#i still have my 13 hours a week three days in and three days off

[mygoodgracies]

sooooo with working at marshall's yesss im a floor girl!! i stock and do fitting rooms im back with using a walkie again and lets just say i didn't miss that part of clothing retail and i have to turn it down when i am on break, like lemme drink my overpriced ice coffee in peace lol.

[sunshineyuyu]

stereo hearts (s. mg)

★ summary: mingi’s had a crush on you since his freshman year. you’re a year older than him, infinitely cooler, and you share a love for music. one night, you end up making out in the storage closet of the campus radio station you both work at, and you end up getting closer. ★ pairing: mingi x f!reader ★ genre: smut (mdni!!), college ★ word count: 5.6k ★ tags/warnings: radio station dj!mingi and reader, reader is a year older than mingi, mingi is a computer science major LOL, reader is described as shorter than mingi, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, mentions of nicotine vape, frat party, american college setting, kinda sub-y mingi, kinda dom-y reader, slight dumbification?, reader is just a little mean to mingi, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, penetrative piv sex (with a condom!), minor super background seongjoong ★ notes: this one was written as a gift for @starhwas-bunny huhu, my bestie beta <3 ftr i have never dj-ed for a university radio station so hopefully this isn’t a super inaccurate representation of that experience. ★ masterlist | read on ao3

in the three years since mingi started volunteering as a dj at the university radio station, the little room they broadcast out of has become something like a second home to him.

three out of four of the walls are covered floor to ceiling with shelves that sag from the amount of vinyls, cassette tapes, and cds crammed onto them. tucked into one corner is a mini fridge that was found abandoned after move-out day years ago, and sitting on top is a weak little keurig gifted by the previous faculty sponsor. there’s a musty old leather couch shoved against the singular non-shelved wall, and in the middle of the whole room is the desk, overloaded with several monitors, a keyboard, and the sound board. the whole room smells faintly like sour coffee and old grandpa, but mingi has learned to love it all the same.

tonight, though, mingi would rather be anywhere else than here. grumpily, he blinks at the red numbers of the digital clock on the corner of the desk. 02:13 AM, it reads. he wishes he could go back in time and take a different shift, but the mingi from a month ago never could’ve anticipated all the developments that have happened over the last few weeks.

first, his compilers assignment is kicking his ass. he’s been working tirelessly on it for three weeks now, but his results are still a little off and the due date is fast approaching at the end of the week. he doesn’t even have any classmates to fall back on for help, since he’s taking the course a semester ahead of his other friends, and he hasn’t had enough time to make new ones yet.

second, his best-friend-roommate yunho just got a new girlfriend, which means he’s been spending less time hanging out with mingi. mingi likes to think that he’s not too clingy or needy, but he misses the routine of waking up to the smell of yunho burning breakfast and then getting in a game of valorant together before going to bed. instead, he’s had to play nice with yunho’s new girlfriend whenever she invades their apartment with her neverending peppiness, and sleep with noise-canceling earbuds because he and yunho share a wall.

he’s sleep-deprived and stressed and lonely and really wants a goddamn hug from literally anyone.

but he’s forced to toil away in the tiny campus radio station studio, where the playlist he’d painstakingly arranged last week to blend seamlessly between songs does nothing to soothe his anxieties.

⋆⋆⋆

there’s still half an hour left of mingi’s shift, but he’s already queued up all the music and timed out the ads, so he’s mostly just focused on chipping away at his assignment. the adrenaline from the celsius he crushed when he first arrived is already started to fade, and mingi is seriously thinking about digging out the elfbar from the bottom of his backpack (that he promised yunho he’d throw away) to extend the last fumes of his focus.

this train of thought is thankfully interrupted by the door of the studio being thrown open unceremoniously.

“shit!”

even on a good day, mingi is a jumpy person, and having the blinding light of the hallway enter the dark studio with no warning makes his heart skip several beats. his knee jerks up on instinct, and it whacks painfully against the bottom of the desk.

“ah, oops. sorry!”

standing in the doorway, haloed in fluorescent light, and appearing practically angelic, is none other than you. you have enough wherewithal to at least look apologetic, but mingi doesn’t care either way because it’s you.

you’re a senior—one year above mingi—and the one who trained him to be a dj when he was a freshman. back then, he’d been starstruck by how outgoing you are, the way you’d tease him with the familiarity of a close friend even though you were practically strangers. you have this eclectic but broad taste in music, and he likes that you challenge him to listen to new artists and genres.

and of course—you’re fucking hot. you’ve always been beautiful, with shining eyes and a big wide smile. but over the years, you’ve changed your hair style, dyed the ends, gotten a couple of piercings and tattoos, and it’s been game over for mingi ever since. 

so yeah, he’s had a crippling crush on you that’s only gotten worse with time.

“hi,” mingi says dumbly, massaging his knee where the pain has already mysteriously disappeared.

“hey!” you say breezily, beaming because it’s clear now that he won’t yell at you for scaring him.

“do you have the next shift?” mingi asks, using all his brainpower to compose a coherent sentence. he’s usually able to act relatively normal around you, but he’s all out of sorts right now, and it’s nearly 2:30 fucking am.

“oh, no,” you say. “i just really needed a caffeine fix, and this is the only place i could think of that’s still open on campus for me to get some.”

you both glance over at the sad excuse of a coffee station the studio has, and mingi lets out an undignified snort.

“it is what it is,” you sigh.

while mingi tries to think of a conversation starter, he turns back to his laptop so he’s not just staring at you like some lovesick puppy. 

your normally styled hair is thrown into an afterthought of a bun, but mingi likes that he can see the elegant line of your neck and the line of silver hoops stacked along your ears. you’re also wearing those rimless bayonetta glasses that he loves, and he always gets distracted by the little sparkle charm you added that dangles from the hinge.

“aw man,” you say. “there aren’t any pods left.”

mingi glances up briefly from his laptop to see you pouting down at the little box where they usually keep the coffee pods. 

cute, he thinks.

“hongjoong ordered more last week,” mingi says, waving towards the storage closet behind him. “but he hid them so people don’t try to steal them in bulk.”

at his words, you perk up and scamper towards the closet after dumping your backpack onto the couch.

with you out of sight, some of the nervous tension in mingi’s muscles finally bleeds out. mingi throws his glasses down onto the table and rubs at his weary eyes until he sees fireworks against the backs of his eyelids. he wishes he had even an ounce of the charisma that yunho has, but he’s so fucking tired right now that he can’t think of anything even remotely charming to talk to you about. eventually, he slams his forehead down onto the table and entertains the thought of knocking himself out. before he can let his imagination run too wild, he hears the sound of something heavy falling and a whispered “fuck!”

concerned, mingi straightens and rolls his chair closer to the threshold of the storage closet.

“you good?” he asks.

he forgot to put his glasses back on, so you’re really more of a blurry blob of a person, but somehow your sheepish smile still manages to come through.

“i found the pods!” you say brightly, pointing at a large cardboard box on the top shelf. “but, i can’t reach them.”

mingi huffs out a laugh and stands up. finally, it feels like something is going right for him tonight. you are short and need help, and mingi is tall and can help you.

he’s so hyper-focused on his task that he doesn’t think twice about crowding up behind you. doesn’t think twice about bracing one hand against your back to keep himself steady as he reaches with his other hand for the box. doesn’t think twice about leaning around your smaller frame to present you with the thing. 

“here,” he says, except it comes out breathy and rough because he’s just stretched his body for the first time in what feels like ages.

he doesn’t realize how close your faces are until you utter a soft thank you, and the words ghost along his cheekbone. he shudders at the sensation, and all at once the rest of his brain and body come online to recognize the position you’re arranged in.

it’s cramped in the closet, and mingi’s a big guy. his entire front is pressed up against your back, and the hand he’d used to balance himself has somehow slipped down to your waist, and you’ve turned your head slightly so that you can look up at him.

mingi stares down at you, and you’re seriously so close that he doesn’t need his glasses to see the way your lips part, the way your eyebrows furrow. 

“um,” he says intelligently.

oh-so-slowly, you push your glasses up onto your head and turn around to fully face him. like always, that stupid sparkle charm entrances mingi.

and then suddenly, he’s pulled down by the front of his shirt, and you surge up to meet him. your lips collide together with so much force that your teeth clack, but mingi doesn’t care because jesus fucking christ. he shoves the pods onto the nearest shelf to get his other hand onto your waist too. god, it’s been a while since the last time he’s made out with someone like this. while his mouth works furiously to remember how to kiss well, he fumbles his palms over the curves of your body. meanwhile, your fingers dance confidently along his chest and collarbones, finally curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. when you tug lightly, mingi actually whimpers.

he pulls back, embarrassed, but you look delighted.

“oh,” you breathe, grinning. “oh, fuck—make that noise again.”

mingi stares at you, uncomprehending and breathing like he’s just run a race. you tug again. mingi keens.

“cute,” you murmur. “c’mere.”

you don’t give mingi the chance to second-guess anything as you pull him back down. your chapstick tastes like peaches, and your tongue is doing things that mingi’s never felt before. you touch him everywhere—run your hands along his chest, his stomach, his back, his arms. mingi is putty in your arms, and he stops trying to hold back the sounds that you tease out of him.

you make out sloppily for what seems like hours. it’s so nice and mindless that mingi doesn’t even realize that he’s half-hard in his jeans until you finally take a step back. 

like the fucking touch-starved idiot he is, he unconsciously leans forward to chase after you. in response, you grin and press a single finger against his chest to hold him off.

“it’s almost the next shift,” you say quietly. “we should probably get out of here.”

“oh,” mingi croaks, as reality settles back in. “oh. yeah.”

you peck the underside of his jaw, and then leave the storage closet.

mingi stays for a second longer, collecting himself. finally, he grabs the box of coffee pods and follows you back into the studio.

he can’t get a read on you as you wordlessly retrieve your backpack. he mirrors your movement, albeit more lethargically. he feels like he’s drunk or high or both, body moving sluggishly, and he’s so so confused.

jongho, who’s taking the 3 am shift, shows up in the middle of your silence as a much needed buffer. it takes mingi five minutes to hand over control, and when he’s done, he’s disappointed to see that you aren’t in the room anymore. dejected, he says goodbye to jongho and leaves the studio, only to find you waiting in the hallway.

you look up when he stops in front of you and smile at him.

“walk me to my car?” you say.

mingi smiles shyly back at you. “yeah. okay.”

you start down the hallway, but mingi halts abruptly. “didn’t you- um- your coffee?” mingi stutters. jesus, he really needs to pull himself together.

you quirk your head to one side and then takes a step into mingi’s space. your gaze darkens, and your smile stretches into a smirk.

“nah,” you whisper, reaching to drag your thumb along his bottom lip. “i got my fix.” 

oh, mingi thinks giddily. she means me!

“c’mon,” you say, your face softening and your hand finding mingi’s. “it’s late.”

“yeah,” mingi says dreamily, trailing after you.

⋆⋆⋆

in the days following, mingi doesn’t see you at all.

this isn’t uncommon—you’re different years and majors, after all. but mingi is still bummed about it. he has your number, but he’s never texted you besides to talk about campus radio logistics. sometimes, you’ll send each other a new song or artist to nerd out over, but mingi feels like it’s a little too transparent if he texts you now when the last time you exchanged messages was weeks ago.

every night, though, mingi replays what happened in his head over and over again. how you had been the one to initiate, to guide and control the entire encounter—how that had turned him on in ways he’d never imagined. he tries vainly not to think about you when he jerks off, but right as he’s about to cum, his thoughts always stray to the way you’d tugged at his hair and cooed at his embarrassing noises.

in the aftermath, he’ll try to think instead of the way you held his hand while they walked to your car. the walk had been short but sweet. you’d been the one to intertwine your fingers, and mingi hadn’t been able to hide the stupid smile on his face as your hands swung between the two of you.

you’d given him one last kiss on the cheek before saying good night.

the rest of the night was a haze: walking to his car, driving home, falling asleep the moment his head hit his pillow without even changing out of his clothes.

⋆⋆⋆

it’s friday night, and mingi has managed to finish his godforsaken compilers assignment, so he’s planning on getting wasted.

mingi is still largely undecided on how he feels about yunho’s new girlfriend, but the one thing going in her favor is the fact that she’s the delta gamma social chair and—because of some bylaw somewhere—has automatic entry to every relevant frat party. she can even bring other people with her, as long as it’s not an egregious amount.

and that’s how mingi finds himself in the middle of an SAE party, just the right side of tipsy. he’s nursing a sweating can of beer and watching yunho and wooyoung absolutely destroy a couple of pledges at beer pong. when they win, mingi pounces on them, but ends up empty-handed as they’re each pulled into congratulatory embraces by their respective significant others.

suddenly, despite being surrounded by people, mingi feels incredibly lonely. it’s like he’s been doused in ice water, the way his head clears and his heart sinks. he knows it’s a passing feeling, knows that in two seconds his friends will turn their attention back to him, but the shots and beers from earlier tonight no longer sit right in his bloodstream.

under the guise of getting another drink, mingi ducks away from his friends and looks for someplace with a little more space and air. he wanders towards the yard, where there’s far fewer people. all of the lawn chairs available are already occupied, so mingi leans up against the wall and pulls out his phone. he’s two scrolls into his instagram feed when something collides into his side hard enough to make him let out a soft oof.

he thinks it must be some random drunk, but instead it’s—

you.

“mingi!” you shriek.

your arms wrap around his middle, and you gaze up at him with glazed over eyes. you’re wearing this tight black shirt with a big square neckline, and you’re all squished up against him so mingi gets an eyeful of your cleavage.

he swallows painfully.

“y/n!” he says, trying to match your energy without being as loud.

you peer around him, almost like you’re looking for someone else. “are you here by yourself?” you ask.

“no,” mingi says. “my friends are inside. i just wanted to get some air.”

“ah.” you nod sagely. “do you smoke? like—get high?”

mingi shrugs, and you bounce with glee. you drag him by the wrist over to a small cluster of people sitting around one of the few lawn tables available.

“sit sit sit!” you say, pushing him into the one empty chair before unceremoniously plopping yourself down in his lap. dumbstruck, mingi just sits there with his hands lying limply against the armrests as you shuffle around in his fucking lap to find a comfortable position. every ounce of his energy is going towards not popping a boner right now.

instead, he focuses on trying to recognize the people sitting around the table. there’s kim hongjoong, the president of your campus radio org, and his boyfriend park seonghwa. beside them is chaewon, your best friend, also sitting in the lap of some guy who mingi assumes is her boyfriend.

shit—what are these people assuming about him, then? 

“here,” you say, thrusting a small object like a usb towards his lips. “take a hit of penelope.”

“penelope?” mingi’s like, still reeling from everything that’s happened in the last five minutes.

you giggle. “my pen. here.”

obediently, mingi leans towards and fits his lips around the tiny weed pen. it’s been a while since he last got high—yunho and wooyoung both run cross-country and don’t like messing around with drugs while they’re in season. he tries to take a shallow hit, but doesn’t end up getting anything, so he throws all caution to the wind and inhales deeply. the tangy sour smoke hits the back of his throat harder than the smooth mintyness of his elfbar, so of course—

he ends up coughing.

little puffs of smoke leave his mouth and nose as he splutters. thankfully, everyone barely laughs at him. in fact, hongjoong hands him a bottle of water which he chugs gratefully.

“sorry, been a while,” mingi rasps, when he finally manages to take a normal breath.

you hum and brush some of mingi’s hair behind his ear. “cute.”

this nearly sends mingi into another coughing fit, but he manages to just laugh breathlessly instead. clutching the water bottle to him like a lifeline, he sinks back into his chair so that maybe he can be less in the spotlight.

“—anyway,” chaewon says, and mingi lets out a sigh of relief at the turn of attention, “sannie, tell them about all the shit they made you do when you were a pledge.”

san—the one guy mingi didn’t know—sighs and pinches chaewon’s thigh.

“babe, you can’t just make me tell this story to everyone. trade secrets, and whatever.”

hongjoong snorts. “so they got you pretty good, huh?”

“goddamnit,” san is like.

so san regails them with the harrowing tale of him pledging SAE, and mingi finally lets himself relax. san has this soft, earnest voice, and it’s nice to listen to. at some point, you press penelope into his hand, and even later, mingi works up the courage to take another hit. this one is much more successful than the last, and gradually, mingi works up a nice buzz. it spurs him to tug you deeper into his lap, fit his hands around your waist—jesus, have you always been this small compared to him?

mingi has no idea how long he spends there, vibing with you and your friends. he’s halfway to asleep when suddenly he feels something trail along his jawline. he feels the telltale graze of lips against his skin, and his pulse jumps.

suddenly, he is incredibly awake.

you nose at his neck, leave the lightest of kisses. mingi becomes hyper aware of his surroundings, and finally realizes that conversation’s been dead for a while. chaewon is fully straddling san in his chair, and hongjoong and seonghwa have disappeared.

“you wanna get out of here?” you murmur.

“yeah. yeah.”

⋆⋆⋆

mingi is aware enough to shoot a text off to his group chat with yunho and wooyoung letting them know that he’s going home with someone. he feels an odd rush of validation from the subsequent onslaught of vulgar texts and emojis he gets in response.

your place isn’t far from greek row, so you walk there. once again, you have threaded your fingers together, and mingi is noticing for the first time just how small your hand is compared to his. with your other hand, you scroll through your spotify playlists, trying to find one that “fits the ambiance” of the walk before settling for one titled vaporwave vibes.

mingi is just happy to be involved.

you’re a giggly mess as you stumble-walk-run into your apartment.

“roommate—?” mingi asks, as two of you toe off your shoes, and you turn up the volume of your music.

“chaewon’s shacking up at the SAE house tonight,” you say, grinning. you lean in close to mingi and poke his nose. “so you can be as loud as you wanna be, baby.”

baby?!

you lead mingi to your bedroom, where you spare a few seconds to turn on a lamp that casts the room into a soft pink hue and plug your phone into a speaker. you choose a different playlist—one with soft r&b and lofi.

then, you crawl onto your bed, swaying your hips as you do. mingi just stares at you, suddenly very out of his depth. this feels infinitely different from making out in a storage closet. this is your apartment, your room, your bed.

you’re leaned back against your pillows now, head cocked and eyes half-lidded.

you spread you legs and beckon mingi to come closer.

“c’mon, baby. let’s have some fun, hm?”

like a man possessed, mingi steps forward until he hits the edge of the mattress, and then he falls onto his knees, shuffling forward until he’s hovering between your thighs.

“cute.”

mingi waits for you to make the first move, because that’s what he’s used to, and you do. you hook your hands around his neck and pull him down, presses your lips together chastely. mingi’s eyes flutter close, and he lets instinct take over.

you must be wearing something like lipgloss tonight, because your lips are tackier than last time, and they taste like cherry. mingi’s intoxicated by it. he deepens the kiss, adds some tongue. his hands run along your thighs, your hips, your waist.

you do that thing with his hair again, and he whimpers. he feels you smile. you move his hands over your chest, inviting him to really touch, and he moans involuntarily when he realizes that you’re not wearing a bra under your shirt. 

“take it off,” you breathe, and mingi obeys immediately.

“fuckk,” he whines when he sees your tits. “fuck—you’re so—”

he surges forward and fits his mouth over one of your nipples and sucks. this time, it’s you who moans, and the sense of triumph rushes straight to mingi’s dick. after only a few minutes of worshipping your tits, mingi is already so hard he could cut through glass.

“you, too,” you say, trying to pull off mingi’s shirt. “take this off—take it all off.”

so he strips. first his shirt, then his jeans. he curses as he struggles with the button and the zip—when choosing his outfit earlier, he’d only been thinking about how this pair are a little tight so they make his ass look good. now, he’s straining to get them off without looking like an idiot.

finally, he manages to tug the jeans down to mid-thigh, which means you get a better view of the outline of his cock in his briefs. at least he wore dark underwear so you can’t see the frankly embarrassing wet patch that mingi knows is there. he’s always leaked like a faucet.

"god, i knew you'd be big," you sigh as mingi finishes shucking off his pants ungracefully.

he freezes, feeling a little exposed but also a little bold.

"you- have you thought about me- this before?" he asks.

"of course," you smirk. "big shy boy like you? that's my favorite."

you sit up onto your elbows and reach forward with one hand to cup his bulge. you squeeze, and mingi keens. it takes every drop of mingi's self-control to not cum on the spot. instead he falls onto his forearms and buries his face into your neck.

“fuck,” he squeaks.

you continue to work his dick through his briefs, but with such a light, teasing touch that mingi starts rutting helplessly into your hand to get more friction. it’s been a while since someone else has gotten him off, and the weed is making him so so sensitive.

"wanna- wanna make you feel good," he pants, but he can’t stop grinding down against you like some stupid fucking dog. 

"yeah?” you goad. “you wanna fuck me with your big dumb cock? do you even know how to use that thing?"

mingi whimpers. “yes, yes—please. let me- let me show you. please.”

“okay, big boy,” you whisper into his ear, finally letting him go. “show me.”

mingi doesn’t waste any time after that. he pulls off your pants and your underwear in one go. he’s practically drooling at the sight of your cunt and can’t help himself from running a finger reverently through your folds.

you’re wet.

because of him.

he drops down in front of your pussy and licks a line from your entrance to your clit. you fucking moan. 

“yeah?” you say, all dominant like always but a little breathless. “you gonna prep me first? gonna prep me for your huge dick?”

in response, mingi attaches his mouth to your clit and buries a finger into your hole.

“ah—fuck!”

one finger turns into two into three quickly, as mingi works you open, all while lapping at your clit. he has limited experience with this so he’s not super confident in his ability, but you’re making these high-pitched noises that must mean he’s doing something right. and then you tug at his hair, forcing his head back.

“thought you were gonna fuck me?” you say.

“yes, yeah, sorry.”

mingi has enough wherewithal to ask about condoms and lube, and while he tugs off his underwear, you retrieve the stuff from your nightstand. he’s so keyed up that he fumbles the condom, can’t get a good grip to tear it open, and finally resorts to biting one corner with his teeth to rip off an edge. it works, and he spits out the little piece of foil somewhere onto the bed beside them.

“oh, fuck.” he hears, and it’s the first semblance of a whine from you.

with renewed vigor, mingi rolls the condom onto his dick, hissing at finally getting some stimulation after being hard and untouched for so long.

“c’mon, c’mon,” you say, throwing the lube at him. “hurry up.”

he squeezes some of the lube onto his hand—there’s a light red sheen to it and a faint scent of cherry. feverishly, he thinks the smell of cherries is going to be ruined for him forever as he spreads the lube over the condom.

and then he presses just the tip into your entrance, and already he knows he’s not going to last long. you’re just too warm, too wet, too tight.

“jesus,” he whimpers, as he presses deeper into your cunt. “you’re fucking perfect.”

“fuck,” you groan. “you’re so fucking big.”

“gonna- gonna make you feel good,” mingi promises. “gonna fuck you so good.”

when he’s finally bottomed out, he takes a second. he hopes it looks like he’s just being considerate of his size, but really it’s mostly for himself, to make sure he’s not a one thrust wonder. and then you clench around him.

“fuck!”

it startles him into moving—with a strong grip on your thighs, he thrusts into you with so much force that the bed frame groans. 

“ah- yeah, baby. just like that. fuck, so good. so good, so big—so full. fuck!”

you babble nonsense into his ear, but every syllable fuels mingi’s determination. he snaps his hips against yours until his thighs burn, and then some more. but even in spite of his sheer will, mingi is just a guy finally fucking the girl of his dreams, and so his orgasm sneaks up on him entirely too fast.

“oh, fuck. oh, fuck. i’m sorry, i’m sorry—i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—”

he collapses onto you as he spills into the condom, his entire body twitching with pleasure from the sensation. seconds later, shame and guilt wash over him. he pulls out and crawls down your body to shove his face into your cunt.

he fingers you while he eats you out again, this time quirking his fingers for your g-spot. he’s delirious and desperate—needs to prove that he’s not just some guy who cums without getting off his partner. needs you to enjoy this as much as he is—needs you to want more.

“yeah, yeah, that’s a good boy,” you praise as he laps at your cunt like it’s his job. “so good, baby boy. so good. yeah, just like that—gonna cum. gonna—”

mingi can’t help himself. he pulls back when you climax so that he can watch. he finger-fucks you through it, but his focus is on the way your face scrunches up with euphoria, the way your back arches off the bed in pleasure.

finally, you shove his hand away.

“‘s too much,” you mumble, burying your face into your pillows.

mingi collapses down beside you, completely spent.

he comes to a few minutes later, when he feels the bed shift as you sit up. he must make some kind of noise, because you duck down close, brush the sweaty hair off of his forehead and kiss his temple.

“shh,” you soothe. “it’s okay. you can rest, baby. i’ll clean us up.”

“wait—let me help,” he slurs, starting to sit up.

“no no,” you coo, pushing him back down. “don’t worry, baby. i got it.”

mingi hums, too tired and spent anyway to argue. it’s nice, for once, to be the one being taken care of. he snuggles contently deeper into the bed.

it smells like sex and sweat, but also something kinda sweet. oh, right—cherries.

he drifts off to sleep soon after.

⋆⋆⋆

the next morning, mingi wakes up disoriented, pleasantly sore, but incredibly well-rested. the weed helped offset the alcohol, and the only grossness he feels is from not showering or brushing his teeth before falling asleep.

the bed is unfortunately empty, but the smell of fresh coffee in the air keeps mingi from spiraling too much about it. he lopes around the room, searching for his clothes. he locates those godforsaken tight jeans (which take him far too much effort to stuff himself back into), but doesn’t manage to find his shirt, so he sheepishly wanders into the kitchen shirtless like a moron.

the mystery of his shirt is solved immediately when he sees that you are wearing it. the hem falls right below your ass, and when you move a certain way, mingi can see the bottoms of your cheeks and the hint of black panties.

jesus, even after having the orgasm of his life last night, he’s still so easy.

“morning!” you chirp, when you notice his presence.

“morning,” mingi rasps. “can i- uh- can i help with anything?”

you pause to shoot him a big smile. “no, don’t worry, baby. just sit down. there’s coffee in that mug over there. milk in the fridge.”

mildly stunned at the revelation that your pet names aren’t exclusive to sexy time, mingi follows your instructions. he retrieves a carton of oat milk from the fridge and adds it to his coffee before hopping on a barstool at the kitchen island. he positively inhales the coffee, which must be some kind of special blend because it’s especially fragrant, and watches you bustle around the kitchen with efficiency.

the two of you settle into a comfortable silence, and it’s strangely intimate—domestic—but mingi doesn’t let that part of his imagination run too wild. for his own sanity, it’s probably best if he just takes whatever this is with you one day at a time.

soon, you slide a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast in front of him. you prance into the barstool beside him, nudging it closer so that your knees touch under the countertop.

it smells heavenly, reminds him of weekend breakfasts with his own family, and before he can stop himself, he says,

“thanks, mommy.”

it’s the kind of shithead joke he pulls with yunho and wooyoung often, but with you, it drips with subtext. over the rim of your coffee cup, you raise an eyebrow at him, and he feels his entire face heat up with embarrassment.

“i mean- um—”

“didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff,” you coo. “guess i’ll have to remember that for next time.”

mingi digs into his eggs so that he doesn’t have to look you in the eye while he processes that. next time?!

the rest of breakfast passes uneventfully. you take the reins of the conversation, yapping about your thoughts on chaewon’s frat bro boyfriend. mingi gives all the appropriate reactions at the appropriate times and just basks in the joy of eating a home-cooked breakfast the morning after having sex with his long-time crush.

later, mingi will rinse off your dishes and load them into the dishwasher, and you will return his shirt to him before sending him off with another chaste kiss to the cheek. mingi decides to walk back to his own apartment even though it’s nearly a mile away. but the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and his phone—barely hanging on with 10% battery—buzzes in his pocket with a single text:

y/n l/n has invited you to collaborate on a playlist: mommy issues ;)

[foxtrology]

i want you, i need you, i love you (4)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 12.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since the gallery night.

Since the bath. Since her in his robe. Since the moment she stepped into Harry Castillo’s penthouse and changed everything.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite who he was, despite who she was—they hadn’t combusted.

They’d settled. Sort of. Not into a relationship. Not into anything that had labels or expectations.

And she wasn’t in any rush to be branded. But they were something—and whatever it was, it had slowly started bleeding into the rest of their lives.

He gave her a key on a Tuesday. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just set it on the kitchen counter next to her takeout container, glanced up and said, “So you don’t freeze your ass off waiting for me if I’m not home.” That was it. No smile. No explanation.

Just Harry being cold and mean in the most absurdly tender way.

She didn’t say thank you out loud, but she kissed the corner of his mouth that night a little longer than usual. And he didn’t pull away.

They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t need to. But the rhythms were there.

He kept orange juice stocked in the fridge because she liked it. She started leaving hair ties on his bathroom counter. And a pink razor in his shower. He bought the cereal she liked. She figured out how to work his espresso machine before he did.

And they saw each other constantly. Not every day—he was still Harry Castillo—but almost.

He texted her at odd hours. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Early mornings when he was at the gym at an inhuman hour and saw something that reminded him of her. Articles. Memes.

Yes memes.

Photos of outrageously overpriced apartments that had bathtubs with built-in fireplaces and chandeliers.

He had sent one at 2:13 a.m.

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Would you complain if I bought this?

You: If you bought it and never invited me over, yes.

His response came five minutes later

Old man Harry ❤️👴: You have a key. I’d be forced to.

And that was that.

She didn’t stay over every night. But when she did, she found herself waking up warm. Not just physically—but emotionally. And that scared her more than anything else.

Because Harry Castillo wasn’t easy.

He was brooding. Quiet. Obsessive in ways that only became clear the longer she knew him. But he was consistent. And that? That mattered. He didn’t lie. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. And slowly—slowly—she started letting him in.

It wasn’t until the second week that he found out about her jobs. Plural.

She had just finished showering in his bathroom—wet hair down, wearing one of his button-downs, no pants—when her phone lit up on the bed.

Marco (Flowers): u good to deliver that midtown order today or should I send Gio?

Harry saw it. He blinked. Then stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.

When she stepped out, towel in hand, humming softly to herself, she stopped dead in her tracks.

His eyes were locked on her phone.

She froze. “What?”

Harry lifted it. “Who’s Marco.”

“…Someone I work for.”

“You work where.”

She sighed, already knowing this was going to be a thing. “A flower shop. I help with deliveries sometimes.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Since when.”

She arched a brow. “Since always?”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes—sharp and cold and maybe a little unhinged. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for his own.

“Harry—”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered, typing something.

She squinted. “You’re typing like you’re mad.”

“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “I’m just trying not to throw my phone at the fucking window.”

She blinked. “Jesus. Okay, calm down.”

“How many jobs do you have.”

She hesitated. And that was his answer.

He looked up. “How many.”

“…Three.”

“Three?”

She nodded.

Harry exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You said you were a server.”

“I am.”

“And?”

“I bartend on weekends. And I do flower deliveries during the day sometimes. Under the table. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal.” His voice was low now. Controlled. Furious. “You work three jobs and walk home late at night and don’t tell me?”

Her brows lifted. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t—” he snapped, pacing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a thing. I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to understand why the hell you think it’s normal to exhaust yourself until you collapse.”

She stared at him. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. She softened, just a little. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

He stopped pacing. Turned to her. “It matters,” he said, quietly now. “It matters to me.”

And that? That shut her up.

Because Harry Castillo didn’t say things like that. Not unless they were true. The next morning, he asked for the addresses. All of them. She refused at first.

“You’re not picking me up from work.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re Harry fucking Castillo. You don’t drive. You don’t do Midtown traffic.”

He stared at her. Said nothing.

Then pulled out his phone and typed something. An hour later, she got a notification from Find My iPhone.

Old man Harry ❤️👴 has requested your location.

She stared at it. Then looked up. He smirked.

“Add me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll come find you anyway.”

“You don’t even know where my flower job is.”

“Not yet.”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I don’t want you walking home.”

“I have legs.”

“You have shit shoes.”

“I—”

Harry raised a brow. “Let me take care of you.”

That was it. Just a soft command from a cold man who didn’t beg.

She rolled her eyes. But she added him.

The first time he picked her up, it was raining.

Not the soft, aesthetic kind. No—it was New York level chaotic. Sideways sheets of water, umbrellas flipping inside out, cars honking like they were allergic to patience, subways getting flooded by the second.

She was soaked. Her hair plastered to her forehead, her phone dead, her hands freezing.

And then? A black BMW pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. And there he was. Driving.

She stopped in the rain and blinked. “You…drive.”

Harry stared at her, unimpressed. “Get in.”

“I thought you were allergic to steering wheels.”

He rolled his eyes. “I took a car from my old place. Get in before you drown.”

She slid in, dripping onto the leather seats. “This feels illegal.”

“Your shoes are illegal. What are those, socks with holes?”

“Don’t start.”

He tossed her a dry sweatshirt from the backseat—his, of course. “Put this on.”

She did. And the car smelled like him. From then on, it became a thing. Not official. Not daily. But often enough that she started waiting for it. Harry would show up outside her server shift around 11:15 p.m., texting her with a simple

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Here.

Or he’d pull up to the bar on Fridays, leaning against the hood like he hadn’t spent the day managing millions of dollars and threatening CEOs. Sometimes he brought coffee. Sometimes just a dry shirt and a scowl. But he always showed. And she never had to ask.

Their nights together stayed the same.

Mostly.

She’d enter the penthouse quietly. Leave her shoes by the door. Sometimes he was already home, waiting with dinner or a clean towel or just himself—half-dressed and reading on the couch wearing his glasses that make him look like an even bigger old man.

Sometimes he got home after her, muttering about meetings, his voice hoarse, jaw tense from hours of pretending he didn’t want to text her every five minutes.

But they always ended the night the same way. In bed. Tangled. Quiet. Bodies pressed close under too many sheets and not enough words.

He never said he missed her. But he texted her at 3:07 p.m. once after a brutal meeting with the board...

Old man Harry ❤️👴: This room is full of people who make me want to kill myself. You would’ve made it bearable.

She smiled when she read it. Didn’t respond right away. Let him sit in it. Later that night, when she curled up beside him, he didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around her waist like a reflex.

On Sunday mornings, they got bagels. It started accidentally. She had mentioned a craving for egg and cheese one night in passing, barely awake, face pressed into his chest.

He said nothing.

Then the next morning? Bagel. Wrapped in foil. Sitting on the counter.

She blinked at it.

“Did you—”

“I didn’t want to hear you complain later,” he muttered.

So now it was a thing. Bagels on Sunday. No talking until coffee. Her in his oversized shirts. Him in sweatpants with his hair pushed back, watching her read something on her phone while chewing with her mouth open.

“You’re disgusting,” he’d say.

“You’re in love with me,” she’d fire back.

He never answered. Just stared. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks in and they still weren’t a couple. Not in public. Not in labels. But in the way he made her tea when she lost her voice. In the way she slipped notes into his briefcase. In the way he bought her new socks and refused to acknowledge it.

They were something. Something real. Something building. And neither of them wanted to name it yet. But maybe they didn’t have to.

Because Harry wasn’t used to letting people stay.

And she?

She had the key.

And Harry knew he was fucked.

It was raining. Again.

Not the romantic kind, either. Not the bullshit people wrote about in novels. This was relentless New York rain. Cold, gray, street-soaking, ankle-wrecking rain. The kind that blurred the skyline and made everything feel too still and too loud at the same time.

His office windows, floor-to-ceiling and usually pristine, were streaked with water. He could barely see the city through them. Which was probably for the best. Because if he could see the Lower East Side right now, he might actually snap and send a helicopter.

He hadn’t heard from her since she’d texted around 9 p.m., after he dropped her off.

You: Frances is being dramatic tonight 🙄

That was it. No follow-up. No photo. Not even a meme. Just that. And now it was past 1 a.m.

Harry leaned back in his chair, phone resting facedown on the edge of his desk, his thumb twitching with the impulse to check it again.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He already had. Fifteen times.

“Frances,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

Across the room, Danny—half-asleep on the leather couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place—perked up.

“What?”

Harry didn’t look at him. Just ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the window like it had personally offended him.

“She texted me earlier. Said Frances was being dramatic.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Ooooh.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t.”

“Do you know who Frances is?”

“I assume…someone in her building?” Harry said, like it was obvious. Like that didn’t already make his throat itch with jealousy.

Danny sat up, cracking his neck. “You assume Frances is a neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“You sure Frances isn’t her ex?”

Harry froze. Very still.

Danny raised a brow, voice far too casual. “I mean. Sounds like something you'd say about someone you know well. Like an ex.”

“Don’t,” Harry warned again, but it was too late. The image was there now.

Frances. Laughing on her couch. Feet on her coffee table. Touching things that didn’t belong to him. Sleeping in a bed that did.

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“Maybe she’s a woman,” he said, but it didn’t land. Not when the image had already nested behind his eyes. Not when the silence that followed made him feel like a kicked dog.

Danny yawned, stretching. “Well, if she comes back tomorrow limping, we’ll know.”

Harry looked up so fast the pen in his hand dropped.

Danny cackled.

“Kidding.”

“Get out.”

Danny didn’t. He just flopped back down, arms behind his head. “You’re unwell.”

Harry didn’t argue. Because he was. He was so far gone he could feel it in the base of his spine. He’d sent the whole team home hours ago—mid-pitch.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t finish the goddamn Italy paperwork. The Italy contract—the Italy contract—was sitting open in front of him. A landmark deal.

A decade in the making. Acquisition of a sustainable architecture firm based out of Florence. Tens of millions. Possibly more, if the valuation shifted after Q2.

He was supposed to fly out on Thursday. There was a dinner with the lead architect, a walking tour of the property grounds, some presentation on green luxury Harry couldn’t pretend to care about.

They’d blocked out four days. Harry had almost signed it. Almost. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her in Italy.

He wanted her in a sundress and sunglasses she bought at a corner shop. He wanted to take her to restaurants where no one knew who he was—where they’d drink wine that tasted like cherries and share plates of pasta so good she’d groan with her mouth full.

He wanted to watch her tan—really tan—on a hotel balcony in nothing but one of his button-downs and sunscreen.

He wanted her bare legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rented car while he drove with the windows down and her hand on his thigh. He wanted her bored at a vineyard tour.

Wanted her to lean in and whisper something filthy in his ear just to see if he’d blush.

He wanted to fuck her in a hotel shower with the windows open, the Tuscan hills in the distance and her moaning into his neck like it was a prayer.

He wanted to fall asleep with her in a bed that smelled like citrus and sex, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rain on the villa roof.

He wanted to live with her. Just for a week. Just enough to make it real. To prove it wasn’t some New York fantasy.

Danny cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

Harry didn’t look up. “So are you.”

“Because I’m trying to get you to finish the Florence paperwork.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Danny stared at him. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stood.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered, grabbing his jacket. “You’re in love.”

Harry grabbed his own coat. “Drop me off.”

Danny blinked. “It’s 1 a.m.”

“I know where she lives.”

Danny didn’t argue. He just followed. They always got in separate cars. Harry always took the backseat. But tonight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Danny's Mercedes.

Danny glanced over. “You nervous?”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The rain kept coming down. The roads were slick. The city lights blurry. But when they pulled onto her street, Harry felt it—

That low thrum in his chest. That ache. Because he knew this block. Knew it like a scar. She wasn’t just a girl he saw now. She was a rhythm in his life. A piece of the architecture.

Danny pulled up to the curb. Parked. Then turned, lips twitching.

“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe Frances wore her out.”

Harry shot him a look that could’ve killed. Danny just sent him a smirk. And Harry stepped out into the rain.

The air was sharp with that metallic wetness unique to New York downpours. Streetlights flickered against puddles. A pizza box floated past the curb like a makeshift raft.

And still—Harry didn’t rush. He took his time walking.

Her street in Lower East Side, uneven pavement, corners that smelled like cigarettes and Chinatown egg rolls—was familiar now.

He knew the rhythm of her block. He knew that the laundromat two doors down always had one broken dryer. He knew which deli overcharged for grapes.

And he knew the exact slab of sidewalk where she told him she once tripped while texting him. It was cracked slightly, a jagged edge of concrete peeking up like a warning. She’d texted him from the pavement, too.

You: You made me fall, jackass. I was smiling too hard.

That text had stayed in his phone longer than it should have.

He passed the bodega next. The one she claimed had the best dried mangoes in the city. She’d once spent thirty minutes ranting about the owner’s theories on aliens and glitter. Yes glitter.

Now Harry found himself slowing in front of the doors. Peering in. Wondering if the guy knew her name. Wondering if he knew about him.

By the time he reached her building, his shoulders were soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, collar sticking. His suit jacket was definitely ruined. But he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He hit the buzzer.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Nothing.

Then—finally—crackled static.

“…Hello?” Her voice was sleepy.

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then—

“Harry?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

More static. Then a muffled, rustling sound. “It’s—uh—4C. Come up.”

The buzzer rang. The door clicked. He took the stairs. She didn’t have an elevator. Of course she didn’t.

By the time he reached her floor, his heart was hammering for no reason. The hallway smelled like weed and soup dumplings. The walls were covered in scuff marks, and someone had drawn a crooked heart on one of the exit signs.

4C had a little sticker on the door. A cartoon ghost holding a margarita. He stared at it for a beat. Then knocked.

She opened the door in one of his shirts—his black one, faded from too many washes—hanging off one shoulder, loose like a dress. Her legs were bare except for cotton boxers with tiny strawberries on them. Her hair was pulled up messily. She looked flushed. And sleepy. And worried.

“You’re soaked,” she said immediately, pulling him inside by the lapel of his jacket. “Jesus, Harry.”

Her hands were already working to unbutton his coat. “Why didn’t you text? I thought you were working.”

“I couldn’t focus,” he said, watching her.

“You’re going to get sick,” she muttered, peeling the jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “Come here—hold still—”

He let her work, silent. She was warm hands and furrowed brows and concern in motion.

Once the jacket was off, she yanked at his tie. “This too.”

He raised a brow. “Undressing me already?”

“You showed up looking like the stock market,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smirked.

She disappeared for a second, then tossed him a pair of old gray sweatpants.

He caught them. Eyebrow raised. “You keep men’s sweats on hand?”

She groaned. “They’re Maya’s ex’s. Don’t get excited.”

He stepped into the living room fully now. And froze. Because for the first time, he was seeing where she lived.

Where she lived when she wasn’t with him.

The apartment was small. Lived in. Cluttered—but in a way that made it feel warm, not chaotic. Like every single thing inside of it had a story.

The living room was split between two mismatched couches—one thrifted velvet, the other beige corduroy with a sag in the middle. There were throw blankets in every texture imaginable—fleece, knit, faux fur.

The coffee table was covered in books, old takeout menus, half burnt candles in jars labeled sandalwood, fig, vanilla.

The walls were cluttered with art—some of it clearly Maya’s, some vintage posters, The Virgin Suicides, Before Sunrise, Blade Runner, Patti Smith’s Horses album, and a random framed photo of a pigeon wearing sunglasses.

The fridge in the kitchen was a museum of magnets and notes. There was even a shopping list written in red marker on the fridge door. It read

oat milk

cheez-its

limes

incense

Maya’s weird vegan yogurt

tampons

trash bags

candles (sex ones, not funeral ones)

wine

frozen waffles

cat food

Harry blinked at the last item.

“You have a cat?”

She paused. “...Yes?”

His jaw tensed. “Frances?”

She frowned. “What?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “You said Frances is being dramatic tonight.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. And pointed behind him.

Harry turned. And saw a large, grumpy-looking tabby cat perched on the windowsill. Staring at him with narrowed eyes like it knew he’d imagined something inappropriate.

“That’s Frances,” she said, snorting. “She’s named after Frances McDormand. She’s 16 and hates everything exept my heating pad.”

Harry stared at the cat. Then back at her. Then at the cat again.

“You thought Frances was a man?” she said, grinning.

“I thought Frances was your ex.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing louder. “You showed up in the rain to confront me about an elderly cat?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Shut up.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

He looked around again. At her world. At the chipped mugs on the dish rack—each one different. One said World’s Okayest Bartender, another had a faded drawing of a walrus. The scarf hanging from a coat hook was purple velvet, half-unraveled at one end.

There were keys on a lanyard that read BOSTON UNIVERSITY, and a half-full tote bag with a produce sticker still stuck to the bottom corner.

The shelf by the entryway overflowed with mail, cracked sunglasses, a tiny hand-painted dish full of bobby pins, and a single, slightly burnt birthday candle shoved into a chunk of ceramic shaped like a frog. The coffee table had three coasters but none of them matched. There were stickers slapped across the side of the fridge—Protect Roe, Biden Harris 2020, Elvis is Alive and So Am I.

In the bathroom, he passed by the open door and caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with rosewater toner and humidity. The mirror had streaks of lipstick.

Tampons sat on the counter beside an open tin of bobby pins. Dry shampoo. A chipped compact. An old mascara wand lying next to her makeup bag that looked like it had seen war. A pack of pink razors balanced on the edge of the sink like it might leap to freedom any minute.

The hallway wall had a row of hooks, all cluttered—coats, purses, canvas totes, one very fluffy pink bathrobe, and what looked like a dog leash even though she didn’t own a dog. The floor creaked in the middle.

And her bedroom—

Her bedroom was even more intimate. Twinkly lights looped around the ceiling like a soft halo. One strand flickered near the corner. The walls were covered—Cléo from 5 to 7, Velvet Underground, a retro ballet poster, another that read Prince's Purple Rain.

Dried lavender hung upside down beside a Polaroid photo strip taped above her dresser mirror. The dresser was cluttered with rings in tiny dishes, perfume bottles in varying levels of emptiness, tangled necklaces, and an open book of poetry facedown like she’d been reading and got distracted halfway through.

The bed wasn’t made. Worn sheets. Muted floral comforter rumpled down to the foot. A stuffed lamb with one ear bent sat on the pillow beside a pile of soft, mismatched throw blankets. There was a hoodie—his—draped over the headboard.

Her nightstand was pure chaos. A cracked phone charger plugged into an extension cord wrapped in colorful washing tape. A half-eaten cookie. Lip balm. A lighter. A box of allergy medicine. A stack of receipts, one with eggs, incense, LaCroix, cat treats, cherry cough drops scribbled on the back. An empty glass, a hair clip, and a worn paperback with the corner folded as a bookmark—The Secret History.

There was an incense holder shaped like a tiny hand. And beside that, a photo of her and a little girl in matching sunglasses, both sticking out their tongues. It was soft. Lived-in. Completely her.

And absolutely the opposite of Lucy’s old apartment. Lucy’s world had been cold glass vases with eucalyptus branches, arranged like she Googled elegant minimalism. White couches no one could sit on. Art that cost thousands but said nothing. A color-coded closet and a bathroom that looked like a Glossier pop-up—sterile, spotless, unloved.

This? This was chaos and warmth and late night pizza crumbs and nail polish spilled on tile. This was home.

And for reasons Harry couldn’t articulate—didn’t dare admit even to himself—he wanted to be a part of it. Even if it scared the hell out of him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said finally.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You didn’t. I mean, you did. But I’m glad.”

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. Lavender shampoo. Something floral. Her. Frances meowed loudly, interrupting the moment.

She pulled back. “She wants food. Hold on.”

As she went into the kitchen, Harry stood in the middle of her room, still dripping slightly, holding borrowed sweatpants in one hand and the ghost of something warmer than he knew what to do with in the other.

He was fucked. So, so fucked. And he didn’t want to leave. So that night Harry stayed. The rain hadn’t let up.

It fell in steady sheets against her bedroom window—so constant it was starting to sound like static. Or breath. Or the thud of a heartbeat pressed against his ear.

She was in boxers and one of his shirts.

He was in borrowed sweatpants from a man who didn’t matter.

And they were brushing their teeth together in a bathroom that smelled like rosewater and lavender. She bumped into him twice. Once on purpose. Once not. He didn’t care.

He’d forgotten what this felt like. Being near someone. Really near.

Not polished. Not curated. Not part of some long game. Just… here. In a too small bathroom. In her world. She leaned into the mirror to swipe a lip mask on her lips.

He watched her. Like she was art.

When she turned, he was still staring.

“What,” she asked, mouth soft.

“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “I just like looking at... you.”

They left the light on. Left the door cracked. The apartment was dark except for that glow and the warm flicker of the TV.

Her bed wasn’t big. A full, maybe. But it held them both. Barely.

She threw the comforter over them, then curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes were heavy, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. He shifted beside her, body pressed along the curve of hers. Not touching yet. Just close enough that the space between them buzzed.

And then she clicked on the remote. The TV was an old one—boxy, with a DVD player built into the side. It hummed softly as the disc spun.

He blinked. “Is that Sex and the City?”

She nodded. “Season four.”

He glanced down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You have the DVDs?”

“I’m not a heathen.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I haven’t seen a DVD player in a decade.”

She shrugged. “You’re missing out.”

The episode began. Carrie was monologuing. Samantha was best dressed. Charlotte was earnestly hopeful. Miranda was eating Chinese food in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his ribs. He felt it everywhere. The rain thudded gently on the window. Frances padded into the room and began eating delicately from her tiny floral bowl in the corner.

Harry reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “She always eats this late?”

“She’s nocturnal. Like me.”

He hummed. “You’re soft at night.”

She smiled against his skin. “You’re not.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing her arm with his fingers. “But I want to be.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Because you are.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Her body shifted, draping over his. One leg between his. One hand under his shirt, splayed against his stomach. She wasn’t trying to start anything. She just wanted to feel him.

And Harry? He let her.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Let the scent of her hair—lavender and something distinctly her—anchor him.

He wanted to tell her right then. About Italy. About the dinner. The villa. The way he imagined her laughing while wine sloshed in her glass. The way he pictured her sunburnt and barefoot, dancing in a linen dress she’d haggled for at a street market.

He wanted to tell her he’d already asked Danny to add a plus one. Wanted to beg her to come. To wake up with him somewhere coastal and quiet, where he could watch her dip into cold water and wrap herself in a towel and ask him what they were going to eat next.

But instead—

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Careful.

She sighed.

“Your heartbeat’s fast,” she murmured.

“You’re laying on my chest,” he said. “Of course it is.”

She smiled. “Mine too.”

Frances jumped up onto the bed and circled twice before curling against the back of Harry’s legs. Her fur was soft. Her breathing slow.

The rain pressed harder against the windows. The radiator clinked. The light from the TV flickered over the posters on the wall.

Onscreen, Carrie was questioning whether men were biologically capable of monogamy.

Harry whispered, “Jesus.”

She snorted. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I take everything personally.”

Her hand slid over his stomach again. A slow drag of her fingers, like she could calm something inside him. And maybe she did.

Because that night—

Harry Castillo slept in a tiny bed with a woman who wore his clothes and brushed her teeth with glitter-handled toothbrushes. He slept through the storm. He slept through Carrie’s voice.

He slept through the ache of every part of him that used to hurt.

Because in her world—this small, messy, beautiful world—he didn’t have to be the version of himself that scared people. He just had to be hers. And that was enough.

The morning soon came and of course he woke up first. 

She was still asleep when Harry stirred. Pressed against his chest like she belonged there.

Which—by now—maybe she did.

The light coming in through the bedroom window was soft and overcast, the kind of gray that made you want to stay under the covers forever. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the air still smelled like it—clean, cool, quiet.

Harry was warm. Ridiculously warm.

Frances was curled up on his feet again, the cat’s soft purring vibrating faintly against his ankle.

And her—

She was wrapped around him. One leg tossed over his hip. One hand curled beneath his shirt—her shirt—she decided to throw on him last minute before bed. Face pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his pulse.

He hadn’t moved for hours. Didn’t want to. The bed was small, but it had held them both. Just barely. There was something absurdly perfect about that. About how they fit.

He let his eyes drift open, blinking up at the ceiling plastered with glow in the dark stars. He hadn’t noticed them last night. She’d stuck them up there, probably years ago, probably drunk, maybe high. They weren’t aligned properly—some clustered too close, others spread out too wide—but it made Harry smile.

It was so her.

Then—

The door creaked.

His eyes shot to it, his arm tightening around her instinctively. And there she was.

Maya.

In sweats, hoodie up, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and half a bagel in her mouth. She froze in the doorway, chewing slowly as she saw them both.

Harry blinked. She blinked back.

And then—

She smiled.

“Morning,” she said, voice casual, still chewing. “I got bagels.”

His brows lifted. “Maya?”

“Mmhm.” She stepped fully into the room, walked past the bed like this wasn’t completely surreal, and set a brown paper bag on the desk. “One’s egg and cheese, one’s veggie, one’s plain. I got a discount so I went wild. You're not vegan, right?”

“I’m not.” 

Maya nodded. “Cool.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then she stirred beside him.

She blinked. Then groaned. “Maya?”

“Hey, you.” Maya turned, already backing out. “Don’t get up. I’m leaving again. Nate broke one of the frames while carrying it up the stairs and I have to go reconstruct it before the opening or I’ll die. Eat your bagel.”

“Maya—”

“Love you, mean it.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her. Harry turned slowly. 

She rubbed her eyes. “That’s Maya.”

“She seems…unfazed.”

“She walked in on me giving my high school boyfriend a blowjob in this same bed,” she mumbled. “This is practically G-rated.”

Harry choked. “Jesus Christ.”

She grinned, finally stretching. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, still blinking at the door. “She left you a bagel.”

“She’s thoughtful like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The air was warm. The room smelled like her shampoo and toasted everything bagels.

She sat up, reaching for the bag. “You want half?”

“I want the whole thing,” he muttered, watching the way her sleep shirt—his shirt—slipped off her shoulder as she handed it to him.

She raised a brow. “Of the bagel or me?”

Harry took a slow bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before answering.

“Yes.”

She laughed—quiet and groggy—and curled back into the blankets beside him while he finished eating.

The disc in her old TV menu-looped quietly in the background. And that was when Harry realized—

He didn’t want to leave. Not this apartment. Not her bed. Not this mess of a morning that felt like something he hadn’t let himself hope for. He looked down at her, at the way she was nibbling the corner of a veggie bagel and letting cream cheese smear across her knuckle without noticing.

And that was it. That was the moment. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse. Didn’t run it through his head a hundred times the way he usually did with big decisions. Because this wasn’t business.

This was her.

“Come to Italy with me.”

She blinked. Mid-bite. Mid-smear of cream cheese.

“What?”

He set his half-finished bagel on the napkin beside them.

“I want you to come to Italy with me,” he said again, softer now. “I leave in three days.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the joke. But there wasn’t one. Harry was deadly serious.

She swallowed. “You’re inviting me on a trip. To Italy.”

“It’s not a trip,” he said. “It’s a…thing. For work. Big contract. Private villa, vineyard dinner, all that bullshit. I need to be there to finalize some logistics.”

She blinked again.

“You want me to tag along to a work trip in another country?”

“I want you to be there.”

A pause.

“I want to see you sunkissed,” he murmured, voice dipping. “I want to watch you eat pasta with your fingers and lick sauce off your wrist. I want to soak with you in some overpriced marble tub with your legs wrapped around me, pretending we’re not real people.”

Her breath caught.

“I want you to hang off my arm and point at things in little shops and tell me they’re ugly and buy them anyway. I want you to fall asleep in my lap on a train. I want to hear what you sound like in another language.”

She didn’t speak.

Just stared at him.

“And yes,” he added, reaching out to brush a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. “I want you there at the dinner. I want you in a dress with your hair up and that little necklace you always wear. I want to introduce you as someone who makes the rest of this shit feel worth it.”

She swallowed hard. Tried to laugh. Failed.

“You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh?”

He nodded. “I’m old. I don’t have time for subtlety.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Frances can’t come.”

He blinked. “The cat?”

“She’s bad on planes.”

He laughed—genuine and warm—and reached for her hand beneath the sheets.

“You don't need to pay for a flight,” he said. “I have a jet. I want you there.”

She looked down at their hands. His thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles.

“Three days?”

He nodded.

“Do I have to wear heels?”

“Only if you want to kill me.”

She smiled. Bit her lip. Thought.

“Okay.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Okay?”

She nodded again, smaller this time. “Okay. I’ll come to Italy with you, old man.”

He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just leaned forward and kissed her hand. Soft. Simple. Grateful.

Frances leapt up onto the bed, meowing loudly.

“Guess she wants to come too,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“She’s not allowed.”

“She’ll sue.”

“She can try.”

They laid back down—Harry still half-clothed, her shirt riding up at the hem—and just breathed for a moment. Rain tapped lightly against the windows again. The smell of warm bagels lingered in the air.

And Harry Castillo? For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or numbers or failing. He was thinking about sunlit train rides. About her in linen. About the taste of wine off her mouth in a country that didn’t know who they were.

He was thinking about falling in love.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

She was too.

They didn’t move for a while after that. Just laid there in the warmth of her small, chaotic bedroom—bagel crumbs on the sheets, Frances purring between them, her bare leg draped over his thigh like it belonged there.

Eventually though, real life crept back in. It started with a stretch. Then a yawn.

Then her mumbling, “I should shower.”

To which Harry responded, “I’ll die if you move right now.”

But she did. Of course she did.

She slipped out of bed with that effortless, half-asleep grace, hair tangled, his shirt riding up over her thighs. She padded barefoot across the hardwood and vanished into the bathroom without another word.

Harry stayed in bed for another five minutes. Just… thinking. About Italy. About her. About the fact that she said yes. Then—he got up. Went to the kitchen to get water. That’s when he opened her fridge.

And paused.

It wasn’t empty, exactly.

Jars of random sauces. A half-used block of feta. Mismatched Tupperware with exactly two bites of leftovers. A dozen eggs, one cracked. A bag of spinach that looked like it had been forgotten in a war zone. Five different types of hot sauce. A single mini vodka.

There were ingredients. But no actual food.

And Harry?

Harry had spent the last decade with a private chef and a housekeeper. His pantry looked like an organic catalog.

This? This was something else.

She padded back into the kitchen, hair damp, teeth brushed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “What?”

He turned from the fridge, holding up a sad little container of pickled onions. “This is your dinner?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sometimes I make pasta.”

“Out of hot sauce and… half a lemon?”

“Adds flavor.”

Harry looked at her like she was a war orphan. She grinned.

He shut the fridge. “We’re going to the store.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not letting you live like this.”

She leaned against the counter, playful. “You trying to domesticate me?”

He walked past her, smacked a kiss on her temple, and muttered, “Put on real shoes.”

They stopped at his penthouse first.

“I’m not going to the store in a suit,” he explained as they stepped off the elevator.

She looked him up and down. He had put his suit back on after she left it hanging up to dry overnight.

“You look like you’re about to close on a skyscraper.”

He loosened his collar. “Exactly. I want to buy produce, not acquire a hedge fund.”

She made herself comfortable while he changed. Shoes off. Feet up. Sitting sideways on his pristine leather couch with Frances curled beside her in her tote bag like a queen.

When Harry emerged again, everything shifted. He was in a navy fleece. Dark jeans. Clean sneakers. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he looked—God, he looked like a boyfriend. Like a rich, brooding, ridiculously hot boyfriend who didn’t like other men looking at his girl.

Which he proved five minutes later.

The market was close. Not some chaotic Manhattan chain store.

This place was a little upscale. A little overpriced. The kind with hand-written chalk signs and fancy cheese displays and a barista in the corner who actually knew what cortado meant.

He parked on the street and opened the door for her.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“So why do you?”

“Because if I don’t, some other asshole will.”

She blinked then laughed. “Jesus.”

Harry took her hand as they walked inside.

Casual. Like it was just a thing he did. But when two guys standing near the tomato stand turned to stare at her—eyes lingering a second too long—Harry’s entire body tensed.

She didn’t notice. But he did. Every glance. Every flick of attention. Every half-smirk and second look.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful. It was the way she walked. The way she moved. The way she laughed when she picked up a can of whipped cream and shook it at him.

“You ever had this on strawberries?”

He blinked. “...No.”

She grinned. “Tragic.”

He didn’t respond. Just added two pints of strawberries and the whipped cream to their basket. She pushed the cart. He added things quietly as they passed them.

Olive oil. Sea salt. Fancy cereal she probably didn’t even like but the box looked pretty. Pasta made by a brand with an unpronounceable name. Parmesan wrapped in wax paper. Fresh basil.

He let her pick the bread. Watched her fingers dance over the loaves before finally choosing one with sesame seeds. He’d never cared what bread tasted like before. But now?

He wanted to watch her butter that slice and eat it on his couch with her knees tucked under her, wearing one of his shirts again.

They turned down the wine aisle.

She held up a bottle. “This one?”

He checked the label. “You like reds?”

“I like this red.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s twenty-one dollars.”

Harry raised a brow. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and added it to the cart anyway.

He followed behind her, watching the way her fingers curled over the cart handle, the way she tapped her nails when she was thinking.

A guy walked past. Looked directly at her ass.

Harry moved instantly—slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek like it was nothing.

The guy looked away. Quickly.

She leaned in, amused. “Was that possessive or horny?”

“Yes,” Harry murmured.

At checkout, she pulled out her wallet. Harry didn’t even blink. Just slid his card into the reader before she could open it.

“Harry—”

“You’re heading to a whole other county with me.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you fucking groceries.”

She sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t respond.

Just kissed his jaw and whispered, “Thank you.”

They carried the bags back to the car, her arms full, the air still damp from the rain.

Frances meowed softly from her tote, swatting at the handle of the bread bag.

“Frances, if you break my focaccia, you’re not going to Italy.”

“She’s not going to Italy.”

“She’s gonna file a complaint.”

“She’s gonna stay with Maya.”

They both laughed.

Back at her place, they unpacked side by side. She tossed him a bag of spinach.

He raised a brow. “You’re gonna use this?”

“Maybe.”

��Uh huh.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I am judging you.”

She elbowed him.

He stole a piece of her cheese.

Frances curled up on the window sill.

The kitchen smelled like basil and citrus and something that could have been the beginning of a life.

Harry leaned back against the counter. Watched her move. Watched the way her fingers brushed crumbs off the cutting board.

And he thought—

This. This was what he’d been missing. Not the girl. Not just her body. But the mundanity of it.

The way she stood barefoot while she put the yogurt in the fridge. The way she hummed to herself while sorting the pantry. The way her hand brushed his like it meant nothing—and everything.

He couldn’t remember what it was like not to want this. And maybe he didn’t want to.

It was the day before they left for Italy.

And Harry was folding her socks.

That alone would’ve been enough to send Danny into early retirement if he’d seen it.

Moments like this, when Harry Castillo, billionaire, former tabloid cryptid, was sitting on a floor of a cramped Lower East Side apartment, cross-legged, carefully rolling tiny pairs of white ankle socks into little cotton donuts and lining them up in the corner of a borrowed suitcase in her bedroom—made her feel happy.

So fucking happy.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she mumbled from the bed, half-asleep, cheek pressed into the duvet.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re rolling them like they’re cigars.”

“They’re supposed to be tight.”

“They’ll stretch out.”

Harry didn’t look up. “They’re socks.”

“Yeah, and you’re acting like you’re assembling high-grade explosives.”

He smirked faintly, tucking another rolled pair into the suitcase. “I take packing seriously.”

She opened one eye. “You once told me you haven’t packed your own bag in five years.”

“That was before you made me human again.”

She blinked. He kept rolling socks. Like he hadn’t just said the most quietly devastating thing of all time.

Packing had taken hours.

Partly because she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she’d already folded.

Partly because Harry had brought over a suitcase from his place—one of those sleek matte black things with TSA locks and wheels that didn’t squeak—and she kept insisting it looked like a tiny armored vehicle.

“I can’t believe I’m borrowing your suitcase,” she’d muttered earlier that day, trying to cram a bathing suit and two sundresses into it at once.

“You didn’t have one.”

“I have a duffel bag.”

Harry looked horrified. “That’s not a suitcase. That’s a threat.”

She threw a sock at him.

He ducked, grinning.

She hadn’t traveled internationally in years. Her passport was expired until recently—she only renewed it because Maya begged her to.

The last stamp it had? Toronto. Age 20. Two broke girls, a shared Airbnb, one near-death experience on a rented bike, and a night of crying on a beach with champagne from CVS.

Now she was going to Italy.

With Harry fucking Castillo. On his private jet.

And somehow, he still got excited watching her zip up a suitcase.

They barely slept the night before the flight. Too many nerves. Too many lists.

She kept checking her phone to make sure her passport was actually in her bag.

Harry watched her, amused. Said nothing.

Instead, he busied himself in her kitchen, making tea they didn’t drink and cutting fruit they didn’t eat.

He couldn’t sit still.

Not because of the trip.

Because of the envelope.

It had come two days ago.

A thin ivory card tucked inside pale pink stationary, his name written in looping gold script across the front

Mr. Harry Castillo + Guest You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lucy & John  Saturday, June 8th, 2025 2:30 PM Chatham Bars Inn Cape Cod, Massachusetts

There was a note scribbled at the bottom in faint pen.

In Lucy's writing. 

No pressure if you can’t come. We’d still love to see you.

Harry had stared at it for ten full minutes before tucking it under a file on his desk and pretending it hadn’t arrived.

He hadn’t told her.

Not because he was hiding anything. Not really. But because he didn’t want to bring Lucy into this. Into them.

Not when she was standing barefoot in his shirt, trying to find her phone charger and muttering about whether three pairs of jeans were “too many.”

Not when she called out, “Did I pack underwear already?” and he responded,

“Twelve pairs.”

Not when she looked at him across the room like he was something safe.

He would tell her eventually. Just…not yet.

The morning of the flight came quietly. It was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

She groaned. “What time is it?”

“2:30.”

“In the morning?”

“You agreed to this.”

“I was in love with you when I agreed. I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry smirked and sat up, sliding a hand through his hair. Frances jumped onto the bed and meowed directly into his face.

“She’s saying don’t leave me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“She’s saying feed me.”

She rolled over and stared at him. “Do you always look like that when you wake up?”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone just photoshopped exhaustion and sex appeal.”

He threw a pillow at her.

By 3 a.m., Danny was downstairs in the car, already texting.

Danny: I’m not saying we’re late, but we’re late.

Danny: I have coffee. And donuts. And two kinds of Dramamine.

Harry grabbed the suitcase, double-checked her passport, triple-checked the address with Danny, and then took one last look around her apartment.

She was saying goodbye to Frances, promising her the neighbor would stop by and that Maya would be back by sunrise.

Harry just… watched her.

The way she knelt down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

The way she whispered, “Don’t pee on my rug just to spite me, you little demon.”

He smiled to himself.

The car ride was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows.

She curled up in the back seat with his sweatshirt tucked under her chin. Harry held her hand.

Danny sat in the passenger seat, wisely keeping his mouth shut except to say, “It’s a beautiful jet, by the way. You’re gonna be insufferable about it.”

She looked up sleepily. “Is it big?”

Harry kissed her fingers. “It’s private.”

She grinned. “I feel like a Bond girl.”

The jet was waiting. Sleek. Immaculate. Tucked away on the private runway like something out of a movie.

She blinked when they pulled up. “That’s… ours?”

Harry nodded.

Danny sighed. “Yours. I still fly commercial.”

Inside, the cabin was pristine.

Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A tiny bar in the corner already stocked with orange juice and sparkling water and espresso pods.

Harry showed her how to buckle the seatbelt. How to adjust the window shade. Where the snacks were.

She laughed. “Are you my flight attendant now?”

“Only on this airline,” he muttered.

Once they took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the skyline disappear.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of her seat.

Danny popped in once. Dropped off croissants. Said something about Italian cell service and their hotel driver. Then vanished again.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

He watched her fall asleep mid-sentence, lips parted slightly, hair tucked under her hoodie.

He didn’t move. Didn’t work. Didn’t check his phone.

Just… stayed beside her.

And for the first time since that ivory envelope arrived—

He didn’t think about Lucy.

Didn’t think about what might’ve been.

Didn’t think about anything but the fact that in a few short hours, they’d land in a city made of light and wine and ancient stone.

And he’d get to see her walk through it.

Get to hear her gasp at things he’d seen a thousand times.

Get to hold her hand while she ate gelato and pointed at pigeons and got overwhelmed in a market stall and accidentally bought a tablecloth because she thought the vendor was complimenting her hair.

He didn’t want anyone else there.

Just her. And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had always been.

They landed at exactly 5:32 PM local time.

The air was different. Warmer, even in early evening. The light had a honeyed edge to it—soft gold and long shadows draped across the tarmac like something out of a postcard. The jet slowly came to a stop as she blinked blearily at the window, hoodie bunched around her waist, tank top loose and clinging. No bra. 

Harry glanced over at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.

"You’re going to give someone a heart attack the second we step off this plane."

She yawned. "Good. Let them die seeing something beautiful."

He almost smiled.

As soon as the door opened, the energy shifted.

Three black cars waited on the runway. Two assistants in pressed suits stood beside them, flanked by a driver and what looked like a security consultant in a tailored gray jacket. The woman in front stepped forward immediately, beaming like Harry personally discovered electricity.

One sign read: CASTILLO PARTY – VILLA LUMEN.

"Mr. Castillo! Welcome back. We’re honored. Truly."

Harry gave a brief nod, hand resting on the small of her back.

The woman turned to her next. "Mrs. Castillo, we hope the flight was comfortable. We’ve arranged everything at the villa. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need."

She froze. Blinked. But Harry didn’t correct her.

Neither did she.

He just squeezed her hip gently and muttered, "Let them think whatever they want."

The drive was smooth, luxurious, absurd.

The countryside blurred past—green vineyards, cypress trees, stone walls bathed in sunset. Their driver offered wine and chilled sparkling water in crystal-cut glasses. The seats reclined. The windows were tinted so deeply she could’ve fallen asleep again without anyone noticing.

But she stayed awake. Watching Harry.

Watching the way he relaxed by degrees, slowly, as the city disappeared behind them.

When they pulled up to the villa, she nearly forgot how to speak.

It was unreal.

Terracotta walls. Ivy-covered balconies. Lavender blooming along the path leading up to the entrance. White roses climbing up the columns. A view that stretched over the hills for what looked like miles.

Inside, everything smelled like lemon and clean linen. Marble floors, arched windows, a winding staircase made of stone.

Their hosts didn’t linger.

Just offered soft words, a bow, and a smile before vanishing with the promise, “Dinner will be served at eight. You are encouraged to rest until then.”

She just stared, slowly spinning in a circle, looking at every detail of the place.

"They put us in the west wing," Harry muttered, fingers lightly brushing her back as they were led upstairs.

"We have wings now?"

He looked at her. "We have whatever the fuck we want."

The bedroom made her stop walking.

A carved wooden bed stood in the middle, sheets white and impossibly soft. The balcony doors were open, a breeze dancing in. Beyond them—vineyards. Hills. A sky slowly turning the color of ripe apricots. 

There were flowers on the nightstand.

A bottle of wine already uncorked.

Macarons in a glass bowl.

She lets out a sigh, closing her eyes as she makes her way out onto the balcony. 

"Is this a honeymoon suite?" she whispered.

Harry didn’t answer.

He stepped behind her instead. Hands on her waist. Lips grazing her neck.

"Come here."

She turned in his arms, breath catching. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight. There was something restless behind it. Something feral.

"You’re quiet," she murmured.

He studied her face. His hands slid under her tank top.

"You smell like a fucking dream."

She arched a brow. "That’s not an answer."

"I haven’t touched you in days."

Her stomach clenched.

"I noticed."

He kissed her.

Hard.

Like he was angry at himself for waiting. Like he’d been hungry for weeks. Like her mouth was the only thing that could make him human again.

Her back hit the stone and he lifted her onto the bench, hands gripping her thighs, dragging her tank top down, mouth never leaving hers. She gasped when the cold air hit her chest—bare, sensitive—and he groaned deep in his throat.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were locked on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over them like he was memorizing. "You’re so fucking pretty. You don’t even know."

She bit her lip. "Then show me."

And he did.

He kissed down her throat, down the center of her chest, sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along soft skin until she was squirming. Until her thighs squeezed around his hips. Until she said his name like it meant something.

Then—

He dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the balcony.

The breeze blew gently around them, the smell of lavender and wine in the air. Her tank top was shoved up, her shorts already pushed down her thighs. She slowly slid down the bench.

And Harry looked up at her like she was something sacred.

"Keep your eyes on me."

She did.

She watched him lick a stripe up her slit, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting something rare. She cried out, legs shaking, hands grasping for the stone railing behind her.

He groaned again. "You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted."

His tongue was relentless—circling, flicking, sucking. His grip on her thighs was bruising, grounding her, holding her open like he couldn’t get enough.

She tried to speak. Failed.

He slid two fingers inside her—slow at first, curling perfectly—then fast, then deeper, fucking her open while his mouth devoured her.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

She whimpered.

He sucked harder.

"Say my name."

She did.

Over and over.

Until she shattered.

Until her legs gave out and he had to catch her.

He stood, scooping her up like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently.

Then he kissed her again—messy, hungry, licking her taste off his lips and moaning like he was drunk.

"I can’t stop," he muttered. "You do something to me. You ruin me."

She pulled at his shirt. He let her.

Let her undress him like she owned him.

And when he pushed inside her, slow and deep and all at once—

It wasn’t just fucking.

It was worship.

It was raw, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. He braced one hand against the mattress and the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her gaze like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like he needed to see every twitch of her mouth, every blink, every gasp that left her lips as he thrust into her again and again, steady and deep and so achingly deliberate.

She breathed his name like a prayer, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted with pleasure. Her body arched to meet every movement, desperate to be closer, to swallow him whole.

Harry moved like he was etching something permanent into her—like he wanted to mark her from the inside. His mouth brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips between every breathless exhale.

"You feel like heaven," he rasped. "You feel like mine."

She whimpered at that—at the way he said it like a truth carved into stone.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tongue teasing her mouth open as his hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost cruel in how good it felt. Like he knew exactly how to undo her.

One of her hands slipped down, tracing over his side, his back, clutching at him as if to make sure he stayed there. As if she couldn’t take the chance he’d pull away.

And he didn’t.

He never faltered. Never let her go. Just kept moving—fucking her with care, with need, with that terrifying depth he never shared with anyone else.

She tightened around him, legs trembling, her voice breaking as she said his name, pleaded, begged.

He whispered into her mouth, "I’ve got you. Come for me. Right now. That’s it—fuck—just like that."

Her body arched, then shattered beneath him.

And he followed.

A low groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, thrusts faltering, his whole body shaking from the force of it. His forehead pressed to hers. Their breath tangled. Their pulses frantic.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held her.

One hand cupping the side of her face, the other stroking her waist in lazy, absentminded circles.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth soft, expression unreadable.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He just kissed her shoulder, slow and reverent, and stayed there.

Outside, the Tuscan night whispered around them—

Soft. Endless. Real.

The air inside the villa was thick with the ghost of everything they’d just done. Her skin still tingled. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. She was sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, limbs boneless, skin flushed with afterglow and the faintest imprint of the linen texture pressed into her back.

The room still smelled like sex and sunlight.

Harry was quiet beside her.

Not cold. Not distant.

Just...quiet. Like the kind of silence that comes only after something tectonic. Like he was letting the earth settle. Like something had cracked open and they were both just standing in the new air, breathing it in.

His thumb moved absently along her waist, tracing lazy circles. He was still half-hard, still close, but not demanding more.

Not yet. He just needed to be here. In it. With her.

She rolled over onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. His skin was warm and smelled like wine and her perfume and faint lavender from the villa sheets. Familiar and new at the same time.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

She let her fingers trail along the curve of his chest, nails faint, almost ticklish. She counted the moles across his sternum. He hummed at that, deep in his throat, then exhaled slowly, one big hand sliding up to rest on the back of her head.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

“No, I’m not.”

“You have a dinner.”

“I said what I said.”

She laughed quietly. “Harry.”

“I don’t care if we show up looking like we just fucked.”

“We did just fuck.”

“Exactly.”

She nudged his rib with her knee. “You have to shower, old man.”

He groaned. “You’re the reason I’m sweaty.”

“You’re the reason you’re grumpy.”

He cracked one eye open. “You wanna say that again?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shower. Now.”

Eventually, they moved.

Reluctantly.

Limbs tangled as they rolled off the bed. Her thighs ached. She was sore in the most decadent way. Her body felt loose and tender and entirely his. He offered a hand as she stepped down from the mattress—mock-gentlemanly, fake regal—and she accepted it with a smirk and a dramatic curtsey.

The bathroom was all marble and glass. Golden light spilled in from the balcony, painting the countertops in warm hues. The shower was massive—big enough for two, maybe three. Probably four if they stacked right.

She turned the water on.

He watched her.

Always watching.

When the steam curled around their bodies, she stepped in first. Hot water sluiced down her back, her shoulders, her spine.

She sighed as it hit her skin. A low sound. Almost grateful. Almost reverent.

Harry followed.

No words. Just hands.

Big hands. Careful hands. Hands that had held her like she might vanish, that had gripped her thighs and touched the softest parts of her like they were sacred. Like she was.

He grabbed the soap first.

Rubbed it between his palms, lathered slowly. Then—gently, reverently—dragged his hands over her back.

Her shoulders. Her arms. Her stomach. Her hips. Down to the back of her knees.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He washed her like she was precious. Like she was something ancient and delicate and holy. He kissed the top of her spine. The curve behind her ear. Rinsed her hair with long, slow strokes. Massaged her scalp until she leaned back into him, humming.

She returned the favor.

Lathered his chest. His arms. Dragged the soap down the deep lines of his stomach with slow, teasing fingers. She worked the shampoo into his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. When she got to his thighs, he groaned.

“Behave.”

She didn’t.

He pulled her close, water cascading over their bodies, their skin slick and clean and flushed with something almost unbearable.

She reached for a cloth and gently wiped behind his ears.

“I’m not your child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

He grabbed her waist and yanked her flush against him.

They stayed like that until their fingers pruned.

Then—finally—they dried off.

She wrapped herself in one of the impossibly soft robes from the villa.

Harry did the same, though his looked comically small on him. She giggled when it barely covered his thighs.

“Say a word and I’ll throw you into the courtyard.”

“Promise?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have international security clearance. No one would know.”

Back in the bedroom, the air had shifted. Still warm. Still gold-lit. But now it felt like transition. Like preparation. Like a pause before the world returned.

The suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed. A half-folded silk dress draped over the edge. His suit jacket hung on a chair.

“Unpack?” she asked.

He nodded.

They worked together.

Unpacking side by side.

She folded his shirts. He folded her underwear.

Her fingers danced over his cologne bottle, the one she always associated with him. She set it gently on the nightstand beside a small glass of water. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over. Noted it.

He placed her hairbrush beside the bathroom sink, untangling a few of her strands caught in the bristles.

She rolled her socks and tucked them into the drawer. Folded her pajamas. Lined her skin care in a neat row.

He lined his ties on the shelf like a ritual. Stacked his cufflinks in the tray she passed him.

They shared the space. Merged into it. No questions asked. No territory claimed.

She hung up her dresses into the villa wardrobe. He adjusted the hangers. Steamed the back of her dress when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed his charger cable was frayed. She pulled one from her tote and handed it over without a word.

He opened a small velvet box and revealed a delicate necklace he’d packed for her without telling her.

“Wear this,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You packed jewelry?”

“You didn’t.”

Her lips curved.

The moment lingered.

Then—getting ready.

She stood at the vanity, pulling a comb through her damp hair. He stood beside her, shaving. Both in their robes. Moving in tandem. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. The kind of rhythm you can’t fake.

She did her makeup slowly, lip balm first, then liner, then a whisper of mascara. A little blush.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt beside her, fingers methodical. Buttoned his cuffs. Straightened his sleeves.

She reached for perfume. He paused, watching.

“You use that every day huh.”

“I do.”

He leaned down. Smelled her neck. “Still there.”

Then he asked if she could spray some on him.

She smiled.

He walked into the closet to grab his belt. She watched the way his robe opened slightly as he moved, the lines of his body still lingering with the softness of their morning.

Then—clothes.

She slipped the silk dress over her shoulders. It was pale. Bare-backed. Barely structured. The kind of dress you wore in Italy when you weren’t sure if you were someone’s date or someone’s downfall.

Harry froze when he saw her in it.

She turned.

“Too much?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re not changing.”

She smirked.

He moved closer. Adjusted the straps like they were made of glass. Tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Let his thumb brush her collarbone.

“You’re going to make this very hard for me.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t know what I was inviting.”

“Yes, you did.”

He said nothing.

Just buttoned his shirt.

Put on his watch.

Slid into the jacket like he was donning armor. Sharp and deliberate.

She watched from the bed.

Hair pinned up now. Lipstick barely there. One heel dangling from her foot. Legs crossed like temptation.

“You look mean,” she said.

“I am mean.”

She grinned. “But you smell nice.”

He offered a hand. She took it.

They stood in front of the mirror together.

Perfect opposites.

Dark suit. Soft silk. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Something dangerous, something beautiful.

Together.

They didn’t say much after that.

Just breathed.

The dinner.

Work.

But for now—

It was just them.

But not for long.

Because at exactly 8:17 p.m.—fashionably, just barely, late—the knock came.

Three soft raps on the thick villa door, followed by a polite, accented voice calling, "Mr. Castillo? Your guests are seated. The drinks are being served."

Harry exhaled slowly. A breath through his nose. One final glance at her.

She looked unreal.

Silk dress. Loose updo. That faint smudge of color on her lips that made his mouth twitch every time he looked too long. Her necklace—the one he picked—rested delicately on her collarbone like it belonged there.

He didn’t say anything.

Just offered his arm.

She took it.

And down they went.

Dinner was being served under a pergola lit by strands of woven golden lights. The villa’s courtyard stretched out before them like something out of a dream—white linen table, wine glasses already half-full, the sound of crickets humming in the background.

Candlelight danced across bottles of olive oil and bowls of olives, and the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted from a nearby kitchen. Cicadas buzzed low in the distance, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the rustic stone tiles.

There were twelve seats.

Ten already filled.

Harry’s partners were an intimidating mix—Italian, British, and New York-bred tycoons with slick smiles and suspiciously quiet watches. Their wives, dressed in silk and linen and quiet diamonds, turned when Harry and she arrived—eager, observant, their eyes already cataloging every detail.

Like predators sizing up a rare animal at the watering hole.

Lorenzo and Marcella sat closest to the head. Lorenzo was tall, leonine, late fifties, with thick white hair and a voice like a cello. Marcella wore a linen suit and pearls, her Italian accent soft and theatrical. She was always watching.

Next to them—Livia and Paolo. Livia had a sharp chin, a sharper voice, and a body that looked sculpted from Florence marble. Paolo wore a navy suit that screamed Milan, his cufflinks catching the candlelight.

And at the far end, Francesca and Luca.

Francesca looked like a Donna Tartt character. Blunt bob, smudged eyeliner, a cigarette nearly lit. She wore a sheer black blouse over a vintage slip and held her wine glass like it was an accessory. Her smile was the kind that knew secrets.

Luca barely spoke. Just watched. Calculating.

And then there was Danny. 

"Harry!" Marcella called, standing with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you’d eloped."

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d know. It’d be on the news within the hour.”

There were polite laughs. The kind that had more teeth than warmth.

He pulled out her chair before taking his own. It was a subtle motion. Protective. Possessive. Deliberate. A quiet claim staked in linen and candlelight.

Francesca’s eyes sparkled.

Marcella tilted her head. “And this is…?”

Harry rested one hand on the back of her chair. "My girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—

Marcella blinked. "Girlfriend?"

Livia raised a brow. “That’s new.”

Paolo chuckled. “She’s beautiful. Young, too. You’ve been holding out on us, Castillo.”

Harry didn’t smile. Just picked up his wine.

“She’s not a secret. She’s just not your business.”

Marcella laughed, waving her hand. “You know us. We’re nosy. Besides, the wives are all dying to know. We have a betting pool.”

“Jesus,” Harry muttered, under his breath.

Francesca leaned over to her. “Don’t mind them. They’re all bored and drunk on red wine and old money.”

She smiled.

“I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “And you—are fascinating.”

The meal began.

Plates of antipasti. Olive tapenade, roasted tomatoes, shaved fennel, slices of prosciutto that melted on the tongue. Tiny burrata drizzled with balsamic. Warm focaccia with rosemary. Bowls of almonds and figs.

It was decadent without trying to be. Effortless luxury.

Harry stayed quiet for most of it. Sharp-eyed, tense-shouldered. Only relaxing slightly when she brushed her leg against his under the table. She could feel the energy buzzing off him—wary, protective, always watching.

She found herself in conversation with Francesca quickly.

Books.

They talked about books.

“I just reread The Secret History,” Francesca said, swirling her wine. “Still makes me want to commit academic murder.”

She grinned. “I always wanted to be Bunny. Not in spirit. In wardrobe.”

“Tragic prep chic.”

“Exactly.”

Harry glanced over at that. Quiet approval in his gaze.

Francesca lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her in elegant swirls. “Who are your favorites?”

She shrugged. “Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Ottessa Moshfegh, but only when I’m feeling unwell. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of Didion.”

Francesca beamed. “You and I are going to get along dangerously well.”

Livia leaned in across the table. “How did you two meet?”

Harry stiffened.

She opened her mouth.

He beat her to it.

“Page Six is going to run that story in a week. Ask them.”

More laughter. More glances. More eyes like spotlights.

Marcella pressed on. “It’s just surprising, Harry. You’re not… known for romance.”

He smirked. “I’m not known for a lot of things I am.”

Paolo raised his glass. “Is she moving in?”

Harry stays silent, starting to scowl at Paolo.

“Soon?” He pushes. He keeps on fucking pushing.

Harry didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers under the table.

Francesca spoke instead. “Let them be. Love doesn’t have a lease agreement.”

Marcella sipped her wine. “But surely it’s serious. You brought her to Italy.”

Livia leaned in again. "And what’s the age gap, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“I do mind.”

Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “We’re just curious. You know how it is. Older men and beautiful women. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“She’s not a tale,” Harry said flatly. “She’s a person.”

That shut them up.

For a beat.

Then—

Lorenzo, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And what about Lucy?”

The table paused.

Her stomach dropped.

Harry didn’t blink. “What about her.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “Just surprised to see you here with this girl, that’s all. I'd thought you'd be reeling from shock over Lucy sending you an invitation to her wedding.”

How did he know.

How the fuck did he know?

She froze next to him.

Her hand stopped rubbing his out of comfort. 

Harry’s jaw ticked. “We haven’t RSVPed.”

Marcella’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You were invited?”

“Apparently.”

“Wow,” Livia said. “That’s bold. Isn’t she marrying that waiter?”

“John,” Paolo supplied.

“Oh, right. The bohemian.”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore, so stop bringing her up.” Harry said. Cold. Even.

Livia raised a brow. “But she was.”

Silence.

He stared down at Livia. “She isn’t now.”

She didn’t say anything.

But her body went still.

Francesca noticed. She shifted slightly, nudging her foot against hers under the table. A quiet, unspoken solidarity.

The conversation moved on.

Sort of.

She laughed at something Francesca said about poetry readings and obscure authors who only write in lowercase.

But inside—

Something tightened.

He hadn’t told her.

About the wedding.

About the invite.

About any of it.

She smiled. She clinked her wine glass. She even leaned into his arm when dessert was served—some kind of lemon tart with burnt sugar and pistachio.

But something shifted.

Just slightly.

A hairline crack in the evening.

Not enough to break it.

Just enough to notice.

Francesca asked her if she’d read Bluets.

She nodded. “Three times.”

They talked about heartbreak. About writing through pain. About how nobody writes yearning like Nina LaCour.

Harry kept his hand on her lower back. Gentle. Present.

But she wasn’t fully there anymore.

When Harry looked down at her later—when the stars came out and the wine dulled most of the tension in the room—he noticed it too.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He wanted to ask.

But didn’t.

Because he already knew why.

[yandereforme]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Ouran Academy

TW: Neglect

You weren’t wanted by either of your parents. That had been the cold hard truth that you had known since you were nine years old.

Your mother was a member of a wealthy family. While she wasn’t the heiress, that title belonging to her older sister, she still had a lot of money at her disposal, and took long trips to different places.

That was how she met Bruce, and she had a one night stand with him.

She didn’t realize she was pregnant until it was too late for a termination, and her parents threatened to cut her off if she gave up their grandchild. So she reluctantly kept you.

You were mostly raised by a revolving door of nursemaids and babysitters until you were five, and your mother deemed you old enough to be alone. You saw your mother about three times a year, during which she would play a doting mother in public before verbally tearing you down in private.

You were five when you understood you were a burden to her. You were eight when you stopped desperately searching for her love.

You were nine when she died in an accident, and your biological father had to take you. (Your grandparents were too old to take care of you, and your aunt was rarely seen outside of a board room, and was unwilling to take you.)

You had a few days of hope for a family, since Bruce Wayne was known for being an amazing father to his children.

That belief was shattered after you moved in and you were basically shunned by everyone. Bruce was cold and rushed around you. Tim was cold and distant. Dick acted nice, but he barely gave you a minute of notice. Even Alfred was constantly brushing you off, though he had a decent excuse.

The final hope was shattered when, three weeks after you moved in, your birthday passed unacknowledged and unnoticed. The only sign of it was the text from your grandparents and the package you received from them two days later, filled with nice dresses for you.

You grew up quietly, keeping to yourself. You had weekly calls with your grandparents, but didn’t mention the family.

The breaking point was when you were 13, and Damian arrived. You thought now, finally, you would have someone like you. That belief lasted six hours, until you were almost stabbed by the menace.

It was one of the first times the family spoke to you, and it was to tell you not to overreact. You barely held back the rebuke and bitter laughter.

The worst part about Damian’s arrival? The fact they loved him. Even though he kept acting out and threatening people and generally being a prick, Bruce made time for him and brought him to meals. Dick showered him in affection. Even Alfred was softer with him. It wasn’t fair. You were a perfect kid and they didn’t care about you, but in comes a kid with the same story as you but with a worse attitude, and he is loved unconditionally?!?

It wasn’t fair.

After the fifth time Damian almost killed you without reprimand, you contacted your grandparents and asked about returning to the country. They eagerly told you about a high school in Japan that wasn’t far from one of their houses, filled with people of your status and known for giving its graduates a great advantage in later years.

Two days later, you approached Bruce with the papers to okay your move for the school year and signing custody over to your grandparents temporarily while you were in Japan. You had a whole speech prepared in your mind defending the choice, but he signed without even bothering to ask any questions. (You didn’t cry, even as you felt a lump in your throat. Despite everything, you thought he would at least care enough to ask questions.)

You boarded a plane a month later, reading your new textbooks as you flew. You took the sparkling champagne (non alcoholic) from the flight attendant and raised your glass in the direction of Japan, your new future.

“To Ouran Academy and my future there.” You murmur softly before downing some of your drink.

Edit: I hope you all like this! I’ve been working on it for a while, and hopefully this isn’t too bad. My finals are next week, so wish me luck!

[kannady]

do you remember me too?

pairing: sylus x mc reader

synopsis: love and deepspace was a newfound obsession of yours. you installed the game shortly after sylus was released as a love interest. it'd be safe to say he was the reason you installed the app. however, finals week was approaching and you had to say goodbye to your favourite game. not for long, ofcourse. but you decide to login for the last time to check the new event.

a/n: hello everyone! this is my first LADS ffc so please bear with me, and yep you probably guessed it. the reader somehow ends up inside the game. very typical, ik. but trust me, i have a different take on this. ALSO my first language is not english so please ignore grammer errors. i recheck atleast 10 times and still end up overlooking every mistake. enjoy!

check out all chapters here

Chapter One

DING! DING!

You woke up to the shrill screech of your alarm. Eight already? Time always seemed to slip away faster during exam season. You had no idea when you’d finally dozed off, but judging by the heavy exhaustion clinging to your limbs, it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. No wonder I feel like shit. Groaning, you mustered every ounce of strength to reach out and silence the alarm.

It was Sunday. Golden sunlight spilled through the window, warming your face as birds chirped outside. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees. 

The weather was perfect. Perfect for a picnic. But first, you had to finish your revision before the midday heat set in. Your gaze drifted to your study table, still littered with notes and textbooks exactly as you’d left them last night couple hours ago.

Okay, let’s see… 

You closed your eyes, mentally retracing yesterday’s progress. Finished chapters 5, 6, 8, and 11. With a yawn, you cracked your knuckles, stretched, and forced yourself upright. If I can somehow finish chapters 2, 9, and 10 in two hours, I can reward myself with some outdoor time.

 Grabbing your chemistry book, you flipped to the first page. Three chapters in two hours? Doable. Maybe.

Just as you reached for your phone to check the time, your eyes snagged on the date.

April 12.

OH. MY. GOD. Sylus’s birthday. Your fingers twitched toward the notification banner—then froze.

No. Not yet. The anticipation alone was fuel. If I finish early, I’ll have the whole day to play Love & Deepspace. Let’s do this!

“Mom! Three pancakes, please! I’ll be down in two minutes!” “You always say that—but fine!” Her voice faded as you bolted to the bathroom. True to your word, you slid into your seat at 8:03.

“Slow down, or you’ll choke,” your dad warned, peering over his newspaper. “I thought exams weren’t until next week. Do you have plans?”

“Picnic,” you mumbled around a mouthful of pancake. “But I need to review my notes first.” A glance at the clock—8:12—sent you sprinting back upstairs, your sister’s snicker trailing after you: “Why’s she acting like she’s never seen sunlight before?”

8:03 – Breakfast. 8:13 – Chapter 2. 8:52 – Chapter 2 done. Five-minute break. 8:57 – Chapter 9. 9:27 – Chapter 9 done. Five-minute break. 9:32 – Chapter 10. 10:11 – Chapter 10 done.

Holy shit. I actually did it. A disbelieving laugh escaped you. All this frenzy… for a fictional man. But this wasn’t just any man—this was Sylus. You’d been hoarding diamonds since the Tomorrow’s Catch-22 event, even skipping Zayne and Caleb’s 5-star memories.

 A small sacrifice for the greater good.

You plugged in your phone, then made your bed, folded your sheets, and organized your desk. A sandwich, grapes, and a cold drink went into your bag, along with your sketchpad and pencils. The weather was too good to waste.

Stepping outside, the crisp air kissed your cheeks. Something about today felt… different. The birds’ chirping wasn’t grating for once. Even the neighbor’s usually yappy dog lay sprawled in the sun, too lazy to bark. The park was eerily empty—odd for such a gorgeous day—but you claimed a shady spot beneath a tree.

“The perfect day for my perfect man.” Smiling, you reached for your phone—

A tap on your shoulder.

“AH!” You whirled around. “S-Sorry! You scared me. I didn’t see anyone when I came in.”

The woman winced. “I did call out a few times…” Probably too busy daydreaming about Sylus.

“Have you seen a white cat? I swear I only dropped the leash for a second—” She raked a hand through her hair, scanning the park. “Sorry, no. Want help looking?” “No, no! Enjoy your day.” She dashed off before you could insist.

Weird.

You pulled out your phone—and froze. A cluster of dead pixels marred the corner of the screen. What? It was fine when I left. You’d just bought this thing last month. Did I drop it when she startled me? No, you were sure it had been unharmed until now. Shaking off the unease, you opened Love & Deepspace.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then fifteen.

“Seriously?!” The screen was frozen. Force-closing the app did nothing. Rebooting took forever. When you finally reopened the game—

“ERROR. PLEASE TRY AGAIN LATER.”

A dozen attempts. Same result.

Defeated, you trudged home, blinking back frustrated tears. After weeks of stress, this was the one thing you’d been clinging to. And now? Nothing. Maybe tomorrow… After all, the event had just started and you had atleast 6 more days. But with exams looming, would you even have time?

The neighbor’s dog was now snoring loudly. Inside, your family still sat at the breakfast table, all eyes snapping to you as you entered.

“Back so soon?” Mom frowned.

Dad lowered his newspaper. “How’d it go?”

“Unless she chickened out,” your sister sing-songed. “What, scared of needles now?”

You dumped your bag on the couch. “Went to the park. My phone’s glitching, so… yeah. Not in the mood anymore.”

“You’re not in the mood for the doctor?” Mom rushed over. “What does your phone have to do with anything?”

Doctor? Needles?

“I was just at the park.”

Your sister howled with laughter. “BAHAHAHA! SHE'S LOST IT!”

Dad set down his paper, removed his glasses, and leveled you with a grave look.

“Your appointment with Dr. Zayne. He scheduled it himself last week.”

Your blood ran cold.

“…Doctor who now?”

[slattlicker]

i just need like a drabble of how schlatt would be with his pregnant wife, like you KNOW that man will bend over backwards for his doll and his baby

ugh. he is perfect.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * built like a wife, shaped like a mom ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’re pregnant. schlatt is insufferable. and obsessed. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: you are so right, angel ♡ we love a good protective husband and father-to-be!!!

warnings: pregnancy fluff, domestic comedy, one (1) feral husband, TOO MUCH FREAKING love and cuteness UGH

enjoy! (👶´ ∀ `👶)

✧✧✧

✧ cravings emergency ✧ approx. 6 weeks along

it’s 10:37 pm on a tuesday when schlatt’s phone buzzes violently against the nightstand. he fumbles for it, eyes still bleary, and squints at the text from you.

YOU: i need pickles and chocolate pudding immediately. or i will cry. this is not a joke.

he stares at it.

then stares at the ceiling.

then texts back:

SCHLATT: doll it is literally 10:37.

YOU: and yet i am literally about to perish.

there’s a 30-second pause before he rolls out of bed like a man going off to war. “alright,” he mutters to himself, pulling on sweats. “if my girl wants pickles and pudding, then pickles and pudding she shall have.”

cut to twenty minutes later: he’s standing in front of your couch, bags in hand, panting like he just finished a triathlon. “you. owe me. gas money. and a kiss.”

you look up at him with the wide, desperate eyes of someone on the brink. “did you get the big pickles?”

he sighs and drops the bag in your lap. “barrel dills. and three kinds of pudding. and a bottle of tums because i’m smart.”

you practically burst into tears. “you’re my hero.”

he flops beside you, grumbling but smug. “damn right.”

you open the pudding first—why? nobody knows—and after a few bites, the silence stretches. he notices you fidgeting, like you’ve got something stuck in your throat.

“…what?” he asks finally.

you look down at your lap. “sooo… i also picked something up today.”

“…another snack?”

you shake your head. from under the blanket, you pull out a little plastic stick in a ziplock bag. two pink lines, clear as day.

schlatt just stares. then back at you. then at the test again.

“…i’m sorry,” he says slowly, blinking. “are you telling me that my food run was actually for two people?!”

you burst out laughing, ugly-snorting halfway through, and he grabs your face like he’s trying to scan it for truth. “you’re serious? like—you’re pregnant pregnant?”

you nod, and he exhales like he’s just been shot right in the heart.

then—

“…does this mean i have to go get more pickles?”

you laugh harder. “probably. these will last me like...6 hours, tops.”

he’s already halfway off the couch again, muttering, “jesus christ, i didn’t know there’d be a third roommate in this relationship.”

but then he pauses, glances back at you, and his voice softens:

“…we’re really having a baby?”

you meet his eyes, all warm and teary and happy. “yeah. we are.”

he grins, wide and boyish. “shit. you’re gonna be such a hot mom.”

you throw a pickle at his face.

✧ nesting chaos ✧ approx. 18 weeks along / mid-second trimester

schlatt wakes up to the sound of metal on metal.

that’s the first sign of trouble.

the second is that your side of the bed is empty, and the third is the faint scent of paint drifting down the hallway.

he blinks blearily at the clock: 7:13 am. on a saturday.

he drags himself out of bed like a corpse and stumbles toward the noise. his voice is gravel. “babe…? why does it smell like… nursery school in here?”

he rounds the corner and immediately stares, slack-jawed, at the scene before him.

you’re standing in the nursery, hair shoved into a messy bun, wearing one of his hoodies over your bump and waving a paint roller like you’re michelangelo. there’s painter’s tape on the walls, drop cloths over the floor, and approximately seven opened sample cans scattered across the dresser.

“oh!” you chirp. “you’re up!”

“…barely.”

“come look!” you wave him over, beaming. “i narrowed it down to three colors—‘hazy moonlight,’ ‘mushroom milk,’ and ‘enchanted forest.’”

he squints at the swatches, half-awake. “those are the same color.”

you spin dramatically toward him. “they are not. one is a neutral sage. one is a dusty sage. and one is a sage with cool undertones, which is crucial for light balance.”

he blinks. “you’ve lost your mind.”

you point the roller at him like a weapon. “and you said you wanted to be involved.”

“i meant, like, holding your hand and rubbing your back while you cried over animal mobiles. not waking up at dawn to paint a room green.”

“well,” you say, stepping back with your hands on your hips, “our baby deserves a room that inspires calm and creativity.”

he sighs and walks over, pressing a kiss to your temple. “you’re out of your damn mind,” he mumbles, “but you’re cute about it.”

then he grabs the nearest roller. “let’s make this kid the most emotionally balanced forest nymph on the block.”

you blink at him, touched.

“…you’re gonna do the high parts, though, right?”

he smirks. “only if i can make the closet into a secret lair.”

“deal.”

✧ sonogram appointment ✧ approx. 25 weeks along / second trimester

“do you think she’ll have my nose or yours?” you mumble, half-drowsy in the passenger seat, one hand resting on the swell of your stomach.

schlatt glances over at you, eyebrows raised. “she’s the size of an eggplant right now. she doesn’t have a nose nose—she’s got like… a snoot.”

“a snoot?”

“yeah. a lil’ critter snoot. like a capybara.”

you stare at him. “please never say that in front of the doctor.”

“i won’t,” he lies.

✧

the room is dim and cool, the gentle sound of the monitor humming beside you. you’re already lying back on the table, gel on your stomach, when the sonographer grins and tilts the screen toward you both.

“alright,” she says brightly. “let’s take a look at your little one.”

schlatt is standing at your side, one big hand cradling your shoulder, the other tangled loosely with yours. and for a minute, the two of you just stare.

there she is.

a real baby. little nose. little fingers. she’s curled up like she’s cozy in there—legs tucked close, one arm floating lazily near her head. her spine arches gently across the screen, bones visible in clean little rows like piano keys.

you can’t breathe for a second.

and when she zooms in on her profile—round head, button nose, blurry little lips—you hear schlatt exhale beside you, shaky and quiet.

“…holy shit.”

you look up at him, and he’s wrecked. glossy eyes. a smile that’s trying not to tremble.

“that’s our kid,” he murmurs. “that’s—she’s real. look at her. she’s in there, like, living.”

“she kicked me awake at four a.m. this morning,” you remind him gently.

“i know, but—” he squeezes your hand, still staring at the screen. “now we get to see the criminal herself.”

the sonographer laughs. “they're measuring strong. heart rate is healthy. do you want to know the sex?”

you glance up at schlatt. he’s already nodding.

“i mean, we’ve been calling her ‘she’ for like a month,” you say.

she grins and types something into the machine—and on the screen, in soft block letters, it appears:

“boy”

you don’t even register your own tears until schlatt’s brushing them away with his thumb, laughing wetly.

“a boy,” he whispers. “oh my god.”

“we're gonna have a little dude?!” you say, voice cracking.

“i’m gonna teach him how to mow the lawn wrong on purpose and eat cereal with chocolate milk,” he replies reverently.

you sniffle. “you’re gonna ruin him.”

he leans down and kisses your forehead. “yeah. it’s gonna be awesome.”

✧ gender reveal ✧ approx. 26–27 weeks

the bets are brutal.

schlatt’s uncle has $50 riding on it being a girl. your mom brought a pink balloon bouquet and already monogrammed a baby blanket with a cursive “sofia.” your best friend has been calling the bump “little miss thing” for two months.

no one suspects a thing.

you and schlatt sit smugly on the picnic bench, watching your backyard fill up with nosy relatives, paper plates, folding chairs, and a gender-reveal cake that’s very intentionally frosted in soft neutral tones.

“do you think it’s mean we lied to everyone?” you murmur, as your cousin sets up her phone to record.

“absolutely not,” schlatt says, not even hesitating. “this is the most fun i’ve had all pregnancy.”

you grin. “and when the inside’s blue?”

“oh, they’re gonna lose it.”

he leans over to whisper in your ear: “i bet your mom faints.”

“schlatt.”

“what? i’m not gonna catch her.”

✧

everyone gathers around the cake table, chattering excitedly. someone yells “team girl!” and half the crowd cheers. you hear the words “she’s totally carrying high!” like it’s gospel.

you and schlatt take the knife together, hands overlapping on the handle.

“alright,” he announces, clearing his throat. “moment of truth. but before we cut, i just wanna say… win or lose, i knew we were having a girl the second she told me she was pregnant.”

you elbow him gently. “shut up and cut it.”

he laughs and sinks the knife into the center, and when you pull away the slice, it’s like time slows.

bright. obvious. inevitable.

blue.

there’s a single beat of silence.

then—

“what?!”

“you said—”

“oh my god it’s a boy?!”

schlatt lets out a victorious bark of laughter. “and i win the pool!”

you turn to your stunned family and give a sheepish shrug. “sorry. we lied.”

“but he’s a very cute little liar,” schlatt adds, holding up the slice like a trophy.

your mom fans herself with a napkin. your uncle groans and hands someone a $20. and your best friend screams, “i bought a pink onesie for nothing?!”

it’s chaos. and hilarious. and just...perfect.

and when schlatt leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, hand resting protectively over your belly, you can already picture the little boy you’re about to meet—tiny, wild, and impossibly loved.

✧ the drive ✧ approx. 39 weeks

it starts at 2:43am.

you wake up feeling… damp. not sweat. not anything normal.

you sit up slowly, hand on your belly, already so over being pregnant. your back hurts, your hips click when you move, and you swear the baby has been doing barrel rolls for three days straight.

then you feel it.

that unmistakable pop and warm rush between your legs.

“…babe?”

a groggy grunt from beside you. schlatt’s got one arm thrown over his eyes, hair messy, breathing deep.

you nudge him. “schlatt.”

he flops his arm off his face. “what, baby? you good?”

you blink at him, wide-eyed. “my water just broke.”

there’s a pause.

a single beat of silence.

then—

“…you’re lying.”

“schlatt!”

“holy shit—okay—okay, okay, okay.” he sits up like a vampire rising from a coffin, grabs his glasses from the nightstand in one smooth motion, and suddenly, calmly mutters, “copy that.”

you stare at him. “what—?”

he’s already out of bed. “bag’s packed. car’s gassed. you showered before bed, right?”

“i—yeah, but—”

“good. pads in the backseat. towel’s on your chair. i preloaded snacks into the hospital bag last night. let me grab the extra charger.”

“…are you reading from a script?”

he’s shuffling around the room, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded but focused like a military general. “been rehearsing this for three weeks, baby. just breathe. you’re doing amazing.”

✧

five minutes later, he’s guiding you gently down the stairs like he’s walking a vip to a black car. you’re waddling a little, breath catching with each cramp, but schlatt is solid beside you—hand on your lower back, towel already on the seat, keys in his free hand.

“seat warmer’s on. i adjusted the recline. buckle up, princess. you just focus on breathing. let me drive.”

“…you’re terrifying right now,” you whisper as he helps you in.

he kisses your forehead. “you’ll love it when they give me a sticker at the check-in desk for 'most supportive dad'. i will be keeping it.”

✧

by the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, contractions biting down harder with each breath, schlatt’s a man on a mission.

he parks like he’s trained for this, grabs the overnight bag, loops your arm around his shoulder, and half-carries you through the sliding doors with the practiced ease of someone who’s read the checklist five times and color-coded it.

a nurse meets you with a wheelchair almost immediately. schlatt helps ease you in, tucking the towel under you like second nature, murmuring, “i got you, i got you,” the whole time. you’re wheeled down the hallway, nurses asking questions, lights flickering above, the sound of your breath and their quiet urgency wrapping around you like static.

and just as the nurse turns down a hallway to check you in—just before you disappear around the corner—he stops walking.

“hey, wait,” he calls gently, stepping close to the chair. “hang on.”

the nurse pauses.

he bends down, brushing a hand along your cheek, like he just needs a second longer to look at you. you blink up at him, breathing through a contraction, trying to smile. he smiles back—but it’s tight, almost wobbly at the edges.

“did i… do everything right?” he asks, voice low now, just for you. “i mean—i know there’s still stuff to do, but… up to this point. did i take care of you okay?”

you can feel it in his voice—not panic, but something tender and bright and scared. like he knows this is the last moment you’ll have like this: just the two of you, before it becomes something bigger. louder. louder than either of you can even imagine.

you squeeze his hand. “schlatt… honey, you’ve been perfect. you're going to be a fucking amazing father to our boy.”

he exhales—deep and soft. his shoulders fall just slightly, like he’s finally allowed himself to feel how heavy all this waiting has been.

“okay,” he whispers. “okay.”

he leans down and kisses your forehead. even when he pulls back, he lingers there for a second longer than necessary. and when he straightens, his hand slides right back into yours.

“i’m right behind you,” he says to the nurse.

✧

the hospital room is quiet now. dim lights. soft breathing. a baby sleeping on your chest, impossibly small, impossibly real.

you’ve been alone with him for a while—just the two of you. letting your body settle. letting your heart catch up.

but now, you need him.

“can you get my husband?” you whisper to the nurse.

and not a full minute later, the door opens gently.

there’s schlatt.

he peeks in with wide eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here yet. he’s got his hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, hair a wild mess, and he’s clutching a paper coffee cup he definitely forgot to drink.

but his eyes are on you.

not the baby. not the monitor. just you.

“hey,” he says softly, stepping in.

“hey,” you breathe back.

he comes to the side of the bed, setting the cup down without looking at it, his gaze scanning over your face like he’s trying to memorize every part of you. his hand brushes your hair gently out of your face, and when he sees the tired shimmer in your eyes, something in his chest visibly eases—like just seeing you alive and okay made the world spin again.

“you good?” he asks, his voice low, unsteady. “you—shit, baby, are you good?”

you nod, leaning into his touch. “i’m good. tired. sore. but… i’m okay.”

his eyes go glassy. “you scared the shit outta me,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “i’ve never—i mean. you—”

he cuts himself off, just swallowing hard before leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours.

“you were so fuckin’ brave,” he murmurs. “you did everything. you—god, you’re incredible.”

you let out a shaky laugh, your hand finding his. “you were pretty brave yourself.”

he exhales sharply, squeezing your fingers.

it takes a moment for his eyes to finally flick down to the bundled-up baby against your chest. he goes still.

“is he…” schlatt blinks fast, like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming. “is he okay?”

you nod. “he’s perfect.”

and that’s when the awe sets in. that quiet, open-mouthed holy shit look that only schlatt could make both adorable and heartbreaking at once.

“can i…?”

“you can hold him,” you say gently, already shifting the baby toward him. “of course you can.”

his arms slide under with an instinct you didn’t know he had, cradling the newborn like something rare and sacred. and as soon as the baby settles in his arms, all the air leaves his lungs at once.

“hi, buddy,” he whispers, the tiniest smile curling his lips. “i’m your dad.”

your throat tightens.

he looks back at you, eyes swimming. “you did so good,” he says again, voice raw. “i’m so proud of you. i love you so much.”

"i love you. so, so much." you rest your head on his arm as he holds the baby, the three of you close and safe and whole.

and now there’s nothing left but to hold each other—and your son—as the sun rises on the first morning of the rest of your lives.

[cassiemaebarnes]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 16

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 6977

@ohdrey89 read my mind...

sorry if it feels a little rushed but I needed to get to this part, it's too good...

A little while later, when the pizza was mostly gone and the team had settled into casual conversation, you caught Nat’s eye from across the table. You gave a faint nod towards the door, and she leaned over and whispered something to Wanda as you started to scoot your chair back.

You leaned over to Bucky, whispering “I’ll be right back,” then stood and made your way to the door, Nat and Wanda hot on your tail.

You walked down the hall a little ways, then turned around to face them. They had a mix of confusion and excitement on their faces when they finally spoke.

“What’s going on?” Nat said, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“Oh, I think we know exactly what’s going on,” Wanda said with a smirk.

You just sighed, shaking your head, but you couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face.

“So, I was telling Bucky what we talked about today–”

“Of course,” Nat said, cutting you off with a smirk. “But go on.”

“And we talked about the ‘label’ conversation…”

“I knew it!” Wanda said, pumping a fist in the air.

“And…” Nat said expectantly, wanting you to finish.

“He officially asked me to be his girlfriend.”

The three of you looked at each other with smiles, before shrieking with excitement. Wanda was jumping up and down, Nat just shook her head like finally, and you just stood there, stupid smile covering your face that you couldn’t wipe off even if you wanted to.

“About time,” Nat said, followed by an exaggerated nod from Wanda.

“Seriously,” Wanda added, “we’ve been waiting for this since day one.”

You just rolled your eyes and opened your mouth to say something, but Nat cut you off.

“I mean, come on. Literally hours after you met you were crouching under his arm at the fridge and he offered to make you breakfast. That’s called destiny.”

You just laughed. “I mean…yeah, honestly I should have known.”

“It’s one of those classic ‘everyone can see it but you’ stories,” Wanda said with a dreamy smile on her face.

“Yeah,” you said, still smiling. “Looking back it’s like – how could I not have seen it,” you added with a laugh.

“No for real,” Nat said, all of you laughing now.

“So,” Wanda said, linking her arm through yours, “when’s the wedding?”

“Yeah,” Nat said, looping her arm through your other one. “We need to start looking for bridesmaid dresses,” she added, smirking at you.

“Oh, calm down,” you said, slowly walking back toward the conference room. “I’m sure we still have…” you paused, playfully tapping your lips with your finger like you were thinking, “…about a week before he finally breaks down and asks me to marry him.”

The three of you started giggling, still walking arm-in-arm down the hallway, and you knew that no matter what happened next, it was going to be fun having them to talk about it with.

--

The next morning, you woke up tangled up with Bucky in his bed, wearing nothing but his t-shirt, the rest of your clothes discarded on the floor.

Bucky reached over and turned his alarm off, arms immediately coming back to wrap around you.

You let out a small, content sigh and burrowed a little closer, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady and warm beneath your skin, and his metal hand moved slowly up and down your back in a lazy rhythm.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Mmm. No talking yet,” you mumbled, eyes still closed.

He chuckled softly, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Fair enough.”

You lay there a while longer, caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, wrapped up in warmth and quiet and him. At some point, his hand found yours, fingers lacing together naturally. It was peaceful and unhurried, and you didn’t want to move. But eventually, the light filtering through the blinds and the very faint sound of the compound starting to wake up made you sigh.

“I should get up,” you muttered reluctantly.

Bucky gave a dramatic groan, tightening his grip around your waist. “Don’t. Just stay here. I’ll say you’ve been kidnapped.”

You laughed lightly, then tilted your head to glance up at him. “I probably should just leave a brush and a toothbrush in here at this point. I’m in here more than my own room.”

He laughed at that, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You should. Actually…I can do that.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Wait – you’re serious?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Yeah. Why not? I’ll clear out a drawer. Make it official.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “I was joking, but honestly…that might not be a bad idea.”

Grinning, you finally sat up, stretching your arms above your head before swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Okay, I’m gonna go get ready. Try not to miss me too much.”

“I make no promises,” he said, leaning over to kiss your shoulder before you slipped out from under the covers, pulled on your shorts, and padded out of the room.

--

By the time you finished getting ready and made your way down to the kitchen, the smell of coffee pulled you in like a magnet. The room was already softly buzzing with the sounds of the team talking and eating breakfast.

Bucky was already there, sitting at the kitchen island with a mug in front of him. He looked up as you walked in and gave you that slow, familiar smile.

Without a word, he nudged a second mug toward the empty seat next to him – your usual spot. You glanced down and saw it was already fixed just how you liked it. Perfect.

You slid into the seat with a smile, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. “You’re really trying to lock this down, huh?”

Bucky smirked. “Just being a good boyfriend.”

No one in the room said anything. No whooping from Sam, no eyebrow raises from Nat. Just the soft clink of a spoon in a mug and the gentle hum of the coffee maker.

You sipped your drink, glancing sideways at him. “This feels weird. We’re not getting bombarded.”

“Shh, you’ll jinx it,” he said, smirking at you.

“I guess everyone’s finally accepted it,” you whispered.

“About time,” he said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Okay,” Sam cut in, like usual, “well if he’s gonna do that, then we have to make fun of him.”

You just looked up at Bucky and gave him a mock glare. “Way to go, Sergeant Softie.”

He just smiled and shook his head, then leaned back and wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“Well, get used to it everyone,” he said proudly.

The room burst into laughter and fake groans, but you could tell by the smiles that they all loved it.

As the laughter died down and everyone settled into their mugs and conversation again, Steve cleared his throat from where he stood by the fridge.

“Alright, listen up,” he said, voice cutting through the room just enough to get everyone’s attention. “Before we head down to the gym, I’ve got something to share.”

You looked over at him curiously, Bucky’s arm still warm around your shoulders.

Steve glanced at you with a small smile. “Starting today, y/n is officially training with the team.”

A little cheer went up around the room – Sam gave a dramatic fist pump, Nat clapped once like she’d been waiting for this moment, and even Tony offered a sarcastic little golf clap from where he leaned against the counter.

“Welcome to the team,” Bucky said dramatically, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You survived the emotional initiation. Now it’s time for the physical one.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “Great. Can’t wait to get punched in the face by super soldiers.”

“Oh, I’m gentle,” Nat said with a wink. “Mostly.”

Steve chuckled, then started talking about the plan for training.

But you just leaned over to Bucky, smirking. “I think I liked your welcome package better,” you said, nudging his side with your elbow.

He looked at you, eyes sparkling, and gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah, me too.”

You clinked your coffee mug gently against his in silent agreement.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Sam said, standing up and stretching. “Let’s move. We’ve got a gym to sweat in and a new recruit to haze.”

“Oh good,” you said dryly, pushing your chair back. “Exactly how I wanted to spend my morning.”

Bucky stood and offered his hand to help you up. “You’re gonna kill it,” he murmured.

“Better not kill me,” you said under your breath, but the grin on your face gave you away.

--

The team filtered into the training room in a casual group, everyone stretching out, chatting, and pulling on gloves or slipping on gear. The walls echoed faintly with the sound of sneakers on mats and the low hum of the overhead lights. You stood near Bucky, following his lead as you stretched out your arms and legs.

“Don’t worry,” he said under his breath, leaning over just slightly. “First rule of training – look confident even if you’re not.”

You smirked. “Well good news – I am confident.”

That earned a chuckle from him and a raised brow from Sam nearby. “Ooooh, she’s talking spicy already.”

After a few minutes of stretches, Steve clapped his hands. “Alright, warm-up time. Ladders, shuttle runs, and core circuits. Let’s go.”

The group moved like a well-oiled machine, and you jumped in with them, heart pumping quickly as you kept pace. You could feel them watching you – small glances here and there, like they were gauging what you could do. But you held your own through the warm-up, breath steady, footing solid.

By the time the real drills started, sweat had begun to bead on your forehead. Steve called out movement patterns and agility sequences while Sam tossed in cardio bursts. You didn’t miss a step.

“Damn,” Sam muttered as you cut sharp around a cone and vaulted over a low barrier. “Alright, Speedy.”

“Not bad,” Nat added, tossing you a nod of approval as you passed.

You smiled but didn’t break focus. The movements were fast, but you were faster. Crisp, efficient, and entirely in control.

After another thirty minutes of drills, Steve called the team to the mat. “Alright, last piece for today – sparring. Light contact. Controlled. Let’s pair off.”

He looked around, then pointed between you and Nat. “You two.”

The whole room went a little quiet.

“Let’s see what she’s got,” Clint muttered, nudging Sam.

Nat cracked her knuckles and gave you a look that was half-challenge, half-welcome. “You ready?”

You just shrugged. “Are you?”

Everyone else took a step back, forming a loose circle around the mat. You squared up, eyes locked on Nat, waiting for her to make the first move.

She lunged – fast, precise – but you deflected smoothly, pivoted, and used her momentum to spin her off-balance. She adjusted quickly, but you were already ducking low and sweeping a leg. A second later, Nat was flat on her back, blinking up at the ceiling.

The room went silent.

“Yo – did she just pin Nat like it was nothing?” Sam asked, wide-eyed.

Nat laughed, shaking her head as you offered her a hand. “Okay,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m done taking it easy on you.”

You just smirked. “Bring it on.”

The second round was different – faster, more intense. Nat moved with sharper precision, testing you, but you adjusted to her flow. You didn’t overpower her, but you kept up, holding your ground, ducking, weaving, using technique instead of brute strength. The crowd around you had fallen totally quiet, too focused to even joke.

And then – just as Nat tried to flip you – you shifted your weight, locked her arm, and twisted cleanly to take her down again. This time you landed on top, pinning her shoulders. Firm. Clean.

The whole room erupted.

“Okay!” Clint shouted. “I’m not sparring her.”

“Bucky, man,” Sam said, laughing, “you better behave. She’ll fold you like laundry.”

Bucky just stood there with the biggest grin on his face. He shook his head and crossed his arms. “That’s my girl.”

You pushed off Nat, helping her up again as she gave you an impressed look.

“Where the hell were you hiding all that?” she asked, brushing off her shoulders.

You just shrugged, trying to hide your grin.

Bucky met your gaze across the mat, pride written all over his face. You gave him a wink, heart pounding – not from the fight, but from how good it felt to surprise everyone and hold your own.

Yeah. You were officially part of the team now.

You and Nat were still catching your breath when the group circled up again, stretching out tired muscles and wiping away sweat. You dropped into a seated stretch beside Bucky, who passed you a water bottle without a word – just a soft smile and a subtle nudge of his knee against yours.

“Well damn,” Sam said, flopping onto the mat nearby. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“You were scary fast,” Clint added, rotating his shoulder. “Like, I blinked and Nat was already on the floor.”

“I don’t know if I should be impressed or worried,” Wanda said with a grin.

“Oh, you should definitely be worried,” Nat said, reaching over to nudge you. “She’s officially dangerous now.”

Bucky just chuckled beside you, pride practically radiating off him. “Told you all she was tough.”

“She’s more than tough, Barnes,” Tony said, pointing at you like he was mentally calculating your stats. “We might need to run some diagnostics and make sure she’s not secretly enhanced.”

“Oh please,” you said with a laugh, shaking your head.

Steve clapped his hands once more, bringing everyone’s attention back. “Alright, before we all scatter – quick heads-up. We’ve got a mission coming up in a couple of days. Everyone’s going. First planning meeting is at two this afternoon.”

A few groans went up, but most everyone nodded.

Steve gave a short nod. “See you all later.”

The group began breaking off into pairs, stretching and chatting as they headed for their rooms or grabbed their things. Bucky fell into step beside you, glancing sideways as you both walked.

“You were incredible back there,” he said quietly, nudging your elbow. “I’m seriously proud of you.”

You turned your head toward him, beaming. “Thanks. I think that’s the most fun I’ve ever had in training.”

“I believe it,” he said with a grin. “You made Nat look like she needed a rematch.”

“She does need a rematch.”

He laughed. “That’s my girl.”

--

After a quick trip to your room for a shower and fresh clothes, you wandered down the hallway barefoot, hair still damp, and made your way to Bucky’s room without a second thought. You didn’t even knock – just opened the door and strolled right in.

He was shirtless, facing his closet, pulling a gray t-shirt from a hanger. He turned his head slightly at the sound of the door and raised an eyebrow at you with a smirk.

“Ever heard of knocking?”

You shrugged as you walked past him and flopped down onto his bed, face first into the pillow. “Nope. You’re lucky I didn’t bring snacks.”

“Lucky, huh?” he said, amused as he tugged the shirt on. “This is what we’re doing now? Just waltzing in like you own the place?”

“Might as well,” you said, voice muffled against his blanket. “I’m in here more than I’m in my own room.”

He snorted, stepping around the bed and picking up his boots from the floor. “Not wrong.”

You peeked one eye open as he started tidying up, gathering a couple of his shirts and tossing them into the hamper. Then, without comment, he bent down, picked up your clothes from last night off the floor, and dropped them into his laundry basket too.

“Wow,” you said, watching him with a smirk. “We’re laundry-official now?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said casually. “This is fully domestic. Should probably start charging rent.”

You chuckled and rolled onto your back, one arm flopped over your head. “Better give me a drawer first.”

“Deal.”

You stayed there, lazily chatting while he tidied up – straightening pillows, stacking a few books, putting some clothes away. Every now and then he’d glance over at you like he still couldn’t quite believe you were there.

Eventually your stomach grumbled loud enough to interrupt the calm, and Bucky laughed. “C’mon. Let’s get food before you pass out.”

--

The two of you wandered down to the kitchen, warming up some food and slipping into your usual spots. No one said anything – just the clink of forks and the quiet buzz of conversation.

Until about five minutes in.

“So…” Sam said, not even looking up from his plate. “Did Bucky ask you to use those moves on him after training?”

You choked on your drink as the table erupted into laughter.

Bucky didn’t even flinch. He just kept chewing, swallowed, and casually replied, “Please. I’ve already seen those moves. And more.”

Your jaw dropped. “Bucky!” you yelled, smacking his arm.

Everyone else howled around you. Even Steve looked like he was trying not to laugh, head in his hand.

Bucky just grinned and took another bite. “What? He started it.”

You glared at him, but the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you.

You just shook your head as the group settled down, falling into casual conversation. As 2:00 rolled around, everyone started getting up and heading to the conference room.

Everyone filtered into the room, falling into their usual seats. The big screen at the front lit up with a map and a set of mission files, and Steve stepped up in front of it with a remote in one hand and that familiar "mission face" on.

“Alright, listen up,” he started. “We’ve got intel on a Hydra splinter group operating out of an abandoned compound just outside of Prague. Intel says they’ve been moving a lot of material in and out of the area over the last few weeks – equipment, supplies, and some kind of high-tech disruptor we haven’t identified yet.”

You sat up a little straighter, the playful vibe from earlier quickly shifting to focus. Everyone else leaned in too – Nat and Sam already scanning the screen, Clint scribbling something on a notepad, Wanda narrowing her eyes as she listened.

Steve clicked the remote and another screen popped up, this one showing an aerial image of the compound.

“We’re wheels up at 0600 two days from now. Plan is to land outside the perimeter, infiltrate quietly, and disable the disruptor before backup arrives to secure the area. It’s a full-team op. Everyone has a role.”

He turned to look directly at you, giving you a small nod. “You’re officially in the field roster. You’ll be with me, Wanda, and Bucky on the east flank.”

You blinked in surprise and nodded slowly. Your first real mission. And they were trusting you with a frontline role?

You glanced at Bucky, who gave you a small grin. Pride and confidence radiated off him like sunlight.

Steve kept going. “Nat, Sam, Clint, you’ll take the west side. Minimal contact until we give the signal. If things go sideways, fall back to the point marked here–” he clicked again, highlighting a spot on the map, “and regroup.”

He ran through more specifics – gear loadouts, comm channels, support teams on standby. You jotted notes where needed, but your mind was racing a little. This was real. And they were trusting you like you’d been doing this all along.

As Steve wrapped up, he looked around the table. “Questions?”

Clint raised his hand lazily. “Is there a post-mission pizza plan, or are we on our own?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Debrief first, pizza later.”

Everyone chuckled and began gathering their things, the buzz of excitement mixed with tension filling the air.

Bucky waited until you stood, then quietly fell into step beside you again as you headed back out into the hallway.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low. “You went kind of quiet.”

“I think I’m still waiting for someone to say I’m not actually going,” you admitted with a small laugh. “Feels a little surreal.”

Bucky bumped your shoulder. “You earned it. You crushed training today, and Steve wouldn’t put you on a team unless he was sure you could handle it.”

You gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Besides,” he added, flashing you a grin, “you’ll be with me. I’ve got your six.”

You rolled your eyes. “Obviously.”

--

The next few days passed in a blur of training drills, briefing updates, and strategy sessions. There wasn’t much time for anything else – early mornings turned into long afternoons in the gym or meetings, with evenings spent poring over floor plans and contingency protocols. Meals were quick, conversations even quicker. Everyone was locked in, focused.

You did your best to keep up with the pace – memorizing every exit route, running sparring matches until you were sore in muscles you didn’t even know you had. But underneath the adrenaline and determination, a quiet knot of nerves had started to settle in your chest.

And it only got worse the night before departure.

You were in your room, packing for the fifth time, pulling things out of your bag and putting them back in like that might somehow calm the anxiety in your head. Clothes, gear, weapons, backup comm – what were you forgetting?

You sighed and rubbed your hands over your face.

Then your door creaked open.

You turned around, startled, just as Bucky stepped inside. His face shifted the second he saw you – smile dropping instantly, replaced by quiet concern.

“Hey,” he said, shutting the door behind him and walking over to you. “What’s wrong?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You just looked at him helplessly for a second before letting out a heavy sigh and stepping forward.

He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in an instant, holding you tight as you pressed your face into his chest and let your body melt against his.

“I’m just…nervous,” you admitted, your voice muffled. “I keep packing and unpacking and checking things like I’m gonna forget something. I don’t know. My brain’s just spinning.”

Bucky’s hand moved slowly up and down your back. “You’re not gonna forget anything.”

You didn’t answer, and he leaned back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm on your arms.

“You’re ready for this,” he said softly. “You’ve trained hard, you’ve done the work. You’re smarter than half of us and quicker than most. I’ve seen it.”

You gave a half-laugh, eyes still wide with uncertainty.

“And I’ll be with you the whole time, alright?” he added.

You nodded slowly, eyes locking with his. “Okay.”

He smiled and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Come here,” he said gently, tugging you toward the bed. “You’re done packing. You’ve checked it a hundred times. Just sit with me for a bit.”

And for the first time all day, your shoulders dropped just a little.

You both sat down on the edge of the bed, and for a while, neither of you said anything. The tension in your chest was still there, but it had loosened its grip – dulled a little by his presence.

“I keep replaying every possible scenario in my head,” you said quietly after a moment, fingers twisting in your lap. “What if something goes wrong and I freeze up?”

Bucky gave a small hum. “Then one of us will have your back until you unfreeze. It happens. It’s part of it.”

You glanced over at him. “You make it sound so normal.”

He shrugged. “Because it is. Doesn’t mean it’s not hard. Or scary. But freezing up doesn’t mean failing. It means you’re human.”

You let out a slow breath. “I think I needed to hear that.”

He reached over, lacing his fingers through yours. “You’re gonna do great. You’ve already proven that you belong out there.”

You gave a small smile, then stood, brushing your hands down your thighs. “Okay. I need to stop spiraling.”

You crossed the room, zipped up your bag with finality, and set it gently off to the side near the door. Then you pulled out your clothes for the morning – your tactical gear, boots, undershirt – and laid them neatly across the back of your desk chair, ready to go.

Behind you, Bucky stood and grabbed your bag without saying a word, slinging it easily over one shoulder. You gave him a grateful look, and the two of you headed down the hallway side by side.

The kitchen was quiet when you got there – just the soft tick of the wall clock and the low hum of the fridge. A small pile of duffel bags and tactical packs had already started to gather near the door, everyone else just as ready for the early departure.

Bucky set your bag down beside his with a soft thunk, adjusting the strap so it wouldn’t fall over. Then, without speaking, he reached out and laced his fingers through yours again, giving your hand a light squeeze.

You didn’t need to say anything.

The walk back to his room was slow and quiet. Not tense – just heavy with that last bit of calm before everything kicked into motion.

When you got there, you both wordlessly moved through your usual routine. He turned down the lights while you crawled into bed, pulling the covers up around you. A moment later, he joined you, shifting close until your legs tangled and his hand found yours again under the blanket.

The last thing you felt before drifting off was his lips brushing your temple, his voice soft in your ear.

“Goodnight, doll. You’ve got this.”

And for once, you actually believed it.

--

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, warm and golden, but not nearly strong enough to break through the haze of nerves beginning to creep back into your chest.

You woke tangled up with Bucky again – his arm draped across your waist, your head tucked beneath his chin, legs twisted together beneath the blanket. For a moment, neither of you moved. The world was still quiet. Heavy.

Then Bucky reached over to turn off the alarm, and you shifted.

This time, you sat up a little faster, already running over a mental checklist in your head.

Bucky blinked awake beside you, his voice still thick with sleep. “Morning.”

“Morning,” you murmured, rubbing your eyes. “Today’s the day.”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching a little before sitting up. “You sleep okay?”

You nodded, then let out a breath. “Better than I expected.”

He smiled faintly, then gestured to the bathroom. “You can get ready here if you want.”

You turned to look at him. “Seriously?”

He was already heading into the bathroom. “C’mere,” he called.

You padded across the room, still barefoot and a little dazed, and stepped into the bathroom behind him.

He pulled open the drawer beneath the sink – and your eyes widened.

Inside was everything. Your exact hairbrush. The brand of deodorant you used. Your favorite perfume. Even your skincare stuff. And not just one or two things – like, a whole backup lineup, ready to go.

Your heart caught in your throat. You stared for a beat too long before finally looking up at him.

“You – you got all this?”

He shrugged, eyes soft. “Course I did.”

You blinked, the gratitude bubbling up so fast it made your chest ache. You wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tight without a word.

He didn’t say anything either – just hugged you back, his arms warm and steady.

A few seconds later, the two of you started getting ready, not saying much. You were still a little anxious, but the sight of that drawer, the thought that he’d done all that without a second thought – just to make your mornings easier – stuck with you.

You weren’t doing this alone.

When you were finished, you gave his hand one last squeeze and stepped back out into the hallway. “I’m gonna change real quick,” you said.

“Alright. I’ll meet you in a sec.”

You made your way back to your room and got dressed, slipping into your tactical gear, checking every strap and buckle like muscle memory. You tied your boots, pulled your hair back, and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

Just as you opened your door to head out, you saw Bucky coming down the hallway toward you, already suited up.

He gave you a little nod. “Ready?”

You let out a breath and nodded back. “Yeah. Ready.”

You fell into step beside him, the two of you heading down to the kitchen in silence. The others were already there, milling about with quiet focus – checking packs, sipping coffee, scanning tablets. No one said anything when you walked in. There was no teasing, no sarcasm. Just the quiet hum of the team, fully in mission mode.

You stood close to Bucky, just listening to the low conversations until Steve finally stepped in, a duffel bag in one hand and a tablet in the other.

“Alright,” he said, voice cutting clean through the room. “Let’s move out.”

Everyone straightened, the sound of zippers and boots and clinking gear echoing around the room before everyone headed to the quinjet.

A few minutes later, the low hum of the quinjet filled the cabin as the team flew in quiet formation. Everyone was dialed in – eyes scanning files, weapons checked and rechecked, tension running under the surface like a current.

You sat between Bucky and Wanda, your knee bouncing the smallest bit.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Bucky’s hand slid over your thigh. He didn’t say a word. Just rested it there, his thumb gently brushing in slow, grounding circles.

You looked over at him. He was staring straight ahead, jaw set, completely calm. But that simple, quiet touch? It worked better than any pep talk ever could. You took a breath, nodded once to yourself, and kept your focus forward.

The jet landed with a soft hiss, the rear ramp lowering as the team began to move.

“Alright, let’s split up,” Steve said, voice firm through the comms.

You nodded, heart thudding in your ears as you followed behind Steve, Bucky, and Wanda through the trees toward the abandoned compound. The building loomed ahead, half-collapsed and covered in vines, the remnants of something long-forgotten.

But something wasn’t right.

You slowed, eyes narrowing.

“Do you guys feel that?” you asked, glancing around.

Wanda frowned slightly, scanning the area with her abilities. “It’s…quiet.”

“Too quiet,” Bucky added, lowly.

You stopped in your tracks, turning toward the left corridor. “I’m gonna check something.”

“Stick together,” Steve said sharply, but you were already walking toward a hallway partially obscured by rubble.

“I’ll be quick,” you said into the comm, keeping low and moving with purpose. You slipped through a crumbling archway and into a side wing of the building, the air colder here.

Then you saw it.

A hidden stairwell – half-covered by an overturned crate and nearly invisible unless you were looking for it. You stepped closer, heart jumping.

Your hand went to your comm. “I found a secondary entry point. Could be storage or lower-level operations – they definitely didn’t want this seen.”

Static crackled, followed by Steve’s voice. “Hold position. We’ll come to you.”

But before you could respond, the stairwell erupted in movement – four figures burst up from below, all armed, one already firing.

You yelped and dove behind a pillar, debris exploding around you.

Adrenaline surged, and you moved fast – firing back in short bursts, staying low, repositioning quickly.

One down. Then two.

You rolled, ducked behind a support beam, then took out the third with a well-aimed shot.

The last came at you hand-to-hand, but you reacted without thinking – grabbing his wrist, flipping him with his own momentum, and landing a solid strike to knock him out cold.

It was over in seconds.

You exhaled hard, heart racing.

Then you heard boots – fast, frantic – and looked up just as Bucky stormed in, weapon raised, eyes wide and frantic.

He saw you standing, chest heaving, surrounded by unconscious bodies.

His shoulders dropped, but only for a moment.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he barked, voice sharp and panicked.

You opened your mouth, but the words caught in your throat. He was already crossing the space to you, eyes blazing.

“We told you to hold position!”

“I – I saw something, I had to check it out–”

“You could’ve been killed!” he snapped, jaw clenched.

There was something in his voice – not just anger. Fear. Real fear.

You stepped back, breath catching, the weight of it all suddenly heavier.

“I handled it,” you said quietly, but your voice shook anyway.

And Bucky just looked at you – like he didn’t know whether to shake you or hug you.

Before you could respond to Bucky’s outburst, footsteps echoed through the hallway again.

Steve rounded the corner with Wanda close behind, both of them slowing at the sight of the scene in front of them – bodies on the ground, your breathing still heavy, and Bucky standing between you and the chaos like a shield.

“You good?” Steve asked, eyes scanning you quickly.

You gave a short nod. “Yeah. Four hostiles, all neutralized. They came from that stairwell – it was hidden.”

Steve crouched near one of the downed agents, frowning. “This wasn’t just a recon post. They were guarding something.”

Wanda closed her eyes, scanning the space. “There’s something below. I can feel it – some kind of power source.”

“Alright,” Steve said, standing. “Let’s move. Whatever it is, we shut it down.”

Bucky hadn’t said a word since snapping at you, and he didn’t meet your eyes as he turned and followed Steve.

You fell in step behind them, jaw tight, trying to push the sting from your chest.

The mission didn’t take long after that. Wanda disabled the energy core while you, Bucky, and Steve secured the perimeter. It was smooth, efficient – but you barely felt it. The adrenaline had worn off, and the pit in your stomach was growing heavier by the second.

Once the building was cleared and the rest of the team rejoined, Steve called it in, and you all made your way back to the quinjet.

The flight home was silent.

You sat next to Bucky, just like always, but he never turned toward you. Never looked at you. His jaw was tight, arms crossed, staring ahead with a cold sort of stillness you’d never seen from him before.

You didn’t know what to say. The mission had gone well. You’d seen a threat, reacted fast, handled yourself. But none of that seemed to matter. Not to him.

You glanced over at him, hoping for a flicker of softness, even just a glance – but he gave you nothing.

You sat back slowly, trying to stay still even as your heart pounded again for a whole different reason.

You were proud of how you’d handled the fight. But the silence from Bucky settled in your chest like a weight.

Was he mad you didn’t listen? That you took a risk?

Or was it worse than that?

Was he disappointed in you?

You stared down at your hands and tried to keep your breathing steady. The rest of the team was scattered across the jet – quiet, tired, and probably chalking the silence up to post-mission fatigue.

But for you, the worst part wasn’t what had happened out there.

It was what wasn’t happening now.

--

The jet touched down on the compound’s landing pad with a low hum, the bay doors opening to the muted light of early evening.

Everyone stood slowly, unbuckling and gathering their things with the quiet exhaustion that always came after a mission. Bucky didn’t say a word – just grabbed his gear, slung his bag over his shoulder, and headed down the ramp without even glancing your way.

You watched him go, lips parted like maybe you were about to call after him…but nothing came out.

Your fingers curled around the strap of your own bag, and you stood, following behind the others. You spotted him near the elevator across the hangar, but just as you were about to pick up your pace, Steve’s voice called out behind you.

“Hey,” he said, walking toward you. His expression was calm, but firm. “Good work today.”

You nodded, trying to look like that meant something – trying not to let your disappointment show. “Thanks.”

“But,” he added, crossing his arms lightly, “next time you get that gut feeling, call it in first. I don’t doubt your instincts – they were right – but you’ve got backup for a reason.”

Your throat felt tight, but you nodded again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad,” Steve said, offering a faint smile. “You handled yourself better than most rookies would’ve. Just don’t take that kind of risk alone again, alright?”

“Alright,” you murmured, managing a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He gave you a final nod, then turned to head toward the control room.

You stood there for another second, feeling the weight of the conversation settle right next to the ache that was already blooming in your chest.

You made your way to the elevator alone, stepping inside and staring at the panel in front of you, heart pounding as if it didn’t quite know what to feel.

Once the doors opened, you walked straight to your room, dropped your bag beside your dresser, and headed to the shower. The warm water helped ease the tension in your shoulders, but it didn’t do much for the rest of you.

When you finally stepped out, you dried off and pulled on a pair of soft shorts and one of Bucky’s hoodies. It smelled like him – faint cologne and something familiar – and it made your chest squeeze all over again.

You padded quietly across the room, hair damp and skin still flushed from the shower, and sat on the edge of your bed.

The silence was deafening.

And you still had no idea if Bucky was going to come find you…or not at all.

You sat on the edge of your bed for what felt like forever, chewing at your lip, debating. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, you pushed yourself up and made your way to Bucky’s room.

You paused outside his door, swallowing hard. Then you lifted your hand and knocked.

It was a few seconds before the door opened, revealing Bucky. He looked at you with an unreadable expression, his face guarded, his eyes tired.

“Hey,” he said flatly, voice low and neutral.

Then he turned around without waiting for you to respond, heading back toward his duffel bag on the bed. He started unpacking his gear like you weren’t even there.

You stepped inside hesitantly, closing the door behind you. The click echoed in the quiet room.

You stood there, awkward and unsure, watching him move stiffly. The silence stretched on until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” you finally asked, voice softer than you intended.

He didn’t look at you as he shoved his boots back in the closet. “You know what’s wrong.”

Your jaw clenched. “No, actually, I don’t.”

He finally turned to face you, eyes sharp now, frustration breaking through. “You split off from the group. You ignored the plan. You could’ve been killed.”

You blinked, taken aback by the harshness in his tone. “I had a feeling something was off, Bucky. I trusted my gut, and I was right. I handled it.”

“That’s not the point!” His voice rose, cutting through the air between you. “You weren’t supposed to handle it alone! You’re not on your own out there anymore – you have a team. You had me.”

You crossed your arms defensively, heart pounding now for a different reason. “I know I have a team, but I didn’t have time to wait around for everyone to agree. I did what I had to do.”

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “And what if you hadn’t handled it? What if you got hurt before we even knew where you were?”

“But I didn’t,” you shot back, the tension snapping between you both like a rubber band pulled too tight. “I took them out, I called it in. You don’t trust me to handle myself?”

“It’s not about trust,” he growled, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. “It’s about being part of a team, and yeah – it’s about me not wanting to watch you get yourself killed because you couldn’t wait five damn seconds for backup.”

Your chest rose and fell, your breath shaky as anger and something more vulnerable tangled inside you. “I’m not some fragile rookie, Bucky. I know what I’m doing. You don’t get to treat me like–”

“Like I care about you?” he snapped. “Sorry, that’s not something I can turn off.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to just stand behind you and let you do everything!”

“Yeah, well, you can’t just split off every time you think you feel something either!”

The words hung there, heavy, bitter.

You stared at him, heart aching, hands shaking at your sides. “But I was right,” you said, anger and hurt mixing in your voice. “I can’t stand there and ignore it just because you’re scared something might happen to me. That’s not how this works.”

Without waiting for a response, you spun on your heel, yanking open the door and storming out.

You didn’t look back.

--

Part 17 | Masterlist

Tag list: @ordelixx @read-just-cant-stop @erinallene @crazycleo @magnoliamermaid @thewriters64 @nelachu2423 @kjah97 @awesompawsum @winchestert101 @buckyb-stan @crazyunsexycool @buckysmetalgoddamnarm @buckybarnesfic @ozwriterchick @multiversefanfics @blavikennbutcher @mysoggywaffle @nameless-ken @starfly-nicole @440mxs-wife @vicmc624 @lostinspace33 @prettylittlepluviophile @softpia @maryevm @glossy01 @ye-olde-trash-panda @bonnyclydecat @iyskgd @ohdrey89 @death-in-love @herejustforbuckybarnes @whitewolfluvr @violetpassionfruit @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @silas-aeiou @avengemepercy @starstruckfirecat @yehfitoormera

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #13

Danny Fenton never asked to be king. High King, actually. Supreme Sovereign Overlord of the Infinite Realms, Master of Time, Space, and Everything Between. Whatever. Clockwork said the job came with responsibilities, like cosmic balance and interdimensional peace and setting a good example for the lesser ghosts, but Danny’s idea of diplomacy was giving Skulker a wedgie and sending him flying into a hellmouth. Which, according to Clockwork, was “not sustainable inter-realm policy.” So now here he was, eighteen years old, king of all things weird and glowy, and being told he needed to “forge political relations” with Earth governments.

“Pick one realm,” Clockwork had said with his usual serene smugness, swirling his time staff like he was a magical baton twirler at the Ghost Macy’s Parade. “Start with a sovereign nation. Establish diplomatic rapport. You are a king now. Act like it.”

Danny considered going to Canada, because he heard they had maple syrup and weren’t really into starting fights, but then Frostbite suggested Wakanda. “A hidden, technologically advanced kingdom,” Frostbite boomed with a fang-filled smile. “They are isolated yet powerful. A worthy first partner.”

And that’s how Danny Phantom, ghost king of the afterlife, showed up in Wakanda in his full royal regalia—ripped jeans, a NASA hoodie, and glowing white hair that he had half-heartedly tried to tame with ectoplasm gel. His crown—which he insisted was optional—hovered behind his head like a haunted hula hoop. The Wakandan guards were not impressed. One of them tried to spear him on sight.

“HI!” Danny shouted, floating three feet off the ground to avoid being stabbed. “I come in peace! And also kind of by accident! I may have ripped a hole in your sky barrier. Sorry!”

They dragged him to Shuri.

Princess Shuri was not having a good week. Some idiot on the Council of Elders tried to propose to her again, a hyena broke into her lab and stole a vibranium gauntlet, and now there was a glowing white boy hovering upside down in her throne room claiming to be the King of Ghosts.

“You,” she said, pointing a very sharp finger at him, “are either the most powerful being in the multiverse or the dumbest man I’ve ever met.”

Danny, still upside down, squinted at her. “I can be both. It’s called multitasking.”

Shuri blinked. Then laughed. Then immediately regretted laughing because Danny took it as a sign they were friends.

He followed her around like a lost ectoplasmic puppy for three days, asking questions like, “Do you believe in ghosts?” and “If your vibranium works on sound frequencies, does that mean you could weaponize my ghost wail and make, like, a portable banshee cannon?” and “Do you wanna ride my haunted dinosaur?”

Shuri didn’t know what to do with him. He was infuriating. He phased through walls. He reorganized her lab equipment by vibe. He called her nanobot swarm “glowy spiders.” He kept summoning ghost animals to show her like a toddler bringing frogs into the kitchen. At one point he tried to court her with a bouquet of screaming flowers from the Nightmare Zone. They bit her. She threw them in the incinerator. He pouted for an hour and sulked on the ceiling.

Somehow, this only made him more endearing.

Because sure, he was a pain in the ass, but he was also… genuine. And weirdly charming. He made her laugh when she wanted to scream. He made her guards nervous, which was hilarious. He helped her reboot a broken AI system by whispering ghost gibberish into its processor. It worked. Nobody knew why. Not even Danny.

And then there was the incident at the United Nations.

Danny, trying to prove he could be a good king and a solid diplomatic partner, insisted on attending a meeting with Shuri in New York. He wore a suit. The suit burst into flames five minutes in because he forgot he couldn’t suppress his ecto-core for more than an hour without leaking nuclear-level ghost juice. He tried to cover it up by summoning a clone to sit in his chair while he phased under the table to cool off in spectral form. Unfortunately, his clone started ranting about how France smelled like bread ghosts and threatened to annex Canada “in the name of spooky justice.”

Shuri had to drag him out of the UN by the collar of his glowing cape.

Back in Wakanda, after the global scandal of the “Ghost King’s Toasted Clone Uprising,” Danny was sulking on a floating chair, eating ice cream straight from the tub and accidentally freezing the spoon with his aura.

“I’m never doing politics again,” he declared, face half-smeared with mint chocolate chip.

“You are literally a king,” Shuri reminded him, arms crossed. “You have to do politics.”

“Then I abdicate. I leave the Ghost Realms to my dog, Cujo. He’ll make treaties with slobbery kisses and head pats.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Shuri sighed, snatching his spoon and dipping it into the tub. “A glowing, interdimensional, mint-breathed drama queen.”

Danny perked up. “Did you just share my ice cream? Is this a bonding moment?”

“No.”

“It feels like a bonding moment.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m just saying, if I died again right now, I’d die happy.”

“You’re already dead.”

“Exactly. That’s how good this moment is.”

And then came the courtship.

Apparently, in ghost culture, any monarch who shares food with another royal is engaging in “pre-mating ceremonial bonding.” Danny found this out after the ice cream moment and immediately declared that he was now courting Shuri, Princess of Wakanda, Heir of the Panther, Queen of His Afterlife.

Shuri threw a shoe at him.

Danny dodged, declared it a “warrior’s blessing,” and carried the shoe around for two days as a sacred relic.

T’Challa returned from a diplomatic mission to find a literal ghost king holding his sister’s sandal in one hand and trying to explain to Okoye why his haunted llamas needed Wakandan citizenship. The Black Panther stared. Blinked. Then turned around and left without saying a word.

It only got worse when the ghosts started showing up.

You see, Danny forgot to mention that his realm was connected to every plane of existence, including all other universesand timelines. So, one by one, people started noticing strange, glowing portals opening in their showers, under their beds, and once—tragically—during a live interview with Tony Stark, who got slimed with ectoplasm and spent an hour screaming about “interdimensional snot monsters.”

Wanda Maximoff accidentally astral-projected into Danny’s throne room during a meditative nap and got stuck in a four-hour tea ceremony with Princess Dorathea the Dragon Ghost, who tried to set her up with Wulf, the yeti-looking ghost of justice. Doctor Strange kept getting prank-called by Technus, who hacked the Sanctum’s Wi-Fi and kept sending memes with captions like “Ur magical protections are mid. Sincerely, King Danny.”

Eventually, the Avengers invited Danny to a meeting.

He showed up fifteen minutes late, riding a skeleton horse, wearing sunglasses indoors, and drinking bubble tea through a glowing straw. Thor challenged him to a duel for “honor and clarity.” Danny beat him by turning intangible and pantsing him in front of everyone.

Shuri watched from the sidelines, sipping her own bubble tea, absolutely smitten and refusing to admit it.

“Just marry him already,” Okoye muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“I don’t even like him,” Shuri snapped. “He’s a reckless, chaotic disaster. He tried to eat vibranium popcorn and exploded.”

“You saved his ectoplasmic signature in your lab.”

“For scientific research!”

“You painted your gauntlet with his core color.”

“It’s a good aesthetic!”

“You wrote a five-page protocol for ‘dealing with ghost boyfriends.’”

“PREEMPTIVE PLANNING.”

Danny, overhearing all of this from the ceiling, grinned like a haunted gremlin. “So you do like me.”

“Get out of my lab,” Shuri said.

He floated closer. “Make me.”

She did. By launching him into orbit with a vibranium railgun.

He came back the next day with a moon rock and a bouquet of cosmic roses made of stardust and regret. She didn’t smile. Not really. Just a little.

And thus began the weirdest, most politically unstable, gloriously cursed romance in the history of both the Ghost Zone and the multiverse. International relations were a mess, ghost cats roamed Wakandan streets, Thor and Cujo became best friends, and Danny made a habit of whispering “I’m Shuri’s spooky consort” at every formal event while phasing through walls.

Nobody knew if it was true love or mutually assured chaos.

But one thing was certain: Ghost diplomacy would never be the same.

[spitefulsatanfics]

𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞...

— by little devil 🖤

pairing: dean winchester x she/her reader tone: domestic fluff, angst-kissed tenderness, love under the weight of the world genre: canon-compliant headcanon list told like snapshots in fanfic form rating: pg-13 for language and suggestive themes synopsis: a list of what it means to be loved by Dean Winchester, one stolen moment at a time.

🥃 Late Nights at the Motel With Only the Lamplight Between You

He always turns the lamp on low when you fall asleep before him—never off.

“Just in case you wake up and think I left,” he mutters, almost too quiet to catch. You’re pretending to sleep, cheek mushed against the motel pillow, but his voice chases your heart like a moth to flame. He sighs, then adds, “I’d never leave you behind, sweetheart.”

Sometimes, you feel the ghost of his fingers trailing along your shoulder blade, the press of his lips against your temple. Dean Winchester kisses like a man who knows time is borrowed and the bill's already overdue.

🍔 Making You Breakfast at Weird Hours Like It's a Love Language

There’s a bacon-and-egg sandwich being shoved in your direction at exactly 2:47 AM.

“You didn’t eat earlier,” he says, chewing his own. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. “And you’re cranky when you’re starving, so. Eat up, princess.”

The paper napkin tucked beneath it has a doodle of the Impala on it with hearts for wheels. You pretend not to notice how your smile makes him beam when he thinks you're not looking.

🎸 Letting You Have the Aux Cord in the Impala—Sometimes

Don’t get it twisted—classic rock is king. But sometimes, when you’ve been hunting for days, tired and half-conscious in the front seat, he lets you play your playlist. Even if it’s “criminally poppy,” he doesn’t change it.

“Is this the same chick who sang that sad vampire song last week?” he asks, brow raised. “Yes, and she’s iconic.” “Huh. Guess she grows on you.”

Three days later, he’s humming the chorus under his breath while loading silver bullets.

💚 Overprotective? Try Terminally Attached

He flinches every time you’re out of sight longer than five minutes on a hunt.

“I’m fine, Dean.” “You didn’t answer your damn radio for twenty minutes. You could’ve been dead, Y/N, and I wouldn’t’ve known until I found the body.”

He doesn’t say “your body.” Never your body. He says it like he’s watching his world burn every time he thinks of losing you. And then he pulls you in like he’s drowning.

“Next time, I’m not letting you outta arm’s reach.”

And he means it. For two days, you practically share a coat pocket.

🎯 Teaching You How to Use His Favorite Guns, Even Though It Kills Him a Little

“Safety’s here. Recoil’s a bitch, so lean into it.” “Like this?” “Perfect.” (He stares too long. Blinks. Clears his throat.) “Yeah. You’re a natural, sweetheart.”

He tells Sam he’s just being practical—wants you to be able to defend yourself. But the truth is, he hates putting that kind of danger in your hands. Loves you too much to ever let you stay defenseless. Hates the world for making it necessary.

🍁 Fall Drives and Small-Town Diners

Every once in a while, when the world’s not ending and the salt lines hold, Dean takes you for drives with no destination.

There’s always pie. Sometimes two. You split the first, and he insists you each get your own for the second round.

“That’s not sharing, that’s survival,” he says, smug with a forkful of cherry pie. “You try to touch mine and I will fake my death.”

You try to steal it anyway. He lets you win. Every time.

🔧 Grease-Stained Love Letters in the Form of Impala Repairs

He teaches you her name like she’s a living thing. Teaches you how to listen—really listen—to her engine. Shows you which wrench to use like it’s a sacred ritual.

You come in once with a smudge of oil on your cheek. He stares.

“You got…” he gestures vaguely, brushing it off with his thumb. His touch lingers. “Better?” “Better,” he says. But he’s not talking about the oil.

🛏️ Late Night Confessions and Sleep-Tousled Softness

There are nights—rare and sacred—when Dean tells you things he doesn’t even tell himself.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this’ll all be some dream,” he whispers into your shoulder, arms locked around you like a promise. “Like, there’s no way I get to have this.”

You shift closer. Your fingers find the pulse point at his wrist.

“You do,” you whisper. “You get to have this. You get to have me.”

And he holds on tighter like the universe might steal you away the second he lets go.

✨ Falling Asleep to the Sound of Classic Rock and Dean's Steady Breathing

Sometimes, the hunts go bad. Sometimes, the world feels a little too sharp around the edges.

But there’s something about lying next to Dean—his arm slung around your waist, his breath in your hair, Baba O’Riley buzzing from the radio—that turns the whole mess into something survivable.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he says once, half-asleep. “How do you know?” “Because I’ve got you.”

And for now, that’s enough.

𓆩♡𓆪 Dean Winchester doesn’t love easy. But he loves hard. Fierce. Loud. In bacon sandwiches, in spare bullets tucked into your jacket pocket, in a glance that says please don’t die louder than words ever could.

Having him as a boyfriend is like dating a storm— chaotic, warm, dangerous, and impossibly beautiful when it hits just right.

You don’t tame him. You join him.

𓆩♡𓆪

[f1version]

26 BIRTHDAY KISSES ★ CL16

pairing: charles leclerc x gf!reader ( she/her )

summary: 26th birthday, 26 pictures of you and Charles kissing. A kiss for each year.

notes: i’m back from my birthday trip!! i wrote this birthday special in like 30 minutes and it’s still charles’ birthday in a couple of places so… i’m not exactly late! enjoy <3

26 KISSES: A GALLERY

By your beautiful girlfriend, in collaboration with a lot of people but mainly Joris and ourselves.

1. DRUNK DANCING: A month after we got together, we were at Arthur’s 18th birthday. We got drunk, singing and dancing to the worst playlist in existence (Lorenzo’s) and, somehow, Arthur got to capture this moment I barely even remember.

Taken by Arthur Leclerc, 2018

2. AUGUST 2019: Summer break, so sweet so loving. You made me promise that if you jumped off first, I would jump too. It took me fifteen minutes to follow after you. Also your kisses were incredibly salty.

Taken by Joris Trouche, 2019

3. THE MONZA INCIDENT: I had red lipstick the night you won in Monza, you told me it looked pretty, I asked you to kiss me, you did. Fast forward 8 minutes it was all smudged over your lips, you were 10 minutes late to the post-race conference, and Sylvia almost banned me that night. (I’m still kind of banned from your driver’s room)

Taken by Charles Leclerc, 2019

4. UNDER THE COVERS: 2020, what a crazy year. This one was taken the day we decided to finish moving in together. You were so excited, wanted everything to be perfect. Today I can say it is.

Taken by Me, 2020

5. WORDS: We were spending Christmas by ourselves, we face-timed our families, had dinner and watched movies. You gifted me three beautiful words I, of course, said back… and we also got a puppy!

Taken by Charles’ phone timer, 2020

6. OCEAN BREZEE: Just a small escapade to take a breath. You were so cuddly that day, Joris was so done with you (he still took the pic though)

Taken by Joris Trouche, 2021

7. CUTE OR HOT: I just wanted a cute morning selfie but, because of you, we ended up in a…promising mood. It was intense that’s all I have to say!

Taken by Me, 2021

8. KISS KISS KISS: 24th birthday, 24 kisses. This kind of became a tradition, let me know if you still want them this year!

Taken by Me, 2021

9. DRUNK AF: How did we got so drunk? Ask Pierre, he was the one hosting. Either way we got another amazing photo of us drunk-kissing!!!

Taken by Pierre Gasly, 2021

10. UNDER THE SEA: I’m just going to say that you and your ‘photo ideas 📸’ folder are attached by the hip. I personally love this one (even if it took half an hour to take)

Taken by Joris Trouche, 2021

11. NEW YORK: Thought you could scape this one? Never! Arthur and I didn’t spend a week listening to your complaining for nothing, babe. You must admit that this kiss was magical, everything was so pretty that day. And then it started snowing!

Taken by Arthur Leclerc, 2021

12. EXPOSED: Remember how our amazing soft launch got ruined by our trip to Ibiza? Well, here it is, the image we couldn’t stop laughing at when it came out, we really thought we were sneaky.

Taken by unknown, 2022

13. HARD LAUNCH: A week later we were kissing on live TV. It’s one of my favorite memories, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Taken by F1 TV, 2022

14. BACK KISSES: Just a picture of the morning after I learned that you can convince anyone, even the CEO of Ferrari, to allow you to leave sponsor events early. I really don’t know if you knew those kisses were there, but I woke up to this, took a picture and then left you with them until we took a shower.

Taken by Me, 2022

15. SPONSORED BY AIRMAX: That time your team forgot to book us a flight and you had to ask Lando to ask Daniel to ask Max if we could go back to Monaco with them. I’ve never seen Max talk so much, Daniel laugh so loud or Lando taking so many pictures. He even asked to take one of us, here it is:

Taken by Lando Norris, 2022

16. SIXTEEN: I bet you thought this one would have something to do with racing. Number 16. Sorry to disappoint but it’s our beautiful puppy…Sixteen! I’m not gonna lie, I still hate you for persuading me into that name. Anyways if you kiss the dog you kiss the mom!!

Taken by Me, 2022

17. 25 KISSES: Again, tell me if you want those 26 kisses this year. Look at us last year!

Taken by Me, 2022

18. NEW YEAR, SAME LOVE: Sometimes the world feels unreal when I’m with you, this was one of those days. I felt in another reality, the world slowed down, it was just you and me. I remember thinking “I fell in love with the right person” and then you kissed me.

Taken by Joris Trouche, 2022

19. BLACK SUIT: Remember when your fans thanked me for your “new” outfits? They repeated it was the girlfriend effect, you couldn’t stop talking about how stylish you are with or without me!

Taken by Me, 2023

20. PHOTOSHOOT: You got Joris to take these shots just because you wanted a new wallpaper. I thought it was silly, until one day all of them were hanging around our home. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Charlie.

Taken by Joris Trouche, 2023

21. FIVE STAR CHEFS: Not much to say, just sorry for being so distracting and thank you for the amazing (stolen from Ferrari) dinner babe!

Taken by Charles’ phone timer, 2023

22. RED LIGHTS: This year’s addition to our drunk-kissing collection. I remember you drowning shots with Carlos and Pierre, asking me to dance with you, absolutely failing at that, and then kissing me. After that there’s blurry ferrari red, giggles and a hot bath.

Taken by Andrea Ferrari, 2023

23. LAZY IN BED: Wonderful lazy days by the ocean, that’s how we spent the summer break. That morning in particular you didn’t want to get up, basically gluing me to bed. We got up at 1pm.

Taken by Me, 2023

24. JUST ONE QUESTION: Can I drive the purosangue now? Please please please

Taken by Me, 2023

25. LOVER: This day I woke up thinking about those dreams we talk about all the time, you even remembered me a couple of them throughout the day. Charlie, I do want to do this for the rest of our lives, never forget it <3

Taken by Arthur Leclerc, 2023

26. TWENTY-SIX: We are just 26 but I hope our story keeps on writing itself. I love you, these have been the happiest 6 years of my life. Happy birthday bébé ❤️

Taken by Joris Trouche, 2023

[desipotterhead18]

Hello Hinny Shippers

Here are my favorite hinny fic recs

[PART 2 ]

Post-DH

1)A new beginning by @startanewdream Summary: Harry and Ginny in the aftermath of the battle, getting back together and deciding to live. Nine pieces following them through May to September of 1998.

2)Private by @thedistantdusk Summary: But it’s part of the job, Ginny reminds herself. She must sit through six of these interviews per year. She must be generally pleasant and polite. She must represent her team well. And above all else, she must not lose her temper. Right.

3)Out of the Mouths of Babes by The_Clockwork_Monk Chapters: 7/7 Summary: Prompt: “Uncle Ron said something about Harry knocking Ginny up, but I don’t know what he means,” Teddy said.

4)chinwag by gryffindormischief, fightfortherightsofhouseelves Summary: Harry can't resist a challenge when he's presented with one.

5)gone was any trace of you by @annerbhpnnerb Summary: An accident at work left Harry with a mysterious case of amnesia and a wife he couldn’t remember.ever, neither can Ginny, you see.

6)you don't have to stay by Annerb Summary: They still refer to her as ‘Harry Potter’s girl’ sometimes. Eleven-year-old her would be ecstatic. Twenty-one-year-old her is far less enthused.

7)I'm not on drugs, I'm just in love by Annerb Summary: Wherein Ron is an irredeemable sap, Harry isn’t much better, and Bill is so Over It all (but secretly pleased). Or how Ron’s stag do goes the way most things do when Harry Potter is involved—a quick spiral into violence and heartwarming disaster.

8)One Perfect Day by @pottermum Summary: Harry has the most perfect day.

9)Lost in Japan by lostonplatform934 Chapters: 3/3 Summary: Two weeks, six days, three hours and 42 minutes. That was how long it had been since Harry Potter had seen Ginny Weasley. And the lack of Ginny was thoroughly driving Harry mad. But he's a couple hundred miles from Japan, and he's thinking he could fly to her hotel tonight, 'cause he can't get Ginny off his mind.

10)There's The Silver Lining I've Been Looking For (1991 words) by @justalittleconfusing Summary: Harry's 34th birthday carries more significance than another year around the sun. Ginny is on a mission to figure out why he is being so shifty at his birthday dinner at the Burrow.

11)Teething Problems by pottermum Summary: Sisters! Who Needs Them?

12)Drunk in Love by FloreatCastellum Summary: Harry should have known better than to let George Weasley get him drunk.

13)22 by FloreatCastellum Summary: 'I’m older than my parents now. They were 21 when they died.’

14)The Fairground by FloreatCastellum Summary: In which the Weasleys and Potters attend the local funfair and James Sirius Potter hustles for candy floss.

15)new name by @always_hinny Summary: ginny dealing with having a new name

ff.net

1)Won A Day In The Life  by pottermum

2)wonderfulness What-it's a word, Ginny said so! by pottermum

3) Miss Butter Elbows by JohnMcHacker

Drabbles , Snippets , series

1)Catch Her Snitch! by pottermum Chapters: 102/? 2)Several Sunlit Days: Ginniversary Bingo by @starlingflight Chapters: 19/19 3)Freshly pickled microfic by @ginnyw-potter Chapters: 28/?

One-shots with variable timeline

1)loml by StarlingFlight Summary: One accronym. Two lives. Nine different meanings. Written for corneliaavenue's TTPD Several Sunlit Daylights challenge.

2)A new beginning by Startanewdream Summary: Harry and Ginny in the aftermath of the battle, getting back together and deciding to live. Nine pieces following them through May to September of 1998.

ff.net

2) The Path to Harry by CharmHazel

3) The Path to Ginny  by CharmHazel

AUs

1)Gin Fizz by Startanewdream Chapters: 2/3 Summary: Ginny doesn't want any trouble. Harry is running away from his. So this is your classic one-night stand.

2)The Hook Up by pottermum Chapters: 5/5, Muggle AU Summary: It's been eight months since Ginny broke up with her cheating ex when she received an invitation to his sister's wedding. She accepts for two reasons, to show her ex just what he's missing out on by looking fabulous, and to hook up. And then she met Harry. Muggle AU

3)Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day? by balmiki Chapters: 2/2 Summary: Prompt - Do you know how it feels to wish for death every day? Ginny goes to pick up a drunk Harry ( AU - they didn't date in Hogwarts).

4)Imposter by @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey Summary: “I’m Harry Potter, nice to meet you.” Ginny closed her eyes and took a deep breath, not believing her ears. If there was one thing Ginny would recognize everywhere, it would be Harry’s voice. That man wasn’t Harry. And he had the audacity to use Harry’s name to woo a girl in hope to bring her home tonight.

5)Señorita by @celtics534 Summary: Before he even knew her name, he felt the fire between them. One look at those brown eyes and he was hooked this red-haired señorita

6)confessions should be better planned by @takeariskao3 Summary: Harry accidentally submits the wrong photo for his digital photography elective… shenanigans ensue… (best read on a phone, but if reading on the computer, the formatting should translate easy enough)

7)Sorry, Wrong Number! by pottermum Chapters: 5/? Summary: Dialling one wrong digit changed Harry Potter's life forever because sometimes, making a mistake can lead to bigger and better things. This is one of them.

8)Light beam by Startanewdream Chapters: 2/2 Summary: ‘Dad, hypothetically… what would you have done if Mum was Sirius’ sister?’  

[sugrhigh]

RUMORS - ( c.s )

REQUESTED**

summary: you and chris have known each other for a long time, and you’ve always had an inescapable crush on him. when you all go to tara’s party and fans see them together for the first time, speculation begins to circulate, and you begin to pull away in fear that he likes her as more than a friend

warnings: angsty in the beginning, fluffy in the end :) some swearing a kiss and that’s it really

bff!chris x fem!reader

a/n: i loved this concept and i hope i brought it to life well for the anon that requested <3 my inbox is always open for u guys #kisses

@fawnchives @l9vesick @mattinside @sturnioloco @sturniolossss @cupidsword @teapartyprincess4two @princessbetsy123-blog @cookiehaos @sturnlova @junnniiieee07 @vsangel-starbies @chrissystur

doom scrolling online is like a car crash that you can’t look away from; especially when it involves your friend and your long term crush. you’ve been laying in bed scouring the internet for the past hour, pouring over comments about and tara and chris.

ever since her last party, when fans actually saw them publicly interacting for the first time, the gossip has gotten out of control. people want them together, and you hate to admit that it makes you sick to your stomach.

hell, you’d been the one to introduce them, since tara had become your friend first. but you and chris go all the way back to childhood; you were best friends with him and his brothers in your early years of school, and then you moved to another town after your dad accepted a new position.

you kept in touch through social media and occasional texts after that, until you all found yourselves in LA fresh out of high school, alone in an unfamiliar city across the country.

their youtube channel had taken off, and you’d gained a large following after you’d finally been recognized for your photography due to some big-name collabs. you were all in the same vulnerable position, and because of this your friendship with the three of them started right back up where it left off.

the rest is history. it’s been two years now, and you’ve all grown exponentially, fully adjusted to LA and the recognition, comfortable with where you are in your lives professionally and personally.

you spend nearly every week with the triplets, doing anything and everything together. they’ve made the occasional homesickness bearable, been your rock through the hard times, and supported you like no one else.

but things are a little different with you and chris. he’s your best friend, the person you want to tell everything to first. it’s always been that way, really. you had feelings for him at 13, and now at 20 years old you love him even more.

but that doesn’t mean you have to love him being shipped with every female influencer on the planet.

it’s selfish, really, to want chris to yourself, considering his occupation and the fame that comes with it. tara is a good person and an even better friend, and you shouldn’t be angry over the idea of them dating.

still, it’s been consuming your mind ever since you saw the first post about the two of them a few days ago, and you’ve been checking social media every hour since.

you’re about to read through yet another comment section when your phone buzzes, a notification appearing at the top of the screen.

chris

can you pls answer me

i don’t like this silent treatment thing

your stomach flips. he’s been texting you things like this for the past few days, since you started distancing yourself after the party.

the whole night he had acted as if he was into tara; always making conversation, asking to dance, posting her on his story. even when you were right next to him, it still felt like he was miles away.

so of course it’s been upsetting you, and you figured rather than taking it out on either of them you would just remove yourself from the situation.

it seemed like the best option in the moment, but it still sucks. you hate not talking to him, not seeing his face or feeling his arms wrap around you in a familiar hug.

another text pings, snapping you out of your spiral once more.

chris

i don’t know what’s wrong but you’re scaring me

the message makes your eyes burn, and you blink away the tears. you don’t want him worrying about you, especially when it’s your own stupid feelings getting in the way of things being normal.

you sigh, tapping out a response and staring at it, debating back and forth whether you should actually press send. but he beats you to a response, and another string of texts come through.

chris

i can see you typing

i’m coming over

y/n

no don’t do that, everything is fine

chris

i don’t believe you

and i already left my house

it’s only a five minute walk to get from his place to yours, and you know he’s too stubborn to actually turn around, no matter how hard you plead. you’ve already broken out into a nervous sweat just thinking about the confrontation.

but at this point you owe it to him and yourself to be honest. you just hope you don’t get your heart broken in the process.

y/n

fine, doors unlocked

i’m in my room

a few minutes later you hear the front door slam open and closed, just to see chris peek his head around the corner of your room moments later. you’re still curled up in bed, too scared and tired to move, so he takes the liberty of coming to you.

“hey.” he says softly as he sits down.

“hi.” you mumble, wrapping your blanket against your chest tighter.

it’s not cold, but you’re so anxious that you’re shivering. chris notices and puts a hand on your covered knee, rubbing small circles against the joint. he looks so sweet, clad in his blue fresh love hoodie with his hair all curly from showering.

“what’s up? i haven’t heard from you all week, and nick was about ready to call the cops.” he tries to joke with a small grin.

you can’t bring yourself to match his energy, and your face remains grave as you attempt to swallow the lump in your throat.

“i’m alright, just tired.”

his face falls, and a slight frown replaces his smile. you know he’s not believing any of it for a second, and you’ve never been a very convincing liar.

“don’t do that, you’re obviously not alright. and i’m not trying to be pushy or anything, but i feel like you’re shutting me out.” chris replies quietly.

you shift a little bit so you can sit up properly, back resting against the headboard as you gaze at him. his hand remains on your thigh, a source of comfort while you try to pick your words wisely.

“i’m not trying to push you away, chris. i just…wanted to give you space.” you continue to dance around the truth.

he looks even more confused, eyebrows furrowed like you’re speaking another language. “that’s nice and all, but i don’t want it.”

“well maybe i do.” you shrug.

you’re lying through your teeth, but chris’s eyes go wide regardless. you’ve shocked him into silence, which rarely ever happens. he’s just staring at you, the gears in his mind turning as he tries to figure out what could possibly be wrong.

“are you serious? did i do something that i don’t know about?” chris asks, clearly exasperated.

he removes his hand from your leg, dropping it back in his lap. the small act alone makes your heart sink, and you feel the question crawling its way out of your mouth before you can help it.

“do you like tara?”

it hangs in the air, and you’ve stumped him once again. chris shakes his head, clearing his throat while his face reddens slightly.

“i can’t believe you’re even asking me that.” he sounds genuinely astonished.

“what? why?” it’s your turn to be baffled.

“because i feel like all i ever do is flirt with you. i mean seriously, it’s embarrassing for me at this point.” chris reaches to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly.

your jaw drops, which makes you feel silly. throughout this whole relationship you felt like you were the one putting the moves on him, doing too much. you’d never once stopped to think about all of the little comments he would make.

“i, uh, guess i didn’t pick up on that.” you manage to reply.

you immediately wish you hadn’t, that you just kept your mouth shut. but he smiles widely at you, chuckling lightly.

“no shit.”

this makes you laugh too, and it feels good to experience at least a brief moment of normality between the two of you. things have felt tense for so long that you’d almost forgotten why you love being around chris in the first place.

you wait to calm down a bit before you decide to finally lay it all on the table. “i like you a lot, chris. and i don’t want to mess up the dynamic we have, because you mean the world to me. but i’d be lying to myself if i said i didn’t want to be with you.”

he’s still grinning, though you can tell he’s gone a little shy now hearing you admit your feelings. this moment is all he dreamed about for so long, and now it’s finally happening in a realm outside of his own brain.

“i want that too, and i’m a dumbass for taking this long to say it. so no, i’m not interested in tara like that. it’s always been you.” chris confesses, reaching to interlock your fingers.

you’ve held hands before on many occasions, but it’s different now in the best way. butterflies erupt in your stomach as he leans in, and you can smell the fading hints of minty body wash on his skin.

you tilt your head so your mouths finally meet, soft and slow as you both finally enjoy the kiss you’ve been yearning for for so long. he tastes sugary, like the lollipops he’s always got between his teeth, and you’re already addicted.

chris pulls away a minute later, his lips reddened and glistening from the contact. you giggle slightly from the unfamiliarity of the situation, glancing down at your linked hands.

“your lips are so soft.” he praises, still awestruck that he finally got to kiss the girl he’s loved since he was a preteen.

“take a girl out to dinner first, jeez.” you joke playfully.

chris rolls his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. “i think i will, actually. you got any plans tomorrow?”

you tap your chin with your free hand like you’re contemplating your schedule. “i can probably squeeze you in.”

“you better. everyone else can get in line.”

[skyeeuphixia2]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝙴𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝

𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝟷 ~ 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙽𝙴

'The Vanishing of Will Byers'

...

November 6th, 1983

Hawkins, Indiana

...

The low sound of Blondie's 'One way or another' quietly fills her room, hardly audible over the soft strumming of her guitar. Y/n was led back casually on her bed, her well-worn instrument in her arms as she focused on the song quietly playing, attempting to learn it by ear. She would have the music louder, it would be a lot easier for her to learn it that way, but after three noise complaints that week from neighbors, she wasn't eager to push her luck. Right as she was getting the hang of it, she heard shouting from outside her bedroom window.

"I'm gonna kill you!"

She chuckles, setting the guitar to the side, pushing herself off her bed, and going to the front door, opening it just in time to see Will Byers speeding past the house.

"I'll take your X-men 134, Goodnight Y/n!" He shouts, a triumphant little grin on his face as he disappears down the street.

"See ya, say hi to your brother for me!" She shouts after the boy, amusement dancing in her voice. A few seconds later, her younger brother slowly rolled to a stop in front of the house, staring after his friend, panting slightly.

"Son of a Bitch," he muttered under his breath.

Y/n, who had been watching the whole thing with her arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe, a knowing smirk on her face, "Bet another comic?"

"What do you think?" He grumbled as he dragged his bike over to the garage.

"You gotta stop starting races when your opponents are already in front of you, now in you come, leftovers in the microwave, just gotta heat it up," She says, ruffling his hair playfully as he passed her into the house. "Yeah yeah," he grumbles, but he couldn't stop the small smile that was tugging at his lips.

"So," She says, sitting across from Dustin once he had heated the pasta Skye had made earlier, sitting down to eat it, resting her chin on her hand, "how was the campaign, it had to be at least 8 hours this time,"

"Ten!" He corrects, through a mouthful of pasta.

"Impressive, so how was it?"

"It was all going really well until the Demogorgon got Will,"

"Why didn't he just cast protection?" she asks, shrugging her shoulders in question as if it was the most obvious choice to make.

"Thank you!" Dustin says, throwing his hands in the air, "That's exactly what I said to do but he went- this is so good -but he went with Lucas' idea to cast fireball instead!"

"Stupid move," she shrugs, shaking her head.

Dustin's eyes squinted at her wrist as he took another bite, "where'd you get that?" He asked, looking at the simple gold bracelet on her right wrist, his voice slightly muffled by his full mouth.

"First of all, gross, second I bought it the other day,"

"With what money?"

"Money I got from babysitting Will two weeks back and Lucas 3 days ago, cause I, unlike you, save my money, maybe you should have considered doing it before betting away your comics," She quipped back, taking his plate when it was empty, and putting it in the sink.

Y/n had been the official babysitter for the 4 boys since she was 13, well technically not Mikes cause Nancy could babysit him, but Nancy would always invite Y/n over when she was babysitting and she often ended up being the one to entertain Mike, so she was essentially Mikes babysitter. "Now, bed, it's a school night," she says pointing down the hall to his room.

Dustin trudged his way to his room, not without grumbles and protests, but he knew his older sister was right. "Night,"

"Night Dust," she smiled. She pulled him into a quick hug, which he gladly accepted, before they headed to their rooms, the quiet hum of Blonide's song still lingering in the air.

...

Y/n trudged out of her room the next morning, already running late. She had thrown on a random band T-shirt she'd grabbed off the floor, paired with jeans, her dark blue striped number and black boots. Her hair was slightly messy, but that was a priority, getting out the door on time was, she had a hair brush in her car anyway.

"Morning sweetie," her mother, Claudia, calls from the couch, their cat, Mews, curled up on her lap. "Can you wake up Dusty?"

She rolled her eyes slightly as she made her way to his room, "I really need to get him an alarm clock that works for Christmas, or ten,"

She knocks a few times. No response.

With a sigh, she slowly pushed the door open, finding her brother sprawled out on his bed, his blanket half on him, half off the bed, a star wars comic fallen lazily on the floor, his hand dangling above it, he had likely fallen asleep reading it. "Dust, up you get," she yawns, turning his light on for a rude awakening.

"No," he grumbles, pulling the blanket over his head.

"You get up in five minutes I'll give you a lift to school," she bargains.

Dustin instantly shoots out of bed, almost tripping over himself, "I'm up!"

Y/n chuckles as she leaves the room, going back to the kitchen. She starts prepping some toast for Dustin when the phone rang, she grabbed it, tucking it between her ear and shoulder. "Hello?"

"Hi, Y/n, it's Joyce," she heard from the other end, the older woman's voice fast and slightly nervous.

"Oh hi Joyce, what's up?" She asks.

"Nothing, nothing, just wondering did you see Will ride past last night?"

"Uh, yeah I - hold on - DUSTIN HURRY UP! -sorry, yes I did, He rode back with Dustin, why?"

There was a small pause and a sigh from the other end, "Um...nothing. Don't worry I just..." Joyce sighs, clearly uneasy, "I haven't seen him this morning,"

Y/n frowned, setting the butter knife she was using to butter Dustins toast down, "Strange...he came back last night right?"

"I was at work and so was Johnathan," she admits, clearly trying to stop herself get worked up.

"Ok, well don't panic just yet, maybe he just went in to get some homework done," she comforts, hearing the tension in Joyce's voice.

"Yeah...maybe," Joyce agrees, though she didn't sound all that convinced.

"I'm taking Dustin to school today so I'll keep an eye out for him,"

"Thank you so much, Y/n," finally a hint of relief in her voice.

"Don't worry about it, sorry but I really gotta run, I'll call you once I'm at school,"

"Thank you again, bye,"

Y/n says a quick bye before hanging up, her stomach twisting slightly. Had Will made it home last night? He seemed perfectly fine when she saw him. She cared for all three of Dustin's best friends like they were her brothers, so if any of them weren't ok, she'd drive herself crazy trying to help them.

"Dustin I'm leaving without you!" She shouts making her way to the door and grabbing her bag.

Before she was able to reach the door, Dustin came barreling around the corner, snatching his breakfast out her hand as he ran past towards her car. She sighed, shaking her head with a small smile. She had a bad feeling about today.

...

After dropping Dustin off at school, and failing to spot Will or his bike, Y/n made her way to her school. As promised, she gave Joyce a quick call to let her know what little she had found. She pushed her worries aside, at least for now, and stepped inside the building into the bustling school hallway, instantly she spotted her friends Barb and Nancy at their lockers, she smiled to herself and made her way over to him.

"We just made out a couple of times," she heard Barb tease Nancy, who rolled her eyes, so Y/n came up to them making obnoxious kissing sounds.

"Ooo Steve shove your tongue down my throat," she said in her best imitation of a lovestruck Nancy, causing the brunette girl to gag in horror.

"Oh my God it was not like that," She blushes furiously, practically hissing at her as Barb tries her hardest not to laugh.

"I hope not. God knows what you could've caught, I don't want to know where that tongue has been," she grimaced, leaning on the locker by Barb, the redhead laughing at Y/n's clear disdain for the self-titled 'King Steve'.

"Seriously Y/n? Can't you just give him a chance? He's not that bad," Nancy huffed, trying to defend her boyfriend.

Y/n gave her a look, one that clearly screamed 'do I look like I'm joking?'. Y/n had her reasons, good ones as far as she was concerned. It was a long time ago, back when she was a freshman, Y/n would spend her free periods in the schools practice rooms, renting a school guitar to play as she refused to use her Dad's old one they had at home, and couldn't afford a new one. One day, she made her way to the practice room, only to find the guitar she rented completely smashed on the floor. The school had blamed her for the damage, forcing her to pay for the damage, her having to use all her savings, and on top of that, she had been banned from using the practice rooms or renting school instruments again.

It hadn't taken her long to figure out who the real culprits were, she had spotted Steve, Tommy H, and Carol, laughing to themselves while she was being scolded by the principal. Now she was stuck using her dad's old guitar which was out of tune, and she hated using anything of her dad's.

To Steve, it was probably just another meaningless day. A joke. Something he'd already forgotten.

To Y/n, it was the day she decided she hated Steve Harrington.

And now he'd taken a liking to her close friend. Fantastic. Thankfully, she and Steve never really interacted. She made sure to avoid him like the plague whenever he was around, and she planned to keep it that way.

"Nance seriously, you're going to be so cool now it's ridiculous," Barb says, a small hint of disdain in her voice, popularity changed people, and Y/n and Bard didn't want to lose their friend to the likes of people like Tommy H and Carol.

"No I will not," Nancy insisted, shaking her head.

"We're serious, Nance," Y/n says, "You better still hang out with the redhead nerd and Y/n 'the loser' Henderson," She says, referring to names that Tommy H and or Carol had so graciously given them over the years.

"Yeah, if you start hanging around Tommy H, or Carol-"

"Ew gross! It was just a one-time-" Her voice trails off as Y/n and Barb raise their eyebrows at her, "Two-time thing," Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Nancy suddenly noticed a folded piece of paper in her locker. Curious, she grabbed it, unfolding the note as Barb and Y/N peered over her shoulder.

Meet me in the bathroom - Steve

"You were saying?" Barb says smugly, Y/n crossing her arms unimpressed, Nancy looking at the two of them coyly before wandering off in the direction of the bathroom. Barb and Y/n both look after her, each of their smug looks slightly disappearing, both of them slightly sour by their friends new company.

"The bathroom, real classy Harrington," Y/n says rolling her eyes slightly.

"Didn't you know, all the best love stories happen in the bathroom," Barb jokes, causing both girls to laugh as they wander to their first class, at least Barb wasn't changing anytime soon.

...

Y/n sat in her literature class, head resting in her hand, elbow propped against the desk. She usually enjoyed English, but Mr. David had a way of making even Hamlet sound like white noise. She was quickly snapped out of her thoughts however when there was a knock at the door, Chief Hopper stepped in, looking as uninterested in being there as Y/n felt about the lesson.

"Sorry to bother you," he says addressing Mr David with a nod, "I need to borrow Y/n Henderson," 

Murmurs spread across the classroom as all heads turned to her. Y/n blinked in surprise, glancing at her teacher. He gave her a quick nod, granting permission. She hesitated for a second before standing up, shrugging at Nancy and Barb as she passed their desks.

Y/n followed Chief Hopper through the halls of the school, eventually out of the building, confusion growing with each step. "Um, excuse me, Hop? What's this about"

"You'll see soon enough, kid." He replies, not sparing her a glance as they continue walking which did nothing to ease her nerves. A pit begins forming in her stomach as they go to his truck, both of them getting in as they silently drive, the only sounds being the occasional sigh from Hopper, it wasn't long until they pulled up at Dustin's school.

Her nerves spiked. Something was really wrong. 

When Hopper led her to the principal's office, she felt her stomach somehow sink further. Inside, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas sat on the couch, looking just as confused as she felt. Another officer stood nearby, arms crossed.

"Sit," Chief Hopper told her as he sat opposite the boys. She sits on the armrest of the sofa next to Dustin.

"The hell did you do?" She whispered to him.

"Nothing!" He whisper yelled back at her. Hopper asks them about Will and that's when it hit Y/n, Will was still missing. The four boys all start to talk over one another, talking about when they last saw him, which way he goes home, trying to be helpful but just pissing Hopper off, Y/n was about to speak up also, but seeing the chiefs patience already wearing thin, she held back.

"Okay, Okay, Okay, one at a time, all right? You," he says, indicating to Mike, who nods, ready to answer any question that the chief had, eager to help search for his best friend. "You said he takes what?"

"Mirkwood,"

"Mirkwood?" He asks sceptically, squinting at him. The three boys nod at him. Hopper looks over towards the other police officer, "You ever heard of Mirkwood?"

"I have not. It sounds made up to me-"

"It's not, it's from the Lord of the Rings," Lucas explained.

"Well The Hobbit," Dustin instantly corrected. Y/n pinched the bridge of her nose, time and place Dust, time and place.

"It doesn't matter Dustin," She says leaning down, telling him off quietly.

"He asked!" He argued back, only for Lucas to mock him and the two to start arguing, Mike trying (and failing) to mediate them, Hopper trying to get them to shut up with little success, so he lets out a long sigh, rubbing his temples. 

"Boys!" Y/n shouts, all three of them shutting up under her harsh glare, shrinking back into the couch slightly, "Thank you,"

The chief set her an approving look before looking back to Mike, "You," 

"Mirkwood, it's a real road. It's just the name that we made up," Mike informs him, before Y/n steps in for them, knowing that, while enthusiastic to help, they'd just give a bunch of information that wouldn't matter.

"It's where Cornwallis and Kerley meet," She clarifies, and the Chief nods in understanding.

"Yeah, yeah I think I know it-" He says leaning back presumingly to talk to the officer just to get interrupted by Mike.

"We can help you if you want!"

"I said that I know it!"

"We can help look," Mike protests, Lucas nodding while Dustin lets out a small 'yeah'. However, the idea is immediately shut down by Hopper, Lucas and Dustin opened their mouths to argue, but Hopper raised a firm hand.

"No. After school, you are all to go home. Immediately. That means no biking around looking for your friend, no investigating, no-nonsense. This isn't some Lord of the Rings book."

"The hobbit..."

Y/n looks at her brother and hits his shoulder and when he looks up to protest she just shakes her head at him. Hopper stands up and looks down at all of them, his voice low and commanding, "Do I make myself clear?"

All four of them nod.

"Good, you're dismissed, except you," He says pointing to Y/n who nods and stays seated while the boys get up and file out, all muttering under their breath. 

Hopper sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You still their babysitter?"

Y/n crossed her arms. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Right," he said. "Then I need you to keep them in line. Make sure they go straight home after school. No sneaking off, no riding around at night—nothing. I don't want them out there."

She nodded. "Understood, Hop."

"Good." He gave her a firm look. "I mean it, kid. Keep 'em safe. Like you always do. Like I know you can,"

Y/n exhaled, suddenly feeling the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

"I will."

...

Dustin, Mike and Lucas all trudge out of the building after what felt like the longest day of school of their life. Sitting through class, pretending everything was normal without Will, it was torture. The only thing on their minds was figuring out a plan to find him that night. As they reached the parking lot, they spotted Skye leaning against her car, arms crossed, waiting for them. She waved them over.

"What are you doing here?" Mike asks as they approach her.

"Well first off, Dustin doesn't have his bike so I'm picking him up, and secondly, I'm taking you two home,"

"But we both have our bikes," Lucas points out after he and Mike exchanged looks.

"I know you do, but I'm here to make sure that you're not gonna ride to Mirkwood, I'm driving you straight home and that's where you're going to stay, get your bikes, and put them in the trunk," She says, leaving no room for arguments as she gets in the driver's seat, Dustin joining her in the passenger's side as the two boys sigh and go to grab their bikes.

Her grip on the wheel was tight as she drove, Y/n was worried about Will, not just Will, she was worried about Johnathan and Joyce as well. She's incredibly close with Johnathan, they first met when Dustin met Will and the rest of the party two years ago when they moved to Hawkins, and the two of them have been close ever since, sure they didn't hang out in school all the time, Johnathan preferring to be alone, but they knew they were friends, and that's all that mattered. She hadn't seen Johnathan at school that day, he'd probably skipped to look for Will, but she couldn't blame him, she knew she would do the same if Dustin went missing...god she didn't even what to think about the possibility. Just the thought alone made her feel sick.

They were nearing Lucas' house when she caught snippets of the boys muttering in the backseat, Dustin twisted around to whisper to them. "We'll have to wait until later—"

"Meet at my house—"

"We should bring flashlights—"

Y/n narrowed her eyes and slammed on the brakes, just enough to make their heads jolt forward slightly. "Woah, woah, woah, let's stop that conversation right there," 

"Y/n-" Dustin tries to argue, but Y/n doesn't let them get a word in.

"No listen to me, you are not, under any circumstances to go out on your bikes around that area, or looking for Will, especially after dark. The chief is right about this one guys, this isn't a fantasy book or a campaign, this is real life, and it's scary and it's dangerous. The best thing you can do for Will right now is listen and cooperate with the police, and not become the next kid on the milk cartons. Please...if you're ever going to listen to me, let it be now," She says, practically begging them as they all look down guiltily and nod. "Thank you, Lucas we're here,"

Lucas grabbed his bike from the trunk, murmuring a quiet "Bye" before heading inside. Next was Mike's house. As soon as they pulled into the driveway, he hesitated before getting out. "Y/n..." he started, looking like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he just gave a small nod and closed the door behind him.

Now, it was just her and Dustin.

The ride home was quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.

When they finally arrived home, Dustin started heading to his room, however was stopped when Y/n called out to him, "I'm serious, Dustin," 

"Hmm?" He asks, turning around to look at her, confused. She steps over to him, her expression softer as she looks down at him.

"I'm serious, no going out to look for him. I know you want to find him, I want him home safe just as much as you do," She takes his chin in her hand gently, tilting his head up so he was looking at her proparly, "But I don't think my heart could handle it if anything ever happened to you," She says, her voice full of emotion.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her middle, hugging her tightly. Y/n exhaled, hugging him just as tightly in return. When they finally pulled away, she ruffled his curls. "Go get some rest, nerd."

Dustin smiled softly before heading to his room. Y/n stood in the hallway for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She just hoped to God they listened.

...

It was late that night, past the time that their mother had gone to sleep that Y/n hears a small thump, and a hushed 'shit', from outside. Frowning, she sat up and looked outside her window just in time to see Dustin pedaling past the house on his bike, no question where he was going.

"Son of a bitch," She mutters before throwing on a jacket, and running out the house, grabbing her keys and getting in her car, "Always the goddamn babysitter!"

It was already drizzling rain as she reached Mirkwood, finding three familiar boys stood just outside the police tape that was blocking off the woods. As soon as her headlights washed over them, they all froze like deer caught in the beams. Slowly, they turned to face her, blinking against the glare.

"Y/n?" They all call out.

"Are you shitting me?!" She yelled at them, Y/n slammed her door shut and stormed over, her boots crunching against the damp earth.

"The hell are you doing here?" Lucas asked her, still squinting against the headlights, causing her to scoff sharply.

"What am I doing here? I could ask you three the same thing. What did we talk about?!" She yells at them, her hands on her hips as she glares at them all with disappointment.

"We can't just sit around while Will is missing Y/n, now you can either protect us or leave us to get lost as well," Mike says stubbornly, ducking under the tape and wandering into the woods, without waiting for a response, closely followed by Lucas. Dustin hesitates and just looks at his sister, who huffed and snatched a spare flashlight off him.

"Manipulative little shit," She grumbles as the two of snatching a spare flashlight from his hands before following the other two into the darkening forest, as the rain starts to get heavier. 

They felt like all of them had been searching for hours, all of them starting to lose their voices from the constant shouting of Will's name, all of them soaked all the way through, exhaustion starting to set in, Dustin falling behind slightly.

"Guys I really think we should turn back," He says, sounding tired and worried.

"Really Dustin?" Lucas argues back, already gearing up to start another argument. Mike and Y/n look at each other, both rolling their eyes and allowing the two boys to argue, there was no telling them at this point. They let them argue until they heard the rustling of leaves, like something around them was moving, Y/n tensed and looked at Mike, who was already looking at her with a concerned face, signaling that they had heard the same thing.

"Dustin shut up," Y/n straining to get a better listen.

"I'm just saying that-"

"Shut up," Mike hisses this time, all of them now listening out, a small rustle comes from behind them. Hoping it might be Will they all point their flashlights in that direction, but nothing.

Another rustle comes from behind them once again, and they all point their flashlights, this time the light falling on a girl. She couldn't be anywhere older than the three boys, shivering in nothing but a soaked, oversized yellow t-shirt. Her head was buzzed, and her wide, terrified eyes darted between them.

"Holy shit..."

(fin)

author note:

hello lovelies, this is all very spontaneous, I haven't tried to write a story following a series or film for years so we will see how it goes and if I commit.

please go and read: just friends by user_is_nonexistant and my bestfriends ex by skullarr as they were big inspirations for me to write my own story (both on wattpad)

hope you enjoy xx

Taglist: @snegyysnapped

Let me know if you want to be added/removed <3

[jaehunnyy]

sneak my way into your heart | ljy

Pairing: bf!juyeon x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, established relationship

Word count: 1k

Rating: pg-13

Type: oneshot

Warnings: kissing, pet names, sneaking? grammar mistakes

a/n: well... i gave in ! thankies and smoochies to @shakalakaboomboo and @from-izzy for beta reading ! 🤍

network: @blankjournal

The crisp mountain air filled your room as soon as you opened the window, light rays of sunshine knocking on the hard glass. The woody scent from outside made you smile, reminding you of your childhood, yet it was all gone when you realised you might run out of time. You threw a quick look at the little watch on your nightstand, its screen signaling that it was almost 6 am. Why were you awake at such an ungodly hour? Well, the reason behind the hassle was sleeping peacefully in your bed, soft breaths audible as his body was engulfed by the warmth of your pink duvet, protecting him by the wind’s touch. 

“Sweetheart, c’mon, it’s time to go back to your room,” you whispered, shaking the boy’s arm softly. 

Juyeon stirred, visibly bothered by the fact that he already had to wake up. You were in a three-week summer camp with your other friends from college, away from the responsibilities that were to come with you growing up. Amidst that, Juyeon has made a habit out of sneaking into your room at night—hence, you two had to wake up before anyone noticed his absence to the morning call. 

“Five more minutes?” 

“Nope, you’re waking up now," you said, grabbing the blanket harshly and pushing it aside, making him shiver as soon as the morning coldness hit his bare arms. 

“Baby, you’re exaggerating.” He whined, lower lip hanging into a pout while he pulled you into his arms, hoping to get some source of comfort after the blanket was ripped off of him. “A normal partner would wake the love of their life with a kiss or something, y’know…” 

You sighed and started to brush his hair with your fingers, a smile escaping your lips as you looked at him through heavy, sleepy eyes. You and Juyeon have been dating for quite a while now, and everyone knew you were college sweethearts—well, everyone except the organiser who hosted the camp and provided this beautiful place for you. Juyeon insisted that you two beg the organiser to give you the room with the bunk bed, even preparing his best puppy eyes for the request—yet, as soon as you met her sharp eyes, the idea was quickly forgotten (to Hyunjae’s relief—yours and your boyfriend’s best friend, who was just hoping that you two would stay out of trouble for these three weeks). You almost gave the boy a panic attack when Juyeon told him to keep the door unlocked so he could get inside in the morning without bothering him, just so he could spend the night with you. Back in the city, you were living together, so you were really used to having each other close and sharing personal space, especially at night—the reason why, your oh-so-smart boyfriend thought sneaking was a great idea! 

“We’re still meeting for the picnic we planned in the evening, aren’t we?” he asked, lips stretching into a lovely smile. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Now go. I can already feel the host open her eyes and get ready to wake everyone up.” 

You nuzzled for just a minute more into his neck, pressing a feather-like kiss on his shoulder and letting him go. 

The evening was the time you were allowed to do whatever you desired, being given two hours to spend however you wished. Some of the guys went fishing, some of the others dived for a sweet, peaceful, beauty sleep, while the rest settled for a quick game of cards on the patio. You and Juyeon planned a little picnic to make up for the time spent separately (and also because saturday was your “all day together” day), so you excused yourselves after two games (which your boyfriend was so upset he lost—well, truth is he didn’t even concentrate on the game, too focused thinking about your date), taking the little basket with stolen snacks and a blanket for you to sit on. You found a place near a river, nice and shaded from the sun’s golden glow, surrounded by all sorts of alpine flowers that you and your boyfriend admired attentively. 

“I missed you,” Juyeon said, pulling you closer to him so he could hug you. 

You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling his musky cologne as a content sigh escaped your lips. “You were sitting next to me when we played cards with the others, and you also woke up next to me in the morning,” you teased, raising your head to meet his eyes, lips puckered into a soft pout. “Joking, sweetheart. I missed you too.”

He smiled and pressed a soft kiss on your temple, his head finding your lap not long after so you could play with his hair—a habit he got used to since you moved in together. Your fingers got lost in his black locks as he relaxed into your lap, your background music being a mix of his satisfied hums and the melodious chirping of the birds. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep! I will eat all the muffins and drink all the juice if you do,” you threatened jokingly, yet your smile dropped when you heard your lover’s steady breaths, his eyes closed. “Lee Juyeon!” 

He kept his face still, adding to the dramatic effect. You made an annoyed sound, trying to push him off of your lap, when the boy broke into a whole-hearted laughter, dropping his acting immediately. His hands found your cheeks, cupping them as he brought his face closer to yours, lips finding each other like puzzle pieces, molding together into a sweet, longing kiss. 

“I was just teasing you because you pulled the blanket off of me in the morning.” 

You whined, hitting his arm softly, before wrapping your hands around his waist, dragging him into an embrace full of love. 

“I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to spend time with you for nothing, my love.” 

You still blushed like the first time, holding his nape to bring your faces together and pressing your nose onto his, rubbing softly, lively chuckles escaping your lips. The rest of your evening was filled with laughter and giggles, red hearts floating above the two of you as the love you shared spread into the air. 

[ladykailitha]

The Caged Bird Still Sings Part 19

Hello everyone! Welcome to the new year! I am back and swinging! I have a good backlog now and I'm feeling better about writing after that break. I was feeling really burned out after Christmas. I still love writing, but I didn't have the energy to do it.

But after that three week hiatus, I am back to writing 800-1000 words a day which is what keeps me up to date on my backlog when I'm posting.

I recommend reading the last chapter again as a refresher before this one (linked below).

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18

In this chapter we have the boys' night out and Eddie and Steve talk about where they stand with other.

~

Eddie was standing at the front of the hotel looking at his watch and tapping his foot, when the three adults pulled into the valet parking lot.

When Gareth got out and tossed Steve the keys, he came bounding up to them. “What time do you call this, young man?” he teased, putting his hands on his hips.

They all burst out laughing as Eddie tried to hold the serious pose and failed miserably.

“Just a small hiccup up at the stadium,” Jeff said, rolling his eyes. “A fan recognized me and Gare and we were signing autographs for about a half hour.”

Eddie paused for a moment and tilted his head to side. “You were signing autographs without me?” He put a hand on his forehead and pretended to swoon. “You have forsaken me!”

Steve turned to Gareth and blinked rapidly. “Um..is he always this dramatic?”

“No,” Gareth snorted, “he’s worse.” He turned to Eddie. “Chill out you big baby. You don’t like sports and would have been miserable.”

Eddie stopped for a moment and then straightened up. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“God,” Jeff huffed, “I’d kill for a stiff drink. Have the front desk call Brian up and meet us in the bar.”

“Sounds good to me,” Eddie said, falling into step next to Steve as they walked to the bar, Gareth splitting off temporarily to get Brian to join them.

“Did you have fun?” Eddie asked, a big grin on his face.

Steve rolled his eyes and licked upper lip. “You’re the one that suggested they take me, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Eddie said, twirling his rings. “But Jeff and Gareth loved the idea. They wanted to get a chance to know you better and this basketball game seemed like the perfect opportunity. Plus I know you’ve been feeling trapped in this town with all the bullshit that happened with your dad.”

Steve smiled up at him. “Well, I approve. It was lots of fun. The Harlem Globetrotters are known for their wacky playing style and over the top theatrics. So I was a little,” he held his finger and thumb really close together, “surprised when you didn’t want to come with.”

“I think I would’ve been more annoyed,” Eddie huffed. “Can’t stand it when people play normally, so having a group of players just fucking around and still have it be legal...no thanks.”

“Fair enough,” Steve said as they reached the bar.

They sat down at one of the tables and Gareth ordered two draft beers, one for him and one for Brian. Jeff ordered a double shot of whiskey and Eddie ordered a Manhattan.

“I’ll have a Coke and lime,” Steve said as a waiter took their order.

Eddie smiled slyly at Steve. “Good boy. I was wondering what you were going to order with my little ban on alcohol until you’re actually twenty-one.”

Steve snorted and rolled his eyes. “If I keep up this dry spell, I’ll lose my tolerance for it and lose my title as keg king.”

Jeff who had been taking a drink, did a spit take. “You were a what now?”

Their drinks arrived, so Steve was able to dodge the question for a moment longer. But he was forced to confess under the stern eye of Eddie Munson.

“Me and my friends would have chugging contests,” Steve said with a shrug. “I had the best time. Like always. But I haven’t even had a beer in literal months.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait, really? I would have thought for sure you would found someway to get a beer at least.”

Steve shook his head. “The people who still like me are kids and their parents. One of which is the Chief of Police. Yeah, I’ve been sticking clear of booze thanks.”

“Um...” Jeff said, rubbing his chin. “The hotel room is in Eddie’s name and he’s over twenty-one. You could literally order from the hotel and no one would bat an eye.”

“I just figured that fell under the umbrella of buying alcohol using Eddie’s money,” Steve said with a shrug. “So I just didn’t.”

Eddie slid over his Manhattan. “I wasn’t intended to dry you out completely. I just didn’t want you flashing that fake ID around using my credit card.”

“Oh,” Steve blushed and hid it by taking a sip of the Manhattan and he closed his eyes, letting the alcohol hit his system for the first time in months. “Yeah, I’m going to have to go easy on these otherwise you’re going to be dragging my drunk ass up that elevator.”

They all laughed.

Steve finished off the Manhattan while Eddie ordered a different cocktail. Then he went back to the Coke and lime as to pace himself.

They all talked and laughed and got to know each other better. Steve was only tipsy when they called it a night.

Eddie walked Steve to his room, not only because he was the suite across the hall, but because he wanted to make sure Steve got in okay.

“All right, little Canary,” Eddie said sternly. “What aren’t you, Jeff and Gareth telling me?”

Steve put his arms around Eddie’s neck and cooed, “What makes you think we aren’t telling you something?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “I might not know you as well as I would like, Stevie, but I know when Jeff and Gareth are leaving something out. And with you a little tipsy, I thought I’d see if I could weasel it out of you.”

“Missed you,” Steve breathed, trying to grind against Eddie’s crotch. “I’ll be super good for you.”

Eddie grabbed Steve’s hips and pulled him a little bit away from his waist. “You are a treat, sweetheart, make no mistake. But you’re a little too drunk for anything other than conversation. So why don’t we get you in bed?”

Steve pouted but did as he was told. He opened the door to the hotel room and immediately started stripping his clothes off.

Eddie turned his eyes skyward, with his hands on his hips until Steve pulled up the shorts on his pajamas Eddie had gotten him his first night at the hotel. But he was grateful when Steve shimmied the top over his head, neglecting to undo the buttons.

“You look cute, Stevie,” he murmured as he came up to him, checking him out as he neared. “I thought you would. You really look good in yellow.”

Steve blushed, tugging at the hem of the top, “Thanks.”

Eddie scooped him up and carried him over to the bed, that was turned down by Rosa, like it was every night. He laid him in the bed and then tucked him in. He brushed Steve’s hair out of his face and kissed his forehead.

“Good night, little Canary,” he murmured.

Eddie moved to stand up, but Steve caught the hem of his jacket, keeping him there. He looked down at Steve and immediately his heart broke. Steve had tears in his eyes and one slid across his nose.

“Baby?”

“My dad was at the game,” Steve murmured. “We didn’t see him until after we were leaving, so we don’t know if he saw me. But that’s why Jeff and Gareth did an autograph signing, so that I could sneak past him.”

Eddie’s knees hit the floor and he was gathering Steve up in his arms from one breath to the next. “Oh, Stevie...” he whispered into Steve’s hair. “Now I understand why you guys didn’t want to tell me and I’m not mad. Well, I am but at your dad for ruining your night out. I wish I could just make him go away for you. Just *POOF* off the face of the earth.”

Steve let out a shuddering breath and then another. “But at least this means we know they’ve been staying in Indy.”

“There you go,” Eddie whispered, smoothing out Steve’s hair, “a silver lining. So we’ll make sure you get to go places other than Indy and you know what your dad likes so if there is a fun thing you want to for one of your kids like skateboarding or something that you know your dad would avoid like the plague, we still send you to those, okay, little Canary?”

Steve ran his nose along Eddie’s jaw and he shuddered with want. But he knew Steve was too drunk to do anything but sleep, so he gently untangled himself from Steve’s arms, and before he could even get to his feet, Steve was sound asleep.

“Sleep well, my little angel.”

~

Steve woke up with a pounding headache and lancing of shame down his spine. He had basically thrown himself at Eddie last night and the man had been a perfect gentleman. He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, wallowing in his misery.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Steve forced himself into a standing position and waddled over to the door. He opened it to see Eddie on the other side, bright and cheery. Which made the pain in head throb worse.

Eddie held up a bag of McDonald’s and grinned. “I brought you best hangover cure known to man.”

Steve let him in and Eddie set the food on the table. Then he went over and started brewing a pot of coffee. He then filled a glass with water from the tap in the bathroom and handed it to Steve with two pills that were obviously ibuprofen. All this without comment or condemnation.

Steve took the painkillers with a grateful smile.

“Eat one of those Egg McMuffins,” Eddie said indicating the bag with his chin. “Then go shower. By then the coffee will have been brewed.”

“Thanks,” Steve muttered and ripped into one of the breakfast sandwiches with relish. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I behaved badly last night and I’m sorry.”

Eddie chuckled. “You were cute. But nah, I get it. You’d been dry for a couple of months there and then suddenly drinking again? Yeah, I would have been more than a little tipsy, too.”

Steve blushed and focused on his food for a moment before he said, “It was really scary seeing my dad last night, but Gareth and Jeff handled it. Better than I would have had I been alone. I really owe them.”

“I talked to them after tucking you in,” Eddie said sprawling out on the sofa. “They didn’t want to tell me because they were worried that I would forbid you from going out again. Which, I can see where they’re coming from. But I would rather know about it and plan better than not. So they agreed to tell me from now on.”

“Lucas loved hanging out with them,” Steve said, smiling around his bite of food.

Eddie chuckled. “I don’t doubt that. Jeff and Gareth had a blast, too. Jeff is talking about getting season tickets to the Pacers’ games. I told him to hold off on that for a bit to see where this goes first, but they definitely want to hang out with you more.”

Steve finished the sandwich and wiped his mouth again. “I had fun hanging out with them, too.”

“Go get your shower, little Canary,” Eddie said fondly. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get out.”

Steve got up and rummaged through his drawers for something to wear. He settled on comfort over style because even though the pain in his head was beginning to recede, it was still there throbbing behind his eyes. The shower went a long way in driving the pain further from his head so that when he got done with his routine he could walk almost normal instead of everything hurting with every move he made.

When he walked out, there was a woman arguing with Eddie. A woman he vaguely recognized. Then it hit him. Chrissy Cunningham. Their manager. The one that currently didn’t like him because he took up too much of Eddie’s time.

“You know,” he said dryly from the bathroom door, where he was leaning against it with arms crossed, “I might be only nineteen, but I at least know to talk to someone when they have a beef with me.”

Chrissy whirled around and stared at him in shock. Like she had forgotten this was his hotel room. “Steve!”

He walked up to her and huffed out a breath out of his nose. “It’s a free country the last time I checked. Eddie can spend his time and his money how ever he wants. So either suck it up or hit the road, because even I know I can’t reason him out of giving me things.”

Chrissy looked between Eddie and Steve and then sighed. “You don’t care that he’s basically your sugar daddy at this point?”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest and licked his lips slowly. “Considering the alternative is living out of my car? No. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that Eddie wants to take care of me. So you know what? I’m going to let him. I like him. I enjoy spending time with him. I’m not a gold digger or whatever else you think of me. But I will enjoy it while it’s here.”

Eddie slow clapped. “He’s got a point. We get along great, we enjoy each other’s company, and I like spoiling people. Is my Uncle Wayne a gold digger because I take care of him too?”

She glared at him and then threw her arms in the air and then with a terse, “Fine!” she stormed out of the hotel room.

Eddie grinned. “Now where were we?”

Steve just threw his head back and laughed.

~

Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @wheneverfeasible @zerokrox-blog @beelze-the-bubkiss @blondie1006

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @themoonagainstmers @cryptid-system @maya-custodios-dionach

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1

5- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

6- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

7- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @w1ll0wtr33 @sticknpokelightningbolt @just-a-tiny-void

8- @scoops-aboy86 @kurofuckingshi16 @watermelonmite @eyehartart @dreamercec

9- @little-birch-boy @yearningagain @micheledawn1975 @sadisticaltarts @steddieislife

10- @fearieshadow @kultiras @thesecondfate @tartarusknight @genderless-spoon

[jirsungs]

ep 13: my wonderwall, at least i hope so

word count: 1.5k words

It's already been two months and three weeks since you and Jisung started hanging out. That's also how long the overthinking thoughts of whether you really want to pursue this relationship or not have been torturing you as they're kept in a locked folder in the back of your mind. 

You knew you and Jisung had to have the talk at some point, but every time you tried, the timing was always a bit… off.

The first time you tried was two weeks ago, at another Rockway gig. It was getting on your nerves that a bunch of screaming girls came to that particular performance of theirs, especially when some of them were eyeing Jisung and losing their minds every time he looked over in their direction to play his typical drummer role of pleasing the audience correctly. Even though he caught their attention the whole night, you caught his, which is how you succeeded in pulling him aside after Rockway finished their performance.

“Jisung, can I talk to you for a moment?”

It wasn't the right time or place, sure, but you had to get this off your chest because your heart felt like it was on a ticking time bomb.

Jisung joins you in the corner after he frees himself away from the girls around him once Chenle gets his signal that he’s desperate for a way out. “What’s up? Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. I just need to talk to you. I know this isn't a good time right now but I seriously need to say this.”

He only raises his brow, “Okay.” He's anxious, but he doesn't have time to dwell on how he's feeling when he's worried about you. The way you’re visibly stressing out has him putting the pieces together on why you called him over, but as Chenle and Jeno said, he was going to wait for your lead.

“I like—” 

You. I like you. That's what you were supposed to say, and so much more. Until some dumb overly excited girls came over and interrupted your private conversation. 

The squeals of “Jisung, you did soooo well tonight!”, “You were so hot up there!” and “Can I get your number?” sounded blurry in your head with how irritated you were getting.

Yeah… You ended up leaving Jisung and the party in general despite the sad protests from your friends on how “you needed to cheer yourself up.” But, you brushed them off by telling them that it was impossible to do that right now. 

So, you ended your night in your apartment alone with the accompaniment of a big bucket of cookie dough ice cream, multiple episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and no friends or Jisung by your side. 

You tried again the week after, but just like last time, it did not turn out so well.

You should've known that it wouldn't work because it was during a hangout with both of your friend groups, specifically hosted at Jisung and Jeno's apartment.

Jaemin, Haechan, Chenle, and Yeonjun were busy being loud as they screamed over one another during a game of Mario Kart 8 in the living room while Jeno helped Ning finish a two-thousand-piece puzzle downstairs. And, Mark and Renjun were nowhere to be found due to them both having different plans set for that day.

Which left you and Jisung in his room. Alone. He originally brought you up here to show off his new collectibles, so you weren't sure how you ended up watching a movie with him on his bed.

It seemed like the perfect time to tell him, it really did. But just as you were about to open your mouth, your phone rang, leaving you on the phone with Renjun for three whole hours while he ranted about someone who pissed him off at his group study session. And by the time your conversation with Renjun ended and you hung up, Jisung was already occupied by a game of Super Smash Bros with your friends in the living room. 

You're still mad at Renjun for ruining the moment.

And now, you're here, a few days after, in Jeno and Jisung’s apartment once again, but this time, sitting on their living room couch with him right next to you. 

Neither of you spoke during the movie you were currently watching, probably because you both wanted to ignore the awkward tension that's been spiraling around the two of you for the past few weeks. But to you, now seemed like the perfect time to break that. It was dark out and you were both left alone as Jeno had to leave to run errands. 

“Ji, can you pause the movie?”

Without asking, Jisung mutters “Sure.” before grabbing the remote control and pausing the movie.

With his attention on you, you sit up and fix your posture on the couch, which he mirrors. You thought fixing your appearance would help balance yourself from the overcoming emotions you knew you were going to have at this very moment. 

“Okay, well—”

But then, you get interrupted again. Not by Jeno walking in, or a random phone call from one of your friends, but by him.

“Wait! Before you tell me your thing, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

Despite the small annoyance that was creeping on you, you dismissed it and instead, anticipated what he was going to say. Most times, you didn’t mind how oblivious Jisung was, but right now, you really wish he could read the room and let you say what’s on your mind. You hope he’s going to say the same thing you were going to say, but he didn’t need to interrupt you for it…

Your silence cues him to continue, “You remember Oasis? You know, the band I told you about?” You nod. “Okay, um, there’s this one song by them, it’s actually one of my favorites. It’s called Wonderwall, it’s kinda like a love song but uh—I’m not saying we’re in love ‘cause obviously we’re not—”

“We’re not?”

Shit. That’s not what Jisung meant.

He panics, “No! I mean–yes? Fuck, I dunno, Y/N.” 

“Oh. Okay.”

The thing is, you know that he didn’t mean anything bad out of it, then how come you felt your heart break into two hearing how unsure he felt about you? Should you even confess right now? No, this doesn’t feel right.

The room is full of complete and uncomfortable silence with no other words said, and it annoys the hell out of you. You can tell it bothers Jisung just as much because you watch him mentally stress out in front of you, his face in his hands as he lets out an exasperated sigh. Both of your minds were pushing you to fix the problem, but you can’t. You don’t know how to. This is new for you both, and that’s the problem. 

Just as Jisung grasps a new idea in his head, he sees you physically pull farther away from him before you grab your bag from the side and stand up from your place on the couch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, your voice coming out quavered, “I–um, I gotta go.”

Scared to see his reaction or hear his voice, you thought what was best. You escape. You rush out of his apartment, giving him no time to react at all. The last sounds Jisung heard were the slam of the door and the words Chase after her, don’t her go from the little voice in his head.

Jisung knew you were hiding yourself away from him again. He noticed it the first night you hung out and some moments after that, but he felt that it was insensitive to bring it up out of nowhere. Right now was one of those moments. 

When you’re outside of the apartment, you’re met with Jeno who’s looking at you, puzzled and worried. Even though it felt like your world was crashing down on you, the way he almost resembled a Samoyed dog and how you could imagine the cogs in his brain turning lightened your mood a little bit. But just like Jisung, you gave him no time to say anything. 

“Y/N!” You hear Jeno call after you after you quickly walk away. 

Just like he expected you to, you ignore him and he watches you rush down the stairs. Many scenarios were circling in his head right now, but he didn’t want to assume the worst before he asked Jisung himself.

Jeno inserts his assigned key into the key slot before turning it, the door unlocking right after. He walks in and sees no Jisung in the living room or kitchen. 

There’s no way that kid escaped. He thinks.

He’s about to let it pass him by until he notices Jisung’s door slightly cracked open. He walks over and gently pushes it to reveal the younger one sprawled on his bed. Though he knows it’s not the best moment, he snickers at the sight. Oh, Jisung's in love. 

Then, he hears a pouty “You know, I can hear you, Jeno.” come from Jisung before he watches him switch positions on his bed. His disheveled hair and the I fucked up expression he’s wearing tell Jeno all he needs to know. 

Already knowing he’s going to be here for a while, the said man opens the door more to give himself space to get comfortable. He rests his body against the doorframe, folds his arms then sighs, “Alright, what’d you do, kid?”

“I messed up.”

previous ☆ masterlist ☆ next

note: i had my considered "sad songs" on repeat the whole time i was writing this and i think i memorized every single song by the time i was done with it ☠️ also, new twt pfps 😱 (they made me feel better) but i am wishing our dms couple all the happiness in the world ☹️

🎫: @idkwhatursayinh @sunghoonsgfreal @multifandomania @nanaxwi @odxrilove @sourrpatched @hancafe @chaellaa @dojaejunging @jising-jisang-jisung @heheheeral @haechansbbg @renjunsversion @seunghancore @woshixinqgiu @jiiieun @pinknjm @mrshwang-park @neozon3nha @joyzluvr @aerivrs @nosungluv @haechology