he sucks his teeth before responding, "15...".

although it's dark, you can still feel his eyes lingering on you before he turns away. he speaks up again.

"some first date, huh?" a moment of silence passes before you burst into laughter. jake shoots you an obviously unnoticeable glare as you laugh like he just told the funniest joke on earth.

"wh... whats funny?" he says nervously, not wanting to make a fool of himself anymore.

"jake ... this date has been horrible.." you say in between wheezes and laughs.

"ouch ... you wound me woman," he says, placing his hand on his chest in offense.

"no, no," you begin as you scoot closer to him, which jake doesn't miss. "it's not you, it's just ... i can't believe all this happened in one night. it's comedic almost."

jake nods and lets out a small chuckle. "i can see how that would make you laugh. at least we tried!"

your laughter finally dies down, and a silence falls again. "you know ... I really do like you, y/n. since sophomore year.."

you turn towards him, trying to make out his features in the dark. "yeah? even after all this?" you say tilting your head curiously, which he can barely see but can imagine.

"if anything, I'm even more in love with you."

another silence falls between you two, but your actions are loud. before you know it, your lips somehow find his in the dark, and all that's heard is the smacking of lips and the patter of rain.

maybe this date wasn't so bad after all.

sunghoon

"hoonie..." he hears the voice of his sweet wife call out for him from their shared closet.

he's there within seconds, ready to fufill her every need.

"yes, baby?" you turn around to look at him, and he swears he stopped breathing for a second. how can someone get more beautiful every time he sees them?

"can you help me? i can't zip my dress on my own." you say, delicate hands still trying to reach for the zipper behind you.

before you could struggle anymore, sunghoon is behind you, calloused fingers pressing against the small of your back as his other hand reaches for the zipper.

he's careful as he zips up your dress, not missing the opportunity to let his fingertips brush against your spine, a reminder of the times he's had you in this exact position.

he finally zips it to the top, fixing your hair back to how you styled it before pressing a kiss on your temple.

"you look so beautiful."

"but I can't wait to see this dress on the floor later."

sunoo

the stress of the world had been getting to the both of you, so when sunoo recommended a self care day, you couldn't turn it down.

sunoo stood behind you in the shower, fingers making soothing patterns in your hair as he massages the shampoo into your scalp. you can't help but lean into him, body relaxing.

once done, he turns and lets you do the same. your shower is filled with kind words, back scratches, and passionate kisses that said everything the both of you were too tired to say verbally.

you both hop out, helping eachother dry off and lotion up, before throwing on your robes and heading to your mirror to do face masks.

you dont miss the opportunity to take some cute pictures to savor this memory among the many you've already created. once the face masks are off, sunoo offers to give you a massage to release the tension you've built up throughout the week.

you quickly nod, letting him work his hands into your calves before making his way up to your thighs. you don't miss the way his fingers accidentally or intentionally graze against your bare body, but pay no mind to it.

you guys later doze off in eachothers arms, bodies still bare in the night.

jungwon

you and jungwon make it to the roof of the building just as the city grew quiet. jungwon layed out the blanket and snacks he brought before getting comfy and patting the spat between his legs.

you get comfy in his embrace, letting the heat of his body warm you.

you guys watch as the lit city becomes even brighter now that night has fallen, until your eyes wander up to the sky, trying to make constellations out of nothing.

"that's definitely a strawberry..." jungwon says matter of factly.

you shake your head, munching on a cookie he baked just for this occasion. "nuh uh! it's clearly a puppy!" you argue back.

he tickles your sides as a rebuttal, causing you to giggle and kick your legs.

after a few moments of silence, you notice an oddly shaped pattern in the stars.

"hey, what about that one? it looks weird .." when you get no response, you call out for him, looking back.

"won?"

as you turn around, you immediately lock eyes with your lover, him staring at you as if it were you that was the night sky.

"wonnie, you're staring at me more than the stars!" jungwon just smiles before leaning in to press a passionate yet needy kiss against your lips.

you place your hand on his face to ground yourself before you guys both pull apart to catch your breath.

eventually, layers of clothes are removed, a silent thank you that the world is asleep.

niki

when you told niki you wanted to have an artsy date, he didn't expect this.

he's sitting there on a stool, wearing his usual black tanktop and sweats, hair falling so perfectly. to niki, this was just his 'around the house' look. to you, he was art and deserved to be painted.

"hold still, nik, i'm just finishing up some lines." you say, looking between him and the canvas.

you peek from behind the paper, observing him to make you get every detail. niki notices this, causing him to be extra antsy, as if he were trying to hide the fact that you make him nervous.

"riki, don't make me come over there and tie you down." you say, warning him.

"jokes on you, i might like that!" he says as he wiggles his eyebrows, earning an eye roll from you.

you continue working for another 10 minutes before finally setting your paint brush down.

your paint covered hands fold together as you admire your work, and niki rushes over to you to see it, his eyes lighting up.

"you even painted my beauty marks. i thought you'd forget those.." he says, eyes darting as if they couldn't decide whether to look at you or the canvas.

"I've worked on memorizing the pattern of those marks every night to go to sleep. i could never forget."

niki swears he just fell more in love with you.

he takes your hands in his, not minding the paint, as he brings them up to his lips. he then takes his finger, dipping it in some of the remaining paint.

a/n: hi

"i think it's my turn to paint you."

[sunandflame]

Donquixote Doflamingo NSFW Headcanons

Warnings: nsfw

Word Count: 579

Pairing: Donquixote Doflamingo x Reader

crossposted on AO3

Dominant, Always

Doflamingo is extremely dominant, and there is no such thing as a truly equal power exchange with him—he sets the rules, he breaks them, and you follow.

He’ll pin you with just a look, smirk curling when he watches you squirm.

He doesn’t ask—he expects. His touch is commanding, and he uses your reactions to gauge how deeply you’re under his control.

If you dare try to take control? He’ll flip the dynamic violently fast, overpower you and make you beg just to remind you who’s in charge.

“You thought you were leading? Cute. Try again.”

String Play

His Ito Ito no Mi gives him a terrifying advantage in bed.

He’ll tie you up with invisible strings and suspend you mid-air, legs spread, arms limp, totally exposed.

Can control your limbs like a puppet, forcing you to touch yourself—or him—while he watches.

Uses strings to tease, stroke, restrain, choke (if you consent), and control the pace of your climax with surgical precision.

“You're not allowed to finish until I say so. Understood?”

Sadist With Style

Doflamingo loves control through suffering—but he's refined about it.

He’ll drag things out just to watch you break: edging, overstimulation, denial.

Likes biting, marking, and slapping, especially when you moan like you hate it but keep begging for more.

Might laugh softly while watching tears stream down your face—not from cruelty, but from the delicious confirmation that he owns your body.

Praise and Degradation (Both)

His praise is intoxicating because it’s rare. You’ll earn it through obedience or by truly impressing him. “You took me so well. I should keep you like this—ruined, dripping, begging for more.”

He loves to degrade with elegance: “A royal pet on her knees... You were born for this, weren’t you?”

Kinks & Preferences

Bondage & Restraint – both with strings and golden cuffs he’ll have custom-made for you.

Power exchange – you're his possession, his plaything, his doll. But if you disobey smartly? It excites him.

Exhibitionism – he enjoys making you scream where others might hear. Bonus if his subordinates see the afterglow and know what happened.

Breeding & Ownership – he might say he doesn’t care, but the thought of you being filled by him satisfies a deep, twisted instinct.

Control Over Climax

Doflamingo controls everything, especially your pleasure. He plays you like a violin.

If you come without permission? He’ll make you do it again and again until you're overstimulated and shaking.

If he’s pleased? He’ll command you to finish with a soft “Now.” And you will.

Aftercare?

Only rarely—and only if you matter to him.

He’s not the type to coo or cuddle, but he’ll light a cigar, sit you in his lap, and press his face to your throat while you come down from the high.

If he’s feeling possessive, he’ll clean you himself—lazily wiping you with a cloth, tsking at how messy you got from him.

No sweet words, just: “Rest now. I’m not finished with you.”

Jealous & Possessive in Bed

Doflamingo doesn't share.

If someone even looks at you wrong, he’ll fuck you so hard they hear you scream through the stone walls.

He marks you—visibly—neck, thighs, inner wrists. You’re a walking display of who you belong to.

Final Thoughts

Sex with Doflamingo is a psychological game as much as physical. It’s intense, theatrical, dominating—and somewhere beneath all the cruelty, there’s a need. A twisted desire to own someone completely, because deep down, he knows what it feels like to lose everything.

[abyssal-ilk]

can i introduce all of you to my new cringe fail durge

[gay-dorito-dust]

I don't know if anyone has already asked this, but if someone has I apologize for not knowing! Dante and Virgil reacting to their partner getting hurt during a battle. (If you can, could you do the white rabbit too? I love him so much ^^)

Dante

His wise cracking quips and unserious act were quick to be dropped the moment you were hurt during battle. Suddenly nothing was funny anymore, nothing was worth holding back anymore and he had no reason to hold back when they brought you harm.

So Dante was quick to repay the favour by allowing himself to give in to the devil within him for a moment and allow himself to unleash pure carnage unto the demons that hurt you, inable to find the need to stop, not until they were all dead and smoking corpses at his feet.

His need to make others feel even a smidge of pain that he felt throughout his body was all that mattered to Dante, lost within the anger and violence that only seemed to continue to rage within him with not stop in sight, the pain of potentially carrying him through the battle until he managed to finish off the last of the demons coming his way. Funnily enough he wasn't even tired when he finished the massacre, and since there was nothing left to kill, his mind was forced to remeber that you were very much bleeding out a good few feet away.

That's when his anger becomes worry as his feet carried him to your body, pushing him to get to you as his legs burned with ache and exhaustion. The worst case scenario began to play within his head the closer he got to you, the fear spreading through his veins like ice until he was reasured that you were still with him by the sound of your heart against his ear as he holds your body close to his chest.

You were okay but that didn't mean he was going to be leaving your side any time soon, he was glued to your side until he could see for himself that you were going to be okay without him swaddeling you, his demon side wanting nothing more then to bundle you in blankets and protect you fiercely from unseen foes. He's just acting out because he was scared, frightened that he was going to be left alone once more.

Vergil

He's left feeling like all the power he's acumilated wasn't enough, that it will never be enough to keep you safe, knowing that no mater how powerful he becomes he's not excused from the possibility that you become the target to get to him.

He hates just how quickly he is to be made to feel like that little kid again, especially when you were lying in hurt before him. Vergil couldn't help but hate how the all too human feelings clog in his throat and his chest and causing an uncomfortable weight to settle on him that ended up becoming unfathomable anger.

Vergil had never moved faster then he did in his entire life, probably becuase he didn't have anyone like you to make him feel as though he was on a time limit, like if he were to waste a single second in getting to you then he's risk loosing you even more. So he doesn't hesitate with his slashes and consistant judgement cuts as though he was trying to show that the countless demons that he cuts down, those whom he casts away without having to try, could never understand just the amount of hell Vergil would go through for you.

He wouldn't let anything get in his way, not when you were within reach, not when he could prevent the feeling of loosing everything for a second time in his lifetime. Vergil was desperate and a desperate Vergil was a dangerous Vergil who would fight tooth and nail like he's done before in order to make sure you never suffer, not under his protection.

White Rabbit

Doesn't take kindly to you being hurt.

He's lost alot already, hanging on by whatver grudge and resentment he had towards humans with an iron clad grasp, yet the moment he foudn you he thought that life might've desided to grant him a break and gift him someone that wasn't going to going to slip from his grasp anytime soon.

Humans never stop to think how their actions affect others, they're a selfish bunch who live in such an indivdualistic mindset and an attitude that is self serving, yet selfish when it comes to the viewpoints of others that they harm with their pathetic need to have everything. greed is apart of human nature and they are the last to admit that they attribute to such greed by taking anything and everything from others until they get bored, like overgrown children who had yet to finish growing and develop their own morales.

So when you got hurt simply by helping some makians, having been mistaken for a demon yourself, only made Rabbit infuriated at human stupidity, they tend to pull the trigger before they know who they're shooting at, such a trigger happy bunch they were and Rabbit didn't take so kindly to such things as he enacts his own bloodbath. It's not something he takes to immeditely, not unless he's been pushed to do so and with you lying on the ground hurt, he makes an exception as he maths a path for himself to you while relieveing some stress.

Rabbit doesn't want to loose you like he lost everything else in his life, he wouldn't dare let fate take away another good thing, for what else would there be left of him if he lost you. He had been given a poor hand in life and most of his misfortune was given to him by humans, he had felt that he had nothing left of his heart until you, and now he was faced with the threat of having the last shred of his heart taken from him.

Naturally Rabbit was going to do whatever he could in his power to prevent the horror story that was his life to come into full effect, to prevent an seeimgly set in stone fate for those who got near to him in any capasity, his curse was that his cause would go nowhere and he'd be left with the piles of bodies of those he onced called family. He fights for your life that hangs in the balance, for it was something he would fight for is to see you smile and open your eyes for the rest of your shared lives together; so rabbit fights and he fights hard in order to protect you from becoming apart of the long list of people he's lost within his tragic life, fighting against fate to hold you one more day.

[xechu]

[Honor & Vengeance] S. Geto - 夏油 傑

Pairing: general!suguru x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.1k

Series Warnings: please read my blog rules before interacting. 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, depiction of gore and violence, mature themes

Chapter Warnings: mature themes

Tags: historical au, non-curse au, marriage of convenience, slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut, angst, hurt/comfort...will take a while to get there though

Summary: Under the King's decree, House Geto is expected to make their public appearance at the Eastern Campsite. You begin to prove your strength, while Suguru struggles with the realization that, perhaps, he had underestimated you.

a/n: I've decided to open up a tag list for this series, so if you're interested please leave a comment below. :) Chapter 4 might take a little longer to release, I will post an update notice as usual when it's getting close to finished. I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for reading! x

Master List: << chapter 2 | chapter 4 (to be continued) >>

[Chapter 3]: Within the Shadows

Tonight, Suguru sat in his study room and drank alone, the oil lamp which cast a warm glow throughout the room, flickered as a light summer breeze drifted in through the window. It was not a habit of his to drink; in fact, he quite disliked it. He only drank when necessary such as making appearances, dining with the King, or lifting soldiers’ morale. But he could understand the appeal now—why people drank their feelings away. 

This was not what he had anticipated. You were a mere judge’s daughter supposed to be unassuming, obedient, quiet. And yet, something about you unsettled him: you were unreadable. 

On the surface, you remained aloof. Never once did you falter at his harsh words and treatment, almost as if you had anticipated every single word in advance and braced yourself for it. You were articulate, unyielding, and reminded him of a calm before the storm. 

Yet, there were moments where he thought you might have slipped.

The first time was during the wedding ceremony. There was a nervousness in your eyes—a pleading look that he had seen countless times. It was the same look his enemies wore right before he ended their lives, a pathetic cry for mercy and understanding. The second time was earlier today, when you entered his study room. There was a flicker of childlike innocence in the way you admired his books and maps, yet, he was certain that you were far from innocent. Then, it was when you thanked him for the guest house. If you were as intelligent as you led on, then surely, you must have understood its purpose. Why give thanks for your cage, if not to only wage psychological warfare? 

He loathed it. He loathed how fate was playing a cruel joke on him—mocking him. Even with standards set so low, he had still managed to choose wrong. He didn’t ask for much, just a body to play the part, a name to wear, and a silence to keep. Many would have vied for your position and gladly assumed the role. But it was apparent that he had underestimated you. You wanted more. Perhaps to seduce him into fathering a child with you, so that you can cement your place as the true Lady Geto. 

But you will never be real. 

You are not worthy. A fraud. Someone who was trying to bite off more than they can chew. 

He had allowed a fox, cloaked in composure and cunning, into his home. And it was a mistake he would soon rectify. He would send you back to where you came from once he had accomplished what he needed to do. 

And now, as he looked at the scroll on his desk, it seemed that the two of you would very soon have to take the stage again. The thought of having to pretend with someone like you filled him with a sense of dread he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Until then, he must endure.

Until then, this is what he must convince himself is the truth.

Because it was easier to believe you were calculating. To brace himself against a foe. Than to wonder what you truly wanted, or if you wanted anything at all.

A knock at the door broke his dark thoughts. Perhaps the alcohol was fogging his mind, but at that moment, he had fully imagined you to come through that door—brazen and insolent.

Instead, it was Haibara.

“Geto-sama,” Haibara took note of the bottle of wine that sat on Suguru’s desk. A small sigh escaped him. 

Without a word, he crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair across from Suguru, studying his old friend with a gentle, though unmistakably judgmental, gaze. He had come to report how the tour went but now, sensing the melancholy in the air, he decided to hold back on the report.

“Would you like to keep me company?” Suguru asked, taking out another small cup and placing it in front of him.

"Feeling lonely?" Haibara teased lightly, but he knew why his old friend felt compelled to drink. He watched the alcohol smoothly pour into his cup.

Suguru only let out a low hum, rough and reluctant. Enough for Haibara to understand that his friend was not in the mood to talk, but also did not want to be alone with his thoughts.

A comfortable silence passed between the two young men, as they drank without word. 

The bottle slowly emptied between them, sip by sip, pour by pour. 

Though the alcohol dulled their tongues, the thoughts in their minds still rang clear.

…

“The King expects House Geto’s first appearance soon,” Suguru suddenly broke the silence, leaning back in his seat. 

His eyes stared at the flickering oil lamp, as if it were some mystical artifact holding all the universe’s answers—answers that he wished he, too, could grasp.

“Where?” Haibara asked, surprise evident in his tone.

“At the Eastern Campsite.” 

“That’s…an odd request. I don’t see why that requires the presence of Lady Geto.”

Suguru slowly nodded once, “I had the same thought. Sato is scheming something, but the risk should be low.” 

“And a campsite isn’t suited for a lady either,” Haibara muttered.

“That matters not,” Suguru downed another cup of wine, the smooth burn now felt comforting.

"That woman is a lot more cunning and intelligent than she lets on," Suguru said, but it was more to convince himself than Haibara. “If there were to be any danger, I’m sure she could claw her way out.”

Haibara studied him for a long moment, swirling the wine in his cup. “If I may give you some advice as a friend and not your advisor…”

Suguru let out a reluctant sigh. “Go on.”

“Lady Geto is intelligent, yes, but my observation of her is not one of a cunning woman. She is no threat.”

“And what are you trying to say?”

“What I’m trying to say—is that you can still keep your distance without being heartless, Suguru.”

Haibara’s voice was calm. Steady.

“You know better than I that making enemies—both within and beyond the walls of your home—will drive you to your grave before your ambition even has the chance to be realized.”

Suguru bitterly scoffed but did not refute his words. In the end, he couldn’t reject the truth.

He had known since the night he had sent his offer to your father. But Suguru had long accepted that his path was his alone to walk on, there was no one he could rely on—not even Haibara, at least not entirely. The best way for you to be his ally was to stay out of his way.

Sensing his inner turmoil, Haibara let out a low chuckle and refilled his friend’s cup—a small gesture to show he would not press the matter further.

The two men continued to drink through the night, keeping each other company in silence.

—

Lady Geto,

It is an honor to have received your letter.

You have not once left my thoughts since the moment you left home to be with Lord Geto.

I visited your father last week, and rest assured, he is doing well.

No matter where you are, I will always answer your call.

By the time this letter reaches you, I will already be on my way.

There is so much I want to say to you.

I will see you in two days’ time.

Yumi

Excitement and anticipation bubbled within you as you clutched Yumi’s letter—now worn and crumpled from restless hands. Though there was no grand welcoming, the gentle summer breeze and the clear skies seemed to cast the perfect backdrop. You had eagerly prepared for her arrival ever since the note had reached you. To see a familiar face, to reclaim a small piece of home, was enough to spark hope. 

Haibara had offered to welcome Yumi with you, but you politely declined. After all, this was your chance to test the waters. In order to confirm if your name truly held weight within these walls, you would judge it in how Yumi was received under your introduction.

The distant creak of wooden wheels and the slow, steady clop of oxen hooves grew louder until the lacquered cart finally pulled to a stop before you. Yumi hopped out, barely able to contain her excitement.

“My Lady! Oh, how I’ve missed you.” She flung her arms around you, nearly knocking you both off balance.

“Yumi,” your voice cracked. 

This reunion had made you more emotional than you thought. The heartiness of her embrace made you realize just how deeply you’ve yearned for familiarity.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that things could be simple again.

Yumi had been a trusted friend of yours since childhood, practically like sisters. When you were younger, she would often spend time at your family home. The two of you would wander the halls and surrounding garden, imagining the life of endless adventures and discoveries. 

As you held her, your mind drifted to the very force that had shaped both of your fates: the Merchant Guild.

Nobody knew exactly how or when the Merchant Guild was established—only that, for generations, they functioned as an enigmatic, faceless network that operated among the shadows. Though their dealings were discreet, their presence was no secret. Even the King himself was aware of their existence. Yet, he chose not to interfere. After all, the Guild served an important purpose: they kept the lower classes occupied, fed, and in relative harmony through trade and employment. It was less governance for him to worry about.

A quiet commensalism. 

He let them be, so long as they stayed in their lane.

In recent years, however, that quiet respect had begun to sour. There were whispers that King Sato had become increasingly wary of the authority that the Guild bore, and the social influence they had over the lower class. Thus, he had ordered in secrecy the spread of propaganda in hopes to sway the public opinion of the guild, a call for unified action to purge the guild and its leader. Mercenaries eagerly chased the bounty, but they all described it as grasping at shadows. Nobody knew where to look. It was as if the Merchant Guild itself was nothing more than a conspiracy theory—spawned from the paranoia of a delusional king.

But you knew better than anyone that the Guild was very much real, because Yumi had found her calling with them, a secret you had learned very early. 

And you had sworn to protect her identity—her life.

—

After the unceremonious welcome, you walked alongside Yumi back to the guest house. At first, she had assumed it was her own living quarters, but the harsh reality of your situation quickly became clear.

“My Lady, this is…” Disbelief laced her voice.

“This is fine, Yumi,” you said as you opened the door to the bedroom. “This living arrangement isn’t as terrible as it seems.”

“I thought Lord Geto was a gracious husband. Your father thinks you’re in good hands—!”

“My father will not know of this,” you firmly interjected. “Geto-sama just needs time to warm up.”

But you knew those words were unconvincing, if you couldn’t even convince yourself of it.

“This isn’t right,” Yumi’s voice shook as she called you by your name. It had been a while since you’d heard it.

“The guest house may not be as grand as the main estate, but look closely—everything here was arranged with care.” You tried to comfort her, understanding her concern.

“Geto-sama does not deserve your kind words and understanding! He doesn’t know whose dignity he is stepping on!” she cried.

You couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. Her anger on your behalf told you more than enough that you had found a genuine friend.

“Don’t worry,” you reassured. “I have my ways of dealing with Geto-sama. For now… I hope you won’t mind reliving our childhood days—and sharing a bed with me.”

Truth be told, the road ahead was long, and the uncertainties many. It would be a lie to say you had it all figured out. Nevertheless, only two options lay before you: either submit to your husband’s hand, or ascertain your own future.

Yumi may have voiced it aloud, but you had long understood the reality of your situation. Life as Lady Geto would not be fair, it would not be easy, and no one was going to rescue you.

But you refused to be silenced. You refused to remain hidden in the shadows. You refused to become a thankless ornament, shown off only when needed and tucked away when you weren’t.

If you were to survive, it would be by your own hand and not by anyone else’s mercy.

—

Thanks to Haibara’s detailed tour a few days ago, you were able to guide Yumi around the estate grounds without issue. It appeared that among the staff of House Geto, your authority had indeed been restored; they all greeted you with utmost respect and acknowledged Yumi as your lady-in-waiting.

“Please, Miss Yumi, if there is anything you require from us, let us know,” one of the servants said.

You smiled at the exchange, content that your plan had worked so quickly.

As the two of you continued down the path leading to the training grounds, your steps slowed at the sharp ring of steel clashing. You knew, once you rounded the corner, you would see your husband.

The man who had made it clear to you that your existence here should be one of a ghost.

You steeled yourself and walked forward.

From a distance, you watched Haibara and Suguru spar. Suguru’s skills were undeniable—his strength, his form, were precise and unrelenting. Every strike of his blade was efficient, calculated, deadly: aimed to kill.

There was no hesitation, no mercy. You doubted there would be, even if the opponent were you. In fact, if it were you, you were certain he’d strike you down with his full might.

“My Lady!” Haibara called out, abruptly halting the spar, and jogging toward you.

You acknowledged him with a slight nod, forcing your eyes to stay trained on his face—even as you took in his disheveled hair, the sheen of sweat on his bare chest, and the casual strength in every step.

Suguru was similarly attired. But you continued to hold yourself together, pretending not to notice such things.

“Geto-sama’s swordsmanship is impeccable, is it not?” Haibara grinned, his breathing only slightly uneven from the spar.

“It is,” you replied calmly, glancing over at him.

Suguru returned you an icy stare.

“This is Yumi, my lady-in-waiting,” you gestured, smiling slightly. “Thanks to you, I’ve been able to give her an adequate tour.”

“Miss Yumi,” he greeted smoothly, “If there is ever anything you require, you can always find me.”

“Thank you, Master Haibara,” Yumi dipped her head politely.

“I can’t help but notice you are rather interested in the training field, Lady Geto,” Haibara mused, his tone light. “Perhaps you’re interested in sports?”

“I—”

“My Lady is quite proficient with the sword,” Yumi cut in, a challenging glint in her eyes.

“What a surprise!” Haibara’s voice carried genuine astonishment. “I should have known, from the way you were so captivated.”

“It is only a small hobby,” you tried to deflect.

“Then surely we must spar!”

You hesitated. Not because you doubted your ability, but because you could feel an intense warning radiating from Suguru, wordless but unmistakable: do not cross this line. And you understood. This was a line you didn’t need to—and shouldn’t—cross.

You shook your head gently. “Please, don’t let me take up your time. Perhaps we could share a friendly spar another day.”

“I shall hold you to it then, my Lady!” 

You excused yourself, and almost made it out of sight when his voice cut through the air.

“Lady Geto,” Suguru said.

“Yes, Geto-sama?” you replied, turning to him despite the pounding in your chest. His presence, his gaze, his voice—they didn’t just unnerve you. They chilled you to the bone.

“We depart for the Eastern Campsite at tomorrow’s sunrise. The King has summoned House Geto.”

You nodded once. “I shall see you tomorrow morning, then.”

As you turned to leave, the clashing of blades resumed behind you. 

But something felt…wrong.

You did not doubt the King’s summons was real, but why request the general’s entire household? The Eastern Campsite was no place for ceremony.

Everything still felt like a shot in the dark, and there was only so much you could prepare for.

But for now, you would play the role.

Observe. Endure. Prepare.

—

The very next morning, you waited with Yumi a few paces behind the main gate. Just beyond the heavy doors awaited a small entourage of highly trained soldiers. You had made sure to arrive before your husband and Haibara. After all, General Geto and his wife should be seen stepping out together.

The very moment the gates opened and you took that first step, every glance, every breath, every movement would need to sell the illusion.

This time, you figured it would be best to let your husband take the lead. And you would follow.

“Lady Geto, Yumi,” Haibara called out.

You turned around to meet Haibara, Suguru walked beside him, his gaze sliding coldly past you without meeting your eyes. It was clear that he was keen on holding out his disdain towards you till the very last second.

“Geto-sama, Haibara,” you slightly bowed. 

Suguru acknowledged the both of you with a slight nod. Without a word, he continued toward the gate. You matched his pace, forcing yourself to steady the anxious knot tightening inside your chest.

It was your first time seeing him in his official uniform—the neat lines of the dark fabric, and the sword fastened on the side of his hip. Even the hilt alone was enough to tell that this was a sword crafted by a master swordsmith. Upon the pommel bore the crest of House Geto: a peony, symbolizing honor, prosperity, good fortune, and love. 

General Geto looked regal, perhaps even more so than the King himself. It wasn’t in his garments or accessories, but it was his presence. And the way it effortlessly commanded attention without ever needing to ask for it.

It was hard to believe that this man was your husband. Though even calling him that felt wrong.

As the heavy doors swung open, the four of you were greeted with enthusiastic salutes. 

“General Geto, Lady Geto,” the soldiers greeted in synchronized discipline. 

Suguru smiled to them, “It is good to see you again.”

This was the first time he had smiled since the wedding.

“Yes, it is also an honor to finally meet Lady Geto,” the soldiers all bowed at once.  

Your eyes widened at the unexpected greeting. “It is a pleasure to meet you all. Thank you for coming to escort us.” 

“It is our duty, Lady Geto! It is our honor to serve you and General Geto.”

“Ah, but our deepest apologies,” one of the soldiers interrupted. “We did not expect that there will be four representatives from House Geto…we have only prepared three horses.”

A heavy silence pressed down on the group.

“That would be my mistake,” Haibara cleared his throat. “I have forgotten to account for Miss Yumi here, who is Lady Geto’s lady-in-waiting.” 

“That matters not. Time is of the essence. I will ride with my wife,” Suguru said without hesitation, as he rested a hand on your back.

You looked up at him, there was not a hint of anger or irritation in his features.

The way he slipped between masks and dropped them without effort was, quite frankly, terrifying.

As you approached the black horse, you could sense Suguru just a breath behind you—calm, composed, and unnervingly quiet.

“Do you need help?” his voice murmured low at your ear.

“No,” you answered softly. Without hesitation, you gathered your skirts and mounted in one smooth motion, settling into the saddle.

A moment later, you felt him swing up behind you, the subtle shift of the horse’s weight pressing his presence flush against your back. You could feel his warm breath ghosting the nape of your neck.

His closeness gave you chills. You shifted closer to the front of the horse, feeling the rising discomfort, until his arm firmly wrapped around your waist.

You froze. Heat rising to your ears. 

“If you keep moving, we’re going to fall,” he muttered.

The journey to the Eastern Campsite was a long ride, even on horseback. And the travel was uncomfortable to say the least. Suguru would make conversation effortlessly with his soldiers, it was the first time you saw him among his comrades, and if you had to be honest, he seemed like a kind and respectable general. You would have been fooled if you hadn’t already seen his true colors behind closed doors. 

His arms remained steady around you the entire ride, while he held onto the reins, never once letting go. As if he was ensuring your safety, or prepared to catch you if you fall. But each time you see this side of him—kind, understanding, and present, a small pang tugged in your chest.

Because you knew it was a lie. 

It felt like a mockery. His way of taunting you, showing you he was capable of such warmth, but that you were simply not deserving of it.

His kindness was a weapon, and the kinder he appeared, the deeper he cut.

—

As the sun began to set, the entourage decided to set up camp at an open field for the night. 

Normally, the soldiers would handle the work while the general oversaw from a distance. But tonight, with the group’s small number, it felt wrong to simply stand and watch. 

Nearby, Suguru had given a few low-voiced instructions before slipping away toward the river, a fishing line casually slung over his shoulder. As you watched him disappear into the distance, you let out a small exhale. The distance, you thought, was much needed—for you and him. 

The soldiers moved with efficient ease, unpacking the supply wagon, hammering stakes into the ground, setting up canvas tents. Without wasting more time, you decided to make yourself useful and gravitated to where the food was being laid out—bundles of dried rice, jars of pickled vegetables, and thin strips of dried meat from the wagon.

Taking the rice, you rolled up your sleeves and began rinsing rice at the edge of the camp, your fingers working deftly, the cool water biting at your skin. A couple of soldiers glanced your way, the look of surprise on their face was evident.

“I didn’t expect Lady Geto to be so adept,” one of them whispered. 

“Perhaps that’s why the General chose her. He’s a soldier, after all—men like us respect competence,” another said in agreeance. 

Though you appreciated their kind words and admiration, you tried your best to shut them out. Under normal circumstances, this would have been flattering—perhaps even welcomed. But you knew the circumstances were far from normal. On the bright side, you suppose that your actions thus far have been convincing. 

Suguru returned with a net of fish just as you were stirring the pot of porridge now resting over the fire. One of the soldiers immediately sprang forward to take the net and began preparing the fish.

Meanwhile, Suguru approached the campfire, settling across from you. His gaze was steady—observing you with a quiet intensity, making it hard to focus. His eyes flicked down, noting the way your sleeves were still rolled up, the faint splashes of water darkening the fabric at your wrists.

For a moment, his mind wandered; wondering what your life might have been before marrying him. It wasn’t common for noblewomen to be adept with chores or kitchen tasks. Did your family home lack housekeepers and servants?

“My Lady!” Yumi exclaimed, hurrying over to the fire. “Allow me to take care of the rest.”

She gently plucked the ladle from your hand, gesturing you to take a seat. “Please, sit with Geto-sama. The preparations are nearly finished.”

Your back stiffened as you rose quietly and made your way over, settling beside Suguru.

His composure remained perfect, even as your arm brushed against his, but his eyes remained fixated ahead. You let out a small breath, the crisp crackle of the fire, and Yumi’s busy presence, offered a fragile sense of normalcy. 

…

Dinner was simple: bowls of porridge passed around, grilled fish laid out, and the pickled vegetables were shared among the group.

You sat beside Suguru near the fire, as was expected—the general and his wife, presented side by side. You could feel the quiet weight of his presence beside you: his steady posture, the subtle shifts of his movements, and the invisible wall of cold distance he kept drawn between you both. A wall that was only apparent to you, and no one else.

You gently placed a piece of fish into Yumi’s bowl, knowing full well that she would never serve herself first. 

Suguru’s gaze flicked towards you—then stilled.

The small gesture pulled up a memory that was buried deep inside him. A memory that he’d rather not remember. He saw his mother’s hands, quietly setting aside the best bite for his younger sister. Followed by the sounds of laughter echoing faintly in the background. 

Suguru inhaled slowly, grounding himself back to the present. His jaw tightened ever so slightly. He said nothing and simply watched. Something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes.

As dinner continued, it was shared with laughter and easy camaraderie among the soldiers. Mostly, you and Yumi remained quiet—observing, while occasionally letting out a small laugh at a joke someone would crack. Until Haibara, in his usual fashion, pulled you into conversation. His usual playfulness glinting in his eyes, the kind that already made you dread what was coming.

“According to Miss Yumi, Lady Geto is quite skilled with the sword!” He exclaimed. 

“It is but a small interest, Haibara,” you tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, as you felt curious gazes drift toward you. “It is nothing worth noting.” 

“Why not let us be the judge of that?” Haibara grinned. It was apparent he had no intention of letting this go.

Intrigued murmurs stirred among the soldiers, while Suguru remained without a word, sipping on a small cup of hot wine. 

“Allow me the honor to spar with you, Lady Geto!” One of the soldiers stepped forward and volunteered.

Whistles and cheers rippled through the group, lifting the mood into something light and spirited. Not wanting to spoil the moment, you gave a small, graceful nod—relenting to the challenge.

—

The crossing of blades does not lie. It is, perhaps, the most honest conversation one can have with another. When two opponents meet steel to steel, they learn everything there is to know. Every clash, every parry, every stroke tells a story. Their convictions, their regrets, their hidden truths.

Everything you had said or done until now could have been written off as strategy. Performance. Manipulation. But as Suguru watched you cross blades with one of his most seasoned soldiers, a chill ran down his spine.

The way you moved was fluid, instinctive, precise. It mirrored that of an experienced general—one that nearly rivaled his own.

You fought with a cold, impenetrable expression. The same expression you wore whenever you looked at him.

The outcome had been clear from the start. Your controlled and practiced movements left room for little doubt. 

You were going to win.

But in an unexpected turn, his soldier parried you. Your blade slipped from your grasp and clattered to the ground.

“Oh—!” You gasped. 

Everyone erupted into cheers and applauded. 

“That was still impressive, Lady Geto!” Haibara said. 

“It’s no wonder the General is so smitten with you!” One soldier said. 

“A true match made in heaven!” Another chimed. 

“Look at our General, he’s so impressed that he’s at a loss for words!” They laughed heartily.

You lost.

But why? Victory had been all but secured.

You should have seen that parry coming. It was the kind of slip a novice would make.

Which could only mean—you had lost on purpose.

Only Suguru seemed to realize that you threw the match, and that realization stirred something inexplicable inside him. 

You had not only afforded the grace and mercy to his soldier, but you dictated the outcome of this battle.

There was no denying it: you were formidable. 

—

It felt as though the atmosphere had slightly shifted after the spar. Suguru said nothing and then disappeared off somewhere.

Did he find it distasteful? That Lady Geto had entertained a sparring match? Or perhaps the compliments earlier about the two of you being a good pair irked him. 

It was jarring, to say the least, every time you received compliments like that. Because the truth of the matter was that neither of you could stand each other. 

Most likely though, he just loathed the idea of sharing a tent with you, and went to spend time in solitude before he was forced to share the same space as you again.

It had been a good and honest intention from his comrades when they happily presented the bigger tent. 

“For General Geto and Lady Geto!” They said proudly.

But you knew that Suguru was probably seething inside. You, too, felt uneasy and flustered by the arrangement. You never shared a confined space with a man before…let alone a bed. 

As you made your way to the tent, ready to turn in for the night, your ears caught a quiet conversation.

“This escort is a nice respite,” one of the soldiers murmured, easing down onto a crate with a weary sigh.

“Though strange, is it not? For the General and his lady to ride with us.”

“It is. And the Eastern Campsite has been uneasy of late. It’s no place for a general’s family.”

Another voice joined, hushed. “Have you noticed? The supply wagons—they’ve been arriving more frequently.”

“Yes…it feels as though we are standing at the cusp of something grim.”

A silence fell between them for a breath.

“Let us hope it passes peacefully,” came a quiet reply. “My wife is expecting our first child at home.”

A pang struck deep in your chest. You were no stranger to loss and grief. But hearing it spoken so plainly—the weight these soldiers carried, the sacrifices their families bore alongside them—pressed on your heart with an ache. 

Even Suguru was not immune to death, though people often tend to forget. For a brief moment, you almost felt ridiculous for even trying to fight him behind closed doors.

Yet one thing was now certain.

This conversation only confirmed your suspicions: there was indeed something wrong at the Eastern Campsite.

What you still did not know was just how deep the trouble ran.

—

Footsteps approached from behind and you straighten yourself up, hoping that you weren’t caught eavesdropping. You turn around only to see it was your husband. He returns to you an empty gaze. 

Perhaps it was the conversation you had just overheard. Or perhaps it was under the moonlight. But as you looked to your husband, beyond his empty eyes, you saw a glimmer of something foreign. For the first time, you found yourself questioning…did he always look so lonely?

You quickly looked away as he brushed past you, heading towards the tent. Slowly, you followed behind.

Inside, Suguru makes his way towards a small wooden chair in the corner. You stood there, hesitant, unsure of what to do next. Without a word, he sat down, arms folding loosely across his chest, his gaze remained distant and unreadable. 

“The bed is yours,” he said evenly. It was a reflexive formality—an offering that costed him nothing.

There was no warmth, no softness, just a quiet acknowledgment of what was expected. You lowered yourself onto the bedding without protest, curling your fingers into the blanket. 

You weren’t sure how long you lay there—pretending to sleep. Cautiously, you cracked your eyes open, glancing over at him. His head rested against his hand, propped on the armrest, his breath shallow, indicating that he, too, was not yet asleep.

Finally, you gathered the courage to ask him. “…Is there trouble in the Eastern Campsite?”

As expected, he did not reply. A small resigned sigh escaped your lips, but you decide to try again.

“Perhaps I can hel—”

“You will do nothing,” Suguru dismissed coolly. “Except stay in your own lane.”

It was dark, so he couldn’t see the expression that you bore, which was a blessing, because you felt yourself slowly cracking. Your hands balled into the blanket, hoping to quash your simmering frustration.

It was a difficult feat.

You couldn’t understand Suguru Geto. 

He was more difficult to read than any book, more ruthless than any weapon, and the toughest negotiation you ever had to face.

“You must also conduct yourself properly as Lady Geto when we get to the campsite,” he said. “The wife of a general does not help with soldier’s task, and certainly does not spar with them.”

A tense silence fills the air. 

Suddenly, the tent felt too small, too suffocating. You wanted to storm out and stay with Yumi instead. But you resisted the urge, remaining rooted in your involuntary obligations at keeping up with appearances.

If he was so keen on setting the image, why couldn’t he just pretend all the way through? Was it really such a big ask for him to treat you like an equal—to just speak to you like an equal?

“I don’t understand why you resent me so.” The words slipped from your tongue in a moment of vulnerability.

Suguru looked up from where he sat, his gaze boring into you. 

Again, you had challenged him—challenged his control. Asking difficult questions. Forcing him to look inward.

He, too, wished he could have a proper answer. But nothing was ever simple. 

His life had never afforded him such luxury. 

Even if you were vying for the title of Lady Geto, was it really so wrong? He doubted anyone from the list of candidates was in it for love. 

So, then, why did he resent you? 

It would have been simpler if he could call it hatred. But it wasn’t hatred. 

It was more so you vexed him. 

Because deep down, in the corners of his heart he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that you wanted nothing.

You hadn’t fought him. You hadn’t begged. Not so much even flinched when he offered you freedom to take a secret lover. He didn’t know your story. Maybe you already had someone you loved before being promised to him. Like him, maybe your heart had already belonged to someone else but you were forced into a marriage with him.

Whatever the reason may be, in this marriage of convenience, it seemed that there was nothing convenient for you. Most would think that you had the better end of the bargain—power, status, prestige—but in truth, it was very much the opposite. 

It would have been easier if you truly coveted the title of Lady Geto. At least then he could have labeled it as a mutual benefit. 

You were very much your father’s daughter: the both of you had a clear conscience. 

Suguru had never known your father personally. He was not widely talked about in the palace like some other judges. Only a few whispers of him here and there. He did not rub shoulders or curry favor—he simply did what needed to be done. He was a man of principles. It reminded Suguru much of his own father—they probably would have been good friends. 

It was respectable. Admirable, even.

But in the game of palace politics, goodwill and integrity seldom take you far. If anything, they paint a target on your back. There is a fine line between righteousness and arrogance—and in a world ruled by ambition and corruption, righteousness is often written off as arrogance. A man of principle is seen not as noble, but as disruptive. Difficult. Threatening. After all, why play by the rules when everyone around you gains more by bending them?

Suguru leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. He could almost hear Haibara’s voice—calm, reasonable, always cutting through when he least wanted it.

You could keep your distance without being heartless, Suguru. 

Haibara’s advice echoed in his mind. He bristled at how his friend was the voice of reason, and he hated to admit Haibara was right most of the time.

He didn’t resent you. 

But he resented that you were no longer so easy to dismiss.

Writing © xechu - please do not redistribute, translate, or repost any of my works.

I do not own any of the images/photos used on this banner.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 48 (Human!Alastor x Married!Reader)

CW: Domestic Alastor, Oral, Fingering, These are not kitchen activities Prev__ Welcome Post__ AO3__ KoFi Show your support by leaving a tip, buy Kit a coffee!

It felt so right, standing at the counter in the kitchen, shoulder to shoulder with the man you loved as music played through the house. Sunlight filtered, dancing through the window as your knife sliced through the pepper. 

Next to you, Alastor sliced through the last of the onions as he listened carefully to the sausage sizzling in the heavy pot Susan had brought over. Once he finished with the onion, he made quick work of flipping the sausage slices, now browned and crispy on one side. 

It was a marvel to watch him work in the kitchen. Everything he did was well practiced and showed clear expertise. Each pass of the blade was sure, though you knew your knifes could be sharper. 

“My darling, do you need to take a picture?” Alastor’s voice shocked you out of the daze you hadn’t realized you fell into. 

“I’m sorry?” You stammered.

“You’re staring,” Alastor’s warm laugh washed over you, “Have you never seen a man cook?” 

“No,” you answered honestly, “I fear neither my father or my- or Laurence could manage to assemble so much as a sandwich without assistance.” 

“Well,” Alastor turned on his heel, fishing the sausage slices from the pan and set them aside. He grabbed the jar of chicken broth and poured a healthy splash into the pan, stepping back slightly as it exploded into sizzles for a moment before calming to a simmer as he scrapped the drippings from the bottom of the pan, “With me, you’ll see it rather often.” 

“Is that so?” you asked as he poured the liquid from the pan into the pot. The heavy pan looked light as Alastor carried it to the sink, setting it inside and running water over it for a moment before turning the tap off again and returning to the stove. 

“It is,” Alastor said as he poured a few jars of broth into the pot and turned the burner on. “I’m fond of cooking.” 

You handed him the bowl holding the vegetables, garlic and parsley. He poured it into the pot and passed the bowl back to you with a word of thanks. The sound of the wooden spoon on the bottom of the pot was different than the whisk but you found it relaxing just the same. 

“Did your mother teach you to make this?” You asked as you brought the package of already cooked shredded chicken and prepped shrimp closer to the stove. Alastor had told you the chicken was left over from a bird he had roasted the night prior but only smiled when you asked about the shrimp. It had already been shelled and prepped for cooking. Having that done at the market cost extra. 

 “She did,” Alastor said as the steaming pot started to slowly give way to bubbles, “Gumbo was one of her favorites.” 

“I’m honored you’d share that with me,” you said, handing him the shrimp when he motioned for it. 

“I’d share everything with you,” Alastor said absently, pouring the shrimp and sausage into the bubbling pot. The chicken followed shortly after. 

While Alastor stirred the pot, you busied yourself with washing up what dishes had been dirtied so far. You were not sure what the right thing to say was. You were not even sure if he had intended for you to hear the confession. 

He loved you, and you, him. It made no sense for such a confession to feel as intimate, as special as it did but that didn’t change anything. It wasn’t often that Alastor spoke about his mother. Nuggets of information about her and his boyhood were dropped seemingly at random. 

You were desperate for more information on the woman that was so fundamental in making the man you loved who he was. 

“She’d make a big pot every Sunday,” Alastor started, unprompted. He spoke with his back to you, wooden spoon moving through the bubbling liquid as it slowly thickened, throwing a handful of spices inside the pot as he went. “We’d use whatever we had, clean out the ice box.”

“Oh?” You watched him over your shoulder as you set the dishes into the rack to dry. It wouldn’t take long and you would be able to put them away.

“We’d get a new block of ice delivered Sunday and be able to keep the pot up for a few days, eating off of it over time. It helped, with Ma workin so hard and money bein so tight.” Alastor’s accent began to slip, his voice warming as he focused more on his memories and less on where he was. 

There was an ache in your chest as you scooped rice into a bowl. In your girlhood, you had never known hunger. There wasn’t a time you could remember where you had been aware of your parents financial situation. Sure, your home was small compared to what Laurence had grown up in but next to Alastor’s home it had been a palace.

“It’ll be a good lunch,” Alastor said as you washed the starch and dust from the rice, swishing the grains around with your hand. “It’ll be better for dinner though, after it’s sat for a bit.” 

“I wish I didn’t have to share it,” You confessed as you drained the water from the bowl. “Not with him.” 

“I know, Cher.” Alastor said, taking the bowl from you and pouring the wet grains into a smaller pot after placing a soft kiss to your temple. “I’d rather not cook for him either but it is worth it.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked as he filled the pot with water, using his knuckle to measure it. The pot clanged, scraping against the cast iron burners as he positioned it. He reignited the flame, the whoosh of the ignition seeming loud as you waited to see if he would answer.

“It’s worth cooking for him right now, if it means I get to cook for you. If it means you get to relax and take a small break.” You wrapped your arms around his front, resting against his back as he watched the pot. There was no stopping the small smile that spread across your face as you felt his hand rest over yours. 

“Thank you,” You whispered, knowing he would hear you over the pot quickly starting to boil. 

“You’re more than welcome,” Alastor said as he put the lid on the pot, turning the flame almost off. The hot water and steam would finish cooking the rice. All that was left to do now was wait. 

Alastor stepped away from the stove, turning to face you. His large hand took yours up as he lead you through a simple dance around the kitchen. Your laugh was more than enough music for him to dance to. The steps slowed, as did your dance devolved into simply holding eachother, swaying. 

Noses brushed against noses as you shared eachother’s breath. Lips were so close to eachother as you swam in the warmth of his eyes. Bodies stilled. Arms tightened around your waist as your fingers twisted around the fabric of his shirt. His heart crashed under your palm as you tilted your head just a little further up. 

“I want to kiss you,” Alastor whispered. “Right here, in this kitchen.” 

“Why don’t you?” His kips were so close to yours. 

“This is the home you share with him,” Alastor whispered, lips just a hair from yours as his eyes danced over your face. 

“You’ve kissed me in here before.” Was he pulling you closer or were you leaning more into him?

“I was near out of my mind with- with longing,” Alastor answered. “It was inappropriate, disrespectful.” 

“What if I wanted you to do it again?” You could almost taste him, he was so close. “What if I wanted you to disrespect my husband’s home? To be inappropriate in it, with me?” 

“I would say I’m a man starved,” Your hands up his chest, wrapping them around his neck loosely. “I would say that if we open this door, I’m not sure if I can keep it closed again.” 

“What does that mean?” You asked, eyes fluttering as you were torn between looking longingly at his lips and struggling to come up for air. 

“It means I will eat you alive,” Alastor said, pushing you back with his body, each step taking you further. You gasped as your back hit the edge of the table, pinning you between him and it. “And I will not stop until my name is all you can think of.” 

“Alastor?” You gasped as he kissed you. This was not the sweet kisses he had been giving you. It was greedy, stealing the breath from your lungs and the thoughts from your mind. He wasted no time in taking advantage of your gasp, lips parting as he worked his tongue between yours. 

You drank him up, fingers curling into his hair. They tangled into strands that so badly wanted to curl but were forced into submission by heat. Tongues ran against eachother, tasted eachother as two struggled to become one. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked as his lips pulled from yours, his tongue darting out to run over his shiny lips. 

“Yes,” you whispered as his grip tightened around your waist, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing and set you on the edge of the kitchen table. Heavy hands rested on your knees, pushing them apart so that he could slot himself between them. “I was worried,” you said, words dying as you felt his hips between your knees and his lips on your neck.

“Worried?” he whispered into your skin. “About what?”

“That,” you gasped as his hands ran higher up your thighs, pushing the hem higher until his fingers were slipping under the sides of your panties, gripping your hips. “That this was over for now.” 

“This?” Alastor asked as he pulled the fabric down, stepping away so he could guide it down your thighs. The fabric hit the ground and his knees did the same. “If you want this,” his hands ran up your calfs as he spread your knees, drawing closer, “from me,” his hands ran up your thighs as he watched your flushed face. “In this house…” 

“Please,” you breathed the word, terrified to take your eyes from Alastor for fear that this moment was just another dream. 

“Do you want me?” Alastor asked, kissing the inside of your knee, looking up at you from under his brow. “Do you want me to take you to heaven? Right here, in the kitchen of your marital home?” 

“Please?” you were begging, reaching for him. You couldn’t help it. “I want you. Your touch. To feel you. To feel wanted by you.” 

“Ma Cherie,” Alastor kissed higher up the inside of your thigh as he rose higher on his knees, “I’ve wanted to feel you from the moment we left the train. I’ve longed to taste you.” 

“I- Please?” You whined, “I need you, Alastor.” 

“What kind of lover would I be if I denied you what you needed?” Alastor was so close now. You flushed, shame, excitement and arousal mixing to make your head spin. Everything about this was wrong and yet, you wanted it so damn bad. There was nothing protecting any semblance of your modesty. He could see your most private place from where he knelt between your legs. 

“You’re already ready,” Alastor hooked his hand around your thigh, resting one of your legs on his shoulder as he leaned closer. “I can see you glistening for me.”

He was taking his time, pulling you to the edge of the table and shoving your skirt higher, exposing you better. It was just a matter of time before the anticipation drove you insane, propelled by need, want and the sinful sound of his voice. 

“I need you,” you whined, “Please, Alastor.” 

“Already crying my name and I haven’t even touched you yet,” he chuckled darkly. “Lean back.” He tilted your hips with pressure from his strong fingers. “Good girl. Now, let me feast.” 

He was on you instantly. There was no time wasted to teasing, not any longer. He dove into your core as if he was, as he claimed to be, a man starved. A moan reverberated through his chest and against you as his tongue ran greedily up your folds, slurping in the slick that had gathered as if it was some fine delicacy. 

It was a battle to support your weight on your outstretched arm. Though you needed the other to help support yourself, instead you reached for him. Soft hair ran through your fingers as you moaned. 

This was, as Alastor promised it would be, indecent. You were with another man in your marital home. He was pleasing you in the kitchen you cooked the meals for your husband in and you didn’t care. All you cared about was the pleasure the man you loved gave you. 

His finger slipped inside your core easily, quickly followed by another as his attention focused on the nub of nerves that headed your sex. Your back arched. Your elbow gave out, and you fell back against the table. Pain flared through your sore body, fighting to remind you of healing injuries and failing as pleasure washed it away. 

“Oh,” you gasped as you felt Alastor’s hand cup the curve of your thigh, running along the length as he ran his tongue around the nub again and again, fingers pumping into you and spreading deep inside. “Alastor.” 

He hummed in acknowledgement, eyes looking up at you as his nose brushed against your mound. He watched as you struggled up on your elbow, moaning himself as you failed to keep your weight supported for long. 

“Alastor,” you cried, feeling the pleasure build. An ever tightening pressure built inside your core as he continued to work at you. His tongue would dip down, slipping between spread fingers to drink from your opening, only to return to the pearl that left you writhing on the table.

Your slick smeared on his glasses, leaving milky marks that obscured your view of his eyes, though you were not sure how. Puffs of his breath and the heat from your sex mingled to fog them. Reaching over your thigh, he pulled them from his face and set them on the table next to you. With them gone, there was nothing between you and his warm brown eyes, watching your every reaction. 

How did his mouth not tire? How did his hand not tire? How could he work you as if he had just begun after what felt like hours? Thoughts swam, being driven by the feeling of him. 

“Alastor,” his name fell from your lips as your hips rocked, pushing his fingers deeper as you chased the feeling of him. “Alastor. Please, Alastor. Close,” 

His lips wrapped around the bundle of nerves again. Teeth grazed over it as he sucked you into his mouth, tongue working you over. You snapped, body tightening as your head fell back with a thump against the table. His name was a chanted prayer, coming off your tongue with every thrust of his fingers into you as he worked you through your orgasm. 

You gripped his hair and the hand wrapped around your thigh as the man you loved dismantled your world and put it back together again. The pumping of his fingers slowed as he let your clit free, tongue running through your folds and over it as your body twitched. 

“Magnificent,” Alastor said, looking up at you as he ran his tongue over his lips, licking your slick from his lips, “It’s as breathtaking to watch you come undone now as it was the first time” 

It felt like he replaced the bones in your limbs with jelly. Your muscles twitched, and you gasped for air as Alastor pulled your panties up your legs until they hung between your ankles. Folding over you, he braced himself against the table with elbows on each side of you. 

For a moment, he just took in the sight of your flushed and glassy eyes. Your lips were parted and hair tussled from how you had thrown your head back. It was the most beautiful sight, one he couldn’t get enough of, the aftermath of your pleasure.

He hated the fact that in an hour or so, he would have to leave you. What he wanted was to feed you the gumbo and rice, then take you back to heaven again and again, until the clock stuck midnight and you brought in the new day with his name on your lips. 

All in good time, Alastor knew. It was just a matter of time and then Laurence would be dead. You would perform the show of a widow for a few short months and then you would be his. 

How long would they need to wait to court? How long would you wish to wait before you remarried? Alastor knew he wished to spend the rest of his life with you by his side. The only question was how long until his future could begin? 

He needed to buy you a ring. There wasn’t a rush, he knew. It would be a long time before you could wear it, but it was better to plan for the things he would need to do. It was better for a man to be prepared than find the ring fit for his love to be out of his budget.

“What are you thinking?” you asked, reaching up and running numb fingers through his messy brown hair. He would have to fix it before going to the station, though you didn’t know how he would be able to without returning home.

“Of how much I love you,” Alastor answered simply, leaning down and placing an open-mouthed kiss on your lips. His hand ran under your back as he lifted you to a sitting position, not breaking the kiss as he fed you the taste of your desire for him on his tongue. 

It was just a matter of time before this was his life.

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

[mostlymarvelgirl]

Little Skittle

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: 18+, Smut, fingering, oral, teasing, overestimulation, happiness, porn with a little plot (Sam and reader are already in an established relationship), birthday celebrations, usage of different terms.

The first thing Sam noticed when he opened his bedroom door was the scent—amber, smoke, something sweet and clinging, something that didn’t belong to the bunker.

The second thing was you.

Standing in the center of his room like a vision summoned from the quiet corners of every half-formed dream he never let himself finish.

You were wearing his flannel.

Only his flannel.

And it was open.

The candlelight didn’t help. It painted you in gold and shadow, caught in the hollow of your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the glint of your eyes as you watched him from beneath lashes like whispers.

“Happy birthday, Sammy,” you said, and your voice was velvet—low, warm, dangerous.

For a heartbeat, he just stared—stunned, silent, completely still.

Then his jaw clenched.

“You’re not playing fair,” he said, voice already rough around the edges.

You took a step forward, slow and deliberate, the hem of the flannel swaying against your bare thighs. “Wasn’t planning to.”

His eyes tracked every movement—down, then up again, lingering like he was trying to memorize you in case you vanished.

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna make a big deal out of it,” he murmured.

You stopped just in front of him, tilted your head, lips curling into something dangerous and fond. “I lied.”

And then, because he hadn’t moved—because he was still standing there like the ground had been stolen out from under him—you reached out, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to trace the lines of his abdomen, slow and reverent.

That did it.

His breath stuttered.

And then his mouth was on yours.

There was nothing hesitant about it—nothing soft. His hands gripped your hips with a heat that bordered on desperate, dragging you against him in one fluid motion. You gasped into him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his tee, tugging, needing.

He kissed like a man starved—long, deep, almost feral—and when he pulled back just enough to breathe, his voice was wrecked.

“Tell me this isn’t just for show,” he rasped. “Tell me you want this.”

You cupped his face in both hands, breathless, smiling like a woman on fire. “Sam Winchester, if you don’t take me apart right now, I will find someone else who appreciates birthday traditions.”

That earned you a growl—a real one, low and dangerous, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

And then you were moving.

Or maybe he was.

The world tilted.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, and he was crowding into your space, mouth at your neck, one hand sliding beneath the flannel to splay wide across your lower back.

“You’re insane,” he whispered against your skin.

“And yet,” you said, arching into him with a sigh, “here we are.”

The flannel slipped from your shoulders.

His shirt followed.

Then jeans. Then logic. Then time itself.

Sam's fingers walked up your thigh, hesitating briefly before pushing your leg up and open. He nuzzled in closer, his breath warm against your inner thigh. "You know, I always thought birthdays were overrated," he murmured, "but now I'm reconsidering. Especially with how that little skittle is looking at me."

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Little skittle?" you asked surprised at his choice of wording, your voice teasing as you felt his stubble rough against your sensitive skin. He chuckled knowing it was something he always wanted to say and today was the day. He shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, making you shiver.

Sam's hand slid up your inner thigh, his thumb brushing your swollen clit. He looked up at you with those intense eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "I mean, what better way to spend my birthday than worshipping the goddess of my bed?"

You bit your lip, suppressing a moan as his thumb made small, deliberate circles. "Goddess, huh?" you teased, trying to keep your voice steady despite the growing heat between your legs. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as he slipped a finger inside you.

"Mmhmm," he murmured, curling his finger inside you as his thumb continued its torturously slow circles. He could feel you getting slicker by the second, see the desire flickering in your eyes. He added another finger, stretching you slowly. "Spread your legs more, sweetheart. "

You complied, spreading your legs wider, giving him better access. He groaned softly at the sight, his fingers moving deeper and faster inside you. "God, you're so wet," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. He leaned down to press a kiss to your clit, sucking gently.

You gasped, your back arching as he combined his fingers and mouth. He was relentless, his fingers hitting that spot inside you while his tongue worked your clit. He hummed against you, the vibration sending shocks through your body. "Sam..." you moaned, your hands gripping the sheets tightly.

He looked up at you, his fingers still moving inside you, his mouth glistening with your wetness. "Yeah?" he asked innocently, knowing damn well what he was doing to you. He sucked your clit into his mouth again, harder this time, making you cry out.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna come," you stuttered, feeling the pressure building inside you. He didn't stop, if anything he doubled down, his fingers curling hard inside you as he sucked and licked mercilessly. "Come for me," he growled against your clit.

You did, your body convulsing as you came undone. He didn't let up, riding out your orgasm with you until you were a shaking, panting mess. Only then did he slowly pull his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth to suck your taste off them.

He held you through it, one hand braced against the headboard, the other tangled in your hair.

After, when the fire had dulled to embers and your breath came slow and steady again, he collapsed beside you with a groan.

“I think I blacked out,” you muttered.

He grinned, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Happy birthday to me, baby.”

He rolled onto his side, eyes heavy-lidded, hand curling around your thigh. “You planning to sing too?”

“Only if you behave. And not call it a skittle again.”

Sam chuckled—low and lazy—and let his hand drift higher.

“I like calling it that. And if that gets you all angry, then I guess I’m gonna be real misbehaved, then.”

And at that moment, Sam knew he was the happiest man alive and ever will be.

My special people: @dianawinchester03 @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @cheynovak @losers-clvb @lila-lou @mahi-wayy @bettystonewell @hobby27 @jmoonk @lillys-cutesy-world @velvourne @j2archives @sacr1ficialang3l @maddie0101 @daylighted @crowleysmistress (basically the whole Sam winchester fan base) I keep forgetting tags I'm sorry. Also sorry to scare you for tagging you even if you didn't ask me to. I'm Sam's sweetheart and I couldn't help but share. ♡♡♡♡♡