#i will have to. i have to be brave about this it's hard but i have to do it

[goosewriting]

The Aftermath

summary: reader visits Joaquín at the hospital as he wakes up from surgery.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: established relationship, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, mention and description of injuries and medical procedures, mention of accident and explosions, brief mentions of PTSD from events in Infinity War/Endgame, self-doubts and guilt

word count: 2.2k

A/N: i started writing this the moment i came home from watching BNW. can't believe it took me this long to write for him,, he's been rotating in my mind ever since tfantws <3 we really need more fics for joaquín, he’s so blorbo coded like cmon!! 🥹🥹 if you have any recs pls send them my way!

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Sitting by Joaquín’s hospital bed, you bring your hands to your face as you remember his accident on the Indian Ocean. You had watched the broadcast in horror, your heart in your throat as his figure fell from the sky into the open water. 

At that moment, you couldn’t help but remember the video from all those years ago, where you saw how Rhodey had fallen as well, like a rock, everyone watching, unable to do anything to stop him. Just like War Machine, Joaquín had turned uncontrollably on his descent, one of his wings ripped from the suit by the missile exploding right in his face.

You’ve been in the Avengers’ orbit since a little before the battle against Thanos on Wakanda, where you had also fought with everyone, but then got blipped. The transition back to society with a gap of 5 years had been very hard on you, and while you stayed in contact with everyone who remained, helping out whenever you could, you didn’t really have it in you to go back out to the battlefield. Even after all this time, you still have nightmares about the snap and the Battle for Earth. 

Bringing your hands back into your lap, you let out a trembling breath, clinging onto the constant soft beeping of the machinery to tether yourself to reality and not fall down a spiral of despair. Every time your eyes roam over Joaquín’s injuries, you close your eyes, pressing the base of your hands over them, then open them again. Your sight is momentarily sprinkled with dots, and as it clears, you hope for everything to have been a horrible nightmare. But once your view clears up, he’s still there. Unconscious. Hurt.

The surgery he’d been in last night had felt like it was never going to end. Still, you had stayed the whole time, and once he got out, you stayed at his side. 

It’s been several hours since Joaquín got wheeled into his room, the head medic saying he was still unconscious but stable. You shift in the armchair by the bed where you sit. One of the nurses brought you something to eat earlier since you refused to leave, the wrapper of your sandwich still in your hands as your eyes start feeling heavier and heavier, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight the welcome embrace of sleep, slowly spreading through your limbs. You’ve almost completely dozed off when you hear a groan, and immediately your grogginess dissipates. You straighten up in your seat, the wrapper falling to the floor as you scoot closer to the bed, tears stinging behind your eyes. How you still have tears left, you have no idea, given how much you’ve cried in the past hours, terrified of losing the love of your life. 

Joaquín blinks several times, scrunching his face, eyes trying to adapt to the light. He lifts his good arm, looking at the tubes attached to it, and his gaze roams the room and down his body, face contorting in pain lightly. Then his eyes land on you, and his face immediately softens.

“Hey, there,” he croaks out. 

“You’re awake,” you whisper, holding his hand in your trembling ones. “I was scared you wouldn’t.”

“Pfft, it’ll take more than a meagre explosion to defeat the Falcon,” he retorts with a pained smile.

Normally you’d laugh at his jokes, enjoying his silly side, but right now you have no humour left in you. Another wave of tears rolls down your cheeks, and his smile vanishes.

“Please don’t joke about that,” you plead, giving his hand a squeeze. “You were hit by a freaking missile. From a fighter jet. While up in the air between two armies about to start a war with each other.”

“Well, if you put it like that…” He sighs. 

There’s a moment of silence where you again study his bruised face, your gaze landing on the massive burn covering his whole shoulder, streaks of red raw skin visible on his jaw and throat. Your brows furrow in frustration.

“I should have been there,” you mumble, angry at yourself for letting this happen.

“What?” he asks, craning his neck to fully look at you.

“I should have gone with you,” you say, bringing your eyes to look up at him. “Then I could have helped and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Joaquín exhales through his nose in disbelief.

“We were in the air, and I went head to head with the missile even after Sam told me to back off,” he retorts, shaking his head. “There was nothing you could have done.”

His tone isn’t scolding; he’s telling the truth and you know it. Still, you can’t help but feel like the outcome could have been different, if you had just been better, braver. You try to choke back a sob, unsuccessful, and his hold tightens around your hand.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” He speaks your name softly. “This isn’t on you. Please don’t cry.”

You grimace, biting the inside of your cheek.

“For a moment I thought you died, Joaquín. I was so scared,” you say with a shaky breath, bringing his hand to your face, and he cups your cheek. You place your hand over his, holding onto it and leaning into his touch like it was the last time you could hold him like this.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Your heart shatters at the thought that even after getting hurt, after getting blown up, he’s the one apologising to you. He’s about to add something when the door opens and a nurse comes in. You back off a bit and hastily wipe your face with the back of your sleeves as she does some check-ups, both on Joaquín and the machines, taking some notes on her clipboard. She then takes one of the tubes attached to his arm, and places a syringe at the other end.

“What’s that?” you ask, suspicious. She gives you a quick look with a raised brow, but when she sees the state you’re in, her face relaxes again.

“Painkillers and antibiotics. He’ll need both of them,” she explains.

It doesn’t take long for the fluids to reach Joaquín’s blood system, and he visibly relaxes against the pillows and closes his eyes.

“Oh, hell yeah. That’s the good stuff,” he sighs, and the nurse chuckles softly. You still can’t get yourself to let go of your worry. Once she’s done with everything, she leaves the way she came, exiting the room. As the door closes behind her, your eyes land on the wrapper on the floor, and you pick it up with a sniffle, crumpling it up further.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?” you ask as you throw the trash into the bin from where you sit, to your surprise making the shot. He doesn't answer, eyes still closed.

“Joaquín?” you ask softly, not wanting to wake him in case he fell asleep again.

“Huh? Wha?” His eyes open and he turns to look at you, his face visibly relaxed now.

“You okay?” You take his hand again, and he gives you a squeeze.

“Hmm-mm,” he hums with a nod, blinking slowly as he tries to focus on your face. “I just think I’m… kinda high right now.”

That’s when you finally break, unable to hold back an endeared chuckle, shaking your head. Joaquín’s eyes are filled with warmth and then concern as they land on your face, brows furrowing as if he just noticed something. His hand comes up to wipe away the remaining streak of tears. He also playfully pinches your cheek for good measure, eliciting another smile of yours.

“That’s better,” he concludes, a smile spreading on his face as well. The smile that could light up any room he’s in, in your humble opinion. 

You prop your elbow onto the edge of the bed, head in your hands as you look at him, and he looks back at you with a silly grin. The beeps on the machine speed up a bit, and you look up at the screen, then back at him with a brow raised in amusement.

“Usually you can’t tell because I’m smooth as hell, but it’s true,” he notes, like a huge secret was just uncovered. “You still make my heart race.”

Heat prickles on your cheeks at his words and you avert your gaze with a snort. As long as your heart is still beating, you think, remembering that they had to resuscitate him after the accident, but you shake those thoughts away, preferring to focus on the fact that he’s still here, alive.

“I know that the moment you’re back on your feet, you’ll be out there again, suited up,” you start after a moment, shooting him a serious look. “So I won’t ask you to stop. But promise me to be more careful next time?”

“Pinky promise.” Joaquín lifts his hand, fingers curled except for his pinky, and you can’t help but chuckle as you mirror his gesture, curling your finger around his. He shakes your hand like that side to side for a bit, then drops it back down onto the bed. A strand of hair falls into his face as he leans back, and you brush it back, caressing over his bruised cheekbone gingerly. 

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks suddenly.

“Hmm.” You look at the timestamp on the muted TV in the corner, currently playing some movie or other. It’s only then that you realise you’ve been intermittently awake for almost two full days now. “Can’t really remember,” you lie.

“You need to rest. You look exhausted,” he remarks, gesturing to himself. “I’m taken care of.”

“No, I’m not leaving you,” you say, putting as much finality into your voice as you can in your state.

He says your name softly. You look away. He sighs.

“Well, if you insist on staying, then at least I can get pampered a bit, yeah?” he starts, and you narrow your eyes at him in feigned suspicion. He asks with a playful pout, “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Hmm?” 

Joaquín turns his head, offering you his cheek. You can’t help but laugh. 

“I thought you were high on painkillers already?”

“Even the best medicine holds nothing against your kisses.”

“Pfft, is that so.” Now it’s your heart’s turn to speed up. You two have been together for a while now, but he still makes you feel warm and fuzzy, and gives you butterflies in your stomach, when he isn’t on the brink of death, at least. “Well, in that case, I better get started on your dose.”

You lean forward, placing a kiss on his cheek, and he hums pleasedly. He doesn’t move, though, clearly waiting for more. You’re more than happy to oblige, placing kiss after kiss on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, being especially careful around his injuries. Finally, you hold his chin to turn his face towards you, and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his lips. It's chaste but sweet, and he smiles into it. When you lean back, his eyes are filled with love, slightly unfocused because of the meds, a goofy grin on his face. As you hold his face, you consider saying something cheesy, hoping he won’t remember it. But before you can speak, there’s a knock at the door, and someone steps in. It’s Sam. He looks surprised to see you.  

“Damn, you’re still here?” he asks with concern, then turns to Joaquín. “How’re you feeling?”

“Splendid, really,” he replies, leaning into your hand still cupping his face.

“He got a decent shot of painkillers,” you explain, looking up at Sam with a tired smile. “He’s high as a kite.”

Sam chuckles, then looks at you worriedly. 

“You need to rest. Both of you.” He places a hand on your shoulder. “Go home, I’ll take it from here.”

You hesitate, looking between the two, and Joaquín nods, his eyes pleading for you to also take care of yourself. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joaquín says, taking your hand from his face and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be here when you come back.”

“Right,” you sigh and rise to your feet with wobbly legs now that the exhaustion is finally kicking in full force, and Sam holds you up when your knees threaten to give in. 

“Whoa there. You need a nap, ASAP.” 

“Yeah, yeah I do,” you say with a sigh, steadying yourself as he lets you go, his hands still hovering over your arms for a moment in case he has to grab you again, but you manage to stand straight. You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, and turn to Joaquín. “I’ll come back this evening, okay? I’ll bring your favourite snacks too. Don’t tell the nurse, though.” You wink at him with a knowing smile.

“You’re the best.”

“No, you are.” You lean over him to kiss him goodbye, whispering ‘I love you’ against his lips, and pecking him once more for good measure. The machine’s beeps speed up again.

“Love you too. See you later.” Joaquín brings his hand up to caress over your cheek one last time, then you leave the room.

Sam is still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at his friend as the beeps slowly start decreasing back to normal.

“Very cute,” he remarks, unable to bite back a teasing smile. 

“Don’t even,” Joaquín says and rolls his eyes playfully, knowing perfectly well that Sam will never let him live that down.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!]

[thecuriousbeauty]

Under His Watch- Part 2 (Harry Styles x reader)

Series synopsis: Y/N, an ambitious FBI intern, joins the homicide department, where she catches the eye of the brooding head detective, Harry Styles. As they tackle high-stakes cases together, Y/N uncovers a side of Harry no one else sees. Are they just boss and intern, or something more?

A/N:- This is picking off from where we left, so I highly suggest you read Part 1 first. Thank you for all the love and comments about the series, I appreciate you all so much.

Warnings: Talks about gun shot wound, smut. Fingering, spitting, penetration(p in v)

Word count: 9.3k

_________________________________________

The cold hum of the ambulance filled the small space as it sped down the winding road, sirens wailing outside, slicing through the night. Inside, the soft beeping of medical equipment was the only other sound. Harry sat close to the cot where Y/N lay, her face pale from having a bullet through her arm. She winced with each bump, but her eyes remained locked on him, half-lidded and tired. 

The moment replayed in his head over and over, each second more unbearable than the last. He hadn’t reacted fast enough, hadn’t shielded her like he should have. He managed to tackle the man and shoot a bullet through his shoulder who was aiming his gun at y/n, but he wasn’t quick enough. The guy had shot y/n at the same time. I should’ve done more. I should’ve moved. I should’ve protected her. She was just starting out, an intern under his watch, and he had promised to keep her safe. But now she was hurt, and he had let it happen. It’s my fault, he thought, as the weight of the guilt pressed down on him, leaving him powerless and hollow.

Harry’s jaw clenched as he fought to keep his own emotions in check. His fingers hovered near her hand, the urge to reach out strong, but he hesitated, not wanting to make her feel vulnerable, yet all he could think of was how much he cared. 

“You should have stayed in the car.”, he finds himself muttering. 

“And let him shoot y-you?”, she asked, her voice raspy and her eyes flick to the white bandage on her arm, quickly tainting red. Harry noticed her breath hitching and a little bit of fear running through her eyes even though she tried to mask it. 

Harry gently turned her head back to him, index and thumb finger holding her chin, “Don’t look, y/n. Stay with me, okay?”

Y/N managed a weak nod. 

“You got hurt because you tried to protect me.”, Harry says softly, shaking his head. “I was just doing my job,” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering as the adrenaline began to wear off, exhaustion creeping in.

“C-Couldn’t let the mission go s-south..” She offered a weak smile, her voice raspy. “Are you mad that I didn’t listen to you?”

He swallowed hard, the weight of his feelings pressing against his chest. How could he ever be mad at her, when in that moment, she had shown him exactly what kind of person she was? She was brave, unyielding, and selfless, and every one of those qualities only made her more admirable in his eyes.

“No,” Harry said, his voice soft, almost too soft. He leaned forward slightly, his expression genuine. “I’m not mad at you.”

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty, but all she saw was sincerity.

"You didn’t listen to me, and I shouldn’t have let you even come along," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, yet his words held a depth of emotion he wasn’t sure he was ready to express.  “But I can’t be mad at you. Not when you were doing what you thought was right… Not when you were doing it to protect me, to protect that little girl, to help catch a criminal.”

Her hand shifted just enough to brush against his, the touch soft but intentional. Harry finally allowed his fingers to set

tle over hers, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing the back of her hand in a silent promise. “You’re one hell of an intern,” he murmured, his words more tender than he intended. His gaze softened as he studied her, noting the way she tried to fight through the pain, the way she still cared about their mission, even now.

Harry leaned closer, his breath catching for a moment. "And promise me next time you'll let me do the heavy lifting."

Y/N gave him a small, knowing smirk before her eyes fluttered shut again, the exhaustion of the mission and her injury catching up to her. Harry sat silently beside her, his presence a silent assurance. 

________________________________________________

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon as Harry carefully navigated the streets, the next day. Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her arm in a sling, but she was looking better than the day before — a little more alert, though still a little pale. The bullet had only grazed her arm, so recovery wouldn’t take too long. She had insisted on going back to her flat, not wanting to stay in the hospital any longer, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that she shouldn’t be alone just yet.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay for a bit?” Harry asked, glancing over at her as they neared her building. “At least until you’re settled in?”

“I’ll be fine, Harry,” Y/N replied, her voice soft but steady, the same determination that had led her to ignore his warnings the day before now pushing her to insist on independence. “It’s just my arm, not my whole body. I can manage.” She gave him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ve done enough already.”

He parked the car in front of her building, but his concern was still evident. “I don’t know, Y/N. You’re injured. You’re not supposed to be lifting anything, and what if something happens? I’d feel better if I stayed for a bit.”

Y/N bit her lip, feeling guilty for pushing him away. “I appreciate it, really,” she said, meeting his eyes. “But I’m okay. I don’t need to be babied.”

Harry let out a slow breath, still unconvinced, but he didn’t press the issue further. Instead, he got out of the car and went around to open her door, offering her a steadying hand as she carefully climbed out. “Alright,” he said reluctantly, “but I’m still making sure you have dinner. And maybe a little something extra for tomorrow.”

Y/N’s heart softened at the thought. "Harry, you don’t have to—"

“I know,” he interrupted with a grin. “But I want to. So, where’s your kitchen?”

Once they got upstairs, Harry settled her on the couch with a blanket, making sure she was comfortable, while he busied himself in her small kitchen. Y/N tried to offer help, but he just gently shooed her away, telling her to relax. She couldn’t help but watch him, the way he moved with such care, every gesture deliberate. He wasn’t just making food — he was making sure she had enough to eat, enough to last. It was as if he was taking care of her in ways she hadn’t known she needed.

By the time he finished, a warm, hearty meal of pasta and grilled vegetables filled the apartment with a comforting aroma. Harry set the table, a little extra portion already packed for tomorrow.

"Here you go," he said, sitting down across from her, his eyes meeting hers. “It’s not much, but I figured it’s better than hospital food.”

Y/N looked at the plate in front of her, but it wasn’t the food that caught her attention — it was the thought behind it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared for her like this. Sure, people had helped her out in the past, but it wasn’t the same. Not like this.

“I—thank you,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “This means a lot.”

Harry smiled, picking up his fork and digging in. “You’ve been through a lot. The least I can do is make sure you’re fed and taken care of for a night.” He paused, his eyes softening as he watched her. “You really don’t have to do everything on your own, you know. You’ve got people who care about you.”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart suddenly feeling like it was too full. She wasn’t used to feeling this vulnerable, this open, but with Harry, everything seemed to fall into place. "I know," she said quietly, finally allowing herself to let the walls down. "But it’s hard to let people in sometimes."

Harry nodded, understanding, his eyes not leaving hers. “I get that.” 

They ate in comfortable silence, the conversation flowing easily between them — about the case, about small things in their day-to-day lives, and even a few personal stories shared between bites. It felt… normal. Natural. Like they’d known each other far longer than they actually had.

When they finished, Harry cleared the dishes and made sure everything was put away for the night, leaving her apartment neat and tidy. He didn’t rush. He wanted to make sure she had everything she needed before he left.

As he finished up, Y/N sat on the couch, her arm resting gingerly on a cushion. Harry turned to her, standing near the door, his hand resting on the frame.

“Well,” he said, a slight hesitation in his voice, “I should probably let you get some rest.”

Y/N looked up at him, her heart racing. She couldn’t deny the warmth she felt whenever he was around, the way he seemed to care without even asking for anything in return.

Before she could say anything, Harry moved closer, bending down slightly to press a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. 

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he murmured against her skin, his voice barely above a whisper, and then, with a small smile, he turned and left, leaving her with a heart full of warmth and a lingering feeling of something deeper between them.

As she sat there, hand resting on her cheek where his lips had just been, Y/N couldn’t help but smile to herself. She was beginning to realize that Harry wasn’t just her partner in the field; he was someone she could trust — someone who cared for her in a way that made her feel safe, even when the world was anything but.

And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to care about him, too.

____________________________________________

Two days later, Y/N was back at her desk in the FBI office, much to Harry's dismay. He had insisted she take a full week off to recover from the gunshot wound, but Y/N had pushed back. There was too much work, too many files to go through, and far too many lessons to catch up on. 

As soon as she walked through the door, the team of detectives greeted her with a chorus of smiles and welcoming remarks. They had all been concerned about her recovery, but now that she was back, the playful teasing began almost immediately.

Eliza, who had a knack for teasing everyone in the office, was the first to speak up. “Look who’s back!” she said with a grin, crossing her arms as she leaned against a nearby desk. “We didn’t think we’d see you until next week! Did Harry finally stop hovering long enough for you to escape?”

Ethan, always quick with a joke, added, “Yeah, I’ve never seen him so worried. He was practically pacing yesterday. Thought he might’ve had a panic attack waiting for you in the hospital.”

Y/N’s cheeks immediately flushed at the mention of Harry’s concern. She had caught glimpses of his worry during her recovery, but hearing it from her colleagues made her suddenly feel self-conscious.

Nora raised an eyebrow with a slight smile. “I think Harry’s got a soft spot for you. It was kind of cute seeing him so protective.”

Cole, ever the playful one, gave a chuckle. “Oh, definitely. You two looked like an old married couple when he was fussing over you. I’m just saying, we all noticed.”

Y/N shot him a mock glare. “You guys are ridiculous,” she muttered, trying to hide the fact that her heart was racing a little faster at their teasing. 

Eliza grinned widely. “I ship it,” she said dramatically, her voice teasing. “I think you two are the perfect match. Don’t try to hide it, Y/N. The way Harry was looking after you? That’s textbook romance material right there.”

Y/N’s face went from pink to crimson in an instant. “Stop it, Eliza,” she said, covering her face with her hand in embarrassment.

The team burst out laughing, all of them thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. Just as the teasing reached a peak, the office door swung open with a soft creak, and Harry walked in. The moment he stepped into the room, the energy shifted. The playful chatter stopped abruptly, and the entire team grew quiet. Y/N’s heart skipped as she turned to face him, still feeling the warmth on her cheeks from the teasing.

Harry looked around, his brow furrowing slightly as he noticed the sudden silence. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice neutral but with a hint of curiosity. His eyes flicked over the group, landing on Y/N, who was still trying to compose herself.

Ethan leaned forward with a smirk. “Oh, nothing, Harry. We were just talking about how much you were hovering over Y/N when she was at the hospital. You know, the whole ‘I’m so worried I can’t stop pacing’ thing.”

Y/N could feel her face burning as she glanced up at Harry. His expression softened at the mention of his concern for her, though he quickly glanced back at the team with a small, knowing smile.

“It’s my job to take care of my team,” Harry said with a shrug, though his eyes lingered on Y/N for a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a glance back at the team, he added, “I’d rather worry too much than not enough.”

The playful teasing began to die down, but Eliza wasn’t quite done yet. “So, when’s the first official date, you two?” she asked, her voice full of mock sincerity.

Before Y/N could react, Harry gave the room a long, pointed look. “Enough, Eliza,” he said with a smile, his tone warm but firm. “Let’s get back to work.”

With that, Harry turned and left the office, his footsteps light as he disappeared into the hallway. The moment the door closed behind him, the team erupted in laughter once more, their teasing only escalating.

Y/N sighed and shook her head, trying her best to appear unbothered, though she couldn’t help but feel a little giddy from the whole interaction.

__________________________________________________

Y/N walked down the hallway, coffee in hand, a stack of files tucked under her arm. She knocked lightly on Harry’s door before stepping inside, her usual warmth filling the room despite the slight sadness that had been lingering in her chest all day.

"Hey, I brought you those files you asked for," she said with a small smile, placing them on his desk. She set the coffee down beside it, the steam rising in soft tendrils. “And your coffee, of course.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Harry’s fingers brushed hers as he took the coffee, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel a flutter in her chest at the simple touch. She had been trying to ignore how much she cared about him, how much her heart raced whenever he looked at her, but moments like this made it harder to deny. 

Harry caught the fleeting moment in her eyes, his expression softening as he looked at her. "Thanks, Y/N," he said, voice quiet, sincere. There was something in the way he said her name, a tenderness that made her stomach do a little flip.

But the moment passed, and she cleared her throat, pushing the thoughts aside. She wasn’t here to get lost in her feelings. “I should probably let you get back to work,” she said, her tone a little more businesslike, though there was an undercurrent of something deeper.

As she turned to leave, Harry’s voice stopped her.

"Y/N," he said gently, standing up from his desk. "You okay? You seem… I don’t know, a little off today."

Y/N paused, her back to him, a brief silence stretching between them before she turned back around. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, she felt a pang in her chest.

"I’m fine," she lied, but Harry wasn’t buying it.

He studied her for a moment before walking over to her, his expression concerned. “Come on, I know you better than that. What’s going on?”

Y/N hesitated, not wanting to burden him with her feelings, but something in the way he was looking at her made it impossible to keep the truth to herself. “It’s just… well, these are my last two days with the Homicide department,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I’ll miss the team, and… I think I’ll miss working with you the most.”

Harry’s heart tightened at her words, and for a moment, he just stood there, unsure of how to respond. He hadn’t realized how much her leaving would affect him until now.

“You know, Y/N,” Harry began, his tone softer than usual, “we’re all still going to be in the same building. We won’t be far apart. And, hey,” he added, his voice a little lighter, “after your internship is over, you could always join the Homicide department for real. We’d love to have you.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered up to meet his, and a small smile tugged at her lips, though the sadness didn’t quite leave her gaze. “I don’t know. I’ve learned a lot here, and it’s hard to think about leaving. But maybe I’ll consider it… if you’ll still have me.”

Harry’s smile was warm, genuine. “You cracked some of the cases we couldn’t in the short time you were here, and you’ve learnt so much, so quick. Of course we’d have you, y/n.”

Y/N’s chest warmed at his words. “Thank you, sir..”

He nodded, head turning to the phone as it rang, but not before he asked her, “Are you going to Ethan’s party tonight?”

 His question was casual, but there was a hint of something in his tone, something that made her heart skip a beat.

She paused for a moment, surprised by the question. She hadn't thought much about the party, not with everything going on in her head, but now that Harry had mentioned it, the thought of spending more time with him — even outside of work — made her feel both nervous and excited.

"Yeah," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I’ll be there. Ethan’s been reminding me about it every day this week." 

"Good," he said. “I’ll see you there.”

________________________________________________________

Y/N walked into the lively party, the soft hum of chatter and the clink of glasses filling the air. The warm glow of fairy lights adorned the walls, and the scent of fresh flowers and cake lingered in the air. Her eyes scanned the crowd until she spotted Ethan, who was laughing with a group of friends by the punch bowl.

“Hey, happy birthday!” Y/N grinned, making her way over to him.

Ethan looked up, his face lighting up with a wide smile. “Y/N! I’m so glad you made it! Thank you, thank you for coming!”

Y/N chuckled, giving him a quick hug. “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

As they chatted, Y/N’s gaze subtly drifted across the room. She hadn’t seen Harry yet—her boss, and the man who made her pulse race every time their paths crossed. She had dressed up tonight. The red dress she wore hugged her curves in all the right ways, its fabric flowing slightly at her knees. The color made her stand out among the crowd, and for once, she didn’t mind the attention. But deep down, she couldn’t help but wonder if it would catch Harry's eye.

And then, there he was.

Harry stood across the room, talking to some colleagues, but his eyes met hers almost immediately. His gaze lingered longer than usual, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened. He gave her a small wave, his lips curling into a subtle smile, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

Y/N tried to remain composed, turning back to Ethan to finish her conversation. But she couldn’t help the flutter in her chest.  When she finally turned back toward Harry, she could see him making his way toward her, his tall frame parting the crowd effortlessly.

"Looks like someone’s popular tonight,” Ethan teased, nudging her with an elbow, his voice playful.

Before she could respond, Harry reached them, his presence commanding the room even as his tone softened with her.

“Y/N,” he said, his deep voice wrapping around her name. He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You look… stunning.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat at the unexpected compliment. She hadn't been ready for it—not like this. She had never heard him speak to her like that before. He wasn’t the type to be openly affectionate, especially at work. His gaze, though, was warm, and there was something undeniably intense about it.

Harry is absolutely stunning in this look. His silky gold shirt catches the light, adding a subtle glow that highlights his natural charisma. The shirt clings just enough to emphasize his physique, while the loose, effortless vibe still makes him look laid-back yet polished. The jeans fit him perfectly, showing off his figure without being too tight, and the boots give the whole outfit a bold edge, with just the right amount of ruggedness. His hair, styled into loose curls, frames his face in a way that feels so natural and effortless, giving him a touch of rockstar flair. The tattoos on his arms are on full display, adding an extra layer of intrigue to his look, hinting at a deeper personality and experiences. He looks effortlessly chic, like someone who's confident in their own skin and doesn't need to try too hard to captivate.

“I—uh… thank you,” she stammered, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “You… you look great too.” She cursed herself inwardly, knowing how awkward she must’ve sounded.

Harry chuckled softly, the corner of his lips curving up. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he said, his voice teasing as he glanced at Ethan.

Ethan just rolled his eyes, knowing better than to interrupt whatever was about to unfold between them.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, his tone more serious as he looked back at Y/N, “I really meant it. You look beautiful.”

Y/N’s stomach did a little flip at the sincerity in his voice. It was the first time he had ever said something so direct to her. His words hung in the air, and she felt a sudden rush of warmth spread across her skin. She was definitely flustered now, her usual calm composure slipping away.

“Thank you.”, she said, hoping that she wasn’t blushing too much.

For a moment, the space between them seemed to grow heavy, the world around them fading into the background. Y/N found herself looking up into his eyes, and it felt like the chemistry between them was undeniable now. The air hummed with tension, and she could feel her pulse quicken.

Ethan, sensing the growing awkwardness, excused himself with a grin. “Well, I’ll let you two catch up.” With that, he was gone, leaving them alone together.

"So," Harry began, "Care for something to drink?”

 "I think that’s a good idea," she said, her nerves slowly easing. "Maybe something non-alcoholic, though. I’m not sure I trust myself with anything stronger tonight."

Harry nodded, clearly amused. "Fair enough. I’ll go easy on you." He motioned toward the bar area. "How about a soda or something?”

"That sounds perfect," Y/N replied, smiling as they made their way over to the bar. The soft chatter of the party still buzzed in the background, but the closer they got to the bar, the more the noise faded, leaving only the hum of conversation between them.

As they reached the counter, Y/N ordered a cold lemonade, Harry opting for iced tea, and they leaned casually against the bar, the glasses in front of them clinking lightly as they were placed down.

Y/N took a sip of her lemonade, enjoying the cool refreshment, and then she realized she was rambling, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I’m sorry I’m late," she said with a sheepish laugh. "I meant to get here earlier, but, well, the neighbour’s cat somehow got in my flat, I ran out of mascara and some last minute outfit changes. I swear, if the universe could find a way to make me late, it would."

Harry, who had been quietly listening to her explanation, couldn’t help but smile as she continued. There was something endearing about how she seemed to get lost in the details, her hands gesturing as she spoke, her eyes wide with the intensity of her words.

"Sounds like quite the evening," Harry said, his voice warm, but his expression was softer than she expected. He was looking at her with this amused, almost fond expression, as if he enjoyed hearing her talk. “It’s good that you made it, though.”

Y/N, now realizing she’d been going on a bit too much, suddenly stopped herself, feeling a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I just—I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she said, her face flushing slightly as she tried to compose herself.

Harry chuckled, his gaze never leaving hers. "You don’t need to apologize for that," he said, his voice low and reassuring. "I don’t mind listening. It’s nice hearing you talk about… well, anything, really."

Y/N blinked at the sincerity in his tone. It was unexpected and, in a way, incredibly grounding. It wasn’t just the usual polite conversation, he was flirting with her.

So she decides to do it back.

“So, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything other than work clothes. Is this a new Harry I’m seeing?” she asked, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

Harry laughed. “What, you think I only own suits and vests?” he teased back, a slight smirk of his own forming. 

“No,” she replied, his gaze never breaking from hers, “I’m just surprised you’ve never let us see this side of you before. You clean up pretty well.”

Harry smiled. “Thanks. Guess you’ll just have to get used to it,” he said, her voice light but with an edge of confidence.

“What does that mean?”

“That I’d love to hang out with you some time.”

She takes a sip of her drink, before replying, “Are you asking me out?”

“Would you like that?”, he questions her back.

“I think I would.”, she smiles, and he grins, going to say something but a guy comes and slaps his shoulder. “Styles! Long time!”

Harry catches up with his friend for a few minutes, but y/n notices that he’s looking at her most of the time, his eyes flick down to her dress, her legs and quickly back up. When he leaves, Harry leans in to tell her, “I have to say. You’re making it hard for me to focus on anything else tonight.” He didn’t elaborate, but his tone was heavy with meaning, making the space between them seem all the more charged.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, trying to deflect the heat she could feel in her chest. “I’d say I’m not the only one causing distractions around here,” she shot back with a playful smile, scanning the room, but she could feel his gaze still on her.

“You’ve got me there,” Harry replied, his voice dropping slightly, playful but tinged with something else. “But it’s hard to focus on anyone else when you look like that.”

“You’re impossible,” she murmured, though her lips curled into a smile.

Harry smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You like it.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she suddenly realized how close they were. Knees touching, and his lips were so close. So close she could kiss him. Before she could think about it some more, Eliza appeared at her side.

“Alright, enough of the talking,” Eliza said with a playful glint in her eyes. “Time to get you two on the dance floor!” Without even giving them a chance to protest, she grabbed Y/N’s hand and pulled her toward the crowd, a smiling Harry reluctantly following behind.

Y/N tried to laugh off the sudden shift. “Eliza, we don’t have to—”

“Nope!” Eliza interrupted with a wink at Harry. “You’re both going. It’s happening.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at her friend's persistence. “You really think you can play matchmaker in the middle of a party?”

Eliza’s grin widened. “Absolutely. Now let’s dance!”

Before Y/N could protest again, Eliza had them both at the heart of the dance floor, the music filling the air. The crowd around them moved to the rhythm, and so did they, y/n swayed her hips to the beats, raising her arms in the air. Harry’s hands graze her waist, like he was testing waters and when she moves back against his back, his hands hold on to her hips as he moves with her. She can feel him press against her, and the sexual tension is now hard to ignore.

His tattooed hands, clad with rings, wrapped around her, lean fingers that she’d love to have elsewhere. As the song changed, she turned around to keep her hands on his chest and he looked down at her. Harry's gaze was steady on hers, but it wasn’t her eyes he was focused on anymore. She could feel his attention shift slightly, his eyes drawn down to her lips, and for a brief moment, everything else in the room seemed to blur out of existence.

Y/N’s breath hitched, caught in the intensity of the moment. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Harry’s face either, watching as his eyes lingered on her lips with an almost palpable intensity. It wasn’t subtle—there was no mistaking the way his gaze softened, his lips parted slightly, as though he were struggling to resist the urge to close the space between them. 

For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them thick with something unspoken. She could see the way his eyes flicked from her lips to her eyes, as if weighing the decision, the choice he hadn’t yet made.

“Do you..wanna get out of here?”, he finally whispers. 

y/n found herself nodding, “Let’s go.”

With that, Harry’s hand moved to slide over hers, gently grasping it as they weaved through the crowd and out. They were moving so fast, Harry almost tripped over twice, making her giggle. 

As soon as they were in his car, both of them didn't hesitate. Harry’s hands cup her cheeks as their lips mold together. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question being asked and answered in the same breath. Y/N’s heart fluttered as she felt Harry’s lips press against hers, a warmth spreading through her like nothing she had ever experienced. There was no urgency, no rush—just the quiet exchange of something deeper, something they had both been holding onto.

“About time we did that.”, he says, still breathless and wanting more of her. She hums in agreement as his tongue swipes against her bottom lip. She parts her lips, letting his tongue slip in and leans over so she can get closer to him, her hands weaving into his hair. He makes it easier by quickly moving his hands to her hips so he can effortlessly shift her to his lap and she squeaks in surprise, making him laugh into the kiss. 

He groans as he feels her press herself against him, and he grows so hard, it’s almost painful. He’s been trying to calm his little friend all night. 

“Bloody hell, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum in my pants.Let me drive us home first, alright?”

She laughed, moving back to her seat. “Alright.”

The car ride was quiet, brimming with anticipation of what was about to happen, and Harry’s hand rested on her thigh, making her squirm in her seat. She just wanted to press his hand to where she most needed him.

“You okay, love?”, he asks, taking the turn that leads to his house.

“Uh huh.”

The minute they make it inside his house, y/n’s pulling him close, connecting their lips again. “Feisty, I like it.”, Harry mumbles against her lips, his hand tracing up her thigh while the other holds her hip.

“Harry..”, she whispers his name, different from all the times she had called out to him, and he loved to hear it. 

“Don’t worry y/n, I got you.” His hand finally moves to her centre, fingers directly pressing onto her clit over the material of her panties making her breath hitch and a small moan escape her lips. “Oh baby, you’re so wet. No wonder why you were squirming in the seat.”

“All for you, Harry.”, she replies, parting her legs a little as he taps against her inner thigh. His fingers move the panties to a side and he slides two fingers inside her, fingers sleek against the wetness. 

“Oh fuck..”, she moans, her back pressing against the wall. “Please Harry..”

His skilled fingers move in and out of her, curling inside and hitting just the right spot, pleasuring her perfectly. “Wanna taste you, baby, come on, let go for me. I bet you taste so sweet.”

Her eyes roll back and her knees grow weak, but Harry holds her as she reaches her high. He takes his hand from out of her dress and brings his fingers to his mouth, licking each finger clean while looking at her. 

“Knew it, sweet as honey.”, he murmurs, and y/n giggles, catching her breath before moving her hands to start unbuttoning his shirt. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah? I can show you more.”, he smirks, watching as y/n runs a hand over his abs, tracing his tattoos. “Show me. Take me to bed, Harry.”

“With pleasure.” He scoops her up, hands splayed over her ass.

“Wait! Let me take off these heels.”, she says, making both of them laugh as she struggles to unbuckle it and Harry helps, strong enough to hold her up with one hand and help her remove the heels with the other. 

“Okay now, let’s go.”, she giggles.

“As you wish.”

They share kisses on the way to his bedroom, while she works on the button on his pants, now that she’s thrown his shirt somewhere on the way. “I like your tattoos, makes you look a lot hotter.”

“Thanks, love. Oh shit..” He moans as she palms him over his boxers. “Can I take this off?”, he asks, his hand moving to her back to the hook of her dress.

“Sure.” She lifts her hips so he can slide it down her legs, and he slides down her panties as well. His boxers are on the floor as well, and they both just stare at each other for a minute. 

“Fucking hell, you’re a beauty. Gorgeous.”, Harry’s eyes rake over her body, one hand moving to cup her breast in his hand. Every inch of her was beautiful. Her smooth, soft, skin, her breasts were the perfect size to cup in his hands and her nipples were perked up, he earned a soft moan when his thumb brushed over it.

“Is that gonna fit inside?”, she finds herself asking, looking at him quickly rip open a packet of condoms from the night stand and roll it on to his dick. He laughs, loving the ego boost. “We’ll make it fit.”

He lines himself up with her entrance, eyes admiring her glistening pussy. “That’s the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

Her cheeks redden under his gaze, and she takes in a breath when he pushes inside her. Slowly at first, letting her adjust.

“Fuck me, Harry..”, she moans, the slight pain turning into pleasure.

“That’s just what I’m gonna do.”, he promises, hand squeezing her breast and the other gripped her hip as he started to thrust his hips. y/n didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him, all of him. His weight on top of her. She wanted to squeeze him in further and further. She watches his face. Hair sweaty, the beautiful features of his face contorted in pleasure and she loved that she was the one making him feel like that. She wanted to watch his sweat drop onto her.

“You feel so fucking good.”, he grunts, going faster and she holds on to his back, wanting to say the same thing back, but her mouth doesn’t know how to form words at the moment. 

“L-Louder, love, wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”, he demands, and she doesn’t hold back on her moans. The hand on her breast moves to her jaw. “Open.”

She opens up for him, just as he asked, and his lips pucker a little before he spits, right onto her tongue. She moans, something like electricity zapping through her body. 

“You like that, don’t you? Such a dirty girl. Swallow.”

She does, then pulls his face down to press their lips together again. “I-I won’t last much longer.”, she warns.

“Me neither.”, he agrees, quickening his pace. 

They cum with their lips locked together, helping each other through their orgasms, riding it out. “You okay?”, he grins when he finally pulls away and she grins back at him, tired, but feeling amazing because she just had the best fuck she’s ever had in her life. 

“I’m great. You?”

“Me too.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

___________________________________________

The morning light streamed softly through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. The air was still, peaceful, as though the world outside had paused for just a moment. Harry and Y/N were nestled together in the bed, the soft sheets tangled around them. Y/N rested her head on Harry’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling her into a contented state of relaxation.

Harry’s fingers gently stroked her hair, his touch tender as he traced slow, gentle circles on her scalp. Y/N shifted slightly, her eyes still closed, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she felt the warmth of his embrace.

“So,” Harry murmured softly, his voice still thick with sleep. “Do you always look this cute in the mornings, or is it just me?”

Y/N chuckled, her lips brushing against his chest as she laughed. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just you,” she teased, her voice playful. “I’m usually a total disaster before coffee.”

Harry grinned, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “You’re a total disaster? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest, “you’ve never seen me before 9 a.m. on a Monday. It’s a whole other level of chaos.”

Harry let out a soft laugh, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her back. “I’m sure it’s cute chaos.”

Y/N lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his with a playful glint. “Maybe. But only if you can tolerate it.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. “I think I can tolerate a little chaos, especially when it looks like you.”

She couldn’t help but smile, warmth spreading through her chest. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Harry leaned in, brushing his lips softly against hers in a gentle, lingering kiss. It was slow, tender, the kind of kiss that didn’t rush, but simply savored the moment. When they pulled back, their eyes met, the unspoken connection between them more evident than ever.

“You know,” Harry said, his voice soft and teasing, “if you keep looking at me like that, we might have to start the day over.”

Y/N laughed, resting her head back against his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. “I think I could be convinced to stay here a little longer.”

“Well, I’m certainly not complaining,” Harry said with a soft smile, pulling her in closer. His lips brushed against her forehead in another gentle kiss, his voice low and sincere. “This is perfect.”

But something inside her turned as she came back to reality. He was her boss, and she was his intern. How could they make it Harry, sensing the subtle change in her mood, paused in his movements. He had been so focused on the softness of their time together, the easy jokes, and the warmth of her presence, but now, he could feel the shift. Her breathing had become just a little more uneven, the tension in her body noticeable despite her efforts to remain relaxed.

“Y/N?” Harry’s voice was gentle, but there was an edge of concern. He shifted slightly, tilting her chin so that she met his gaze. “What’s on your mind?”

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his question. She hadn’t realized how much she had been lost in her own thoughts. She tried to smile, but it came out a little weak, and Harry wasn’t fooled. He’d always been able to read her, and now wasn’t any different.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, brushing it off. “Just... thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” Harry pressed softly, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. 

Y/N hesitated, her gaze dropping to his chest for a moment. 

“I... I just keep thinking about how this is... complicated,” she finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re my boss, Harry. I’m your intern. And I don’t want to make things difficult for either of us.”

Harry was silent for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin, his gaze thoughtful. “Today’s the last day you’re my intern, y/n. We won’t be working with each other as much in the next few months. So it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“What if I decide to work in homicide after my internship and exams?”

He smiled softly, pressing a kiss to her nose. “Then we’ll figure it out. There is no rule that we can’t date co agents, you know.”

“There isn’t?”

He shakes his head. “And if they make one by that time, I’m the head of my department! Leave it up to me. But I’m not letting you go.”, he tightens his arms around her and she slowly smiles. “No?”

“Never.” 

She smiled softly, resting her head back on his chest, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on his skin as she let the quiet comfort of his embrace settle over her.

________________________________________________

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday noise—the clinking of trays, low murmur of voices, the hum of casual conversation. But for Y/N, it felt like everything had slowed down, the noise fading into the background as she stared at the pile of study materials in front of her. The detective exam was coming up soon, and despite all the hours she’d put into studying, her nerves seemed to have a life of their own, making it harder to focus.

She was trying to hide it, trying to keep the tension in her shoulders from showing, but she couldn’t stop the anxious fidgeting. Her fingers drummed against the table in a rapid rhythm as she flipped through her notes one more time, but the words were starting to blur together. The pressure of the exam, the weight of the expectations, it all felt like too much in that moment.

From across the table, Harry watched her, a soft frown forming as he noticed how tightly wound she seemed. They didn’t work in the same department anymore, but they still met for lunch at work whenever they could. She’d been quiet the past few days, and it was clear why now. He could see the nerves written across her face.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice was gentle but firm, drawing her out of her spiraling thoughts. “You’re overthinking it. You’ve been studying for this for months. You know this stuff.”

Y/N glanced up at him, trying to force a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve been feeling... I don’t know, stuck. Like, I can’t get everything to stick.”

Harry’s eyes softened, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more serious. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze fixed on hers. “You’re going to be fine, Y/N. You’ve worked hard. You’re one of the smartest people I know. Don’t let a little stress make you doubt yourself.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she finally allowed herself to relax into the weight of his words. “I just keep thinking, what if I mess it up? What if I’m not ready? I’ve been preparing so much, but what if it's not enough?” Her voice was almost a whisper, the anxiety creeping into her words.

Harry gave her a reassuring smile, his eyes warm and steady. He leaned closer, his hand resting over hers on the table, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You’ve been doing this for a long time now. You’re more than ready. You know your stuff better than anyone else in that room. And even if you make a mistake? It’s not the end of the world. You’ll bounce back, like you always do.”

Y/N took a deep breath, feeling the tension in her chest ease a little as Harry’s calm presence wrapped around her like a shield. She let her eyes linger on his hand over hers, the steady warmth of his touch grounding her in the moment.

“You always know how to calm me down,” she said, her voice a little quieter, softer. It wasn’t the first time Harry had been there for her in moments like this, when doubt and pressure threatened to overwhelm her. It was one of the many reasons she trusted him, not just as a colleague, but as a friend. Someone who had always supported her.

Harry gave her a crooked smile, his thumb gently brushing over the back of her hand. “It’s easy when you’re this easy to calm down,” he teased lightly, trying to get her to relax a bit. “But seriously, you’ve got this. I’m not worried, so you don’t need to be either.”

She managed a small smile, feeling the weight on her shoulders begin to lift. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“You do,” he said, his voice steady. “Maybe not always about the exam, but I know you have it in you. Just breathe. Take it one step at a time. You’re not alone in this, alright?”

Y/N nodded, her chest feeling lighter as she looked at Harry. His words had a way of breaking through her walls, reminding her that she wasn’t doing this alone. They had been through so much together, and even if they didn’t work in the same department anymore, his presence in her life still meant everything.

“I guess I just needed to hear that,” she admitted, feeling a bit vulnerable but also grateful. “Thanks, Harry.”

“No problem,” he replied with a smile, his fingers giving hers a reassuring squeeze before he pulled his hand back. “Now, let’s get back to work. You want me to quiz you on the most difficult stuff?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge flickering in her eyes. “You really think you can handle it?”

Harry leaned back in his chair with a confident smirk, clearly not phased. “I’m pretty sure I’m the right person for the job. You ready?”

“Bring it on,” she said with a grin, her nerves starting to settle now that the pressure didn’t feel so heavy.

The next few hours passed in a blur of study sessions, laughter, and Harry’s teasing as he quizzed her on everything from case law to criminal psychology. By the time they finished their lunch, Y/N felt a little more confident, the weight of her nerves lightening with every bit of encouragement Harry gave her.

_____________________________________________

Y/N smiled as she unpacked the basket, feeling a sense of relief wash over her now that the exam was behind her. “I still can’t believe you packed all this,” Y/N said, grinning at the spread Harry had prepared. She eyed the selection of sandwiches, fresh fruit, crackers, and a couple of chocolate bars he’d included, the treats neatly arranged in front of them. It was simple, but everything looked perfect for a relaxing evening.

Harry chuckled as he poured them both a glass of sparkling water. “I know you like the little things, so I figured we’d go all out for the first time you’re free from that exam. You’re allowed to relax now, you know?”

Y/N laughed, reaching for a sandwich. “I think I could get used to this.”

They ate together, talking about everything and nothing. Harry teased her about her overthinking during the exam, saying that she’d probably over-prepared and knew more than half the people who’d be taking it with her. Y/N rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

Then they just laid on their blanket, picnic basket forgotten for now as they looked up at the night sky.

The sky above them was breathtakingly clear. The stars were scattered across the heavens like diamonds, twinkling in the vast blackness. The full moon bathed the landscape in silver, casting soft shadows on the grass around them.

She could feel the quiet comfort of his presence next to her, the warmth of his body next to hers despite the coolness of the air. There was no rush, no need to speak, just the shared silence between them, peaceful and full of unspoken understanding.

For a while, they didn’t say anything, just stared up at the stars. Harry’s hand, resting on the ground near hers, brushed lightly against her fingers, a casual touch that made Y/N’s heart flutter unexpectedly. She turned her head slightly, catching him glancing at her with a small, almost unreadable smile, before he returned his gaze to the sky.

“So many stars,” Harry said softly, his voice low and thoughtful. “It’s hard to believe how far away they all are.”

Y/N nodded, her gaze shifting to his profile. The soft glow from the moon casting shadows over his features.He looked so beautiful. She couldn’t help it—everything about this moment felt perfect. Harry, beside her, always there for her, always steady. 

It felt like the right moment, the perfect time to finally say the words she had been keeping in her heart for so long. Turning her head, she met his gaze. His eyes were soft, watching her with a curiosity that made her heart swell. “Do you know something, Harry?”

“What is it, love?”

“I love you.”

Finally, Harry smiled, a soft, affectionate grin, and he reached out, gently kissing her lips. “I know, silly. I love you too.”

She grinned, kissing him again. “It’s nice to hear you say it.”

“I’ll say it a thousand times for you, and more. I love you, I love you..”, he kept saying as he kissed every inch of her face and she giggled, knowing that this was just the start of something beautiful.

__________________________________________________

The echo of her footsteps rang through the hallways of the FBI building as Y/N hurried down the corridor, her heart racing in anticipation. The results of her detective exam had just been released, and the moment she saw the passing mark, she couldn’t waste another second. She needed to tell Harry. She needed him to know that all the late nights, the stress, and the pressure had finally paid off.

She passed.

Y/N smiled to herself, the excitement bubbling in her chest, but it quickly faded as she spotted Eliza and Ethan ahead. Her friends waved at her, but her focus was fixed only on one thing: finding Harry. She raised her hand in a quick, distracted greeting, but she couldn’t stop. Not now.

“Hey, Y/N!” Eliza called out, but she was already on the move, her footsteps quickening as she tried to get past them.

“What's the rush?” Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, we’ve gotta celebrate together—”

But Y/N was already a few paces ahead, not wanting to waste another second. “Later! I’ll catch up with you guys later!” she called over her shoulder, her mind racing toward the one place she needed to be: Harry’s office.

When she reached the door, she didn’t knock, instead pushing it open and stepping inside, breathless and flushed with excitement. Harry sat behind his desk, speaking into the phone, his posture relaxed but his attention fully on the conversation. His office was as immaculate as ever, the view from his window stretching out over the city. But for now, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the result of her exam.

She paused, standing there for a moment, waiting for him to notice her. Harry’s eyes flicked up at the sound of the door opening, and his smile bloomed instantly when he saw her. He waved her in, his gaze flickering with a mix of curiosity and affection.

“Hang on a second,” he said to the person on the other end of the call, a brief but polite interruption. “I’ll call you back in a bit,” he finished, ending the conversation and setting the phone down on his desk.

“Y/N,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an amused glint in his eyes. “What’s got you running in here like this?”

“I... I passed,” Y/N said, her voice breathless as she stepped into the office, her hands still trembling from the rush of nerves and excitement. “I passed the exam, Harry. I did it.”

Harry’s expression softened, his smile widening as he stood up from behind his desk, clearly just as thrilled as she was. “I knew you would,” he said, moving toward her with long strides.

Before she could say anything more, Y/N stepped forward, her arms wrapping around him in a tight, spontaneous hug. She felt his arms go around her immediately, pulling her close. For a moment, they stood there, simply holding each other, the quiet joy of the moment enveloping them. All the tension, all the uncertainty, it was gone. All that mattered was the accomplishment, the love and the shared happiness between them.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. Harry smiled down at her, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Y/N. I knew you had it in you.”

They had another minute of silence before Harry interrupted it.

“So,” he began, his voice low, “now that you’ve passed... you’ve still got to decide what comes next, right?”

She nods, pulling back. “That’s why I’m here.” She looked up at him with respect, and admiration. During her internship, being part of no other department gave her the rush like how she felt being part of the homicide department. That was where she wanted to work. The group of people she loved working with and she hoped she could bring a lot of cases to justice and just do her best. She would be working alongside Harry, if everything worked out. Her mentor. The one who had guided her, taught her, and believed in her from the very beginning.

“I’d like to join the homicide department, if you’d have me.”, she tells him.

Harry grins proudly. “I told you we would always be open to having you on board, y/n.” He extends his hand, professionally. “Welcome to the department, Detective Agent y/ln.”

She clasps his hand, smiling wide. “Thank you, Detective Agent Styles. Thank you for everything.”

________________________________________

Taglist: -@livypops12352568 @harrydeary, @harryswifee, @harrysbxtchh, @gracelovesethan, @kiwitsayedsugar, @angeldavis777,@madstyles3204, @youngpastafanmug, @fruity-harry, @wannaliveinparadise@hermionelove@mayalove014 @vikiii07 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @thelooneytoon @charlesleclercwifey

(Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist or if there is any changes! Please like and reblog if you liked this short two part series and I would love to hear some feedback too!)

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ━━ Best Friends Who Kiss

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 6.7K

❀ ━ warnings: not much like a make out i guess

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: guys i’m lowk getting tired of this fic sorry about the long awaited update

THE MORNING SUN filters weakly through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the bedroom, but Paige barely registers it. She’s awake, but she doesn’t move at first, lying still, staring at the ceiling, willing herself to make sense of last night.

The kiss.

Her mind keeps circling back to it, replaying it over and over. It had been Jo that had leaned in. Jo had kissed her first. She’d been hesitant, but then she’d melted into Paige, letting her pull her closer. She’d straddled her, and Paige remembers the smoothness of Jo’s thighs against her own, the feeling of Jo’s ass in her hand, and—fuck. It had all felt so right. Like this was always supposed to happen, like this was the inevitable collision they’d been building toward for God knows how long.

And then Mia had shown up, and everything had shattered.

Now, Paige turns her head just slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Jo beside her in bed, curled up under the covers, completely turned away. The sight makes her stomach sink a little. This isn’t normal—not for them. They always sleep tangled together—legs twisted beneath blankets, arms thrown over waists, breath ghosting over skin. But now there’s distance between them, and it feels impossibly vast.

Paige swallows hard, guilt twisting through her. She had come back to their bedroom last night like nothing had happened, like she and her best friend hadn’t just made out, like she hadn’t run the second someone else had seen. She’d showered, letting the hot water consume her the way it had in the hot tub. By the time she’d gotten into bed, Jo still wasn’t there.

For a while, Paige had thought maybe she wouldn’t come at all. Maybe she’d stay with one of her sisters instead, avoiding her completely.

But Jo had come back.

Paige just hadn’t been brave enough to face her. So, she’d pretended to be asleep, keeping her breaths even, her body still, trying not to flinch when she heard Jo move around, when she finally crawled into bed. But she hadn’t reached for Paige, hadn’t curled up against her like usual.

And Paige hadn’t reached for her, either, unsure of where they stood and not wanting to overstep.

Now, Paige shifts carefully, trying not to disturb Jo as she slides out of bed. She hesitates for a second, staring down at her, waiting for her to stir, to turn, to do something. But Jo stays still, and Paige can’t tell if she’s actually asleep or just avoiding her the same way Paige did last night.

She’s not sure she wants to know.

So, she grabs her phone and steps out of the room, padding quietly down the hallway, down the stairs, into the kitchen. It’s still early, and the house is silent—no laughter, no movement, no sounds of Christmas morning yet. Just her, alone with her thoughts, which is exactly what she doesn’t want right now.

She sighs, unlocking her phone, tapping her dad’s contact. He answers on the third ring, his voice still hoarse, but better than the last time she talked to him a few days ago.

“Merry Christmas, P,” he says, and Paige closes her eyes, exhaling softly. Things would be so much easier if she was just with him and Drew in Maryland like usual.

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

They talk for a little while, mostly about how he’s feeling—still sick, but not as bad. He promises he’ll make up for missing Christmas the next time he sees her, and Paige tells him it’s okay, because it is. She knew he wouldn’t have let her go anywhere else for the holidays if he had any other choice.

She talks to Drew next, who’s way too hyper for a.) still having bronchitis, and b.) for this early in the morning. It’s a short conversation—he gets distracted halfway through, yelling something to his mom, and then Bob is back on the phone, telling her they’ll talk to her later.

Paige hangs up, staring at her screen for a second before she presses her mom’s contact this time, FaceTiming her.

It barely even rings once before Amy answers, her face filling the screen. It seems as though she’s already at the beach, the early morning sunlight turning her blonde hair almost gold, her sunglasses perched on her nose. There’s an ocean breeze in the background, the soft sound of waves rolling in, and Paige kinda wishes she were there because damn, the Bahamas sounds like the perfect place to be right now.

“Paigey, hi!” Amy says, beaming, clearly thrilled to see her. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Paige exhales a small laugh despite herself, because her mom’s excitement is kind of contagious. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“I miss you, I hope you and Jo are having fun! I’m so jealous you get a white Christmas, honestly. It’s so hot here.” Amy flips her phone for a second, showing off the clear blue sky and the sun in it. “Not that I’m complaining, but still.”

Paige smiles faintly. “Yeah, it snowed a little more last night. The mountains here are really pretty.”

“I’m glad,” her mom says, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “Anyway, Ryan and Laur are off running around the water park right now, but I’ll call you again later so they can talk to you.”

Paige nods. “Sounds good.”

Amy studies her for a second, and that’s when Paige knows she’s in trouble. “You’re quiet,” the older woman says, tilting her head slightly. “You don’t look happy. What’s wrong?”

Well, shit.

Paige swallows. She should’ve known her mom would pick up on it immediately. Usually, Christmas is one of her favorite parts of the year—her inner child always seems to come out, and she tends to act like a giddy five-year-old. Clearly, that’s not the case today, because here she is, slumped against the kitchen counter, her face probably screaming something’s up.

“I’m fine,” she says automatically.

Amy lifts a brow. “Paige.”

Paige exhales slowly, looking down at the marble counter, her fingers trailing absently along the smooth surface. “It’s… I don’t know.” She hesitates, then finally admits, “I kissed Jo last night.”

Silence.

Paige’s stomach twists. She can’t read her mom’s expression because Amy’s sunglasses are back on, but she knows she’s being analyzed right now, picked apart like she’s under a microscope.

Finally, Amy sighs, soft but knowing. “I thought there was a little more to you and Jo than you let on.”

Paige groans, dropping her head into her hands. “God, is it that obvious?”

Amy laughs a little, which only makes Paige groan louder. “Not to everyone, I don’t think,” she says. “But I am your mother. And I know you. The way you talk about her—it’s different, P. Good different.”

Paige bites her lip, staring down at the counter.

It’s terrifying, hearing that out loud. If she’s truly not been as subtle as she thought, then maybe that means Jo’s noticed, too.

And if Jo has noticed, then what does last night mean?

“I don’t know what to do,” Paige admits, her voice quieter now. “I mean… it wasn’t just—it wasn’t just some stupid kiss. It was—” She swallows thickly. “It was a lot.”

Her mom hums in understanding. “And now you’re scared.”

Paige nods, shifting uncomfortably. “What if she regrets it? What if she doesn’t want—what if she doesn’t like me like that? I mean, I don’t know even know if she likes girls. She’s never said anything about it. And she just broke up with her boyfriend of, like, five years.”

Any gives her a knowing look. “Paige, do you really think Jo’s the type of person to kiss you like that if she didn’t feel something?”

Paige opens her mouth, then closes it. Because her mom is right—Jo isn’t the kind of person to just make out with someone, especially someone close to her, just because.

Paige wants to believe it meant something. That Jo really had kissed her because she wanted to, not just because it had happened in the heat of the moment.

But Jo had also taken forever to come to bed last night. And when she finally did—

“She wouldn’t even look at me when she got into bed,” Paige says, her voice smaller than she wants it to be. “She just turned away.”

Amy, expression softens. “Honey, she’s probably scared, too.”

Paige exhales heavily, raking a hand through her hair. It’s still messy from sleep. “I just—I really don’t want to lose her, Mom.” Her throat is tight. “She’s my best friend, and she’s been the only person that really understands me about, like, my knee and stuff. I don’t know what I’d do if I—if this ruined everything.”

Amy shakes her head gently. “Nothing’s ruined, P. I promise.”

Paige doesn’t respond.

Because she doesn’t know that. What if last night was a mistake? What if Jo does regret it, and now their friendship is going to be weird forever, and—

“Take a deep breath,” Amy says softly. Paige does. “And stop thinking yourself into a panic, okay?”

Paige nods, a little shakily. “’Kay.”

“You and Jo clicked basically as soon as you met. I don’t think this is going to change that,” her mom tells her. “You just need to talk to her. And I know that’s scary, but I also know you. You’re not a coward, you don’t run away from things.”

Paige huffs. “I ran away last night.”

Amy snorts. “Okay, fair, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to keep running.” She pauses, then adds, “And maybe stop thinking so much and just let yourself feel for once.”

Paige is quiet, letting that sink in.

Amy smiles, like she knows she just got through to her. “I love you, baby,” she says softly.

“Love you, too,” Paige tells her, managing a little smile.

“Call me later?”

Paige nods. “Yeah. I will.”

“Okay.” Amy gives her a final, knowing look. “And talk to Jo.”

Paige makes a face. “Ugh.”

Amy just laughs, and then the FaceTime ends, leaving Paige along in the kitchen, slumped against the bar stool, her chin resting in her hands, still so unsure of what to do next.

JO HAS BEEN avoiding Paige all morning.

Not in an obvious, duck into a different room every time she sees her way—but enough that her stomach clenches every time she catches a glimpse of the blonde in the corner of her vision, enough that she finds herself sidestepping conversations, pretending to be busy with her gear, lingering behind the others when they’re getting ready, taking an extra-long time tightening the straps of her boots just to not be near her. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what Paige is thinking.

And she’s scared.

Scared that Paige regrets it. Scared that Paige didn’t like it. Scared that she messed something up, that she’s made things weird, that last night had just been some moment of stupid impulse for Paige that meant nothing, and now she’s going to sit Jo down and give her some speech about how they should just forget about it, about how it was a mistake, about how it shouldn’t have happened. Jo thinks she might actually throw herself off the side of the mountain if that happens.

But thank God for Mia, actually. Because Mia, in all her little-kid wisdom, had begged Paige to go on the ski lift with her, and—since each lift only holds two people—that means it’s just the two of them. And Paige, who never knows how to say no to a kid, had smiled at Mia’s pleading eyes and agreed, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Which means, thankfully, Jo doesn’t have to ride with her.

Instead, she’s on the lift just ahead, sitting next to Peyton.

Jo exhales, adjusting her mittens as the chairlift ascends, the cold air biting at her face. The resort is quieter up here, the only sounds the mechanical hum of the lift and the occasional rush of wind through the trees. It should be relaxing. Should give her a moment to breathe.

But then Peyton turns her head and smirks at her.

“Soooo…” the older girl says, drawing the word out in a way that makes Jo immediately suspicious.

Jo eyes her warily. “What?”

Peyton tilts her head, still smirking, like she already knows something Jo doesn’t want her to. “Mia told me about what happened last night.”

Jo groans, dropping her head into her gloved hands. Of course Mia had told her. Mia, who had no concept of discretion, who had walked outside at the worst possible time and just stood there, grinning.

Peyton laughs at Jo’s misery, completely unsympathetic. “So. You wanna tell me what’s going on, or… ?”

Jo sighs dramatically, tilting her head back to stare at the sky. “I have no idea.”

Peyton just grins. “Joey, I didn’t even know you liked girls.”

Jo stiffens slightly, her chest tightening. It’s not that she’s ashamed of the idea—it’s just that she’s never really thought about it. Not in a real, this applies to me way. But she supposes she’s gotta figure it out now, just like she has to figure out the shit with Paige.

“I don’t,” she says at first. But then Peyton raises her eyebrows, giving her a really? look, and Jo immediately feels her face heat up despite the cold. “Okay, maybe I do. I don’t know. I just—I just like—”

“You just like Paige?” Peyton guesses.

Jo hesitates. Then, quietly, she nods. “I mean, yeah.” She sighs, staring out at the snow-covered trees below. “I don’t know. I haven’t really gotten through all the technicalities of it.”

Peyton hums, considering that. “Well,” she says, “does Paige know that you like her?”

Jo scoffs. “I mean, I kissed her.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t mean you told her.”

Jo presses her lips together. Because, no, she didn’t.

Peyton shakes her head, amused. “Well, I have some good news for you,” she says, nudging Jo’s shoulder lightly. “She definitely likes you back.”

Jo immediately shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Yes, she does.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Josephine,” Peyton says, giving her a look. “Come on. Have you seen the way she looks at you?”

Jo swallows, shifting uncomfortably. She doesn’t want to think about the way Paige looks at her. She doesn’t want to let herself hope—and she doesn’t want to know what happens next, if that hope is real.

But Peyton is relentless. “She’s, like, obsessed with you,” she continues, counting things off on her fingers. “She’s always touching you, always staring at you, always acting like you hung the fuckin’ moon or something.”

Jo clenches her jaw, shaking her head slightly. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Peyton sighs, rolling her eyes as if Jo’s stupid. “Why would she kiss you if she didn’t like you?”

Jo shrugs, feeling her stomach twist all over again. “I don’t know. She kisses a lot of girls.”

Peyton snorts. “Okay, well does she kiss a lot of her teammates?”

Jo blanches at that. Because, no. No, Paige doesn’t.

Peyton smirks, satisfied. “Exactly.”

Jo exhales, her heart thudding too hard.

“I don’t think she would’ve kissed you back unless it meant something,” Peyton says, softer now. “And I don’t think you would’ve kissed her unless it meant something, either.”

Jo swallows hard, staring at the mountains in the distance, her fingers curling into the fabric of her gloves. She doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she feels her heart thud rapidly in her chest, her mind running in circles around everything Peyton’s insinuated. Paige likes you. Paige kissed you back because she wanted to. Paige wouldn’t have done it if it didn’t mean something.

Peyton doesn’t push. She just lets the quiet settle between them, lets Jo sit with it.

But then, after a while, she exhales and shifts in her seat. “I get it,” she says gently. “Why you’re freaked out.”

Jo closes her eyes for a second. The shift in tone, the look Peyton gives her. She already knows exactly where this is going. 

“You just got out of something,” Peyton continues. “Like, less than a month ago.”

Jo tenses, doesn’t meet her sister’s eye.

Peyton sighs. “I know how much Asher meant to you. I know how much you were planning on him. And I know it’s gotta feel—” She hesitates, searching for the right word. “Weird. To have feelings for someone else this soon.”

Jo swallows, forcing herself to keep looking forward. She doesn’t want to talk about Asher. Doesn’t want to think about Asher. But of course, it’s Peyton. Of course, she sees through her like she always does.

And of course, she’s right.

Because Jo did plan on Asher. She planned on forever with him. She spent five year (or, really, her whole life if she’s honest), thinking that was it, that they’d go the distance, that everything they’d built—everything they’d been—was unshakeable. That she’d never have to think about this—about feelings for anyone else, about wanting anyone else, about what it means to like someone new when the ghost of someone old still lingers in the back of her mind.

But here she is, less than a month later, having just made out with Paige Bueckers in a hot tub last night.

God.

“I just don’t want you to rush into something,” Peyton says, her voice careful, measured. “Not when you’re still—”

“Figuring my shit out?” Jo offers.

Peyton huffs out a soft laugh. “I mean, yeah.”

Jo exhales softly, running her gloved hands over her thighs. She knows Peyton’s right. She knows she’s not really emotionally available right now. It would be stupid to jump into something—anything—so soon after the end of a near six-year relationship. It wouldn’t be fair—to her, to Paige, to anyone.

But it’s also Paige.

Paige, who makes her laugh in ways she forgot she could. Paige, who takes care of her when she can hardly take care of herself. Paige, who looks at her like she’s something worth looking at, like Jo is worth knowing, like Jo is worth wanting.

Paige, who kissed her back last night and felt like something Jo had been searching for, even though she wasn’t supposed to be searching for anything at all.

“I don’t know,” Jo murmurs finally, shaking her head. “I just—I don’t know.”

Peyton studies her for a moment, then nods, like she understands. “That’s okay,” she tells her. “You don’t have to.”

The lift slows as they approach the top of the mountain, and Jo is more than ready for the conversation to end. She grips the safety bar, rolling her shoulders back, already shifting into action mode. As soon as they hit the snow, she pushes off smoothly, coasting to a stop a few feet away. She drops onto one knee, strapping into her board, movements quick and practiced.

She feels Peyton’s eyes on her.

“What?” Jo asks, snapping her goggles into place.

Peyton raises a brow. “What, are you just gonna leave without them?”

Jo knows exactly who she means—Paige, Mia, their parents. She keeps her expression neutral as she shrugs. “It’s fine,” she says. “If P or Mimi need help, they have Mom and Dad. Let’s go.”

Peyton doesn’t argue, but Jo can tell she wants to. She hesitates for a second longer than necessary, like she’s debating whether or not to call Jo out for clearly avoiding Paige. But in the end, she just sighs, pulls down her own goggles, and says, “Alright.”

And then they’re off.

Jo cuts through the snow carefully, the wind rushing against her face, the world blurring at the edges. When you’re snowboarding, there’s no thinking, no feeling, no space for over analyzing. Just movement. Just speed. Just the sharp, exhilarating rush of letting go.

So, that’s what she does.

JO’S SITTING on the bed in the bedroom, scrolling aimlessly through her phone. It’s the only thing she can focus on right now. Her thumbs move over the screen without any real intent, the blue light flickering, almost like it’s keeping her tethered to something—anything. She doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to feel. Doesn’t want to worry.

The day has been a blur of distance. Too many spaces between her and Paige, though she’s the reason for most of it. But every glance felt loaded, every second stretched longer than it needed to. Jo told herself it was for the best, that she needed space, needed time to think, to process. But deep down, she knows that the silence felt more like a slow burn, a slow and uncomfortable ache that she couldn’t—still can’t—escape.

And then the door is opening and Paige walks in.

It clicks shut behind her, the sound final, and Jo’s stomach does a flip. She doesn’t look up immediately. She stays glued to her phone screen, even though she can feel the weight of Paige’s gaze.

Paige sighs, the sound almost too heavy for such a soft, small thing. It fills the space between them, and that’s when Jo finally looks up, her heart beginning to race.

She watches as Paige scratches the back of her neck, one of her nervous habits. Jo forces herself to breathe. She doesn’t know what’s about to happen, doesn’t know what to expect from this conversation. All she knows is that her entire body is on edge.

Then Paige asks, “Uh… can we talk?”

Jo swallows, the anxiety catching in her throat. She doesn’t even know how to answer, what to say, so she just nods. She scoots back a little on the bed, making room for Paige to sit. It feels like the most awkward thing they’ve ever done, like there’s too much space between them already. But she forces herself to breathe, forces herself to be still. “Yeah,” she says, voice a little too tight.

Paige sits down on the mattress, and then goes quiet, looking at the floor. Jo doesn’t say anything either, unsure of what should be said. She tries to form the right words, tries to form anything, but it all feels like it would just come out wrong, clumsy. So, she stays silent.

Paige is the one to break it. “We’ve been avoiding each other all day,” she says, stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” Jo murmurs, the word barely leaving her lips.

“I don’t wanna do that anymore,” Paige says, her voice softer now, almost a little uncertain. The words hang in the air between them, like a fragile promise.

Jo’s heart stutters in her chest. She wants to say something, something that won’t make this worse, something that will make Paige—and maybe herself, too—feel better. “Me neither,” is all she’s got, but it’s true.

Paige lifts her eyes to meet Jo’s. Her gaze is intense, a little searching, but also guarded, like she’s trying to read Jo’s expression, trying to figure out what’s going on in her head. And then Jo sees it—that look. The kind that makes her insides twist, that makes her want to curl into herself and die.

It’s the way Paige’s eyes linger on her face, the way she takes in the lines of Jo’s expression, as if she’s deciding whether or not she’s about to let Jo down easy.

Jo doesn’t want that.

She doesn’t want Paige to pity her. Doesn’t want her to give her some soft, carefully worded rejection, something that’s meant to ease the sting. She doesn’t want that look to mean that what happened last night didn’t mean anything, that it was a mistake.

So, Jo says it before Paige can get the words out, before anything else can be said.

“Hey,” she says quickly, too quickly, like she’s scrambling to control the situation. Which, she kinda is. “It’s fine. Seriously. We don’t have to, like, say anything or whatever. What happened happened. Let’s just not be weird.”

It’s a half-hearted attempt at sounding nonchalant. And maybe it’s a little too causal, a little too defensive, but Jo can’t help it. She needs the reassurance that nothing has changed—that this won’t ruin them. She needs Paige to tell her it’s okay, that they’re still them—that she hasn’t messed this up entirely.

But Paige doesn’t say anything at first. She just stares at Jo for a long, drawn-out moment. It’s as if she’s trying to figure out if Jo really means it, if this is what she really wants, or if she’s just saying it to avoid confrontation.

Jo starts to doubt herself, stars to wonder if she came off wrong, if Paige actually wanted the kiss more than Jo thought.

But then, Paige shakes her head. “Yeah,” she says slowly, like the word is almost twisting around her tongue. “Yeah, exactly.”

Silence falls over them again, like a blanket. Jo doesn’t like it. She’s tired of it. So, the words spill out of her before she can think better of it: “Do you want your Christmas gift?”

The question feels like it might be a lifeline, something to break the tension, something to shift the conversation away from all the uncertainty she’s feeling.

Paige blinks, caught off guard for a second. Her eyes flick to Jo’s, and then she straights up a little, her shoulders pulling back in a way that looks like she’s remembering something important. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, do you want yours?” she asks, voice lighter now.

Jo can’t help but laugh, just a little. It’s a short, breathy sound, but it feels like a small release, like she’s letting go of some of the anxiety she’s been carrying. “Well, duh,” she says, trying for playful, a smile tugging at her lips.

That seems to shift the mood some, and then they’re each standing up, going to their bags. Jo grabs the wrapped box, and sits back down on the mattress. Paige follows, sitting beside her, a much smaller box in her hands.

“Okay, open mine first,” Jo says, her voice more confident now, more sure of herself. She hands the box to Paige, feeling a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

Paige takes the gift, her fingers brushing against Jo’s hand as she does, and Jo’s heart skips a beat at the contact.

When Paige opens the box, her jaw drops a little, and Jo can’t help but feel a swell of pride. It’s exactly what she hoped for—Paige’s surprise and delight, the way her eyes widen as she takes in the gift.

The shoes are exactly what Paige had been obsessing over for months, the ones she had tried to get but had sold out before she could grab them. Jo, on the other hand, had been lucky enough to snag them before they were gone for good, and now here they are, right in front of Paige.

Paige’s voice is soft, almost in awe, as she stares at the shoes. “Joey…” she says, her tone slow and filled with something Jo doesn’t know. It’s more than gratitude, more than just being impressed. It’s like there’s something deeper in the way she says it.

“Do you like them?” Jo asks.

Paige’s eyes meet hers, a flicker of something there—something that makes Jo’s heart thud a little faster. “I love them,” Paige confirms, and the smile that spreads across her face makes Jo’s chest constrict. The blonde nudges her own small box toward Jo, saying, “Your turn.”

Jo opens it slowly. When she sees the necklace, her breath catches in her throat.

It’s a diamond-studded clover necklace—delicate, simple, but beautiful. Jo runs her fingers along the edge of the charm, feeling the smooth coolness of the metal. It’s perfect. On the back of the clover, the word steady is engraved, small but clear, and Jo’s stomach sinks just a little, the weight of the word—the weight of the gift—settling.

Paige watches her closely, her expression soft, as if she’s trying to gauge Jo’s reaction. “I know you get anxious before games,” she says gently, like she’s afraid Jo might somehow not like it. “I thought… maybe this could be your good luck charm. A reminder to stay steady.”

Jo’s heart hurts at the thought—how Paige knows her so well, knows the way her anxiety flares before a game, knows the way she holds herself together even when she’s not sure she’s capable of it. This feels like something more than just a gift. It feels like Paige sees her, understands her.

The knot in Jo’s throat tightens. “It’s perfect,” she says. And it is. More than she can put into words.

But at the same time, it stirs something in her, something she can’t quite control. The fact that Paige knows her this well, that she’s thought of something so specific and so meaningful—it makes Jo want her more, in a way that’s dangerous. The kind of wanting that burns slow, that builds over time, that’s impossible to ignore.

Paige smiles softly, and Jo’s heart skips a beat. “Help me put it on?” Jo asks, her voice a little shaky even though she tries for it to not be.

Paige doesn’t hesitate. She nods, and Jo turns slightly to the side, lifting her hair out of the way. She feels Paige’s fingers brush against the back of her neck as she secures the clasp, and the touch sends a shiver down her spine. Paige’s fingers linger there, just a moment longer than necessary, and Jo feels a heat settle in the pit of her stomach.

When she turns back to face Paige, she finds that the distance between them has closed just a little. Paige is closer now, her gaze intense, like she’s studying Jo with an almost unreadable expression. There’s something in her eyes—something that makes Jo’s pulse quicken, something that makes her wonder if Paige feels it too.

And then the blonde is shaking her head, the motion slow, like she’s trying to pull herself together, trying to sort through whatever’s going on in her head. “Okay,” Paige starts, and she sounds uncertain and shaky, so unlike herself, “I know you said that we don’t have to say anything—but I… I can’t not.”

Jo feels her eyes widen a little as she takes in the words. She looks at Paige, really looks at her—sees the vulnerability in her eyes, the way she’s holding back, the way Jo can see she’s biting the inside of her lip.

Paige swallows, her eyes not leaving Jo’s. “Because I liked it, Jo,” she says, her voice quiet but somehow steady. “I liked kissing you. And I was really glad that you kissed me. I—I don’t wanna just forget ’bout it.”

Jo feels her heart stop and stutter in her chest cavity. The words stab through her, consuming her like a virus. She’s still silent, still staring at Paige, trying to make sense of the words. I liked it. Her head spins at that, the sheer honesty of it.

“Really?” she manages to get out, her voice sounding strained, uncertain. She needs confirmation, needs to hear it again.

Paige nods, the motion slow but sure, her eyes still locked on Jo’s. “Really,” she repeats, and there’s something in the way she says it—like she’s laying herself bare for Jo, like she’s giving her this piece of her heart and hoping that Jo doesn’t crush it in the process.

For a moment, they just stare at one another, neither of them saying anything, neither of them moving. Jo feels the pull of Paige’s gaze, the way it tugs at her chest, her stomach, her being. It’s like they’re suspended in this moment, where everything is possible and yet nothing feels safe. She doesn’t know what to do with it—it’s so unfamiliar. Jo feels heat creeping up her neck, feels the way her palm have started sweating, but she can’t look away from Paige. She can’t stop herself from wanting this—whatever this is.

But then, her brain snaps into focus, a sharp reminder of everything they can’t do, everything that stands between them. “P, we… we can’t,” Jo says, her voice low, almost too quiet to hear. She feels her heart pounding in her chest as she says it, but she knows the words are necessary, knows she can’t just let this moment slip by without addressing the reality of the situation. “It’s not smart. We’re both dealing with our own emotional problems, and we’re teammates, and we’re roommates, and we—we can’t.”

The words feel like a sudden weight that’s fallen over the room. Jo’s stomach lurches as she watches Paige’s face fall slightly, the light dimming from her eyes for just a second before it flares back to life. It’s the look of someone who wants something—badly.

Paige shakes her head, her face resolute. “I know. I know that,” she says, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself. “We… we don’t gotta be anything more. We can just be… best friends who kiss?”

Jo feels a laugh bubble in her throat at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. But as she looks at Paige, she realizes that she’s not joking. She’s serious. She’s offering something—something that could make the ache in Jo’s chest go away, just for a moment, without any strings, any commitment, anything that could really ruin them.

“Is that the best idea?” Jo asks slowly.

Paige shrugs. “Prolly not,” she admits, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. But then her gaze sharpens a little, her expression becoming more focused. She leans forward just a fraction, her body language pulling Jo in, even as she tries her best to keep her distance. And then, quietly, Paige says, “But now that I know what it feels like, I just wanna do it again.”

Jo feels her lungs clench, her breath hitching slightly. Every inch of her body is screaming at her, telling her to pull away, to put some distance between them. But she can’t move. She can’t breathe. All she can do is watch Paige’s lips, watch the way she’s leaning closer, the way she’s asking without asking, the way she’s giving Jo a choice without giving her a choice at all.

Before Jo even realizes what she’s doing, she hears herself say, “Me, too.”

And just like that, Paige is kissing her again.

Jo’s brain short-circuits the moment it happens. It’s like she’s been set on fire, every nerve in her body lighting up at once. Paige is warm, solid, and everywhere—her hands gripping Jo’s shoulders, pulling her in, her lips moving against Jo’s with a kind of certainty that makes Jo feel dizzy. It doesn’t start hesitant like last night. This isn’t about testing the waters. It’s intentional—like Paige knows exactly what she wants, and she’s done pretending otherwise.

Jo lets her take the reins without even thinking about it. She likes the way Paige moves, the way she presses in closer, tilting her head just right to deepen the kiss further. Jo does her best to breathe properly as Paige shifts, her fingers skimming down Jo’s arms before settling on her waist, her grip firm but not forceful. The touch alone sends a shiver down Jo’s spine, makes her stomach flip in a way that should probably concern her but doesn’t, because all she can focus on is Paige—the way she smells like something clean and warm, the way she tastes like mint and something sweeter, something her.

Jo’s hands move on their own, sliding up the curve of Paige’s back, feeling the way her muscles tense and shift beneath her fingertips. It’s intoxicating. It’s too much and not enough all at once. She’s never felt like this before—like she could drown in a person and not even care. It wasn’t really like that with Asher.

The bed is suddenly shifting beneath them as Paige moves, pressing in closer, slotting herself more firmly against Jo’s body. Jo barely has time to register the shift before Paige’s hands are on her shoulders again, guiding her, pushing her gently until Jo’s back hits the mattress.

Jo inhales sharply at the change in position, a sharp thrill shooting through her chest as she feels the weight of Paige hovering over her. It’s dizzying, having Paige above her like this, her hands braced on either side of Jo’s head, her body caging Jo in but not in a way that feels trapping. No, it’s the opposite. It feels steadying, like Paige is something solid in the middle of all the chaos in Jo’s head.

Paige pulls back just slightly, just enough to look down at Jo, her breathing heavy, her lips pink and a little swollen. “This okay?” the blonde asks, her voice a little gravelly, a little breathless.

Jo can’t do anything but nod, can’t do anything but stare up at Paige and try to memorize the way she looks right now—hovering above her, hair falling into her face, lips parted like she’s barely holding herself back.

Paige makes a soft sound—relived, maybe, or just impatient—and then she’s kissing Jo again, pressing her back into the bed. And then she’s slotting a knee between Jo’s thighs, pressing down—not too much, not enough, but also just enough that Jo feels it everywhere. A slow-burning heat unfurls in her stomach, her breath stuttering against Paige’s lips.

Paige deepens the kiss more, her tongue sweeping against Jo’s in a way that makes her whole body tighten. Jo’s hands grip at Paige’s t-shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric like she needs something to hold onto. Paige’s hands skim up Jo’s sides, light and teasing at first, the touch barely there. Jo kisses her harder, leaning into the way Paige’s fingertips trace just beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, like she’s seeing just how much she can get away with.

It’s then that her hands slip beneath Jo’s sweatshirt, palms pressing flat against her ribs, and Jo nearly gasps into her mouth. It’s striking, the contrast of Paige’s warm hands against the cool skin of her stomach, the feeling of Paige touching her like this, in a different way than ever before.

Jo sucks Paige’s tongue in her mouth, their teeth clashing just a little, making Paige groan. Paige’s hands reach up further—and then they’re cupping Jo’s tits.

It’s not careful, the way she does it. Not uncertain. Not hesitant in the way it might be with most people. No, it’s instinctive. It’s like Paige didn’t even think about it, like she just needed to do it, like it was inevitable. Jo stills, her breath stalling in her throat, because this is just a little more than “best friends who kiss.”

Paige must realize it too, because she also freezes Her breath fans warm against Jo’s lips, her forehead pressing against hers, both of them unmoving now. Paige’s hands are still beneath Jo’s sweatshirt, still there, and neither of them are saying anything, neither of them are pulling away.

Jo’s chest rises and falls with deep, uneven breaths. She can’t think straight, can’t form a single coherent thought beyond the way Paige feels against her, the way Paige’s hands feel on her.

Paige exhales, slow and a little shaky, murmuring, “We should probably stop, yeah?”

Jo’s head spins, her body still thrumming. But she nods, because she has to, even though every single nerve in her body wants to just keep going. “Yeah,” she breaths out. “Um. Yeah, we should.”

Paige stays still for another second, like she doesn’t want to move, like she’s debating whether she even can. But then she finally pulls her hands away, rolling off of Jo, onto her back beside her. Suddenly, Jo feels cold. Feels the absence of her immediately. But before she can even process that loss, Paige is tugging her right back in, wrapping a firm arm around her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies are flush together again.

Jo lets her. This is familiar territory. She turns into Paige, burying her face into her neck, gripping at the hem of her t-shirt. She feels Paige’s lips in her hair and Jo sighs, melting into her further.

This is fine. This is good. This is normal. And maybe it’s none of that, maybe it’s entirely new and bad. But Jo can’t find it in herself to care. Because being here, like this—she could get used to it.

[octaneink]

Wait, you didn't know?

Will Lenney x Fem!Reader

Summary : The Reader really likes Will. Like, really likes him. She spends all their time together, she just need to ask him out, becuase they weren't dating yet...right? Warnings: Suggestive undertones towards the end Notes: I hope people enjoy this!

It all started on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. You were running late and the world seemed determined to make your day worse. Your umbrella had decided to betray you, flipping inside out the moment you stepped out the bus, and by the time you reached the coffee shop, you were soaked. Your hair was plastered to your face, your clothes were clinging uncomfortably to your skin, and you were pretty sure your mascara was halfway down your cheeks. You were a mess, and all you wanted was a large coffee and a quiet corner to hide in.

You’d were supposed to meet your friend Mel here, but as you shook the worst of the rain off your jacket and pulled out your phone to check the time, a text notification lit up the screen.

Mel: SO sorry, something came up. Rain check? Literally? (It's pissing out there.)

You sighed, disappointment settling in your chest. Mel's cancelled last-minute three times this month already. Still, you’d braved the storm for this hangout, so you might as well treat yourself. You shuffled toward the counter, your wet shoes squeaking against the floor, when—

Thud.

You collided with someone. Hard. The impact sent you stumbling backward, and you would’ve fallen if not for the strong hands that shot out to steady you.

“Whoa, careful there,” a voice said, and you looked up to see the most unfairly attractive guy you’d ever met. He had messy brown hair, a lopsided grin, and eyes that seemed to sparkle. Unfair. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, feeling your face heat up. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“No worries,” he said, still grinning. “I’m Will, by the way.”

You introduced yourself, and he gestured to the counter. “Let me buy you a coffee to make up for almost knocking you over.”

“You didn’t knock me over,” you protested, but he was already walking toward the counter, and you found yourself following him.

You’d planned to grab your drink and leave, but Will slid into the seat across from you at the tiny corner table you’d claimed, his coffee in hand. “So, what brings you out in this monsoon?” he asked, nodding at the rain streaking the windows.

“I was supposed to meet a friend, but she bailed,” you admitted, stirring your coffee absently. “You?”

“Nothing much, really, just fancied a coffee,” he said with a laugh. “And hey, her loss. More time for me to annoy you.”

That was how it started—with a cancelled plan, some coffee, and an awkward introduction to a guy who seemed to have a permanent smile on his face. You sat together that day, talking for hours about everything and nothing. By the time you left, the rain had stopped, and you had his number, a promise to meet up again, and a strange, giddy feeling that maybe Mel’s cancellation hadn’t been such a bad thing after all.

The text comes through on a Thursday afternoon, just as you’re debating whether you should make plans for the weekend or just spend the evening buried under a blanket. Your phone buzzes, and you glance at the screen to see Will’s name.

“So, I know I already bought you a coffee to make up for almost knocking you over, but I’m thinking I owe you a proper apology. How do you feel about arcade games and terrible prizes this weekend? My treat.”

You stare at the message, your thumb hovering over the screen. The arcade? That feels like a date. But before you can overthink it, you type back: “Only if you’re prepared to lose at air hockey.”

His reply is almost instant, a winking emoji and an address.

When you arrive at the arcade, he’s already there, leaning against the wall near the entrance with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. He’s wearing a cream jumper that looks soft and well-loved, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and a hat sits snugly on his head. The clothes gives him a cosy, approachable vibe, and you can’t help but notice how it brings out the warmth in his eyes. He spots you immediately, pushing off the wall with that lopsided grin of his.

“Hey, you made it,” he says, his voice warm and teasing.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you reply, and you’re surprised by how much you mean it.

The arcade is loud and chaotic; everywhere you looked, there were flashing lights, beeping machines, and the occasional triumphant shout. Will leads you straight to the air hockey table, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper even further, revealing toned forearms that catch your attention. Your eyes follow the motion, lingering for a moment before you quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice.

“Ready to get destroyed?” he asks, his grin wide and teasing as he grabs a paddle and slides it across the smooth surface of the table.

“In your dreams,” you shoot back, picking up your own paddle and positioning yourself at the opposite end.

The first round is intense. Will’s competitive side comes out in full force, his reflexes sharp as he slams the puck back toward you with surprising precision. You manage to block a few shots, but he scores the winning goal with a flick of his wrist, his face lighting up with triumph.

“Beginner’s luck,” you say, though you can’t help but smile at how pleased he looks.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he replies, already resetting the puck for the next round.

The second round is your chance to shine. You focus, your movements quick and deliberate, and soon you’re the one scoring points. Will’s competitive grin falters as you block his shots one after another, and when you score the winning goal, he throws his hands up in mock defeat.

“Okay, okay, I see how it is,” he says, leaning on the table, his jumper riding up slightly at the waist. “I’ll admit it. You’re better than I thought.”

“Thought I’d be an easy win, huh?” you tease, feeling a rush of satisfaction.

“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “But I like a challenge.”

By the third round, the competitive edge has softened into pure fun. You’re both laughing too hard to play properly, the puck flying off the table more than once. At one point, Will reaches across to retrieve it, his arm brushing against yours, and you feel a jolt of electricity at the contact.

“You’re cheating,” you accuse, though you’re grinning too much to sound serious.

“How am I cheating?” he asks, feigning offence.

“You’re distracting me,” you say, gesturing to his exaggerated paddle movements and ridiculous facial expressions.

“Oh, so now I’m distracting?” He says, his tone playful but his eyes holding yours for a beat too long.

You feel your cheeks warm and quickly look down at the table, resetting the puck to hide your smile. “Just play the game, Will.”

He laughs, that warm, easy sound that makes your chest tighten, and the game resumes. By the end of the third round, neither of you is keeping score anymore. You’re too busy laughing, the sound blending with the chaos of the arcade around you.

When you finally step away from the table, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and your sides ache from laughing. The machine spits out a handful of tickets, and Will grabs one before you can, holding it up like a prize.

“What are you doing?” you ask, laughing.

“Keeping this,” he says, folding the ticket neatly and tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Why that one?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, his grin softening into something almost shy. “To remember the day I met my air hockey nemesis.”

As you move on to the racing games, he casually rests a hand on the back of your chair, leaning in to point out the controls. “You’ve got to drift on this curve,” he says, his voice low and close to your ear. You try to focus on the game, but your heart skips a beat when his hand brushes yours as he reaches for the joystick.

At one point, he drags you to a photo booth. “Come on, we need evidence of this historic day,” he says, pulling the curtain shut behind you. The booth is cramped, and you’re both laughing before the first photo even snaps. In the first frame, his arm is slung around your shoulders, and you’re both mid-laugh. In the second, he makes a ridiculous cross-eyed face while you pretend to punch him. The third is your cheek pressed to his, his grin wide and unguarded, your eyes crinkled with laughter. The fourth is just him, staring at the camera like he’s about to say something, soft and sincere.

When the strip prints out, he grabs it before you can, holding it up with a triumphant grin. “I’m keeping this. For blackmail purposes,” he jokes, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.

“Blackmail? For what?” you ask, laughing.

“For when I need to remind you that I’m way cooler than you,” he says, his tone teasing.

“You wish,” you shoot back, but you don’t push for the photos. There’s something about the way he looks at them before pocketing them—like they’re more than just a silly keepsake.

The first time you noticed it—really noticed it—was when you found yourself sitting cross-legged on Will’s bedroom floor, surrounded by a mountain of his laundry. He’d begged you to help him for five minutes, which somehow turned into you folding his shirts while he haphazardly tossed socks into a drawer. The room smelt like his cologne and the vanilla candle you bought him as a joke—the one he insists he hates but burns every time you come over.

It wasn’t the laundry or the mess that made you pause. It wasn’t even the way he grinned at you, sheepish and unapologetic, as he lobbed a balled-up pair of sweatpants in your direction. No, it was the way it all felt so normal, so right. Like this was just another Tuesday, another moment in the rhythm of your lives together. And then it hit you—this wasn’t just friendship. Friends didn’t spend their afternoons folding each other’s clothes, didn’t memorise the scent of each other’s cologne, didn’t keep candles burning just because the other person liked the smell.

You froze, a shirt halfway folded in your hands, as the realisation washed over you. This wasn’t just friendship. This was something more. And the scary part? You weren’t sure when it had started—or if it had ever been just friendship at all.

Your chest tightened, the weight of it pressing down on you, but before you could spiral too far, you forced yourself to focus on the shirt in your hands. It was inside-out and backward, and you held it up like evidence, raising an eyebrow at him. “You know,” you said, your voice teasing but soft, “this is why you can never find anything.”

“Hey, oraginsing is your superpower, not mine,” he replies, lobbing a balled-up pair of sweatpants at your head. You duck, laughing, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thud.

As you reach for another shirt, his wallet slides off the bed and lands at your feet, spilling receipts, loose change, and a crumpled arcade ticket. You start to shove everything back inside when something catches your eye—a faded strip of photos tucked behind his gym membership card. Your breath hitches.

It’s from the arcade. Months ago.

You trace the edge of the photos, the corners worn from being handled. Your throat tightens. You hadn’t even realised he’d kept them—let alone carried them around.

“Hey, have you seen my—” Will freezes in the doorway, his eyes darting from your face to the photos in your hand. His ears turn pink. “Oh. Uh. Those.”

“You kept them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated with the carpet. “Yeah, well. It was a good day.”

You want to ask more—why did you keep them? What do they mean to you?—but the fear of ruining whatever this is stops you. So you just smile, tucking the photos back into his wallet. “It was a good day.”

He hesitates, then sinks down onto the floor beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. The air feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I was thinking… we should do that again. Go to the arcade. Or, I don’t know, something else. Whatever you want.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you, his cheeks still flushed. “I mean, if you’re not sick of me yet.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Not even close.”

He grins, and for a moment, it feels like he’s about to say something more. But then he stands, grabbing the laundry basket. “C’mon, let’s finish this before I lose the will to live.”

You don’t push. You don’t ask. Because as much as you want to know what this is—what you are—you’re terrified of the answer. Terrified that if you name it, it might disappear.

The next week, the two of you were wandering aimlessly at the shopping centre when Will grabbed your hand and pulled you toward a photo booth. “C’mon,” he says, grinning. “Let’s make some new memories.”

You don’t argue.

The booth is cramped, your knees knocking together as the screen counts down—3… 2… 1…

The booth is cramped, the curtain barely closing behind you as you squeeze in beside Will. His shoulder presses against yours, warm and familiar, and the screen begins its countdown. On instinct, you both stick out your tongues, your laughter bubbling over as the flash goes off. The sound of his laugh fills the tiny space, and you can’t help but grin, even as you pretend to groan at his antics.

The second flash catches him mid-grimace, his face twisted into a ridiculous cross-eyed expression that makes you burst into laughter all over again. You playfully raise your fist, pretending to punch him, but your smile gives you away. He’s always been like this—silly, unguarded, effortlessly pulling you into his orbit.

By the third flash, the mood shifts. Your foreheads press together, your eyes closed, the world outside the booth fading away. It feels intimate, like you’re sharing a secret no one else could understand. His breath mingles with yours, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended in time.

The final flash captures something you didn’t expect. His lips brush your temple, feather-light, and your smile softens, surprise flickering across your face. But it’s his gaze that stops you—his eyes locked on you, steady and unwavering, like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. The moment feels too big, too real, and you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, how quiet the booth has become.

When the strip prints out, neither of you says a word. He tears it carefully, handing you the half with his solo shot. “Now we match,” he says, his voice quiet, almost shy. You don’t mention the way his fingers trembled when he handed it to you. You don’t have to.

It’s Friday night, and you’re sprawled out on Will’s sofa, the glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the room. The movie is some action flick he picked—something with explosions and car chases—but neither of you are really paying attention. The bowl of popcorn sits half-forgotten between you, and his arm is slung over the back of the sofa, his fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair.

The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, a warm ripple that starts at the nape of your neck and spreads through your entire body. You try to play it cool, keeping your eyes glued to the screen, but the truth is, you couldn’t tell anyone what’s happening in the movie. The explosions and car chases blur into a meaningless haze of noise and colour, your attention entirely consumed by the way Will’s thumb brushes against your skin.

It’s not the first time he’s done something like this—little touches that feel intentional, like he’s testing the waters. His hand on your lower back as he guides you through a crowd. His knee bumping yours under the table at dinner. The way he always seems to find an excuse to be close, to linger, to make you feel like you’re the only person in the room.

His fingers trail lightly through your hair, the pads of his fingertips grazing the sensitive spot behind your ear. You bite your lip to keep from smiling, but it’s a losing battle. Your heart is racing, your thoughts spiralling out of control.

Does he know what he’s doing?

The question echoes in your mind, louder and louder, with every pass of his thumb. You steal a glance at him, but he’s staring at the screen, his expression unreadable. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just being friendly.

But then his fingers tighten ever so slightly, tugging gently on a strand of your hair, and your breath catches.

He has to know. He has to.

Your mind races, flipping through every interaction, every moment, like you’re trying to piece together a puzzle. The way he always saves the last bite of dessert for you. The time he showed up at your door with cold medicine when you were sick. The way he says your name, soft and deliberate, like it’s something precious.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

You’re spiralling, your thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of hope and doubt. What if he feels the same way? What if he’s just waiting for you to say something? But what if you’re wrong? What if you ruin everything?

The movie fades into the background, the sound of gunfire and screeching tires drowned out by the pounding of your heart. You’re hyper-aware of every detail—the warmth of his body beside yours, the overwhelming scent of his cologne, the way his fingers have stilled in your hair, like he’s waiting for you to react.

Say something. Do something.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Instead, you lean back against the sofa, your shoulder pressing into his chest. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. The silence between you is heavy, charged with something unspoken, something you are not ready to name.

And so you sit there, your thoughts spiralling, your heart racing, and his hand still tangled in your hair.

“You know,” he says suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful, “this kinda feels like a date.”

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. The words hang in the air, heavy and loaded, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, how his fingers have stilled in your hair. “Does it?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting slightly so he can look at you. His eyes are soft, his usual playful grin replaced with something more serious. “I mean, we’re sitting here, sharing popcorn, you’re stealing my hoodie…” He gestures to the oversized hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie, of course, because you’re always stealing his clothes. “Sounds like a date to me.”

You glance down at the hoodie, your fingers fiddling with the drawstrings. It smells like him—like his cologne and something uniquely Will—and you feel a warmth spread through your chest. “Maybe it is,” you say, trying to sound casual, like your heart isn’t pounding in your ears.

He smirks, that familiar lopsided grin returning. “Maybe it is.”

The movie continues to play in the background, the sound of gunfire and screeching tires filling the silence between you. But you’re not paying attention any more. You’re too focused on the way his hand has moved from the back of the sofa to your shoulder, his thumb tracing small circles on your arm.

“Do you…” you start, then hesitate, your courage faltering. “Do you want it to be? A date, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you regret asking. But then he leans in, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “What do you think?”

You don’t have a chance to respond before he pulls back, his smirk widening as he grabs a handful of popcorn. “Relax,” he says, tossing a kernel into his mouth. “I’m just messing with you.”

But the way his hand lingers on your arm, the way his eyes keep darting to yours—it doesn’t feel like he’s messing with you. It feels like he’s waiting for you to say something, to make the first move.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean back against the sofa, your shoulder pressing into his chest. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you. The movie fades into background noise, and for the rest of the night, you stay like that—close, comfortable, and just a bit unsure.

The party is in full swing, the air thick with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the bass of the music thumping through the walls. You’re surrounded by people, but it feels like it’s just you and Will. He’s been by your side all night, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos. His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you through the crowd, his touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver up your spine every time his fingers brush against you.

At one point, the heat, and noise become too much, and you tug on his sleeve. “Can we get some air?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the music.

He nods, his hand sliding to your waist as he leads you through the throng of people. The cool night air hits you like a relief as you step outside, the muffled sounds of the party fading behind you. You lean against the railing of the balcony, staring up at the stars, and for a moment, everything feels still.

Will stands beside you, close enough that his arm brushes against yours. You can feel the warmth of his body, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the crisp night air. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar, but there’s a tension there too—something unspoken, something electric.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and your breath catches. He’s already looking at you, his gaze soft but intense, like he’s seeing something no one else can. His eyes drop to your lips, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The noise of the party—the laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—fades into a distant hum, muffled and unimportant. Even the stars above seem to blur into a haze of light, their brilliance dimmed by the way he’s looking at you.

All you can focus on is him.

His face, so close you can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lips part slightly as if he’s about to say something. His eyes, dark and steady, holding yours like they’re trying to tell you something words can’t quite capture. The way his chest rises and falls with each breath, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to steady himself.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your pulse racing so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You lean in ever so slightly, drawn to him like a magnet, like there’s an invisible thread pulling you closer. His hand moves to the railing beside yours, his fingers brushing against your own, and the touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

Is this really happening?

Your mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions crashing into each other. You’ve imagined this moment a thousand times—what it would feel like to close the distance, to finally know what it’s like to kiss him. But now that it’s here, now that he’s so close you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, you’re paralysed.

What if I mess this up? What if I read this all wrong?

His fingers twitch against yours, and you swear he’s leaning in too, his head tilting ever so slightly. Your lips part, your mind screaming at you to just do it, to stop overthinking and let yourself have this. But the doubt creeps in, relentless and suffocating.

What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if this ruins everything?

But then his hand shifts, his fingers curling around yours, and the touch is so deliberate, so sure, that it knocks the air out of your lungs. His eyes flicker back up to yours, and for a split second, you see it—the same longing, the same hesitation, the same fear.

What if he’s just as scared as I am?

The thought hits you like a lightning bolt, and suddenly, you’re not just spiralling—you’re free-falling. Your mind is a chaotic mess of what-ifs and maybes, and you’re teetering on the edge of something you can’t quite name.

What if this is it? What if this is the moment everything changes?

You’re so close now, so close that you can see the faint freckles on his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Your breath mingles with his, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning.

Just kiss him. Just—

“Will!”

The voice cuts through the moment like a knife, sharp and jarring, shattering the fragile bubble you’d been wrapped in. You both freeze, your breath hitching in unison, and you pull back, his hand still resting over yours on the railing. For a split second, neither of you moves, the weight of what almost happened hanging heavy in the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, the sound rough and awkward, and steps away, his hand slipping from yours. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion quick and nervous, and you notice the faint flush creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks a soft pink.

The spot where his hand had been feels scalding, like his touch had left a brand on your skin. You flex your fingers, trying to shake the sensation, but it lingers, a phantom warmth that makes your heart race all over again.

“We should probably head back in,” he says, his voice softer than usual, almost apologetic. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the ground, and you wonder if he’s as thrown by the moment as you are.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and something else you can’t quite name. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or disappointed—relieved that the tension is broken, or disappointed that the moment slipped away before you could figure out what it meant.

Before you can overthink it, his hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through your own like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The touch is grounding, steadying, and you squeeze his hand without thinking, grateful for the anchor.

As you walk back inside, the noise of the party hits you like a wall—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses—but it feels distant, like you’re underwater. His hand stays in yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a rhythm that feels deliberate, like he’s trying to tell you something without words.

You don’t pull away.

The warmth of his hand is a stark contrast to the cool night air still clinging to your skin, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too—the weight of what almost happened, the promise of what could still be.

You’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask him out for weeks, but every time you get close, you chicken out. The words stick in your throat, your fear of ruining what you already have outweighing your desire for something more. But tonight, you’re determined. You’re at his place again, the two of you sitting on the floor with a pile of board games between you. Monopoly is spread out in front of you, though neither of you has been paying much attention to the game.

The room is warm, lit by the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across his walls. His hoodie—your hoodie now, really—hangs on your frame, and the familiarity of it gives you a small boost of courage.

“Will,” you say, your voice trembling slightly.

He looks up from the Monopoly board, his brow furrowed as he counts his fake money. “Yeah?”

“I… I need to tell you something.”

His expression softens, and he sets the money down, giving you his full attention. “What’s up?”

You take a deep breath, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “I like you. Like, really like you. And I know we’ve been doing this whole… thing… where we act like we’re together, but we’re not, and I just… I want to be. With you. Officially.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you’re terrified you’ve ruined everything. Your mind races, replaying the words over and over, wondering if you said too much or not enough. Did you sound desperate? Did you make it weird? The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, and you’re about to backtrack, to laugh it off and pretend it was a joke, when he smiles—that stupid, beautiful smile that makes your heart melt.

“Wait,” he says, his voice laced with amusement, “you thought we weren’t dating?”

You blink, your brain short-circuiting. “What?”

He laughs, the sound warm and familiar, and shakes his head like you’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “I thought we were already together,” he says, leaning back on his hands, his grin widening. “I mean, we do everything couples do. We hang out all the time, we text constantly, you steal my hoodies…” He gestures to the hoodie you’re wearing, the one you “borrowed” weeks ago and never gave back. “I just figured we were, you know, a thing.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. “So… we’re dating?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “Unless you don’t want to be.”

“No, I do!” you say quickly, your voice louder than you intended. He laughs again, the sound warm and familiar, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into a hug.

His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, and you bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne. “Good,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “Because I’m kinda crazy about you.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your cheeks burning. “You are?”

“Yeah,” he says, his grin softening into something more sincere. “Have been for a while now.”

And just like that, the unspoken becomes spoken, the no-labels become labels, and you realise that maybe, just maybe, you’ve been his all along.

You’re curled up on Will’s sofa later that night, the board games long forgotten. His arm is slung over your shoulders, your head resting against his chest as some random movie plays in the background. You’re not really paying attention—your mind is still reeling from the conversation earlier, from the way he’d laughed and pulled you into a hug, from the way he’d said, “I’m kinda crazy about you.”

But there’s one thing that’s been nagging at you, one question you can’t seem to shake.

“Will?” you say, your voice soft.

“Yeah?” he replies, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair.

You hesitate, your heart pounding as you gather your courage. “If we’ve been dating this whole time… why haven’t we kissed yet?”

He stills, his fingers pausing in your hair, and for a moment, you’re terrified you’ve ruined the moment. But then he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you. His expression is soft, almost hesitant, and he runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’ve come to recognise.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he admits, his voice quiet. “I mean, we never really talked about it, and I didn’t want to assume… I guess I was waiting for you to be ready.”

You blink, surprised by his answer. “You were waiting for me?”

He nods, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah. I didn’t want to push you into anything. I figured you’d let me know when you were ready.”

The honesty in his voice takes your breath away, and for a moment, you’re speechless. You think about all the times you’ve wondered if he felt the same way, all the times you’ve hesitated, too scared to make the first move. And now, hearing him say this, it’s like a weight has been lifted off your chest.

“I’m ready,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words feel like they echo through the room.

Will looks at you, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, electric, like the world has narrowed to just the two of you. His hand cups your cheek, his touch warm and gentle, and you can feel the faint tremor in his fingers.

“Good,” he says, his voice soft, almost reverent. “Because I’ve been waiting for this for a really long time.”

And then he leans in, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t.

His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, like he’s testing the waters. It’s soft, sweet, and achingly gentle, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You lean into him, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

The kiss deepens, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His lips move against yours with a kind of certainty, like he’s been thinking about this moment just as much as you have.

And then, just as you’re melting into him, his fingers scratch lightly at the base of your scalp, the motion so subtle but so deliberate that it makes you gasp against his lips. It’s a move you’ve seen him do a hundred times—when he’s nervous, when he’s thinking, when he’s trying to play it cool—but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s for you.

The sensation sends a wave of warmth through you, your body responding instinctively as you press closer to him. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and you can feel the faint rumble of his laugh in his chest.

“You like that?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, his fingers still moving in slow, deliberate circles.

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, your cheeks burning as you bury your face in his shoulder. He laughs again, the sound warm and familiar, and you can feel the vibration of it against your skin.

The world outside fades away, the movie forgotten, the room silent except for the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as you shift closer to him. His touch is warm, his kiss tender but insistent, like he’s trying to tell you something words could never capture.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are still closed, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, and you can feel the faint tremor in his hands as they rest on your waist.

“Wow,” he murmurs, his voice rough, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound soft and breathless.

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice just as unsteady. “Wow.”

He opens his eyes then, and the look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat. There’s something in his gaze—something soft and tender and utterly sincere—that takes your breath away.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” you say, your cheeks burning but your smile unstoppable.

He grins, that stupid, beautiful grin that makes your heart melt, and pulls you into another hug. His arms are warm and steady around you, and you bury your face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne.

“Good,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “Because I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

And just like that, the world feels brighter, warmer, like everything has finally fallen into place.

Ugh I hope people like this, Im giggling about the hair thing...😏

[rottenpumpkin13]

I'm miserable today so I'll be casting my period cramps upon AGSZC and the Turks. How does that go?

Sephiroth: *curled in fetal position on the floor* "This is manageable. The spasms occur at precise 4.7-minute intervals, meaning I can anticipate and prepare—" *Suddenly, a period cramp electrocutes him like a bolt from Zeus himself. His entire body convulses, limbs flailing as he flops helplessly against the floor like a fish out of water*

Genesis: *sprawled dramatically across the couch, one arm draped over his forehead like a dying opera singer* "Even in the throes of agony, my elegance remains untarnished. My composure, unshaken. This pain—this merciless, soul-rending torment—threatens my very being, a cruel reminder of life's fleeting—" *he gets a cramp* "FUUUUUUUUUUUCK—HOLY SHIT. I AM PERISHING. I AM BEING SMITED BY THE GODDESS HERSELF. THIS IS HOW I DIE. CALL A PRIEST, CALL A SUMMON, CALL MY FUCKING LAWYER—"

Angeal: *pacing the room like a man with somewhere very important to be but no idea where that is, visibly sweating* "I'm fine. Totally fine. This is nothing. This is...just a different kind of honor. Builds character. Toughens the spirit."

Zack: *writhing on the floor* "MAKE IT STOP! HOW DO PEOPLE LIVE LIKE THIS!?" *He reaches for Cloud like he's the holy light at the end of the tunnel* "Cloud, buddy, I'm dying. Tell my mom I fought bravely. Tell Genesis he can have my cool jacket. Tell Kunsel—" *he gasps, clutching at his chest like a tragic protagonist* "—actually, don't tell him anything, he still owes me 500 gil fuck him—"

Cloud: *frantically mixing things in a bowl while doubled over* "Mom always said when the gods curse your gut, you mix honey with hot sauce and vinegar, but it HAS to be bought with your own hard earned money. Then add exactly three and a half crushed potato chips—regular chips summon bad luck, has to be the rippled ones—stir it with a fork that's NEVER touched eggs, and then you—" *Cloud suddenly doubles over, clutching his stomach as the wrath of the gods strike him down* "Oh no. Oh no, they saw me hesitate!"

Reno: *draped over his desk* "This is worse than that time Cissnei tasered me 'cause she thought I was checking out her ass—when really, I was just picking up a gil coin she dropped. Which, now that I think about it, means I technically stole from her. So honestly? She should've tasered me anyway. Yo, Rude! Carry me to the break room! I need like... fifty painkillers and that bottle of sake Tseng thinks we don't know about!"

Tseng: *sits at his desk, spine straight as a ruler, expression unreadable, the very picture of composure—if you ignore the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and the barely perceptible tremor in his hand as he sips his tea* This is the same man who once reviewed mission reports with both legs in casts. Who attended a board meeting while actively bleeding from a bullet wound. Who once politely asked an enemy combatant to "wait a moment" so he could finish signing off on supply requisitions before engaging in a life-or-death fight.

Rufus: *sprawled out on his office floor like a fallen king* "Cancel all my meetings. Actually, cancel the whole damn week. No, cancel existence. This is worse than getting shot. Worse than the attempted coup. Worse than that time I had to shake hands with that sweaty politician from Junon. Someone bring me the most expensive chocolate money can buy. And fire whoever invented cramps." *A long silence. Then, he turns his head slightly to stare at Tseng* "Why don't you love me?"

[crustyfloor]

Honestly, I had questions when HyunA died, most of them just being why. After everything, after the pain Luka left her with, and the immense guilt over Hyunwoo's death, knowing what she's been through, why would she willingly take a bullet for Luka or even embrace him? It felt contradictory for a while, but now that I think about it, it feels very true to what we know about her for HyunA's character to have gone in this direction because of the person she is.

HyunA is the character who lived the "freest" life after escaping Alien stage. She got to experience what living freely was like outside of that environment and learned how to grow beyond being a pet human into her own person.

She was determined to keep pushing herself to move forward with each day because she would not let the struggle or her past stop her from continuing to live. Luka might've thought of Hyuna's rebellion as avoiding the situation, but she was building a life for herself, and we can see just how much HyunA grew during her time with the rebellion, how much she was loved and loved in return

HyunA didn't dwell on her past too often. Even so, her attachment to her childhood is significant; naturally, it makes her who she is today. The happy memories from her time in Anakt Garden that shared space in her heart with her moments with the rebels show she's reluctant to let that part of her go. But alongside this comes a burden she has to carry for years because she's constantly reminded of Hyunwoo's death; the child in her was still, always grieving him, feeling to blame for something that wasn't her fault. The pain of remembering it all weighs on her heavily.

Luka is the last living symbol of her past and her trauma that she couldn't let go of. The lasting sentiments and fondness she has for him clash with the complicated feelings he left her with after her brother's death. She couldn't bear being close to Luka anymore because knowing he was the cause of her brother's death hurt her. She regretted ever even getting close to Luka. She resented herself even more because she didn't want to let go of him

HyunA is brave for having worked so hard to get to the point where she could laugh again after escaping. There was a time when she was overdrinking and smoking to cope with the full force of her emotions when she first arrived at the rebellion.

After time passed, she could act as if she were confident and already resolutely moved on on the surface.

But really, Luka remained an everlasting and lingering presence in her life. The way Luka haunts her brings her back to the past she doesn't want to address. The way she used to see him as this harmless lonely boy who'd cling to her and follow her around. Now, she avoids his gaze or freezes when she sees him. He's a constant obstacle in her journey. She resents that undeniably. But she's guilty that despite that, and after everything, she still cares about Luka enough that he is a weak spot for her.

HyunA isn't a vengeful person. She is a justice seeker, but she isn't angry. She wants peace; she wants peace for herself and the people she cares about, and you can't find that in anger or hatred. Many people's first response in her position would've been to be angry, and rightfully so. But HyunA doesn't let anger dictate her next actions no matter how justified she would've been. That isn't the kind of person she is. This doesn't mean she accepts the pain she went through, but she always wants to keep moving forward in the right direction.

HyunA's humanity and love are strong aspects of her character; they've guided her to this point, and since she is effortlessly compassionate and selfless, always putting what she cares about before herself no matter how foolish it may be

It didn't even take her a minute's thought to save Luka the moment she realized he was at risk. She just moved. Despite her appearance of disinterest moments before, when she realized what he was doing, that look in his eyes (she knew him better than anyone there did anyway), that part of her from childhood that was always caring for and looking after him naturally resurfaced instantly. And like the impulsive, self-sacrificing person she is, she protected him.

Even with HyunA's extremely mixed feelings and lingering affections for Luka, it is not acceptance of all he did to her or forgiveness that makes her save him. The pain and discomfort Luka put her through is inexcusable. Regardless of however much she might disregard/dismiss it, she still suffered. She never forgot that, that's why she can't forgive him.

But it is HyunA's love, compassion, and humanity that have always guided her. At heart, she has a beautiful and kind soul. She fights for others because of her many experiences and the death of her closest loved one. Even though she 'could've' let Luka die, her strongest core values override the resentment she has in her. She doesn't forgive him, but it represents how HyunA cares about humanity. It represents how HyunA has always cared about Luka no matter what happened between them.

Love is twisted in every aspect of this series as it is fully intertwined with humanity. and it shows. Despite her complicated feelings that are deeper than even terms like love or hate can accurately apply, Luka is still HyunA's biggest weakness, despite the moments when she was angry with him and maybe even wanted to hate him; it's a testament to how much she cared about Luka. She couldn't. In fact, her love was so great that she wanted him to live.

It's incredible how this is her most selfless and selfish act yet. There was so much on the line. The rebellion still needed her, and Mizi still needed her. She still had a life to live for. but she died for Luka because she couldn't see him die. After all, she still cared about him so deeply. She even sees that Luka should still have a chance after everything and passes down her soul to him through the words she'd been told before, urging him to find peace within himself and live on without her, knowing he has never had that chance. And that is so fittingly human of her.

But really, why does he deserve it? Why does HyunA think Luka deserves it?

HyunA didn't want to live in self-hatred and anger over things she couldn't change. She wants to look beyond it, grow, and experience life to the best of her ability while she's still alive and working with the rebellion.

-

"HYUNA is the kind of kid who carves out a path for herself that she thinks is right."

"She doesn't look back when she feels weak or hurt; she keeps moving forward, and that's what HYUNA is today."

-

It's because of the person she is that she even rescued Mizi. Because HyunA recognized herself in the lost, distressed girl who was carrying a burden like no other and needed guidance. That's why she rescues Luka. Because she recognizes him as a human who deserves a life worth living with happiness and peace like any other. The narrative doesn't excuse Luka simply because HyunA feels that way for him, but it does provide insight into her reasoning for saving him. Optimistic or foolish as it may be, it's very HyunA in its way of execution

do you know how hard I prayed hyuna would say Sike and revive at the church today... its been a whole 2 days I've been crying nonstop

[petrichoravery]

But you peeked right over somehow | s.r

summery: your disbelief in love has always held you back from a relationship with Spencer, but you think it's time to be brave now.

word count: 2k

warnings: reader is avoidant and makes some weird decisions, but, like, be nice to her please, she's scared; mentions of avoidant attachment style, toxic relationships (someone having made r feel stupid and worthless in the past) and of parents fighting, but nothing detailed; reader is also mentioned to be drunk once, but it’s in past tense and it’s really just the word mentioned. English is not my first language.

a/n: the pictures are obviously no indication of how reader looks, they are just there to make this all look pretty and aesthetically pleasing. I've tried my best not to describe any physical appearance of reader. reader means a lot to me, I hope you’ll like her. Also, the gorgeous!! dividers are not mine, all credits to @/enchanthings-a on tumblr. The title is from 'circling' by tiny habits

You didn't believe in love—not the one in the movies, anyway. Your sad attempts at it have always ended with you feeling lonelier than before and your parents… well, let's just say they're not the best example either. So you built the walls higher and higher, placing brick upon brick, so no one would be able to look over them.

Until you met Spencer.

He has nested himself between the bricks like wisteria and has been so impossibly stubborn, but so kind about it, too. Never asking for more than the few fleeting moments you had. To the point were you weren't even sure if you wanted to rid yourself of him anymore.

You had met him at a reading of your favourite book a few years ago. You had forgotten your book on your seat and he had ran out and handed it back to, a white piece of paper with messy handwriting in black ink slipped in between the pages. I like your taste in books, maybe you could recommend me some:). it had said, with his number on the bottom.

You had been friends for a while after that, because you always blocked his attempts of turning what you had into more.

Until one drunken mistake on your side turned into two and the two of you decided that: friends kiss, right? (Well, you decided it, Spencer was just happy to go along with whatever you were most comfortable with.)

For a while you convinced yourself that whatever you were feeling—the butterflies in your stomach, the way your heart was racing every time he touched you—was just lust. It was easier than admitting that you were falling hopelessly in love with him.

So when you woke up this morning, in your bed with him sleeping next to you, you couldn't help but watch him. The way the soft morning light, shining through the silk curtains, drew shapes onto his skin, the way his brown curls framed his face. You just hardly resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, your hand curling into a fist so hard that your nails dug half-moon shapes into your palm.

You got up after a few moments. Quietly, as to not wake him. He landed in Virginia late after a case, but still decided to come over to your apartment, because he had forgotten something there. You ended up, self-sabotagingly, inviting him to stay the night and now you were here; with an angel in your bed and a devil on your shoulder.

You tip-toed into your kitchen, finally being able to breathe a little louder. Leaning onto the counter, hanging your head, you felt pathetic. This wasn't how things go for you, normally. You didn't pine and, even worse, yearn (you gagged at just the thought) for men like you were right now.

Then again, Spencer was far from normal.

And because of that, your heart was racing and you caught yourself, more often than not, at the bookstore in the classic section, asking yourself if Spencer had that copy of war and peace already. He probably did.

You scoff at yourself. Maybe you just needed to go to the club again. Cleanse yourself of this feeling. Forget about him and his stupid brown eyes, the way his hands feel when they— Stop.

"Are you okay?" A sleepy voice asks from the doorway.

You turn slowly. Spencer was still in his oversized gray sleep shirt, the fabric worn-out and thin. His hair a mess of brown, soft curls. God, get it together.

"Yeah," you mumble, "just…headaches."

He steps closer, careful, as if not to startle you. "Do you need anything? Ibuprofen?"

"No, I'm okay. Thank you."

He nods, but his eyes search your face. It’s clear that he knows something is off—he's a profiler, after all. He smoothes his hand over your wooden counter top and you wish so badly that those calloused hands were running over your skin instead.

"Breakfast?" You croak, already turning around and rummaging the cabinets for two mugs.

A hand finds your wrist, turning you around with a gentleness you're not sure you deserve. You pull away quickly, as if his touch burned you.

He frowns a little, but doesn't comment on it. "I'd love breakfast," he pauses, "Can you talk to me? Please?"

His idiotically big puppy-dog eyes and the way his hand feels on your skin makes you want to kiss him stupid.

So you do, impulsively. Kissing him was so much better than answering his questions and he might forget, as a good side affect—

Spencer pushed against your shoulders gently, untangling your lips from another after indulging for a short second—he was just a man, after all.

He knew that you were only kissing him to distract from the topic at hand and he also knew, that he would forget about this conversation too quickly if he let you.

"Not that I don't love kissing you, but something is bothering you and I want to understand what it is. So can you please talk to me?"

"About what?" You try and he looks at you, disbelieving.

"Come on—" he says your name, and it's so soft, "You've always been careful with the idea of an relationship with me, but it's been getting worse. You tense up every time I touch you and tip-toe around me. I just want to know if I did something to upset you. I want to fix it."

Your skin is crawling with his rejection of the kiss and you can't help the words of defensiveness bursting out of you. "You can't always fix everything, Spencer. I'm not just another case to solve."

Spencer doesn’t even flinch. "I know you're not. I'm sorry, my wording was off. I know something happened to you in the past and you need it slow and that's okay. I never pushed and I'm not pushing right now, but I want to understand what' it is, what's going on in your head."

He was being so, so kind. You felt like crying. "Nothing! Nothing is going on in my head, just—" You feel like an animal in a cage, ready to chew off your foot to get out of the trap.

Spencer lets his hands drop from your shoulder to his side again, knowing you well enough to know that touch may not be comforting to you right now.

The gesture grounds you, reminds you that you are talking to kind, gentle Spencer, that he is only worried about you. So you try to reel back, trying your best to be just as kind, to be deserving of him. But you're a viper full of venom and you're sure you might never be able to purge it from your body enough to ever deserve him.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, looking down at your miss-matched socks.

"It's okay. I understand." He's not sure what to do. An aggressive UnSub was nothing in comparison to you being uncomfortable and him being unable to help. "We don't have to talk about it. We can eat breakfast and I'll tell you about the stars again."

His lips quirk a little as you laugh, even if it was just the smallest sound, it was something.

"No, it's okay. I—" You have been knocking on Spencer's door and running away before he could welcome you in for too long. You have decided that you're ready to pass the doorstep now.

Your therapist has advised you to get out of comfort zone more, anyway, and if Spencer leaves after this conversation, at least you can go back to not believing in love. "I figured I had to tell you at some point. If I really wanted this to be a thing."

You gesture between the two of you at the last part, voice dropping to a quieter tone and you look up at him though your lashes without lifting your head.

He looks surprised. That's okay. You'll just laugh and pretend it was a joke—

"Yeah," he steps closer, brushing hair out of your face, "if that's what you want. I’m not forcing you to."

"I know you're not." You sigh, closing your eyes as his fingertips brush against your jaw. "Truth is, nothing really happened. I guess I've just had rotten luck in love."

The hair tie you're wearing on your wrist is suddenly so interesting and you chew on your lip to have something to do with your mouth, otherwise you'd just blurt out everything he wants to know.

"My parents have been fighting more than they haven't since I've been really young. Nothing too bad, but it was obvious that they weren't in love. I doubt they ever were."

Spencer doesn't say anything, choosing to let you finish without comment. He knows what's coming, he's been through it, too. Parents who fight, relationships that fail, never feeling loved in the way the movies show you. It can make you feel hopeless.

"I was a late bloomer, I guess. I've had my first relationship at twenty-two. Not that I cared, I had convinced myself that I didn't want love at that point, anyway. So when I did find it… I was elated. I thought, yes! finally it's my turn. Well, they hurt me quite badly, made me feel bad for everything that I didn't know, like—like they were better than me. Maybe they were, I don't know, it doesn't matter."

Ouch. Spencer thought. No one deserves that. Much less you. His hands find your wrist again and his thumb slides over your pulse point.

"They're not." He says with so much conviction that you have no choice but to believe him. "Someone who makes people feel bad for trying to learn things is not, in any way, better than the person who is trying."

You shake your head. "No, it's okay. I— yeah. It's whatever. It just hurt in that moment."

You do that a lot, Spencer notes, pushing your feelings onto your past-self like they don't affect you now, when he knows they do. Or else you wouldn't be here.

"I did go on a few date after that," you continue after a short pause, "but I kept myself locked away pretty tightly. Never let it go further than the third date. A few years later, when I let someone else in, it got quite toxic, quite quickly. From both sides. We were dependent and avoidant at the same time. They were just…they showed me off a lot and were so gentle and kind, but I realised after a while that it was just their way of making sure I stayed. And I…I started feeling trapped and accused them of some pretty messed up stuff. We didn't make it really far after that."

Tears start building on your lash line and you look at the ceiling, begging them to stay buried. That was your tell, Spencer knew it too well. He brushed his thumb under your eyes.

"You don't have to." He murmurs.

"I'm almost done." You promise and look at him for the first time since you started the story. "I didn't have any serious relationships after that, just…harmless flirting, but I was too scared to let myself fall again. I never felt loved enough, I guess…or I was just selfish and greedy."

Spencer shakes his head. "You deserve the love you want." Ducking his head, he makes sure you're looking at him. "That's not selfish."

"I think I did." You whisper with the shyness of a high-school kid, eyes searching between his. "Find it, I mean."

The corners of Spencer's mouth lift into his wonderful smile and for once in your life you know you've said the right thing.

"Lucky me." He answers, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you against him gently.

"Yeah. Lucky." You breathe out, wrapping your arms around his waist. It was clear that you don't quite know just how lucky someone must be to have you in their life and Spencer was going to work hard to make you will.

You bury your face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent. "Thank you." You whisper.

"Don't thank me yet." He chuckles softly, his warm breath tickling the top of your head. You melt into him at his words, as if his stupid joke had a magical soothing effect. Of course you'd thank him. You won't stop thanking him for being him until you were six feet under.

"I'm sorry for snapping. I just—"

"Don't. It's okay. You don't need to explain yourself to me." He says, earnestly, into your hair.

"I know I don't. It wasn't fair of me, though."

"Maybe. But better unfair and raw, than fair and polished. I want you, un-performing."

You sigh into his shoulder and try not to cry in gratitude.

Being open was hard when you've been burnt for it before and you knew there was much to overcome, but you didn't doubt one bit, that you could overcome every hurdle with the help of Spencer. Step by step growing on your walls together. Wisteria and ivy.

a/n: please don't hesitate to send me your thoughts and show support by re-blogging and liking if you liked the fic!!

[twopoppies]

With all the talk about whether or not Harry is still with Sony/Columbia has got me thinking about something. We all know that he had gorgeous long hair while in the band was that something HE wanted or was it for his sex god persona? Shortly after the band went on hiatus he cut it. Now he had his solo career and had his three albums and an awesome tour and won many awards but then in November we saw him with his head shaved. Was he making a statement there? Maybe he is free now?? 🤷‍♀️

It's really funny how fans today see long hair Harry. I see tweets and tiktoks all the time with girls lusting over how "dangerous" and "hot" he looked. But when he was growing it out, the het fans HATED his long hair. They complained constantly about how he should cut his hair. For them, he was too feminine. They wanted frat boy Harry back.

I think growing his hair out was his decision. And I think it had to do with rebelling against his frat boy era image and about him moving into accepting his feminine side. It's when he started wearing the patterned shirts and sparkly boots and more rings, etc.

At the time (2014), he was pushing back hard on his image and closet. Growing his hair out was him being rebellious and brave. Not so girls could talk about "Duplicity Harry" or some such nonsense. LOL! The fact that this version of him is now seen as some "sex god" is super weird and kind of sad.

He cut his hair after the band ended because he was cast in Dunkirk. It was symbolic, but it was also because he wasn't cast as the lady waving the soldiers off at the station. 😆

Shaving his head may have been symbolic for himself. But I don't think it was any sort of sign of "freedom." And I don't think he's looking to be free in the way I think you might be imagining. Either way, I think the two periods are very different.

[bumblesimagines]

you have no idea what you do to me.

the sight of you leaving is burned into my brain.

Derek Shepherd

Pronouns: They/Them/Theirs, GN!Reader

You flipped through one of the patient's charts, scanning the vitals for anything wrong and double-checking the notes written to ensure she'd received her daily dose of meds. She'd been in a hospital for a while, and the sweet old lady had managed to worm her way into your heart with her light-hearted quips.

Much to your relief, she was steadily recovering from her heart transplant and would likely be heading home back to her husband in the following week. She was doing better than most at her old age.

With a quiet sigh, you flipped through the papers one last time before setting the chart in the stack for Sydney to look over when she had the time. You took a glance at the clock ticking by on the wall and right on cue, felt your stomach give a light grumble. You'd had a light breakfast, if toast and coffee counted as breakfast anyway, and the consequences were already beginning to set in. 

"I'll see you later, Olivia."

"See you!" Olivia shot you a quick smile that swiftly dropped into a look of concentration once she turned back to the computer screen and continued typing away.

You pushed yourself away from the counter and debated tracking down Callie to see if she'd be available to chat, your mind too preoccupied to notice the presence behind you until you turned around and felt your body get racked with a flinch.

"Jesus Christ!" Your hand flew to clutch your now racing heart over the crinkly blue scrubs, a scowl forming on your face while a grin formed on Derek's.

"Not quite." He giggled.

Bastard.

"Hilarious, Dr. Shepherd." You muttered, taking a deep inhale of air and holding it until your heart returned to its previous, more healthy pace. You huffed and stepped past him, the smell of his cologne near suffocating you with memories you'd rather forget. "You should consider comedy."

"I'd be a great comedian." He nodded agreeably, causing one of his perfectly curled locks to bounce along his hairline, and then he quickly fell into step with you as if you were a longtime friend of his and not someone he dated for a few months while mourning a past relationship with one of your fellow interns.

You wanted to smack the shit-eating grin right off his perfect face.

"How are you, (Y/N)? We haven't spoken in a while." Derek spoke casually, his voice so naturally soothing and genuinely curious you almost felt inclined to answer his question. Derek had a way of effortlessly charming everyone around him, it was no wonder Meredith's nickname for him had stuck. McDreamy... what a joke. 

"I wonder why." Your snark hardly deterred him. He was as infuriating as he was handsome, and his dazzling blue eyes were hard to say no to. "It's not like I broke up with you because you were constantly moping over your ex who I work with or anything like that." 

Derek winced and before you could turn the corner and slip into the bustling crowd of patients and coworkers, Derek swiftly stepped into your path. He reached out with gentle hands and grabbed your forearms, the softness of his palms burning into your skin. You resisted the urge to swat at his hands. He was an Attending before he was your ex, as annoying as it was. 

"(Y/N), the sight of you leaving is burned into my brain. I thought.. I thought you were doing the right thing, the brave thing. And it was. I was a coward and an asshole and.. I'm sorry. You were right about a lot of things but.. I realized a lot of things after you left." His eyes softened, and in turn, you felt yourself soften up. His pouty lips pulled into a warm, slightly cheeky smile. "You have no idea what you do to me. Seeing Karev trying to flirt with you the other day.. it killed me. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness or a second chance but I'm hoping you'll give us a try again."

You bit your inner cheek.

You weren't one for second chances, especially after going through such heavy disappointment, but here stood renowned neurosurgeon Derek Shepherd who looked seconds away from getting on his knees and begging for you. He could've lept at the chance at trying things out again with Meredith.. but he wanted you. Your lips threatened to quirk into an amused smile when he cocked his head to the side like a puppy.

"Fine." Derek beamed and you rolled your eyes despite the soft chuckle. "But this is your last chance, Derek. Don't fuck this up."

Derek swooped forward to plant a peck on your cheek. "I wouldn't dream of it."

[abbottfansstuff]

Something Real:

**Chapter 5: A One-Time Thing?**

Author's Note: Going for a hike today on my first day of vacation. I am enjoying writing this one, but need a short break. Chapter 6 is completed, and 7 is halfway through. @nat-buckley (I'm sorry?)

Melissa had made plenty of mistakes in her life. But this?

This was different.

This was a mistake she wanted to make.

She could still feel the ghost of your lips on hers, the taste of whiskey and something else—something she refused to name—lingering long after she had pulled away outside the bar. She had every intention of walking back inside, acting like it had never happened. Like she wasn’t seconds away from unraveling under the weight of something dangerous, something that had been creeping up on her for weeks.

But when she turned toward the door, you were still watching her.

Your eyes locked on hers, unwavering. Your breath was just the slightest bit unsteady. And for a moment—just a moment—it felt like the rest of the world had faded into the background.

And then, as if nothing had changed, the night carried on.

Except everything had changed.

Melissa felt it in the way your eyes lingered across the table, in the fleeting touches that weren’t so accidental anymore. The way your knee brushed against hers. The way your fingers ghosted over her hand when you reached for the same napkin.

She told herself she was imagining it. That she was reading too much into something that wasn’t there.

But when the night wound down, and the group started saying their goodbyes, you hesitated near the door. You looked at her—really looked at her—something unspoken passing between you. Something neither of you was brave enough to say.

For once, Melissa didn’t think.

She reached out, barely brushing your shoulder, gave you a small nod, and walked out.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t have to.

She already knew you were following.

-----

You barely made it inside before Melissa was pushing you against the front door, her hands fisting in your jacket as her lips crashed into yours.

Your soft, breathless gasp against her mouth sent heat racing through her veins. Your hands slid under her coat, fingers curling against her waist, tugging her closer.

Melissa didn’t do this. 

She didn’t let people in. 

She didn’t want to. 

But right now, she did want.

She wanted the heat of your body pressed against hers, the way your lips parted so easily under hers, the way you pulled her in like you’d been waiting for this just as much as she had.

Clothes were tugged at, jackets slipping from shoulders, hands roaming, searching, taking. 

Both of you stumbled blindly through the dark, bumping into furniture, laughter mixing with heavy, desperate breaths. It was messy, impatient—like neither of you wanted to stop long enough to think.

Melissa’s back hit the edge of the mattress, and then you were tumbling down together, a tangled mess of limbs and whispered curses.

Your lips found her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder—each press of your mouth sent a shiver down her spine, leaving something behind. Something permanent in a way she couldn’t let herself acknowledge.

She let her fingers trace the curve of your spine. Let her mouth map out every inch of skin she could reach. Let herself have this.

Just for tonight.

She wasn’t thinking about what it meant.

She wasn’t thinking about tomorrow.

She was only thinking about the way you moaned against her throat, the way your fingers tangled in her hair, the way her name left your lips like a prayer.

Melissa never did this.

But tonight, she let herself forget.

------

Morning came too soon.

Melissa stirred, blinking against the soft morning light spilling through the curtains.

For a moment, she didn’t remember.

She felt warm. Comfortable. Happy.

And then she felt the weight beside her.

Her stomach dropped.

You were still asleep, your face relaxed, your breathing soft and steady. Your hair was a mess, tangled from sleep and the night before.

Melissa swallowed hard, pushing down the sharp pang of something she didn’t want to name.

This is supposed to be a one-time thing. It had to be.

There was no way you could want more. No way she could have this with no repercussions. 

Before you could wake up—before this could become something messy—Melissa slipped out of bed, grabbing a discarded t-shirt from the floor and tugging it over her head. 

She needed coffee.

By the time you finally woke up, Melissa was leaning against the kitchen counter, steam curling from the cup in her hands.

You appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet, your hair still wild from the night before.

For a long moment, you just looked at her.

Then, slowly, you smiled.

“Morning.”

Melissa took a slow sip, exhaled, and met your gaze with carefully constructed indifference. She had to shut this down before it turned into something it shouldn’t be.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said, voice steady. Detached.

Your smile faltered—just slightly. Just enough for her to notice.

“Right,” you said, nodding after a beat. Your expression smoothed over into something unreadable. 

“Just a one-time thing,” you said while looking everywhere except at her. 

Melissa forced herself to nod. Ignored the tightness in her chest.

“Yeah.”

You returned to the room, gathering your clothes from the floor, and Melissa told herself this was good. 

This was exactly what needed to happen.

So why did it feel like she had just lied to both of you?

[nopointic]

captain america brave new world was so real for letting sam have his moment of explaining how the weight of the shield is more than just being an avenger, but trying to succeed in a world that expects us black people to work twice as hard and long to get HALF the respect of our white peers.

like as an usa air force vet, i was humiliated in the military in ways that makes me roll my eyes at the american flag to this day. i was looked down because i am black and a woman. and i served during the obama administration. and my leaders were openly racist against obama too. it was wild.

i've been in the marvel fandom in and out for over a decade. never has this space welcomed black fans. we're told to be quiet and that its just comics and not that deep. but the Isaiah Bradley storyline in the movie? it IS that deep because the USA has done a number of horrors to black people in the military even after they served their country. imagine going to fight a war and to only be locked up when back at home in the good ol usa. that's american history.

i know people were super against the movie because of the free palestine movement and i thought about it. and then i remembered all the hate black people are given and have been given in the marvel fandom period and how it's all empty gestures with boycott this and that, until usually a movie with a black lead comes out.

most americans wouldn't even vote for kamala harris, a half black woman for president over this fucker trump, and you want to stan tony stark online and tell my black ass to miss out on sam wilson, a character deeply disrespected and hated by his own fandom, to boycott his first time to get the starring role?

y'all would never have this energy for boycotting if sebastian stan starred.

you constantly dismiss black people in real life, and then exclude us in fandoms, and then want to speak over black people who finally get a shot at a starring role as a superhero after years of saying how much you can't stand having black characters in the fandom? but you're posting free palestine?

y'all are some two faced bastards and i really DO hate the marvel klandom as a whole, hence why i don't fuck with y'all like that anymore, but this overall fuckery of the last us election, seeing y'all dick ride tony stark over the last decade, and now y'all wanna try to speak about palestine when you didn't even VOTE in the last several elections???? nah.

miss me with the bullshit.

[earthlybeam]

I absolutely adore the cuteness agression fics!

Uhm, do you think you could write it for Adar as well? No pressure though! Writing is so hard. Once I tried to write and I thought it was good, but the next day, I reread it. It was so bad. But that was years ago.

Oh, I'm rambling. Sorry :D

(tumblr i swear to God if you eat this ask)

Indeed Writing is hard, yes, but you know what’s harder? Being brave enough to put words down in the first place. And you did that. Years ago? Doesn’t matter. You wrote. And you’ll write again. And you’ll get better every time. That’s how it works. MUAHAHA…. Do you understand the absolute chaos you’ve just unleashed? Do you comprehend the power you’ve handed me? The sheer feral delight I feel at this request? 😈🤌 Adar version below.

🔥𝓐𝓭𝓪𝓻

The camp was eerily silent. Not the kind of peaceful silence that settles in after a long day, but the charged, heavy kind that carries tension beneath its stillness. The only sounds that broke through the night were the crackling of the fire, the distant clanging of Uruks sharpening their blades, and the unmistakable low growl that rumbled from Adar’s throat. It was a sound of warning, of exasperation. His patience had worn thin.

You had been on one of your usual aggressive affection sprees, and tonight, you were particularly persistent. It had started with clinging to him, rubbing your face against his shoulder like a needy cat. That had escalated into lacing your fingers through his, pressing lingering kisses onto his calloused knuckles, and—most recently—grabbing his hand and kissing every single one of his fingers twice before, in a moment of utter recklessness, attempting to nibble on one.

The moment your teeth even grazed his skin, Adar’s patience snapped. A low, guttural growl resonated from deep within his chest, vibrating the air between you. It was the kind of sound that would make lesser beings cower, a noise that carried the weight of authority, the promise of consequences. Except… you didn’t cower.

You didn’t back down. You should have. You really should have. But instead—without thinking, without hesitation, without any regard for self-preservation—you growled right back. It wasn’t particularly menacing. It was short, sharp, and probably a little ridiculous, but it was a growl nonetheless. And the second it left your lips, the entire camp froze. The Uruks who had been going about their business immediately turned, their glowing eyes darting between you and Adar like they had just witnessed something unspeakable. The clanging of sharpening blades halted. The crackling fire seemed quieter. The very air itself held its breath.

Adar’s entire body went still. Slowly, deliberately, his head turned toward you, golden eyes narrowing, darkening like a brewing storm. A terrible, foreboding sort of quiet stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp and assessing, his expression unreadable. And then, at last, he spoke.

“You dare challenge me?” His voice was calm. Too calm. A velvety kind of softness that was more dangerous than if he had shouted. There was something behind it, something subtle yet unmistakable—something almost… amused. Your instincts screamed at you to retreat. To lower your gaze, to submit, to apologize. But you were too feral with love to care.

So, instead of acting rationally—instead of backing down—you did the only thing your utterly unhinged, affection-starved brain could come up with. You growled again. This time, it was a little shorter. A little sharper. A little more determined. The effect was instantaneous. Adar’s lips twitched. The Uruks around you reacted like they had just witnessed a mortal challenge a god. Some subtly started backing away, as if preparing for the inevitable execution. One of them let out a strangled, barely audible sound of horror. The tension was suffocating.

And then… Adar laughed. A low, rich, and utterly rare sound that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. It wasn’t cruel, nor was it mocking. It was something else entirely. Amused. Intrigued. As if you were some strange, adorable little creature that had just challenged a warg to a fight. His head tilted slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “What are you, a kitten?” he scoffed, voice laced with something darkly affectionate. “It is like this—”

Before you could react, he growled again. But this time, it was different. Deeper. Lower. A sound that rumbled from his chest, vibrating through the very air, settling into your bones like distant thunder. It was the growl of a true predator. It was a display of dominance, of control, of something ancient and untamed. And it did something terrible to your brain.

Somewhere in the depths of your mind, a singular, unfiltered thought emerged. Oh. That was hot. Your body moved before logic could catch up. BONK! You slammed your forehead against his. Hard. Hard enough that his head slightly jerked back. The Uruks collectively gasped. One of them made a sound like he had just witnessed the heavens themselves being desecrated.

Adar blinked. Stunned. For three unbearably long seconds, there was nothing but silence. And then— “Hah.” A single, amused exhale. Adar’s blue eyes burned into yours, unreadable yet alight with something dangerous. His smirk was now fully formed, curved with dark amusement. “Hmph. You are relentless.” A rough, calloused hand slid to the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair with a firm, possessive grip. Not harsh. Not punishing. Just assertive. A silent declaration that you belonged to him. His forehead pressed against yours once more, his breath warm against your skin, his voice dropping to a low, velvety whisper.

“But if you challenge me, little one—” His grip tightened ever so slightly, his tone both a promise and a warning. “You must be prepared to lose.” Your heart was hammering against your ribs. Your breath hitched. Was this a threat? A challenge? A warning? Or… was it an invitation? The Uruks, deciding they very much did not wish to witness whatever came next, wisely took that moment to leave.

✦��┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Another version

It started as an innocent moment. Adar was standing in the dim light of the campfire, speaking in low, authoritative tones to a group of Uruks. His expression was composed, cold, the way it often was when he discussed tactics or war. He was always so serious. So untouchable. And you—well, you were simply overcome with love.

There was something about him in that moment—his sharp features illuminated by the fire, his golden eyes glowing in the shadows, his voice smooth and commanding—that sent a wild, uncontrollable impulse surging through you. You needed to bite him. Not to hurt him. Not really. But to mark him. To claim him. To express—somehow—the sheer feral intensity of your affection. So, without thinking, you chomped down. Right on his arm. Not too hard. Just enough to sink your teeth in and hold.

The reaction was instant. The conversation stopped. The Uruks—who had been listening attentively to their leader—stiffened. One of them actually dropped his weapon. Another took an instinctive step back. For the first time in what might have been centuries, Adar stared in utter silence. Slowly—very slowly—he tilted his head down, his golden eyes flicking to where your teeth were still latched onto his arm.

A pause. A long, tense, disbelieving pause. Then, at last, his deep voice rumbled through the silence ”…Have you turned rabid?” His tone was flat. Completely unreadable. But the slight tilt of his head, the way his lips almost twitched upward, suggested he was half-serious, half-amused. You did not let go. Not yet.

You merely squinted up at him, refusing to break eye contact, your teeth still firmly sunk into his arm. The Uruks were now genuinely concerned. Adar let out a slow, measured breath, lifting his arm slightly as if to get a better look at you—his personal rabid little creature. Finally, after a moment of silence, he spoke again. “I should put you down.” A statement, not a threat. Your response? You bit down harder. There was a beat of absolute stillness. Then— “Hah.” A single, amused exhale. Suddenly, you felt strong fingers in your hair—not to pull you away, but simply to hold you there, his grip firm yet careful.

“So be it,” he murmured, his voice low and indulgent, like he was humoring you. His thumb absently stroked the back of your head, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable. “If you insist on marking me, little one—” His voice dropped, deep and almost dangerous. “You had best be ready to be marked in return.” The Uruks, wisely, left the scene immediately. (As they should)

Then, before you had time to process what he meant—he struck. With unnerving speed, he turned his head and sank his teeth into the curve of your neck. You yelped, your grip on his arm loosening as a sudden, sharp heat bloomed where his teeth pressed into your skin. Not hard enough to break the flesh—but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Enough to remind you exactly who you had just challenged. His hold on your hair tightened slightly, keeping you in place as his teeth lingered just a second too long. His breath was warm against your skin. Then—slowly, deliberately—he pulled away. Your pulse was pounding. His lips barely ghosted over the spot where he had bitten you, a low hum of satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

“There,” he murmured. His gaze flicked down to where his mark now rested on your skin. “Now we are even.” You stared at him, breathless, your body still tingling from the unexpected retaliation. And then, like an absolute menace, you bit him again. Harder. Adar laughed. A rare, low, genuine sound, full of dark amusement. “Very well, little one,” he murmured, catching your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up. His golden eyes glowed “Let us see how long you last.”

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Last one

The moment had to be perfect. You had been watching Adar for a while now, pacing near the edge of the encampment, his expression calm, unreadable—as always. His hands were clasped behind his back, his dark cloak shifting slightly with his movements. He was thinking, planning, strategizing—probably about important things. You, however, had a very different priority. He looked too tall. Too composed. Too untouchable. You had to take him down. Like a warg in the wild, you waited for your moment. Tension coiled in your muscles as he finally turned, giving you the perfect opening. Then—you pounced. With zero hesitation, you launched yourself at him full-force, tackling him with your entire body weight.

The impact was glorious. For one brief second, his golden eyes widened, and then—down he went. The air left his lungs in a sharp exhale as you crashed into him, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Dirt and leaves scattered as you practically crushed him into the earth, wrapping your arms around him like a wild beast claiming its prey. Somewhere nearby, an Uruk choked on his own breath. There was a long, heavy pause. Adar lay beneath you, utterly still, staring up at the sky as if contemplating his life choices. His long, dark hair was now tangled with dirt and leaves, his cloak twisted beneath him, his once-dignified stance completely destroyed.

Then, finally— ”…You fight with the instincts of a warg pup.” His tone was exasperated. But he made no attempt to throw you off. You buried your face in his neck, arms tightening, refusing to let him go. The Uruks were now watching in abject horror as leader taken down. Some of them looked like they might intervene—until Adar lifted one hand, a single gesture telling them to stand down.

A deep sigh rumbled through his chest, his free hand shifting to rest lightly on your back. “If you are going to smother me, little one,” he muttered, voice half-scolding, half-amused, “at least do so where the ground is not so unforgiving.” His fingers absently traced slow circles against your spine, his warmth seeping into you as his body relaxed beneath yours. You only nuzzled him harder, practically melting against him. The Uruks, now deeply disturbed, pretended not to see anything.

[blueraith]

"I have every right to hate caitvi!!!"

And I have every right not to read another word of your idiocy.

The defensiveness is pretty hilarious, tho, ngl. Some of you are so offended that we don't give a fuck about your tepid takes on the ship.

We're three months post canon. This is "love the blorbos" mode. No one gives a shit that you don't like a character or ship. This is what's so pathetic about antis. They waste their own time talking about characters they don't even enjoy. For months.

You can stop at any time. No one is forcing you to be here. For fucks sake, I think we'd all be happier if y'all just fucked off and quit posting your shit in the main tag, pretending that your shit opinion is even remotely valuable to anyone here.

It isn't. That shit your mom told you growing up that your opinions and thoughts are always valuable and deserve to be heard?

That was a lie, dear. In reality, not all opinions are created equal, nor are they always worth the air taken to express them.

It's like a vegan entering a steakhouse, only to bitch and moan that everyone in the building is eating meat and harming the planet. The patrons are enjoying their meal and discussing the experience with each other, only for some brave soul to climb on a soapbox to screech from a speakerphone that they're all terrible people who should be ashamed of themselves.

Doesn't that sound fucking obnoxious? Or the least counterproductive? You're not changing anyone's opinions here, Ava. You're just pissing people off so you can cry about how mean everyone is to you for supposedly standing up for what you believe in.

Nevermind the fact that these are fictional characters from a fictional world and your idea of activism starts and ends with online shit posting. For all of you who believe that you're making a stand for something by flaming a shipping tag on fucking tumblr of all places, if you're also an American, well. Good news! We're living through a fucking coup right now led by a goddamn billionaire who hates the working class! He might just think the concept of a repressed undercity is a swell idea!

Why not put your fucking money where your mouth is and go bother that stupid fuck?

You won't. Because that's hard. Posting leftist talking points and shittily applying them to a fictional lesbian ship is much easier, right? We should all be welcoming to y'all, huh? You're trying to save the world, after all!

Man, that shit's the most obnoxious part. Shut the fuck up already.

Or don't. And continue to either get blocked or shat upon when making dumbass posts that one asked for or desired. You're only wasting your own time.

[bobopeebo]

Helloo~ I love reading all your headcanons because I feel like they're very accurate and fun. Similar to the Ayato ask but any Headcanons on the type of girl Shuu would like, pshycially and personality.

Shu’s Type Headcanons

shu wouldn’t like someone that’s his complete opposite

he prefers a fair balance of opposite and similar - or even if she had just a handful of similarities, it’s enough

he needs someone who likes relaxing with him as well

someone he can enjoy comfortable silences and beautiful music with

soft, fluffy curly hair would kill him.

he likes long, soft, flowy hair that smells like fruits and flowers that he can bury his face into and use as his personal curtain

but at the same it would become a nuisance if her hair kept getting stuck/pulled while they cuddled and she complained about it. plus, short hair would give free access to her beautiful neck

in terms of bodies, he likes petite, short women because they look cute, innocent and frail

tall and elegant women because they seem poised and gentle, seeming soft-spoken and not noisy, causing less of a disturbance to him

curvy women because they’re warm and soft; the perfect pillow to him (bonus points if they smell good) and he gets to make lewd remarks about their blessed assets

he really doesn’t care that much

soft clothes in soothing colors like pastels and dark shades are appreciated. hates eyesore colors like neons and if his lover were to be a fan of them, they’re sure to hear a few unamused remarks every so often

you see the amount of times soft is mentioned here? yeah he’s basically shopping for a human pillow

but shu really likes girls with big, bright, curious eyes. someone adventurous or bubbly would feel like a golden retriever to him; he would find them quite amusing and loveable

he doesnt mind a girl with a lot of energy; so long as she can also be content pumping the breaks to wind down and share headphones with him while they cuddle wherever he pulls her

he actually might prefer a s/o who can balance his nonchalance. someone expressive and empathetic; someone who talks a lot and would want to tell him lots of cute interesting things

he might not have the most compelling replies; but that doesnt mean he’s not interested, he’s just not one for talking much.

just knowing that she cares so much. that her perfect evening would be spending time with him.

he obviously would ‘complain’ about how noisy she is, but she wouldn’t be able see the faintest, soft smile he grows on his face with his eyes closed as she tells him about what happened in her class that night not knowing that she’s already told him this once before

speaking of, he would likely prefer someone with a melodious voice. Deep or soft and calm. He would have trouble adjusting to something with a loud or pitchy voice. In that case maybe he would prefer their quiet times more ^^;

if his girl knows how to play (the ‘good’) instruments, it would be amazing. maybe not so much for her because of how many times he would ask her to play-

after much begging, shu might even be so kind as to agree to have a duet with her (how romantic)

despite shu not being that picky with what kind of girl he’d be attracted to, he still has a few absolute donts

girls who are stuck up or snooty, with a superiority complex. the ones who care way too much about being perfect and proper: he would just get brought back to his aristocratic family. the one he’s trying to get away from constantly.

he just doesn’t like girls who are vain or egoistic. he finds them annoying

shu would really admire a girl who’s honest. someone who wouldn’t change her opinion based on whether or not others agreed. someone brave who would stand their ground to support their beliefs

that quality kind of also translates into loyalty

shu has a hard enough time as is allowing himself to connect to anyone, fearing he’ll lose them. if he does finally start to warm up to someone, it would kill him inside if they betrayed him.

> 𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕒𝕤 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕔𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕚𝕤𝕞 𝕠𝕟 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕚𝕞𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕧𝕖. <

Your beloved, Bo.

[veilsofroses]

Hellow can I request for a jushiro x reader for the first time they have sex which jushiro initiates because they’ve been dating for a year.

Jushiro Ukitake x f!reader

warnings: MINORS DNI 18+, NSFW, smut, praise, vaginal fingering, penetration, no protection, creampie author’s note: so so sorry this took so long 💔💔💔 still enjoyed writing it tho, added a lil spin to it. this is for my ukitake lovers out there!!!!! i get it!!! word count: 2.4k

｡⋆｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡⋆｡

You slam the book on your lap shut with a huff. The two shinigami passing by jump, then scurry along. You had reread the same page about five times now, too lost in thought to focus so you give up. 

You stay seated for a moment, closing your eyes and dwelling on your thoughts. Tomorrow was going to be your one year anniversary with Jushiro, your loving, ever-so-sweet, captain of a boyfriend. Honestly, you really couldn’t ask for anyone better, he was the perfect man for you—kind, caring, beautiful, brave. But one thing irked you more than it should. 

He had yet to take you to bed. Sure, you’ve laid down and slept together, but never slept together, and it was really starting to hurt your pride. It made you question. Was this his way of being respectful or was there something about you-

You didn’t finish the thought. Jushiro was the perfect boyfriend in every way, there’s no reason for you to complain. In that year, he’s treated you better than you’ve been treated your entire life. But even so… 

You open your eyes, sighing rather loudly. 

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Jushiro’s soft voice fills your ears. Your head snaps in his direction, sitting up straight in the chair you sat in. 

Jushiro approaches you, his captain’s robe flowing behind him. He wears that usual warm smile that always melts your heart. “Oh! Uh—yes, yes, I’m fine, everything’s fine,” you reassure him, waving your hand and standing from your chair, praying he doesn’t pry. 

He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed, his long hair slipping from his shoulder. He doesn’t seem convinced, reaching out a hand towards you. You grab it before it reaches you, “I’m just hungry, that’s all,” you decide that’s the best excuse, giving him an overly wide smile. It wasn’t entirely a lie, you could eat. 

He gives you a defeated smile, grasping your other hand with his, understanding. His thumb brushes over your hand, “Alright if you say so. Let’s head to the dining hall then?” 

You give him a genuine smile, thankful he knows when to leave it alone, and nod, letting him lead you along to the hall. 

Once at the hall, food in hand, he leads you to a table where Shunsui sits with Nanao, both deep into their meals. They offer polite greetings when you sit. 

Shunsui clears his throat, “Captain Ukitake tells me tomorrow is officially your one year of being together,” he comments casually, leaning back in his seat. 

Jushiro rubs his forehead and grumbles softly, clearly a bit embarrassed Shunsui just exposed that he talks about you, though he was sure you knew that he did by now. 

You chuckle awkwardly, “Oh, yeah it is!” you say with feigned excitement. Normally you’re eager to talk about it—you love Jushiro and want everyone to know it, but you just can’t seem to muster a genuine response. You hope they don’t notice. 

Shunsui doesn’t and chuckles, continuing, “All I know is that you’re one lucky gal. He’ll tell you I was the ‘womanizer’ of the two of us but I heard tales from the girls. He’s not inno- AGH!” 

He’s cut off by Nanao smacking the back of his head with a clipboard. “Jeez,” he says, rubbing the area. “In what world is it a decent idea to tell Y/n that,” she scolds him. Jushiro sits silently, his head in his hands, questioning his choice of friendship. 

“Seems he must have wasted all his energy on those flings,” you find yourself saying, unable to catch yourself, your voice hard. 

The table goes silent, all three of them looking at you wide-eyed, caught completely off guard by your words. You can’t bear their staring any longer so you stand up, the chair scraping behind you, and you storm off, leaving your food on the table barely touched. 

Jushiro watches you march off, mouth agape, words caught in his throat. It was unusual for you to act this way.

“Trouble in paradise, huh- AGH! Again?” Shunsui looks at Nanao pleadingly. 

“Look at what you caused,” she shakes her head. 

Jushiro stares at the doorway you disappeared through before getting up and racing in the same direction without a word. 

You reach your private room, slamming the door shut behind you, and bursting into tears. You make for your bed, plopping down on the edge, your head in your hands. You made a fool of yourself, letting yourself say such a thing about the man you love, in front of his friends, on top of that. You didn’t deserve him. 

You don’t hear your door open and close quietly between your uncontrolled heaves. You only realize when a force weighs down the bed and wraps his arms firmly around you, turning your face to his. 

Worried green eyes rake over your face, “Y/n, what’s the matter?” his voice pleading, it stings your heart. Your regret for your actions deepen, you were being immature. 

No, you had a right to feel this way, but he also had the right to know why. 

You sniffle, attempting to compose yourself before you speak. He patiently wipes away your tears with a thumb, holding your face. You put your hand over his and he looks at you expectantly. 

“I just- I wish-“ you struggle to find the words but he just waits quietly, brushing a strand of tear-soaked hair out of your face. “Jushiro, why haven’t you slept with me yet?” It was a more direct approach than you anticipated to take but you suppose this got the job done. 

His eyes widen, his head jerking back slightly, clearly not expecting such a question. “Why haven’t I..” he trails off. 

You explain further, “I just.. I feel a bit.. rejected,” you look down, embarrassed at the confession. “Maybe I just haven’t been forward enough with my advances but I’ve never felt your desire to take it any further with me and it makes me question if there’s something about me that you don’t-“

He suddenly grips your shoulders, “No!” his voice desperate to prove something. 

You blink, “No?”

He also blinks and realizes how hard he’s gripping you and lets go, holding your hands instead, “I-I mean, no, of course not! I love everything about you. I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized you felt this way.” 

“Then why?” your voice cracks and that breaks something inside him. He sighs deeply, “What Shunsui said was true. I suppose I.. messed around a lot as an adolescent,” something uncomfortable stirs in your stomach at this, “but it’s for that same reason that I waited so long with you.” 

You tilt your head, “I don’t understand.” 

He puts a soft hand on your cheek but his eyes are serious, “I wanted to prove to you that I am serious about you. You’re not just another fling or something casual, I hope to spend the rest of eternity with you. I wanted you to feel respected. But it seems my foolish attempts made you feel the exact opposite,” he looks down, sighing in disappointment in himself. 

Of course, he would. You had heard from the other captains that he had matured a great deal since his youth. It made perfect sense for him to think that way. With someone like Shunsui around, it was inevitable for you to find out about his past antics, and because of that, he didn’t want you to feel like you were just another one of those girls, so he was probably waiting for you to openly say it was okay. You shake your head, you should’ve known and now you feel silly. You’re about to respond but he continues, his face flushing just enough for you to notice. “The truth is, holding back from you hasn’t been any easy feat. Now I find out you were waiting on me, and it angers me that I didn’t do this any sooner.” 

Before you can ask what he means, he pulls your lips into his, his hand firmly on the back of your neck. You yelp in surprise, your hands falling to his chest, not used to this boldness from him but you give in immediately, the built up desire from the last year finally having an outlet. 

He pushes you back against the bed, his lips never leaving yours, his long, white hair falling to your sides, caging you in. You eagerly oblige, opening your legs, the erection you hadn’t noticed brushing against you, making both of you gasp. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows furrowed and his cheeks red. “I’m so sorry, love. I never meant to make you feel unloved in any way.” 

You shake your head, putting a finger on his lips to shush him. “Enough of that. I know, Jushiro. Make it up to me now,” you smile softly but your words make his green eyes darken, lost in your gaze. He wastes no time in reconnecting your lips, this kiss much hungrier than the last. 

His hands roam your body, drinking in every curve, and you arch against him, desperate for his touch. 

He trails kisses from your mouth to your cheek, then down your jaw to your neck. You moan into his ear and feel him shiver at the sound, letting out a low groan. He grabs the collar of your uniform, pulling it off your shoulders, revealing your collarbones and bare breasts to him. 

He pulls back, unable to reel in his blatant staring. You lay there, smug, watching his face redden at the sight. “I-Is this okay?” his voice is barely a whisper, his composure gone. He brings his eyes up to yours, seeking. 

You answer by slipping your arms out of the top, your upper body now fully exposed, and by pulling his down, revealing his chiseled chest and abs. “Understood,” he breathes out, drinking you in once again before pouncing back on you. 

Despite his hurried kiss, his tongue is gentle, tracing your lips, asking for entrance, which you grant. You run your hands through his hair, tugging and pulling. He tugs at your pants and you lift your hips, allowing them to slip off easily without breaking the kiss. You do the same for him, his hard cock slapping on your stomach after being freed.

Jushiro’s skin was hot against yours, your bodies trying to feel every inch of each other. Each movement grinds his length against your stomach. 

He reaches his hand down to your thighs, squeezing and tracing his fingers along the sides of your core. Damn him. “I didn’t take you for such a tease,” you grind out in between kisses. He smiles against your mouth, brushing his fingers over your slick folds. You gasp, arching into him, your peaked nipples agonizingly rubbing against his chest. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, pushing his forehead against yours, sliding in one finger, then two. “J-Jushiro,” you moan out, his thick fingers stretching you out, preparing you for him. You feel his cock twitch. 

You grab his cock in your hand, earning a guttural moan you felt in your core, your walls swelling around his fingers gliding smoothly in and out, covered by your wetness.

You pump him slowly, Jushiro matching your pace with his fingers. His forehead on yours, he stares so intensely into your eyes, showing you all of him and trying to see all of you. 

You meet his lips once again, your pace on each other quickening. Wet sounds along with muffled moans fill your room, his fingers eventually outpacing your hand as you feel your climax approaching. 

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers gently, your hips buck against his hand and he curls his fingers inside you, reaching your release, and you scream out, high-pitched and rough. 

He hardly gives you enough time to recover when he’s already flipping you over, putting you on top of him, his hands on your waist. 

“I want to see all of you,” he tries and fails to keep a composed voice, sounding raw. You lift up from his chest, taking him in below you, his white hair splayed out, wild, and yet, he looked as beautiful as ever. You steadily hold his gaze while you lift up, lining his throbbing cock against your soaked entrance, and watch his face as you slam down, taking his full length at once. 

He cries out, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, his eyebrows twitching. His grip on your hips tightens as you also cry out, his thick cock burying deep inside you, stretching you out more than you ever have. 

His hands offer support, helping lift you up only to push you back down, his cock filling you up with each thrust. “Oh, Y/n-” he can hardly speak with you taking him in deeper and deeper each time, your pace quickening, skin slapping against skin.

He grinds his teeth, his eyes rolling to the back of his head and his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise. But that doesn’t stop you from bouncing on him over and over. You throw your head back with a loud moan, squeezing your own tits. The sight along with your tight pussy squeezing his thick girth is enough to kill him. 

"Ah- J-Just like that-" he can hardly get the sentence out. His legs start to spasm, his hips bucking up against you, pushing his length deeper into your swollen hole, releasing broken cries. His orgasm comes rushing at him with one final thrust, and he spills everything he has into your wet pussy, lining every inch of your walls with hot cum. 

He releases your hips, his arms flopping down on the bed beside him with a thud, and you flopping down in his chest. Nothing but heavy, ragged breaths are heard, both of your hearts about to beat out of your chests. Your bodies are hot and sticky with sweat but you don’t move away from each other. 

“I’ll never forgive myself for waiting so long to do this with you,” he finally says, wrapping his arms around your back. You chuckle, lifting your head from his chest to look at him. 

“Glad you finally came to your senses,” you flick his forehead where white hair sticks to it. 

He laughs, “I deserve that.” He thinks for a moment then turns to the clock mounted on your wall. “Well, would you look at the time,” he looks back at you with soft green eyes full of nothing but adoration, “It’s midnight. Happy one year anniversary, Y/n,” he pushes his nose to nuzzle yours. 

You push further to give him a tender kiss, “Happy one year anniversary, Jushiro.” 

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Ooooooo new emoji to play with👀❣️

🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨🗨

⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️⛰️

Yeah! Fun things!

48 for 🗨:

---

“Uh, guess I’m just curious,” Buck says. “It just seems strange that this never came up.”

“It’s not a big deal, okay?” Eddie insists. “We all have skills that have nothing to do with our current careers. You can mix an insane cocktail, I can speak a little Swedish.”

Not exactly the same level of skill. Buck’s never helped anybody on a call with mixology. But, yeah. Sure. 

“Okay,” Buck says. “No big deal. Got it.”

Eddie nods curtly.

“Thank you.”

🗨️

Buck thinks the conversation is closed there. He doesn’t expect it to be revisited, as curious as he is. Maybe in a few months he can press Eddie for some Sweden stories, but that’s about it, right? Eddie hadn’t wanted to talk about it. 

Except, no one else drops it.

“Guten Tag!” Chim greets Eddie at the beginning of their next shift. 

“That’s German, Chim,” Eddie points out.

“Close enough,” Chim shrugs.

“I wouldn’t tell them that,” Eddie replies. 

“We’re just wondering what other languages you’re going to drop on us?” Hen asks. “Are you just trilingual or are you a proper polyglot?”

“Poly-what?” Chim frowns.

“Please,” Eddie says. “I’m hardly trilingual. Neither my Spanish or my Swedish are completely fluent, so-”

“Trilingual and humble,” Hen smirks. 

“Look, can we just call this one off limits?” Eddie asks, voice tight. “No Sweden-related discussions? Please?”

“What about during the Olympics? What if they beat us at hockey?” Chim asks.

“I don’t care about hockey,” Eddie says. 

“Is that a yes or a no?” Chim presses.

Eddie sighs. “I’m walking away from this conversation.”

Buck knows better than to follow him and bring it back up, but he still doesn’t understand why this is such a sensitive subject for Eddie. 

---

51 for ⛰️:

---

"It might be a little while before I can make another one. So… Tell him I miss him or whatever.” 

“What?” Buck groans. “Come on…”

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. Is she fucking kidding? She took them to court. She wanted more than what she’s getting now, but she’s dipping out on even this? 

Buck calls her. 

“What do you mean you’re not visiting him for a while?” He demands as soon as she picks up.

“I-I can’t. I can’t. It’s too hard.”

“Too hard?” Buck scoffs. “To spend an hour every other week with your son?”

“You don’t understand! You wouldn’t! He loves you!” 

“That’s not going to be solved by you leaving him again!” Buck shouts into the phone. She is the only person on earth, except for maybe his parents, that gets him this worked up. 

“It just hurts too much,” she says. “It hurts too much and I have to think about my own mental health.”

Eddie wants to scream. What doesn’t she get? What doesn’t she understand? That’s just part of the job. Was it easy on Eddie’s mental health, leaving Los Angeles for El Paso and sitting in the face of his son’s massive, justified anger? Was it easy on Eddie’s mental health putting on a brave face every day after Shannon died? No. It all sucked. But he did it, because Christopher needed him. Because he needed Christopher. What about her is so fucking lacking?

“Your mental health?” Buck asks. “You need to not see Arthur for your mental health?”

“Do not act like that isn’t serious! The stigma behind mental health is bad enough! I won’t hear it from you. That’s so ableist and outdated!”

Buck’s expression goes cold. “Jaylin, you know if you don’t fulfil visitation requirements, I can petition the court to terminate your parental rights?”

Oh, shit. 

Eddie didn’t even know that. Eddie didn’t even know he was thinking about that. Would he actually do that?