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superbassbuck · 27 days ago

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Making Out for America

Chapter 2: Red, White, and Black

masterlist || one || two || three || four || five

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x America's Sweetheart!fem!reader

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, set during thunderbults*, sexual tension, forced proximity, arranged marriage, panic attacks, mental health issues, angst (lots of it), no y/n

Word Count: 5.4k

gif by agentbelle || dividers by cafekitsune

You hated the way this man was staring at you like you were gum stuck to the bottom of his polished shoe.

You knew James Barnes. You’ve seen him on national television. You and pretty much the whole country knew that he was notorious for having a very, very bad staring problem and a signature scowl that was plastered across news segments and broadcasts.

But it was just something about seeing it up close and feeling that tension that made a shiver shoot straight through your spine.

Maybe his glare wasn’t personal? Maybe that’s just how his face looked all the time? But standing here, on the receiving end of it, made your skin itch uncomfortably. And now that Voss abandoned you two, you figured you might as well try to get to know your future husband.

…even if he looked like he’d rather dive headfirst out of the window than make conversation with you. Seriously, what was his problem? Just his gaze alone is already making you regret agreeing to this arrangement.

But then… you thought about the alternative. The truth was, the foundation had been treading water for the past year. Donors have been pulling out one by one, grants have been drying out, and the media attention has been… decent at best. As much as you silently complain about the speeches and being the face of it all, this was your father’s legacy. The thing that you’d spent your entire life dedicating to, and it was slowly fading from the spotlight.

You hadn’t agreed to this because you liked the idea. Or because you liked him, clearly. You only said ‘yes’ because this arrangement meant headlines, meaning attention. It meant power. Power that was enough to make a difference. You sucked in a breath and straightened your spine—well, you had to anyway, because this dress was impossibly tight—and reminded yourself why you were here.

Not for him. Not for Voss. But for your father.

“Congressman Barnes,” you begin carefully, testing the waters. “If this arrangement makes you uncomfortable, I understand if you don’t want to go through with it—”

“No,” he interrupts, a little too quickly. He shifts his weight and pulls his hands from his pockets, making a weird gesture like he’s brushing the idea away. “I’m comfortable.”

You raise a brow. “Are you sure? You don’t really look comfortable.”

“I said I’m comfortable.”

You press your lips into a thin line, trying to stifle a laugh. You kind of feel bad for him. Despite his words, the fancy suit and tie, and the salt and pepper beard that shows his age, he resembles a stubborn child.

“Okaaay then,” you tease, rocking slightly on your heels with your hands tucked behind your back.

The silence between you two was deafening. “Voss said that we should try to get to know each other,” you say, trying anything to fill the air. “So, what’s your–”

Bucky cuts you off before you can even finish your question. “No need for small talk,” he says flatly. “I’ll put together a file on myself. You can read it, learn whatever you need. Then make one of your own. We’ll study up on it and play the part.”

You blink. Huh?

“A file…?”

He simply nods, his eyes still dead set on you. “A biography, a background, habits, favorite color. Whatever helps this…” then he gestures a finger between the both of you, “thing… look convincing.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “You want us to write a ‘Get to Know Me!’ sheet for each other? Like homework?”

“Exactly,” he says, completely serious. “Efficient.”

He has a smile on his face now, like he’s under the impression that you’re understanding. You feel like you have to physically bite your tongue not to laugh. It’s not the worst idea in the world, but the way he says it so seriously makes it sound like an assignment on some foreign policy and not an engagement.

“I just thought,” you say, compressing a snicker. “We could try doing something a little more… organic? You know, talking, spending time together, pretending to like each other like normal couples do.”

Bucky raises his brows and scrunches his face a bit, almost like a cringe. “That’s not very efficient.”

You cross your arms and tilt your head. He looks mildly condescending—so you mirror it, because two can play this game. Petty? Maybe. But you’re not writing a five page biography about yourself for your soon-to-be-husband. “Not everything has to be efficient, Congressman. Sometimes human connection takes a little time and effort. Surprising, right?”

He leans against the desk behind him, arms folded across his chest now too—copying you, like this was some kind of stand-off. “Time and effort I don’t have. I have three hearings this week, four committee meetings, two interviews–”

“Perfect. How about instead of calling you Congressman, I can call you Bucky?” you cut in, completely brushing past his words. Then you take a few short steps closer to him. “Wouldn’t that be more natural?”

His brow twitches in response to your teasing tone, but he doesn’t move. “You’re aiming for natural?”

You frown. He really wasn’t getting it. If this plan was going to work, then you two would have to be as convincing as possible, as natural as possible—giving the nation the love story that they want. But in Bucky’s mind, all he has to do is slip a ring on your finger, snap a picture with you, and call it a day. Unfortunately for him, that wasn't enough.

“That’s the whole point,” you sigh, trying to explain. “If this is going to even remotely–”

Before you could finish your sentence, the door swings open and in comes Voss with her phone clutched in her hand and the brightest smile on her face. “Great news!” she announces. “Everyone’s on board.”

You and Bucky both turned toward her. You arch your brow. “Everyone?”

She nods, walking past you and straight to the table where she left her files behind. She starts flipping through them. “PR is already working on a joint statement. Communications is working on a press release,” then she turns to you with a smile. “And we’ve booked a photographer for engagement shots later this week. But most importantly…”

Jesus. She really did all of that in the span of fifteen minutes?

Her eyes flicker between you and Bucky as she continues. “Valentina’s gala is tomorrow night. And both of you will be in attendance as each other’s fiancée. It’ll be the perfect introdu–”

“Wait,” Bucky interrupts, turning to Voss with narrowed brows. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Voss confirms with a nod. “Everyone who matters will be there. It’s the ideal situation.”

You could feel your stomach doing jumping jacks. Tomorrow was just… way too soon. Sure, you were used to public speaking, but that was always scripted, prepared, and polished. This was entirely different. Pretending to be in love was a whole different ball game that you were not familiar with. And truthfully, your experience with love was… limited. At best. Sheltered would be putting it kindly.

“Tomorrow is just…” Bucky trails off.

“...so soon,” you finished.

Voss’s lips press into a thin line as she looks between the both of you. She just shrugs, as if there’s nothing you two could do about it. “So? Then what are we waiting for?” she asks bluntly. “You’ve got the rest of the day to get to know each other.”

Bucky stiffens. Based on his body language alone, it is so clear to you that he wants out of this situation. You could see the gears turning in that cyborg brain of his, computing for an excuse to try and get out. Like a lightbulb, he raises a finger up to shoot an excuse at Voss, but she was faster.

She raises her hands up to stop him before he could even speak. “Don’t even think about it, Barnes. Your schedule is clear for the rest of the day. I already checked.”

His shoulders slumped as he let out a sigh, barely sparing you a glance. Honestly, the least he could do was pretend to be happy about spending time with you.

There was a moment of silence between the three of you. Voss looked between the two of you, clearly unimpressed with the lack of interaction. When it became obvious that neither you nor Bucky planned to say anything else, she sighs and shakes her head disappointedly.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to get going,” she begins. “You both are adults. Figure this out.”

She gathered her things and made her way towards the door again. “I know this won’t be easy, but honestly—” she wags a finger between the both of you, “you two surprisingly look good together.” And with that, she opens the door and leaves the office, leaving you and Bucky alone yet again.

You processed her words for a moment. A small blush crept on your cheeks, feeling a little flattered. Despite Bucky’s perpetual glare, scowls, and generally bad attitude, Bucky was, objectively speaking, ridiculously handsome. Being told you matched his level of good looks to be within the same league was kind of a backhanded compliment, but you’d take it.

But when you turned to look at him, he didn’t seem even remotely flattered like you did. He looked offended.

“Alright, I’ve had enough of this,” you cross your arms. “I’ve been trying to ignore your scowls since the moment I got here, but I just can’t. Are you really that pretentious and uptight? I thought you just had a chronic staring issue, but turns out, you’re just a straight up asshole. I mean—just look at you!”

His brow lifted as he scoffed. “Excuse me?” Then his eyes skim you up and down again, taking in your ridiculous tight dress that’s hugging you in all the wrong—and right —places. He swallows before meeting your eyes. “Look at me? Look at you .”

You let out a breathless laugh. “I’m sorry. What?” you mirror his tone as you lean closer to him, deliberately trying to test his audacity.

Bucky takes a step closer to you, his blue eyes glaring you down. “Look at you,” he repeats. “Your hair’s a mess, you’ve got an attitude of a sailor, and your dress–”

“What about my dress?” You raise a brow, clearly offended.

He swallows again, and you can see his jaw clench. He looks like he’s deciding whether or not he should say his next line. It’d be smart for him to keep his mouth shut, but unfortunately for you, the only thing smart about him is his mouth.

“It looks like that dress is barely holding you in,” he mutters, his eyes dark and narrowed down at you.

Your eyebrow twitches, and you throw your head back with a mocking laugh. “Wow,” you say, tossing your hands up. “Did the Congressman really just call me fat?”

He stands up straight, visibly confused and thrown off guard. “What? No–” but instead of stopping there like any normal person would, he keeps going. A bad habit of his, clearly.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…” then he starts gesturing vaguely at your body, his eyes darting at every curve, everywhere except your face. “I just mean… there’s a lot of you in that dress.”

Your mouth drops, and you just stare at him, stunned. “A lot of me?”

Bucky’s eyes go wide the second he hears himself, like he’s just realized he stepped directly into a landmine. It’s been too damn long since the last time he tried complimenting a woman, and if his mother were here right now, she’d grab him by the ear for talking to you this way. “Shit, I meant that like… like you have a lot of presence. You’re commanding. Not in a bad way, just—”

You raise a brow. “A lot of presence?” you repeat again.

He swallows, a heat of embarrassment rushing to his ears. “You’re built well. That’s all I meant. Like, structurally–” he grimaces at himself, but for some reason, he can’t seem to stop digging the hole deeper, so he adds, “in an architectural sense.”

At this point, you’re not even mad anymore. Irritated, probably. But the way he’s trying so hard to salvage this almost makes you feel bad for him. It was kind of amusing to watch in a way. You don’t say anything, you just stare at him as you let his arrangement of words linger in the air.

Then Bucky, clearly desperate, blurts, “Okay, how about dinner? We should get dinner.” He suddenly brings up, likely as an attempt to make up for whatever compliment slash insult he just threw at you.

You frown. “I just ate.”

“Yeah, okay,” he huffs, putting his hands on his hips and nodding in agreement, his eyes back on your curves. “I see that.”

There’s a pause.

Then your jaw drops when realization hits you.

“Oh my God , so you are insulting me!” you raise your voice, raising your hand to point an accusing finger at him.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles grumpily, starting to get tired of trying to defend himself. “I’m not trying to insult you, it’s just… you got a stain–”

You interrupt him, because right now you don’t care to hear what he has to say this time.

“I’m sorry that Voss couldn’t find you a more polished and put-together woman to be your wife,” you begin making exaggerated hand gestures in anger.

You probably look stupid and childish right now, but you don’t care. You’ve felt judged the minute you walked in here, and you’ve had enough with the way he was mumbling and scowling at you like you were a person with no feelings.

Bucky looks down at you and swallows hard, taking small steps back each time you take one closer, pressing a finger against his perfectly ironed dress shirt. You eventually back him up against the office desk behind him, leaving him trapped between you and that poor piece of furniture.

“I’m not perfect, but I’m good, I have good morals and–” you jab a finger harder into his chest with each word, “I’m loyal, I show up when I’m needed and I care. Maybe I care too much sometimes. But I’m a good person. I’m a good…”

You pause for half a second, your face scrunched up in anger, “...girl. I’m a good girl!” you repeat even louder.

Bucky just blinks at you, stunned and not knowing what to say. His mouth opens like he’s about to get a word out, but before he could, you raise your hand again to drill him for round two.

And that’s when it happens.

It rips.

Your dress tears, and the sound was so sharp and loud—you both couldn’t ignore it, no matter how badly you wanted to. Your eyes go wide in horror, and you both slowly look down at yourself. On the side, your dress had split further up. The tear crawled well past your thigh and revealed a very generous peek of black lace that definitely was not meant to be seen by anyone else.

You slap your hands to your thigh, trying to cover it while your eyes flick up to him in sheer panic. And Bucky, who was definitely looking, meets your gaze—and holds it.

Maybe he won’t say anything. He’s a Congressman. Surely, a man in office would be respectable enough when stuck in a situation like this.

But then the corner of his mouth twitches up to a smirk.

“Good girls don’t wear black lacy underwear.”

Your face is completely flushed in embarrassment. Your jaw drops. “You…!”

He shrugs, but doesn’t make any effort to move. And you’re realizing now that you two are very, very close. Maybe even too close, especially now that half your underwear is peeking out.

His smirk deepens, like he’s finally found solid ground while watching you squirm in embarrassment. The power dynamic has shifted, and he’s reveling in it. Slowly, he stands up straight from the desk and reaches into the back pocket of his slacks.

“Let’s meet up for dinner tonight,” he says as he hands you a card. “We have to try to get to know each other better before the gala tomorrow.”

You take it cautiously with your free hand, the other still gripping your thigh in a pathetic attempt at modesty. You glance at the card, then frown.

“What is this? Your trash?”

His expression tightens, mildly offended. “It’s my business card.” He taps the bottom edge, where his number is cleanly underlined. “Contact info.”

“Oh,” you blink. “Right.”

You both stand there for a moment, an awkward pause between you two. Your hand is still awkwardly gripping your thigh to cover yourself, and he’s still very much looking at you like he’s got the upper hand now.

You clear your throat and finally step away, putting real space between your bodies. “Anyway, I should—”

“Yeah, you should,” he cuts in smoothly, like he’s doing you the favor. Then he slips past you toward the window, settling back into the same position you first found him in, like you never even happened.

“Yeah, okay…” you mutter, backing toward the door. “Bye.”

“Bye,” he repeats dryly, like the council meeting is adjourned.

When you see his back is still turned towards you and his gaze occupied out the window, you spin around and try to sheepishly escape out the door. You’re not certain, but you’re pretty sure the rip went farther than just your thigh.

Probably all the way up the back.

And right before you slip out the door, with your back turned to him now, Bucky looks over his shoulder and gets one good look at the lace before you disappear completely.

Later that evening, George dropped you off in front of the restaurant where you were supposed to meet Bucky. You’d changed into something more flattering—and comfortable—this time. Something that actually felt like you. Your hair and makeup had been redone too, more soft glam than studio-and-television ready. Tonight, you looked less like America’s Sweetheart and more like yourself.

“Call me when you’re done,” is all George says, stepping out to open your door.

“Thanks, George,” you replied, soothing down your dress with a smile. “I’ll make sure to order you something to-go.” You add half-teasingly, and he just grunts in response.

He waits a bit until you get inside. The restaurant Bucky had picked out was upscale and romantic. It had the typical dim lights, small tables, and flickering candles. This was the kind of restaurant where you’d take someone you actually loved—which was ironic, considering you and Bucky were tied up in a loveless arranged marriage.

As you stepped inside, two suited men opened the door for you, and you greeted them with a polite smile before approaching the hostess stand.

“Reservation under Barnes,” you said, a bit unsure. Your eyes naturally wandered around the restaurant, trying to spot him.

“Of course!” the hostess chirped, tapping on her tablet. “Congressman James Barnes. Right this way.”And for some reason, hearing ‘Reservation under Congressman James Barnes’ makes your heart flutter proudly knowing that you’re his ‘date’.

He was seated at a more secluded area of the restaurant, a table he probably requested to avoid attention—for now. He was fiddling with his thumbs on the table, and this time you noticed he was wearing a glove on his left hand to cover up his metal arm. He didn’t have that on earlier. When he looked up and saw you, he sat up a little straighter. The hostess offered a quick smile before slipping away, leaving just the two of you.

“Hope my dress isn’t too tight for you, Congressman,” you say with a teasing smile, sliding into the empty seat across from him.

He stared at you longer than necessary, his eyes scanning more than just the dress. Then he muttered, “Looks good,” and quickly buried his face behind the menu. “Heard this place has decent food.”

You picked up the menu, raising a brow at him. “You’ve never eaten here before?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I don’t really… go out.” He clears his throat at the last part, almost like he’s embarrassed to admit it.

You sat up straighter. This was the perfect opportunity to try and get to know him.

“So, what’s your usual go-to spot?”

“Home,” he replied dryly, eyes glued to the menu.

“I meant to eat at,” you clarified, frowning slightly.

He turned the page without blinking. “Yeah. Still home.”

Good grief. Talking to your husband-to-be was like talking to a brick wall. You never imagined sitting here, at a fancy dimly lit restaurant, with a Congressman—much less a Congressman who has no idea how to talk. Either that, or he’s purposely keeping the conversation to a minimum. Even though he was the one that invited you out here.

You sighed and flipped to the drinks section, determined to keep things going. “Okay, what kind of music do you like?”

He pauses for a moment, “Forties music.”

Ah, that makes sense. You gave him a second, hoping he’d catch on and take the conversation from here. But instead of saying anything, he scratched at the stubble along his jaw. His eyes shifted to you, then dropped back to the menu.

And then… nothing.

Silence. Full, uncomfortable silence.

You cleared your throat to try and catch his attention, and he glanced up with a raised brow like you were the problem.

“What?” he asked, voice flat and a little annoyed.

“This is usually the part where you ask about me now,” you leaned in, narrowing your eyes.

He sighed, setting the menu down and leaning back in his seat, arms folding across his chest. Despite the pressed suit and professional look, his tie was slightly loosened and his once-slicked hair was starting to fall out of place. He looked tired, and irritatingly attractive. Not that you’d ever admit it outloud. He lets out a low and thoughtful hum as he tries to brew up a topic to talk about.

“Okay, I’ve got a question for you,” he begins, a slight smirk creeping up on his face.

Good. Good. He’s finally going to try and make an attempt at a conversation with you. You grab your glass of water and take a sip, giving him your full attention.

“What color panties are you wearing now?” he asks you suddenly.

You immediately choke, nearly spitting the water across the table. Thank God you two are tucked away in a private corner of the restaurant, because what the hell kind of question is that? You stare at him, eyebrows furrowed and mouth hanging open, stunned by the audacity. But then you realized… if he’s asking about your panties, then it means he’s still thinking about it.

Now this time, you’re the one with the smirk. “Still thinking about my underwear, Congressman?”

You had to silently applaud yourself for coming up with a smartass response for his smartass question. You lean back in your chair, arms and legs crossed to mirror his posture, thinking he’s probably regretting opening his mouth now. Surely he’s about to get flustered and backpedal—

“That depends,” he says smoothly, that smirk never leaving his face. “I’m just trying to figure out if my wife’s a good girl or not.”

You freeze, and you quickly pick up the menu to cover your face, hiding the raging blush you’ve got going on now. There wasn’t even any wine at the table, so where the hell is he suddenly getting all this confidence from?

“I—I’m not… your wife yet,” you stammer, refusing to make eye contact with him and keeping it locked on the menu.

He lets out a low and deep chuckle that rumbles in his chest, and you’re realizing now that that was the first time you’ve ever heard anything remotely close to a laugh from him. Even though you’ve only known him for a day, you had to figuratively give yourself a pat on the back for making this grumpy man chuckle.

The waiter approaches soon after, and you both place your orders. A few minutes later, your food arrives, along with a bottle of wine, compliments of the house. Apparently, being wined and dined with a U.S. Congressman has its perks. Free stuff, for one!

After a few sips of wine and bites of your meals, there was only the sound of silverware hitting the porcelain plates. The silence stretches long enough that you finally decide to break it.

“So,” you ask between a bite, then motion to his left hand with your knife, “why are you wearing a glove now?”

You see him tense up at your question, and you instantly regret it. He looked uncomfortable, so you swallowed your food and immediately started backtracking.

“Sorry, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I understand—”

“It draws too much attention,” he cuts in after taking a sip of his wine. “Negative attention. Everytime I’m on that podium, the press always finds a way to bring it up.”

You frown. His metal arm was something that clearly bothered him, and you get it. You know what it feels like to be knit-picked at when it comes to appearances. The world isn’t kind to women, especially women like you, who have a strong voice and an image in society to uphold. They say a bunch of terrible stuff, especially online. Down to your mannerisms, your appearance, your weight. Everything.

People love to reduce you to parts.

And the world also isn't kind to James Buchannan Barnes. A man who served the country, and paid the price for it by being morphed into a weapon. A man who helped save the world, yet is still being seen as a dangerous threat to the nation.

“You shouldn’t cover it up,” you say softly. “It’s a beautiful arm.”

He looks you over the rim of his wine glass, pausing before he takes a sip and raises an eyebrow at you. “It isn’t,” he mutters. “It’s a weapon.”

“No, it isn’t,” you insist. You reach your hand across the table and lay it over his left hand gently. The leather of his glove is cool under your fingertips. He tenses, but he doesn’t move.

“It’s vibranium. Crafted with care, and a gift straight from Wakanda. It’s not a weapon, Bucky. It’s beautiful, and it’s part of you. It deserves to be seen.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker to your hand resting over his. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something, something vulnerable. But instead, he gently pulls his hand back, withdrawing himself from you.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s beautiful or not,” he mutters bluntly, keeping his eyes downcasted towards his food. “It makes people uncomfortable. And that’s not something I feel like dealing with.”

Your frown deepens. You want to argue against him, explain to him that it’s not something he should be ashamed of. But the sad truth was, you don’t really know him. Not on a personal level, at least. Not beyond the title and the arrangements. So instead, you reluctantly sigh and give him a gentle nod, not wanting to press the issue even more.

A part of you had to remind yourself that this was simply all for show, and you shouldn’t cross a boundary that didn’t need to be crossed. All you had to do was to stay within your lane and continue this marriage as if it were any other business proposal.

The rest of the evening eventually dies down. He pays for the bill and now you’re both outside of the restaurant, waiting for your respective rides.

“You sure you don’t want a ride home?” he asks, keeping a polite distance, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

“No, that’s alright. George should be here any minute,” you wave your hand dismissively. “Thanks though.” you add with a forced tight-lipped smile.

Ever since you brought up his glove and the topic of his arm, the rest of the dinner was completely tense. You tried your best to redirect the conversation into something more lighthearted and playful, to try and get to genuinely know him, but he was completely closed off. It was as if he drew up an invisible wall just to shut you out. And you weren’t about to keep pushing just to crash into it again.

“Don’t forget,” he reminds you, keeping a professional and strict tone. “We have Valentina’s gala tomorrow night. Then a photoshoot later in the week for the engagement.”

You nod without saying a word.

Then, he turns slightly toward you. “If you have a preference for the ring, let me know. I can’t promise I’ll get exactly what you want, but I’ll take it under advisement.”

You just blink at him. Why even ask if it doesn’t matter?

You just let out a shaky exhale and turn to him with that forced smile of yours. “Sure thing, Congressman.”

He raises a brow, confused. “Are you upset?”

You continue gazing off into the distance, scanning the street for your car. “Why would I be upset, Congressman?”

He sighs sharply. “Stop calling me that. You said you’d call me Bucky. You know—for appearances. To keep it ‘natural,’ remember?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “Didn’t realize how hard it was to be natural when nothing about this arrangement actually is.”

Bucky just scoffs and shakes his head. “I told you we should’ve just stuck with the files. It would’ve been easier that way. More efficient–”

“Yeah, because God forbid someone actually tries to get to know you.” You mutter, arms crossed and tapping your heel against the pavement impatiently.

You didn’t realize how crude you sounded until the words escaped your lips. But to be honest, you were annoyed with the whole situation. You tried getting into this engagement with a positive upbeat attitude—seeing the benefit of it all, but Bucky was anything but positive and upbeat.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he mutters.

“Neither did I,” you immediately shoot back, glaring up at him. “But we both need this, and based on what I heard from Voss—you especially need this. But at least I’m trying to make it work. You invited me out tonight to try and get to ‘know each other’, yet you haven’t asked a single thing about me other than the color of my underwear and a sad flirting attempt!”

His face flushes, and he glances around quickly like someone might’ve overheard. “Jesus,” he hisses, dragging a hand over his mouth. “That—That was a joke , alright?”

You cock a brow, arms crossed. “Oh, so you do have a sense of humor. Who knew?”

His jaw clenches and he glances around again, double checking to make sure that you two weren’t being watched. Then he closes the distance between you in one sharp step. He leans in, eyes locked on yours, voice dropping low enough that only you can hear it.

“I know enough to tell you’ve got a smart mouth. You’ve got an attitude. You push my buttons just to see what’ll happen. You’re a brat. You’re nothing like the public makes you out to be. And most importantly,” he leans in closer, his voice dropping deeper. “You’re not a good girl.”

Your eyebrow twitches in annoyance. This man was completely insufferable. How is it that he’s a stuttering mess one minute and then he’s all confident and sly the next? You hate this. You hate him . And you’re not one to back down after being told off like this. Congressman or not.

So you lean in closer, matching his energy, your lips nearly brushing his ear.

“Red,” you mutter, your voice low and confident.

He’s thrown off guard, visibly confused. “What?”

You hear the low rumbling sounds of an engine, and headlights sweep over you both as George pulls the SUV up to the curb.

“The color of my underwear is red,” you repeat, giving him a sly grin. “So, what kind of girl does that make me now, Bucky ?”

And with that, you separate yourself from him. George steps out and opens the door for you with a small nod and you greet him with an innocent wave. You slip inside the backseat, and before you drive away, you roll your window down.

“See you at the gala, my dear fiancée,” you call sweetly, then blow him a playful air kiss.

He just stands there, scowling at you. His arms were crossed, watching you drive off into the night, listening to your soft and triumphant laugh slowly fade into the distance.

And now he’s left alone, outside the restaurant, feeling pissed off, confused, and annoyingly turned on.

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bakugoushotwife · 2 years ago

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kinktober day five: size kink

>>> so obviously there is no other option size kink and toji fushiguro are synonymous in my book! i do call him zen'in in this so i guess we can be mama fushiguro lmao! i hope you guys are having a good time with kinktober so far :D

>>> starring toji (zen'in) fushiguro x curvy!fem!reader >>> cw: size kink duh, daddy kink i'm not apologizing anymore, reader is stuck in a washer, doggy, oral (fem receiving), reader is used to shit men lol >>> wc: 2.3k >>> event masterlist

toji is massive, in every form of the word. he’s tall, towering over most people he comes across at his looming stature. most of the time, tall people were lanky and lean, slender with limbs that stretch for days. he didn’t fit the stereotype. toji was beefy, his biceps were the size of your head and his hands could cover your entire face. his arms aren’t where it stops either, his chest is broad; he’s so impossibly wide, always struggling to find clothes that fit him right. not that you mind too much of course, watching those poor t-shirts try to contain him rile you up to no end every time. he was always there to grab whatever you needed off of high shelves, changing lightbulbs and dusting the ceiling fans because it was all too easy for him to do. he was ridiculously strong, able to open even the tightest of jars and sweep you into his arms like it was nothing. it wasn’t like you ever overlooked toji’s size, it’s just that you never thought yourself all that small.

in fact, you struggled with your figure a bit, never quite knowing where you fit in for most of your life. boys either made you feel too insecure over your size or only ever wanted you for that curvy and voluptuous figure. at first, toji was no different, knowing how to talk at a beautiful girl when he sees one. he approaches you, lays out some dirty and cheesy pick up line that’s not even remotely close to original, and is honestly surprised when you snort through your nose and roll your eyes.

“i had more hope outta you, you were actually cute.” you sneer, quickly turning to keep walking down the quiet streets without any more trouble. and that was it–you really weren’t going to give him a second glance even though you admitted he was attractive? he had never really been turned down before, his looks alone enough to open any door. seems with a body like that you were used to gross one-liners.

“hey, little lady, wait.” he said, his voice a little softer than it had been when he was hitting on you before. you had already walked a few feet away, but noticing the slight change in disposition, you halted. “maybe that was a bit much, i got ahead’a myself.” he says, tilting his head down in an apology. “let me make it up to ya?”

your eyes narrowed at him. his arms were folded over his chest, the fabric of the struggling shirt expanding to its fullest potential. his hair ruffled a bit with the warm breeze that blew through, the color of his locks as dark as the night sky—though his eyes shone like the stars above too, something in the green expanses of the hazy orbs twisting your gut and making you decide that if anybody deserves a second chance, it was this sexy stranger. could you even be that angry at him for his lewd comment when you were eyeing him down too, only thinking of his physical attributes?

at your hesitation he speaks again. “let me walk you home. it’s late, and like i said, you’re very pretty.” he raises his brow as if asking one final time. you breathe some air out through your nose, suspiciously looking him up and down at the offer. “no funny business, just protection, little lady.” he swears with his hands by his head.

you hum, nodding your head for him to follow you as you start walking, hips swinging and hair swaying. when he thinks back on it maybe he fell in love right here, watching you stomp towards your house with way more attitude than your tiny body should contain, doing your damndest to try and play hard to get. but toji’s no fool. he follows you, he increases his strides to catch up with a small effort, but he’s walking beside you with a smug look on his face.

he makes meaningless chit-chat, learns about some of your hobbies and about your job. he gets your phone number, and apologizes one last charismatic time before you shut the door of your apartment and he’s walking back home, thinking of how he rarely plays the long game for a woman. but he knew you were worth it, the perfect little thing to brighten his days.

unlike you, toji realized how tiny you were immediately. sure, you were curvy and your chest and ass definitely were not small–you even had a little tummy to you, but you were just so short and compact, he knew he could manhandle you like a toy. not to mention how cute and bratty you were, he was all but compelled to be your man and fuck that attitude right out of you.

so the long game he played, talking to and courting you like a proper adult, though it isn’t long until you’re accepting him into your home and letting him tame that bratty streak of yours.

and you’re so glad you decided to give the ginormous stranger another go. he earns his place in your heart and in your home in under a year, and you’ve been grateful for his presence around the house. he makes you feel safe and protected, your own personal security guard. no place could be safer than those hulking arms trapping you to a chest at least two times as wide as yours. his hands always felt so warm and rough against your frame, seeing them against your body always made you feel like the daintiest thing in the whole world. god, and the way those enormous fingers moved inside your little hole—

maybe that’s why you thought you thought you could rely on the burly man you’ve come to love to be the perfect boyfriend he’s shown you he can be, despite the weird looks you get walking around in public with toji zen’in. you never minded the whispers or the rumors of his reputation, you knew him better than anyone, another reason you thought that when you screamed out his name for help, that he’d come running to your rescue.

to which in part, he did, to his credit. when he heard your voice far away in the laundry room hollering for him, sounding a little too afraid for his comfort, he was there in an instant. but rescuing? nah. he couldn’t help but laugh at your compromising situation. you’re face first in the top load washer, your top-half completely invisible, ass and legs squirming in the air. of course you’d fall in, the height of the washer was something you often complained about; you had to basically crawl inside the machinery to get clothes in and out, and it annoyed you to no end. now, the worst had happened and here you are. you couldn’t even just push yourself out due to how high your legs dangle, you’d surely fall.

you know what they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and as good as toji has been to you, he can’t repress the perverted fantasy his mind drums up at the sight of your tiny body stuck in the washer. you kick your feet harder at the sound of his laughter, to which he can only belly chuckle harder.

“you need some help, darlin’?” he teases, large hands wrapping around your ankles, halting your kicking immediately. he holds your legs there by his thighs, standing between them. he smirks down at your fat ass jiggling and recoiling as you try to squirm your way up the washer. he chuckles at your failures and the sounds of frustrations that follow, until you finally whine out for help.

“toji— just get me out of here.” you pout flatly, folding your arms over your chest inside the barrel. he chuckles deeply again, sliding his hands up your bare legs until they came across the mounds of your ass. he squeezes the flesh almost tenderly.

“but little lady,” he hums as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and slowly drags them down your legs. he has to kneel to get the garment completely off, but he doesn’t mind. he decides kneeling is advantageous for him, especially once he sees your pretty little hole clenching around nothing, just eager to be filled. “ya look like a little toy from down here,’nd i’m thinkin i oughta play.” he has to spread your ass cheeks a little bit to see you in all your glory before he leans in to lick a stripe from glistening slit to your puckering asshole. he growls at the flavor, something he just can’t stop himself from doing no matter how many times he gets to taste you. you can feel the soft tickle of his hair against the insides of your thighs, the searing heat of his tongue making your squirm back against him in a desperate search for more.

you should have known toji would be greedy, taking advantage of your inability to move and abusing that to the fullest. he laps at you, shoving his fat tongue into your tiny little hole, fucking it wider for his cock to use. after all these months of him fucking you open, you were still so tight and small. you hug even his tongue, silky wet walls making his eyes roll back a little bit. his large hands hold your asscheeks, kneading like a kitten making biscuits, even though it felt more like a lion pawing at you. you taste so good, it has his cock jumping against his zipper and begging for freedom. he decides to deny himself that simple pleasure, focused on driving more of those cute little whimpers from your lips. the tunnel of the washer was amplifying all your sounds, and he felt the torture of not having your tiny cunt wrapped tight around his cock every passing second.

you were panting, beginning to feel dizzy from being nearly upside down. every stroke of toji’s tongue massaging your fluttering entrance and the intensity of his deft fingers flicking your clit combined sent you spiraling, both physically and literally, towards the edge. he can’t help but lean back and watch the way you fuck yourself back on his mouth for more, picking up the pace of his fingers to send you over your limit. it’s so cute to watch your thighs clench down and shiver as you cum, screeching and begging for his dick next.

and who was the feared sorcerer killer to deny such a sweet request from his beloved? his pants are off, belt clinking against the floor. you ready yourself, feeling the rough warmth of his hands envelop your sides and his hips cleave your thighs apart yet again. he’s so strong, he doesn’t even have to use his hands to toss you around, positioning you exactly the way he needs you to fuck you into pieces. his cock splits your lower lips and he unceremoniously bottoms out, eyes clenched shut at how your tiny cunt grips him. your jaw drops with the feeling of being so full at once, his cock just as broad and long as the rest of him. he kisses your cervix before he’s even started moving and you’re already squirming and crying like always. the stretch burns, every time feels like your first with toji. especially like this, you’re bent in half and he’s so deep in doggy that you’re seeing stars—though that could be due to the dizziness swirling around your head.

“so tight f’me like always, gorgeous.” he chuffs, drawing back to the tip and plowing his length back in, entranced by how you clench and release around him. you mewl your acknowledgement, your hips eagerly moving back against him for more friction, his strokes deliriously slow.

he notes your impatience, amused.

“need more, little thing?” he teases, licking his smirking lips at the sound of your pathetic whines and kicks. you nod eagerly, realizing he can’t see it.

“yes, daddy, please! need you to make me cum–”

before you can finish your sentence, he’s punishing you for asking for it. this angle is so unforgiving, you can feel every vein decorating his shaft as he destroys you, the tip colliding with your womb so hard it has your toes curling and vision going white. his grunts are so low and delicious, a reward for the perfect pussy you offer him nightly. it’s so good, he can’t stop until he beats your insides into the shape of the dick making you scream right now.

your ass bounces around his thrusts, absorbing every snap of his hips into your unsuspecting and fragile body. he loves watching you break, like his own personal little doll.

“cum–daddy oh my god i’m gonna cum so hard!” you whine, thrashing.

“oh coat this cock, babygirl.” he groans, feeling himself letting go, unable to fight back against your vice grip anymore. “cum with me, need to feel it.” his head falls back as you spasm around him, the vision of your little pussy accommodating his size too much to bear.

“god, please toji!! cum, cum, i need it so bad.” you whimper, your voice so breathy and tired, so beautiful as you beg for his load. it’s already established that he can’t deny you, so he doesn’t. he slides his cock in and out of your slick one last time, hissing as his balls tighten and explode into your cunt, white-hot and heavy. it fills you to the brim like it always does, even when his enormous dick withdraws from you and the mix starts to escape down your thighs you still feel impossibly full.

finally, he rights you onto your feet, his strong steady hands keeping you upright as you wobble a bit. when your vision stops spinning and you bring yourself to open your eyes again, you’re met with toji’s smirking face. his eyes are lazy with amusement and love as he looks at you, giving you an affectionate pat to the head.

“kinda wanted to leave you there ‘nd keep usin’ ya like that.”

#kyleewritesjjk #kylee's kinktober event #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #jjk x reader #toji thirst #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #toji zenin #jjk toji #fushiguro toji #toji zenin x reader #toji x size kink

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airandyeah · 2 months ago

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Bastard Prince!Gojo X Foreign Princess!Reader Heavy Is The Crown Pt.8

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

Two Days Before the Wedding

Snowflakes swirl like confetti from the heavens as bells toll across the castle grounds, signaling the start of the ceremony rehearsal.

You’re wrapped in a cloak the color of garnet, fur-lined and fastened delicately at your collarbone with a golden pin shaped like a flame. It’s beautiful—gifted by Satoru just this morning with a wink and a note that read, “Something warm for the fire I’m marrying.”

You suspect it was meant to make you blush.

It worked.

The cathedral chapel, where the official ceremony will take place, looms ahead in ivory stone and stained glass, its high arches and towering doors fit for the gods. It’s colder inside than expected, the silence broken only by the rustle of attendants and the shuffle of noble guests practicing where they’ll sit.

Satoru is already there, standing beside his best man Suguru and the royal priest. His white formal jacket gleams in the sunlight pouring through the windows, and the moment his eyes find you, his grin grows wicked.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he calls across the aisle, loud enough for all to hear. “Was almost worried I’d have to marry Nanami.”

Nanami doesn’t even flinch. “I’d be a better queen.”

You smirk, taking your place beside the altar, opposite Satoru. “Don’t tempt me. He reads.”

The priest coughs politely. “Shall we begin?”

The practice begins stiffly—choreographed movements, detailed instructions, and a long list of what not to do on the actual day. You’re told when to bow, how long to pause before speaking, where to place your hands when the crowns are set upon your heads.

But as you and Satoru are instructed to step forward and “gaze into one another’s eyes for a beat of silence,” something shifts.

His fingers brush against yours.

It’s nothing. Barely there.

But your pulse betrays you.

Satoru’s voice drops just low enough for you to hear. “If you faint at the altar, I’m catching you. But only because you’re pretty.”

You fight the smile tugging at your lips. “If I faint, it’ll be from boredom. Your vows better be good.”

He leans in slightly, voice like silk. “Mine will be unforgettable. I’ve written them to make you cry.”

“You’re promising emotional manipulation now?”

“It’s called romance, princess.”

“Touché.”

The priest clears his throat again—louder this time.

The moment passes, and the rehearsal rolls on, but the fire between you remains steady. Beneath layers of duty and tradition, the spark has become something more.

And all around you, the court watches—some with approval, some with jealousy, and one in particular, seething from the shadows, waiting for her opening. ~~~ The throne room is dimly lit, long shadows cast by the flickering sconces as you and Satoru are summoned by your respective parents for a “final discussion of ceremonial expectations.”

You sit beside him in stiff silence, hands folded neatly, posture perfect—until the royal advisor clears his throat and begins reading aloud from a scroll that seems impossibly long.

“The wedding, as you both understand, will conclude with the crowning and kiss of union,” he drones, “followed by the beginning of the three ceremonial days of royal merging.”

You raise a brow. Royal merging?

Satoru side-eyes you, whispering, “Sounds filthy already.”

You stifle a snort just as the advisor continues:

“Day one, the wedding itself, culminates in the formal exchange of power. Day two, a banquet of prosperity to welcome your union. And day three... the sealing.”

Satoru blinks. “The what?”

The man doesn’t flinch. “The sealing of the bond must be witnessed—your union physically consummated under tradition. You will be guided to the joining chambers where your silhouettes will remain behind silk screens, with select members of the high court bearing witness to ensure the act is... fulfilled.”

Silence.

It stretches uncomfortably.

Your mouth parts slightly, eyes wide. “You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no,” your mother says, voice tense with embarrassment, though clearly aware of the custom long before you were.

Satoru just blinks slowly. “That’s... that’s horrifying.”

The king leans forward, unimpressed. “It is tradition. It assures the realm that the bond is legitimate. That heirs will be produced.”

“Oh, so it's not a wedding, it’s a performance,” Satoru mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Fantastic.”

Your father tries to soothe it with, “You will be behind silks. Shadows only. You’ll be guided on how to remain... composed.”

“Composed?” you say sharply. “While pretending to—no. While actually—”

Satoru’s hand finds yours under the table.

Warm. Firm. Real.

“I’ll make sure you’re alright,” he says quietly, voice low enough only for you. “Even if we have to burn the silk screens afterward.”

Your parents don’t seem amused.

The advisor scrolls further. “On the final day, you will present yourselves in the morning to be anointed as divinely bonded. Then the marriage is considered unbreakable.”

You don’t speak again until the meeting is over and you’re being escorted down the corridor side by side. The weight of what’s expected presses heavy on your shoulders, though Satoru remains unusually quiet.

Finally, he exhales. “We could run, you know.”

You glance up.

“I’ll steal you away. South. Or west. Somewhere without screens.”

Despite the heat in your face, you manage a faint smile. “And leave them all whispering forever?”

He looks at you, gaze lingering. “They’ll whisper either way. Might as well give them something worth talking about.” ~~~ The Wedding Day

Snow falls in soft spirals through the courtyard, blanketing the world in silence. The bells ring out like a dirge and a promise, each toll signaling the approach of a new reign—a new queen.

You’re already dressed.

The gown is heavy. Icy white, nearly blue in the right light, and lined with tiny pearls that glitter like frost. It was not your choice.

Every piece of it had been selected for you weeks ago by Northern tailors and court advisors—right down to the sheer veil that rests like a cage over your hair, like the lid on a treasure chest meant for display. You hadn’t been asked. Only fitted.

Gone are the warm tones and golden trims of your homeland. Gone is the fire in your sleeves. You’re a statue now—their bride.

Your mother, for once, says nothing as she fastens the last clasp at the base of your neck. Her fingers linger, heavy with quiet regret. She doesn’t recognize you in this reflection.

Neither do you.

In the cathedral, nobles line the pews like rows of marble statues. Fur-lined collars. Pale silks. Crowns and judgment sharpened like blades. It’s frigid in every sense of the word.

Satoru stands at the altar, dressed in ceremonial ivory. And somehow, he gets to wear gold.

His eyes flick toward the entrance the moment the first notes of the wedding hymn rise up from the string quartet. When he sees you, the expression on his face twists—just slightly.

You don’t know what he expected, but it clearly wasn’t this version of you. Not the girl in pure white. Not the symbol. Not the sacrifice.

He looks angry.

Not at you.

At them.

But when you finally reach him, his hand extends without hesitation—steady, gloved in black, the only color on the altar.

You place your hand in his.

He leans in. His voice is a breath: “They dressed you like a ghost.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. “Because they want me to haunt myself.”

His thumb brushes your palm. “You won’t.”

The ceremony begins.

Every word feels centuries old. Heavy. Binding. The vows are formal, dictated by law, and recited without variation—no room for personal truth. They crown you together, speak of unity and prosperity, of bloodlines and duty.

No one mentions love.

But Satoru watches you the entire time, even as he bows, even as he kneels. As if tethered not by ritual, but by something far more stubborn.

Then at last: “You may seal this union with a kiss.”

He pulls your veil back slowly. His fingers linger.

The kiss is soft.

Barely a whisper of contact—but in it, there’s more rebellion than the entire war they waged dressing you in white. He doesn’t kiss you like a claim. He kisses you like a question, and then a promise.

When he pulls back, his voice ghosts against your mouth.

“We burn tomorrow.”

Applause thunders around you.

But you only hear him. ~~~ The Day After the Wedding

The palace is drenched in golden sunlight when you rise. Snow still lines the rooftops, but the skies have cleared as if the heavens themselves have decided to be merciful—just for a day.

Servants bustle in the halls.

Banners in white and gold hang from every arched column, bearing your new crest: a union of northern steel and southern flame, inked in perfect symmetry. A symbol of your marriage. A reminder.

You are no longer simply a daughter of the South.

You are Crown Princess of the North.

And today, you must act like it.

The morning begins with endless congratulations. Nobles flood the reception chamber in waves, each one with flatteries sharp as knives wrapped in silk.

"Such a graceful bride," one duchess purrs. "You looked like a true northern queen," says another. "And so modestly dressed," adds a third, clearly pleased with her own hand in the gown’s selection.

You smile with teeth.

Satoru stands beside you through it all, tall and effortlessly poised, but you feel the tension coiled in his jaw. He says little—but when he does, it’s always just pointed enough to walk the line between civil and smug.

“She shines better in red, I think,” he tells one elder countess who fawns too long over your ‘pure and humble’ attire.

You catch yourself smiling, just a little.

By midday, you’re ushered into a smaller council chamber.

Record-keepers, scribes, and historians await. It is tradition: the marriage must be written into the royal ledgers—signed, sealed, and preserved for generations to come.

You sit side by side at the long table, quills handed to you in unison.

The scribe reads aloud from a formal scroll:

“On this day, the second after the union, Crown Prince Satoru Gojo and Crown Princess Consort—”

“Not consort,” Satoru interrupts suddenly, voice firm. “She is my wife. My equal.”

Silence follows.

The scribe, flustered, adjusts. “Ah. Yes. Apologies, Your Highness. Crown Princess…”

He continues, carefully.

When you both sign your names in ink, the weight of it sinks like iron into your bones. This part feels real in a way the vows didn’t. There is no music, no altar, no applause. Just paper. And permanence.

After, you're given a moment of reprieve—a balcony overlooking the west wing gardens. Satoru pours you a glass of wine with an exaggerated sigh.

“They say we’re officially married now.”

“I thought we were yesterday,” you murmur, leaning on the balustrade.

“No, yesterday we were ceremoniously married. Today we’re bureaucratically married.”

You chuckle softly. “And tomorrow?”

He sips slowly. “Tomorrow we’re exhibitionistically married.”

Your smile fades slightly, replaced by a silent knot in your stomach.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Hey.” He turns to face you, serious now. “I told you. I’ll make sure you’re alright.”

You nod once, throat tight. “I know.”

And for now—that’s enough.

Taglist: @megumuro , @pickledsoda , @jinjen , @bubera974 Perm Tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #x reader #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #prince gojo #princess!reader #royalty au

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foreverisntenough · 4 months ago

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‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 5- 'Maybe' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11.3k

[Run For The Hills - Tate McRae]

The bathroom was impossibly vast, its marble stretching endlessly beneath your bare feet, cold and grounding against the remnants of heat still pulsing through your body. You lost count of the orgasms and couldn’t count the number of positions. Lust had combusted in the bedroom on the other side of the closed door behind you. But here, the dim, ambient light casted a soft glow over everything, making the room feel dreamlike, unreal. Maybe that’s what this was—some fever dream of pleasure and recklessness, a moment suspended outside of time where nothing else mattered but the way he felt, the way he touched you, the way he ruined you.

But now, in the quiet, in the aftermath, it was just you and your reflection. You gripped the edge of the vanity, its smooth stone cool beneath your fingertips as you studied the girl in the mirror. You looked like you had just been fucked. Thoroughly, deliciously, sinfully so. Your hair was an untamed mess, the strands falling over your shoulders, a testament to the hands that had tangled in them, gripping, tugging, holding you where he wanted. Your mascara had smudged just beneath your lower lash line, little shadows of intensity left in the wake of the night. Your lips—God, your lips—were swollen, their color worn at the edges from too many kisses, from the way he had claimed your mouth like he owned it. You sighed, exhaling slowly, and when your gaze met itself again, something shifted. You didn’t just look like you’d had sex—you looked like you’d had the best fucking sex of your life. Your skin was still flushed, glowing with a warmth that came from something far deeper than physicality. A secret little curl played at the edges of your mouth, an unspoken memory lingering there. Your collarbone was marked with the remnants of his lips, the evidence of where he had worshipped you, where he had let his hunger leave a trail of whispered promises on your skin. And yet… You reached for the faucet, turning it on just to fill the silence, the sound of rushing water a poor distraction for the storm raging inside you. You cupped some in your hands, pressing the coolness to your face, letting it run down your neck, hoping it might wash away the contradictions tightening in your chest.

Because you felt alive—a feverish, aching buzz humming beneath your skin, a lingering echo of pleasure still fluttering in your belly. But with it came the sharp edge of fear, slicing through the warmth like a cruel afterthought. You felt like you wanted to fall in love with him. And you felt like you wanted to run away and never look back. You felt like you were special—the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way he whispered your name like it was sacred. But maybe… maybe you were just one of many. Maybe this was all a game he had mastered, a perfect performance, the same script he’d rehearsed with others before you. You felt taken care of, but was that just part of the act? Worst of all, you felt beautiful. And God help you—you were praying that wasn’t just a lie to get what you had already given.

Trent rolled onto his back, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The sheets were warm, tangled around his legs, still carrying the remnants of your body heat. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his mind was anything but calm. He didn’t reach for his phone. That was unusual. Normally, this would be the part where he disconnected—checked out, let the high fade, let the distance settle before it ever had the chance to turn into something real. But instead, he stayed here, rooted in the moment, yet floating somewhere far away. Because this didn’t feel like usual. Not one bit. And yet, somehow, this felt more real than anything ever had. His fingers grazed absently over the sheets where you had just been, tracing the lingering warmth next to him, the ghost of your presence still imprinted there. His arm outstretched and the scariest bit was that he wished you were there. He used to let out a sigh of relief when a girl left the bed. He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling, unraveling into something that felt dangerously close to too much. The past few hours had been—fuck, what had they been? The best he’d ever felt.The best sex of his life. But more than that, something had shifted, something deep and terrifyingly unguarded. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he had felt seen. Understood. Not just for his body, not just for what he could give, but for something beyond all that. The way you looked at him, the way you touched him—it was like you weren’t just taking from him, like you were giving too, like you wanted him, not just the idea of him. And that scared the shit out of him. Because this was never supposed to happen. He had walked into this night with a plan—fuck you, get it out of his system, and move on. And now? Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted that. He wasn’t sure he really ever did. But he wasn’t sure he was ready for anything else, either. You were terrifying. Terrifyingly real. Too close to something he hadn’t even known he could want. You were too good, too nice, too fucking stunning. Too good in bed, too nice to look at, too much of a risk to let in. And worst of all—he had no idea what you wanted. The thought gnawed at him, twisted inside his chest like something sharp and unfamiliar. Was this just sex for you? Did you already have one foot out the door, ready to write this off as some reckless night and nothing more? Or were you feeling what he was feeling—this terrifying, unspoken something pressing in from all sides? His eyes flickered around the dimly lit room, landing on your bag and your jacket. You said you didn’t want to lose it. But did you bring those things with you because you planned on staying? Or did you bring them because you were going to leave the second you got your breath back? He sat up against the headboard, running a hand down his face, frustration and anticipation tightening his chest in equal measure. And then— A sliver of light cut into the room as the ensuite door cracked open. He looked up.

And there you were.

“Hey baby.” The word slipped from his lips in a quiet murmur, but it didn’t sound the way it used to. It almost sounded foreign, even to him. It wasn’t some smooth-talking trick, not a casual, throwaway pet name meant to tease or charm. No, it was softer now—unconscious, instinctive. Something endearing. Something real. His lips curled into a lazy, lopsided smile, one he wasn’t even aware of, but if he caught himself in the mirror, he would’ve recognized it instantly. Your breath hitched at the sound of the word, it was so obviously different than when he said it all that time ago in Spain but you shoved the lump forming in your throat down.

“Hi…” you echoed, your voice hushed, almost hesitant, like you weren’t sure what came next. A smile flickered across your lips before you bit down lightly on the tip of your finger, a nervous little habit, one he immediately clocked. You glanced around the dimly lit room, eyes searching for the scattered pieces of your clothing. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe you were already bracing for the inevitable. Was this the part where you left? Trent watched you carefully, his gaze softening as he took in every detail—your lips, swollen and kiss-bitten; the way his shirt you’d nicked from him, hung off your frame, oversized and impossibly sexy; the warm, post-bliss glow that still lingered on your skin. You were wrecked from him, and yet somehow, you had never looked more beautiful. Then you looked at him. And everything slowed. Your eyes met, holding, lingering. There was no expectation, no pressure, just a quiet understanding stretching between you in the stillness. His fingers flexed against the sheets, a silent war waging within him. The part of him that had always been quick to detach, to create space, to pull away should have told you to gather your things. But another part of him—the part that had been unraveling all night—didn’t want you to leave. Didn’t want distance. So instead, he gave you a lazy, knowing nod. A silent invitation. Come back to me.

And just like that, you let go of whatever instinct had you looking for your clothes, padding barefoot across the plush carpet, crawling back into the warmth of tangled white sheets and soft duvets, and—most importantly—him. Trent barely breathed as you settled beside him. You didn’t intentionally do it, it was like your body was magnetic to his. Drawn immediately to his side by force, not will.

The weight of you in his hotel bed, the warmth of your body pressing close—it should’ve felt foreign, wrong even, but it didn’t. It felt effortless. It felt like something he wanted. When you curled into him, rolling onto your side and tucking your cheek against his shoulder, one hand splayed wide across his chest, a lifetime of old instincts screamed that he should stiffen, should create space, should make this easier when the morning inevitably came. But he didn’t. Instead, his body melted instinctually. His arm wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you in tighter, closer, like he needed you there. And suddenly, it wasn’t terrifying at all. Not with you. This wasn’t some mistake he’d regret in the morning. This wasn’t a risk. It was the safest he’d ever felt.

“C’mere, you alright?” His voice was low, thick with something softer than exhaustion, something deeper than satisfaction. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, guiding you effortlessly until your cheek rested against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His skin was warm beneath your touch, his heartbeat a slow, grounding rhythm in the quiet of the dimly lit room. You had draped an arm over him, your elbow bent just enough for your fingers to find their rightful place against his bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over the toned plane of his chest. A hum of contentment left your lips, a quiet little sound that made him exhale, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding melting away. Your presence alleviating it all. You pressed a delicate kiss to his chest, and his lips followed suit, brushing against the crown of your head. “Did so good for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath, but heavy with meaning. His hand slipped beneath the hem of the shirt you’d stolen—the same one he’d stripped off hours ago in a haze of urgency—fingertips ghosting up and down the length of your spine in slow, soothing strokes. You shivered, not from cold but from the intimacy of it, from the way he was still touching you like he wanted to, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“Not just saying that?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, the weight of the question pressing between you. It hung in the space like an exposed wire, open to interpretation—was it teasing? A playful jab? Or was it something rawer, something that bled from the quietest, most vulnerable parts of you? Trent stilled for a beat, then let out a slow, quiet sigh.

“Nah,” he said, his voice rich with sincerity, deep and sure in the darkness. “You’re perfect, beautiful.” He nuzzled against your hair, inhaling softly, his hold on you tightening just for a second. Like he needed you to know that he meant it. You fit against him too well. Like something designed just for him. A breath hitched in his throat before he spoke again, his voice softer, laced with a rare hesitance. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up and take care of you…” He exhaled sharply, like the words felt foreign in his mouth, like he was stepping onto unfamiliar ground. “I didn’t know if you wanted that. I know it got a little rough so are you– And I— If you wanted me—” Your sleepy voice cut him off before he could spiral further.

“I want you,” you murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then, softer, “But I have you right here. That’s good for me.” You punctuated the words with a slow, lazy kiss against his chest. Then another. And another. Each one seeping into his skin, settling into the places that had been untouched for far too long. The kisses you pressed against his bare chest weren’t just kisses—they were something more, something searing. Each press of your lips burned into his skin like the heated edge of a brand, shaping the ghost of your mouth against him, a mark he knew he’d carry long after this night was over. Trent wondered if you knew. If you realized what you were doing. Did you understand that you were sending him back into the city with your touch still clinging to him, invisible yet inescapable? That beneath his shirt, beneath the smooth facade he wore so well, he would carry you like a secret wound, raw and humming? He could already feel it—that phantom ache, the slow, smoldering imprint of you, of this. No one else would see it, but he would. He would feel it in every breath, in every shift, in every brush of his fingers over the places where you had left yourself behind. He sighed, rubbing his thumb over your spine, shutting his eyes for a moment, realization settling over him like smoke from a fire he had no intention of putting out—maybe he was a masochist. Maybe he’d let you cover him in a searing blaze of burning kisses, branding him over and over again, if it meant that when he looked down, he’d still find you there. Just like you were now—soft against him, innocent in the way only dreams and illusions could be, your lashes fluttering like quiet whispers, your skin warm, silken, pressed to his like you belonged there. Your scent wrapped around him, sweet and inescapable, dragging him deeper into this delusional euphoria where even the burns felt like pleasure, where the ache of you was something he never wanted to fade. If pain was the price of keeping you with him, etched into him, then so be it. He would wear you like a scar, like a masterpiece painted in fire, and call it love. Love? What was he thinking? Trent was spinning out in a mental war with himself before you hummed again. “That alright?” You whispered as your fingertips traced slow, delicate shapes against his skin, patterns he wished he could memorize but he was distracted. He didn’t know what they meant, but maybe they didn’t have to mean anything at all—maybe it was just the way you touched him, with ease, with a quiet tenderness that made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t sure he had the words for.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice calmer now, but laced with something unspoken, something just a little unsure. He glanced down at you, eyes soft as they took in the way you looked beneath the glow of the city lights spilling faintly through the curtains. Your lashes fluttered, your features relaxed, beautifully undone. You fit against him like you belonged there.

“This is perfect,�� you murmured, slipping somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, caught in the haze of post-bliss vulnerability, the push and pull of uncertainty, and the deep, inexplicable comfort of being right where you were. “Right here…” Then, as if some part of you still feared the weight of your own words, you whispered, “That okay?” You asked for his approval twice and you felt silly but Trent felt his heart clench, something foreign yet undeniably warm curling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice softer than he intended, but truer than anything he’d ever said. “That’s okay too. Like you right here with me.” He kissed your hair, his arm tightening around you as his eyes fluttered shut, this time in acceptance. He liked you here with him. More than he knew how to tell you.

“T?” you murmured, your voice wrapped in the weight of sleep, thick with the pull of exhaustion and something softer—contentment, maybe. Trent hummed in response, his fingertips still tracing slow, languid strokes down your spine, mapping the curve of it like he was memorizing you. His touch was featherlight, a quiet kind of reverence, a contrast to the hunger he had devoured you with hours before. You shifted slightly against him, pressing closer, hesitating before you spoke again. “Can I take this off?” Your words were earnest, but there was something deeper beneath them, something unspoken. Maybe it was because the shirt smelled of cologne and a long night, because it wasn’t truly yours, but mostly—mostly, you just wanted to be closer to him. You wanted to feel him, skin to skin, nothing between you. Trent’s lips curled into a slow, lazy smile, one he didn’t bother to even open his eyes for, like he already knew he’d say yes before you even finished speaking. Like you were doing him a favor…and you were.

“’Course.” He shifted beneath you, adjusting so he could sit up slightly, rolling you just enough to meet your gaze. There was a softness in the way he looked at you, something patient, something teasing but entirely fond. “C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep, hands already reaching for you. “Let me help you.” You lifted yourself slightly as his fingers found the hem, peeling the fabric from your body with a slowness that felt intentional, reverent. The shirt slipped over your head, and Trent’s eyes raked over you, dark and glittering with something caught between admiration and lust. He took the shirt and tossed it somewhere into the abyss of the dimly lit room, not bothering to check where it landed. “Don’t need that anymore,” he muttered, smirking. You tried to bite back your smile, tried to keep the heat from rushing to your cheeks, but it was useless. A quiet exhale left your nose, a shy little giggle barely contained, and for a fleeting second, something like nervousness flickered in your chest. It was different now. Post-bliss, post-clarity, lying bare in every way—physically, emotionally—it made you feel… seen. And maybe that was scarier than anything else.

“Okay,” you quietly muttered. You rolled ever so slightly away from him, as if some part of you still wanted to hide, but Trent was quicker, his hands greedy and sure as they reached for you, dragging you effortlessly back into his arms.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “You come right here looking like this” He shook his head in teasing disapproval of your antics but also in disbelief at how good you looked. His grip was firm but gentle, pulling you flush against him until your cheek found its place against the warmth of his chest again, your body practically melting into his. The feeling of you against him was inexplicably good before and now with no barrier, your boobs pressed against him, your naked bodies tangled again, it was impossibly better.

“Better, huh?” you teased, your lips brushing his skin in the softest of kisses, your voice tinged with bashful affection.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his deep chuckle vibrating through you. “Much better.” His fingers found your jaw, tilting your face up with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. The room fell impossibly still, save for the slow, measured sound of his breathing, of yours, of the quiet space where you met in between. Then he kissed you. And it was perfect. Not just because of the way his lips moved against yours, or the way he tasted, or the way his hands held you like you were something delicate, something precious. It was perfect because you both felt it. Like maybe this wasn’t just a moment. Maybe this was something more. And maybe that was the cruelest part. That long after you had drifted into sleep, soft and spent laying on him, he was still awake, still burning, still yours.

Morning came like a whisper. The soft, golden light of the Parisian sun stretched its way into the hotel room, catching on dust particles, reflecting off the sheer white curtains that billowed faintly with the early breeze from a cracked window. It was the kind of light that turned everything it touched into something more beautiful, more ethereal. It kissed the walls, the crisp linen sheets, and most devastatingly, him. Trent lay beneath you, his body cast in a gilded glow, bronzed skin shimmering like he had been sculpted from sunlight itself. He looked godly like this—untouchable—and yet, you were wrapped in him, tethered to his warmth like he belonged to you. Your cheek was nestled against his chest, where the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart echoed against your skin. His arm still held you, albeit looser now, his grip sleep-heavy and effortless, resting low on your waist. His fingers, lax but familiar, traced absentminded shapes against your bare back, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. Your legs tangled in ways that made it impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

And it was perfect.

Too perfect. That was the problem. Your body felt a peace so rare it unsettled you, a calmness that ran deeper than exhaustion or comfort—it was something found, something offered. This felt like slipping into water the exact temperature of your skin, like existing without resistance, and that kind of comfort was terrifying. Your mind rebelled against it, against the sheer ease of him, because how could something that felt this good, this natural, ever be real? Your fingers, splayed across his chest, moved idly, tracing gentle, meaningless patterns over his skin. But your thoughts were anything but gentle. They spiraled, unraveling like thread slipping through grasping fingers. It shouldn’t feel this easy. Not with him. Not for you.

The games of the night before—lust and teasing, push and pull—those were easy to understand. This game of cat and mouse, the raw sexual attraction was easy to navigate. Sure, it took a moment to get up to bed since you met in Ibiza, but they made sense, had rules, boundaries. But this? The safety, the way he fit around you, the way he felt like home when you didn’t even know you’d been looking for one? It didn’t make sense at all. You looked up at his face through your tired eyes and sighed. He was so pretty. His features had gone softer, his long dark eyelashes rested on his cheeks, his perfectly pink plump lips, slightly ajar. He just looked gentler this morning and it almost made you sad. You exhaled softly, willing the thoughts away, and in that moment, Trent stirred beneath you. A low, sleepy groan vibrated through his chest, his arm tightening around you instinctively, pulling you impossibly closer. His face nuzzled into your hair, warm breath fanning against your skin, and just like that, every fear, every reason to run, flickered—burned. Seriously… You thought, exasperated by the way he could ruin every last piece of doubt, even in his sleep. And then, with a sleepy, rumbling hum, he kissed your hair. And unfortunately for you and your current dilemma between mind and body, it felt perfect, he was perfect.

“Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, lazy and deep, the kind of voice that wrapped around you like silk. His hand drifted lower, palm smoothing over the curve of your ass before sliding down your thigh, dragging it over his body more as he pulled you impossibly closer, entangling your limbs further—your body, your thoughts, your heart. You swallowed hard. “Sleep alright?” he asked, his lips ghosting over your temple as he shifted beneath you. You forced a small hum of agreement, scared to speak, scared of what might spill out if you did. Because the words in your throat—the ones clawing to be freed—didn’t know whether they’d come out as I love you or this is too much. Trent let out a quiet chuckle, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “Don’t sound so sure,” he teased, the warmth of his amusement curling around you like a beckoning hand. You breathed in deep, trying to steady yourself, but all it did was fill your lungs with him. That faint scent of his skin, a mixture of warmth and something clean, something inherently Trent. And so you sighed, letting go. Just for now. Just under the weight of hotel sheets and morning light.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, the words barely there, but felt. Trent stiffened—not in fear, not in hesitation, but in something else, something deeper. Because he felt it too. The way your lips lingered, the way it was something more than the ghosts of the night before, something real, something neither of you could ignore. The raw wounds of your branding still stinging and now you were rubbing salt in them. His fingers skimmed up your back, slow and deliberate, to the back of your neck, before tilting your chin up so he could see you, really see you. His dark eyes searched yours, studying every shift, every hesitation.

“You’ll stay and eat breakfast with me?” He asked you with a slow, lazy smirk. Your breath hitched, because he was asking. Not telling, not assuming, but asking. And in that moment, your body and your mind warred against each other, one screaming yes, the other screaming run. Trent tilted his head, watching you deliberate, and his smile grew, devastatingly boyish, impossibly endearing. “C’mon, please,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to hope. “Last time was good fun, no?” His smirk obliterated every last rational thought, every excuse, every plan of escape. There was only him, only this moment, only the way the morning light kissed his skin and the way you’d never felt more held than in his arms. And the only word left on your tongue, the only one that mattered, was—

“Yeah.”

The remnants of breakfast lay strewn across the small table in the room—an abandoned cappuccino, its frothy heart long since dissipated, a single crumb of croissant clinging to the edge of a porcelain plate. The sun had climbed higher, spilling golden light through the windows, turning the cobblestone street outside into a mosaic of light and shadow. Paris hummed around you, alive, indifferent, as if it didn’t know that time was slipping through your fingers. Or maybe it did, and simply didn’t care.

Your departure loomed, a quiet specter in the air between you, but neither of you acknowledged it. Instead, you stretched out the moment, weaving it into something longer than it was meant to be. The conversations meandered, looping in circles around something as trivial as why Waitrose was the superior grocer. There wasn’t even a disagreement, no real debate, just unnecessary elaboration—because neither of you wanted to stop talking. You wanted to hear his voice, to tuck every inflection, every low hum of amusement into the folds of your memory, like pressing wildflowers between the pages of a book. As if you were trying to preserve something fragile, something you knew would fade the moment distance stretched between you. It felt like he was playing with your heart like he knew exactly how much power he held over it. Every smirk, every dimpled grin, every lazy wink sent it lurching, free-falling, as if he were dangling it between his fingers just to see how far he could take it before you broke. But you weren’t ready to break. Not yet. So you smiled back, even as your chest ached, even as the city outside kept moving, uncaring of how desperately you wished the world would pause—just for a little while longer.

The morning light bled into the afternoons, soft and golden through the sheer hotel curtains, casting delicate patterns over tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Paris stretched beyond the window, quiet in the lingering hush of the early afternoon now, as if the city itself knew better than to rush whatever this was—this in-between, this unspoken thing neither of you dared name. Trent sat on the edge of the bed, effortlessly at ease, his bare chest dappled with the faintest glow, his fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you to stand between his legs. You let him, for a moment, the heat of his skin a slow-burning temptation against yours.

“So, photography?” he mused, watching you with something close to awe, something dangerously tender, as you slipped back into last night’s outfit.

“Photography,” you confirmed, smoothing your hands over your mini skirt, adjusting it in the mirror like it wasn’t the only thing in the room that needed straightening out.

“Maybe you can take my picture sometime,” he smirked, boyish, impossibly endearing. And though you’d never admit it, butterflies stirred low in your stomach at the sight. But you were cooler than that. You had to be.

“Oh, you’d love that, huh, pretty boy?” You cooed, turning slightly in his embrace, reaching out, fingertips stroking his cheek—just to tease, just to keep the power balanced. But his hand was quicker, larger, capturing yours and holding it there, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“I would. I’m asking.” He earnestly replied.

“No, you offered,” you countered, lips curling, still playing, still keeping this game alive, keeping yourself safe.

“C’mon.” He pouted then, full lips tilting into something exaggerated, something purposefully soft, purposefully lethal. And you almost caved. Almost.

“If you’re lucky,” you hummed, slipping from his grasp with a shake of your head, something deliberately disapproving in the way you did it, as if you hadn’t kissed him breathless hours ago. As if your lips hadn’t wiped away the jam on his own over breakfast. As if you hadn’t fallen asleep wrapped in him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. It made no sense to him—how you could burn so hot and then retreat into something cool, distant, untouched by the fire you both knew was there. Like you were fighting against gravity, against inevitability. Like you were pretending the world hadn’t stopped spinning the second you stepped into this room together. He didn’t get it. It was terrifying, this uncertainty, but he wasn’t running from it. Not yet.

You were jumping from yes to no, no to yes, and all he wanted was for you to sit with him in maybe. To exist in this liminal space where nothing had to be decided. Where maybe was a hotel room in Paris, where maybe tasted like room service coffee and the sweetest, laziest kind of morning. Maybe was the way you stretched against his sheets after a night that still lived on your skin. Maybe was the best sex of his life, the best kind of ache, the best kind of question. And he would stay in maybe as long as you let him.

The room felt suspended in time, bathed in the fading glow of late afternoon, the sheer curtains shifting lazily in the breeze from the open window. Paris murmured outside—distant horns, laughter floating up from the streets, the occasional hum of a passing moped—but none of it touched the quiet cocoon you had built inside these walls. Trent swayed with you in his arms, the heat of his hands kneading the soft curve of your ass, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Like he wasn’t ready to let go. And neither were you. You’d been trying to say goodbye for an hour, maybe more, but every time you tried to pull away, something pulled you back. Another kiss. Another laugh. Another moment of watching him, sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes wide with a big smile as he paced the room, telling you some animated story with wild gestures, his grin so boyish, so effortless, you thought for a second you might drown in it. You’d ended up in his lap again talking about nothings, nestled into his arms as he showed you something on his phone, and it was all just so easy. He was light. That was the thing about him. He carried himself like the world hadn’t touched him, like he hadn’t let it. And when you were with him, you felt lighter, too. Like there was no weight to anything, no looming consequence, no inevitable ending waiting just around the corner. And then, like a rubber band snapping against your neck, reality came barreling back. It always did. It always would.

"Going to let me see you again?" His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something beneath it, something that tightened around your ribs and made it harder to breathe. You sighed, forced a soft, knowing smile, running your hands up his arms as if that would make this easier.

“I don’t think that’s what this is.” As the words fell out you didn’t even recognize them. It was like your lips were moving but you had no idea what was coming out. His eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising as if he might fight you on it, might demand to know why you were so determined to keep him at arm’s length when it was so obvious you didn’t want to. But instead, he exhaled, slow and measured, before his lips curled into something softer, something almost resigned. And then, instead of letting go, he pulled you in tighter.

"It can be. Let me take you out.” His head tilted, his smile coaxing, but there was something deeper in his eyes. No, he wasn’t teasing anymore. He was asking, begging you to just sit with him in maybe. To let yourself stay in this perfect limbo—where maybe was a hotel room in Paris, where maybe was the taste of him still lingering on your tongue, where maybe was a stolen morning that neither of you wanted to end.

"I’m not really the pay-for-sex girlie,” you teased, lips curling as you watched his face shift into playful exasperation. He rolled his eyes, unimpressed but still grinning. But then his voice dipped lower, smooth and warm, threaded with something serious beneath all that charm.

"Nah, c’mon. We don’t have to have sex.” He mused and you raised your brows with a smile, teasingly surprised by the comment. “I mean, I’d like to.” He laughed at the obvious, gripping you a bit firmer, sending a shiver down your spine. “But I just want to see you again, yeah?" His brown eyes were dark, knowing, daring you to say no, daring you to pretend you didn’t want to see him just as much. You inhaled sharply, your resolve wavering. And then, with a small, exasperated sigh, you gave in.

“Maybe.” It was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough, admitting your defeat. But it wasn’t a defeat, not to Trent, no. This was it. His smile broke wide, bright, victorious. Maybe had never felt so much like a win.

"Give me your number. I won’t hold you hostage today, but I’ll convince you.” His words were smooth, almost too smooth, but his expression betrayed him—earnest, hopeful, just a little vulnerable in a way that made something twist deep in your chest. That was the thing about Trent. You didn’t know him well, not really, but even now, you could tell when something mattered to him, the earnest sincerity. You could feel it in the way he softened just slightly, in the way he didn’t push—just offered.

"Maybe," you murmured again, smiling as you held out your hand, silently asking for his phone. His grin was unstoppable as he handed it to you, the metal cool against your palm. But there was a certain heat in the way he watched you type in your number, like he knew, even if you didn’t, that you were giving him more than just digits. That you were giving him a piece of yourself.

"Till then," he whispered. He tossed his phone tumbling onto the bed, forgotten, as he pulled you in one last time. His body pressed against yours, firm, warm, intoxicating. His lips hovered over yours, breath fanning against your skin, waiting. Allowing you the space to decide—one final kiss, or none at all. And God, those lips—just like his eyes, they taunted you, as if daring you to walk away, as if reminding you how absolutely idiotic you’d be to refuse him.

"Maybe if you’re lucky…” you whispered. And then you kissed him.

And when the elevator doors slid shut, when you were finally alone again, the ache of leaving him settled deep in your bones. Because for a moment—for just one suspended, stolen moment—the world had stopped spinning.

—

[Bad Habit - Steve Lacey]

Once back home in England, Trent felt like he was seventeen again—heart unsteady, palms damp, staring at his phone like it held the key to something he wasn’t sure he was ready to open. Your number was burned into his screen, into his brain, into the spaces between his ribs where the memory of you lingered like an ache. He looked at it every day, thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing out messages only to delete them before they had the chance to breathe.

Something cheeky? No, too douchey. Something simple? No, too dry. Something sincere? God, too cringe.

He had told you he’d convince you, charm you into seeing him again, but here he was—silent. Not because he didn’t want to, but because what if he messed it up? At home, stretched across the sofa, phone resting on his chest, he thought of you.

In his car, parked outside training, he sat gripping his phone, willing himself to press send, tapping the steering wheel, debating, overthinking, sighing, he thought of you. His pulse pounded like a matchstick ready to strike, but the flame never came.

Thirty thousand feet in the air, en route to an away game, he scrolled through your Instagram, torturing himself with glimpses of you, your smile, your world—a world he was desperate to be a part of but didn’t know how to step into without falling.

Surrounded by his friends, laughter ringing around him like background noise, he was somewhere else entirely, lost in thoughts of you, playing out every version of a text in his head—only to say nothing at all. The silence stretched, stretched, stretched—despite his heart screaming.

Trent’s last real relationship had been when he was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Love, or something like it, had been easy, thoughtless, fleeting. And even then, it hadn’t felt like this. This was terrifying. He didn’t know you. But the potential alone was different. This wasn’t a game he knew how to play. He was used to the short ones, the ones that burned bright and fizzled out before morning, the ones that ended with tangled sheets and casual goodbyes. The ones that left no room for real feelings. But you—you made him forget the rules entirely.

When it came to you, nothing about this felt casual. You made him feel like himself, and yet, someone completely unrecognizable. The stupid smirk he couldn’t wipe off his face when he thought of you, the fluttering unease in his stomach, the way his heart felt too full and too exposed. It was painfully pleasant, a sensation he didn’t know how to hold. You made him feel too much. Made him feel like himself, but in a way that was unsettling. And maybe that was the problem. So he let fear win.

A week and a half passed. No message. No call. Paris felt like a fever dream, one that left your skin tingling long after you woke up. But the silence that followed? That was real. Just down A56, you held your phone like it might tell you something different, like maybe if you stared at it long enough, his name would appear. But it didn’t. And your heart fractured, little by little, under the weight of a silence that spoke louder than any words ever could, shattered with every unspoken syllable. You heard nothing. It was radio silence. And the thing about silence is that it isn’t empty—it’s deafening. It fills the space between your ribs, settles heavy in your lungs, lingers in the quiet moments when you reach for your phone expecting something, anything. But there’s nothing.

He had said he wanted to see you again. He had looked at you with those eyes, held you in a way that made you believe—maybe, just maybe, this was different. But words without action were just illusions, and illusions shattered under the weight of reality. You were scared of giving him your number in the first place because it had gotten your hopes up, and it ultimately felt like all it did was let them down. You tried to convince yourself it was fine. That it hadn’t meant anything. That he was just another story you’d tell yourself late at night, another fleeting moment caught in the aperture of your life—one you could adjust, control, blur out. But he was the light.

No matter how hard you tried to narrow the opening, to dim his effect, he seeped in anyway. A golden glow spilling into places you had kept dark for so long. And now, without him, winter was approaching, and England felt even colder, even greyer. The days stretched long and colorless, shadows creeping in where his warmth had been. And when the ache became unbearable—when you wanted to feel it, to let the hurt settle into your bones just so you could understand it—you’d open his Instagram. An account you didn’t even follow, one that you knew you’d get lost amongst the millions of other names if you ever did. You’d stare at his feed and your depth of focus would shift. The world around you blurred, dissolving into an indistinct haze. But him—his face, his smile, his presence—was crystal clear. It made you feel sick. Because in that frozen moment, he was there, in perfect clarity, yet impossibly out of reach.

This was torture. Trent barely heard anything that night, every conversation around him reduced to a low hum, a muffled buzz, as if he were submerged underwater while everyone else sat comfortably on dry land. He was there, physically—nursing a drink, nodding at the right times—but his mind was miles away, trapped somewhere between Paris and his own hesitation. Then, like a breach to the surface, a single word pulled him back.

"...said she’s a photographer, I think." Leon’s words had barely landed before Trent leaned forward, the hunger in his eyes betraying the nonchalance he wanted to feign.

“Who?” He asked too quickly, too eagerly. He couldn’t even pretend to be uninterested.

"One of Foster’s friends… She was in Ibiza this summer at the same time I think. I don’t know… I just was hearing Foster’s gonna be in London this weekend with her, I forgot her name – erm…” Leon squinted one eye trying to recall your name. “Fuck she texted it to me hold on.." But Leon’s search was unnecessary as Trent’s pulse spiked.

“Y/N?” The name left his lips before he could catch it. Leon barely had time to confirm before Kieren smirked, his body facing forward but his sharp gaze flickering sideways, watching Trent squirm. Trent leaned in some, curious, hungry for more information immediately but Leon wasn’t speaking nearly quick enough for his liking. He needed to know… now.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it. She’s a photographer I guess and has work so I was gonna head down, meet Foster.” Leon casually tossed out. Leon looked at Kieren and his brow furrowed for a moment confused by the response. He frowned for a beat, slower to catch on—until Kieren gave a knowing nod toward Trent’s obvious intrigue. Then it clicked, and Leon’s lips curled into an o of realization. “Heard she’s a pretty big deal. Hard to get ting, y’know?" Leon teed up a tease for Kieren. He was talking about your career, but the implication lingered in the air like smoke. Trent tensed.

"Yeah, bro," Kieren added smoothly, dragging out the moment. "Heard few do it the way she can." He piled on, both boys with smug smiles as they took sips of their drinks waiting for Trent. Trent exhaled sharply through his nose, picking up his water just to keep his hands busy.

"Heard something like that…" he muttered, then paused. He could feel Kieren and Leon watching him, waiting. He had to act fast, needed action before they called his bluff. "Erm, Lee, Imma be down there… I’ve got Palace on Saturday. You want tickets?” Trent said slowly, as if testing the waters hoping linking with Leon would give him the opportunity to see you. Leon, ever the instigator, took an excruciatingly slow sip of his drink before responding, just to let Trent squirm. Trent couldn’t take the silence. He pressed on, his words tripping over themselves. "Like, you know, mate, can invite Foster—if any of her friends wanna come, just an offer." Trent babbled at a pace that only he could speak at. His stomach flipped. It was desperate, too obvious. His mates clocked it immediately.

"Wait," Kieren drawled, the smirk deepening. "Didn’t your brother say you lot ran into Foster’s friend in Paris?" Trent’s grip tightened around his glass. His heart pounded a little harder.

"Oh really?" Leon’s eyes flickered with interest, his voice laced with both genuine curiosity and a slight taunt.

"Yeah, brief thing, you know." Trent shrugged, lifting his water to his lips, acting as though the mere mention of your name hadn’t sent his pulse into overdrive. Leon leaned back, as if deliberating. Then, casually—like he hadn’t just thrown Trent into a crisis.

"You know what, bro? Shoot her a message, invite her, and then we can all link up." Leon broached the idea and Trent’s head spun. The room tilted—caught between relief at finally having a reason to text you, sheer terror at the thought of seeing you again, and frustration at his friends for pushing him straight into the fire. The ball was in his court now. And for the first time in years, Trent had no idea how to play it.

[Naked - Ayzha Nyree]

You were seeing things. You had to be. There was no other explanation for the unknown number flashing across your screen, for the way your breath hitched in your throat, for the way your entire body tensed as you stared at it—motionless, hesitant. It couldn’t be him. It had been too long. Too much silence, too much nothing, too much proof that it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. And yet your heart betrayed you, hammering wildly against your ribs as if trying to break free. You sat down on your bed, inhaling deeply, pressing your fingertips into the mattress as if grounding yourself might stop the free fall. The air in your room felt suddenly heavier, thick with anticipation and the scent of rain from the open window. The soft hum of the city outside, cars passing in the distance, the muffled sounds from the street below—it all blurred into irrelevance as you finally tapped open the message.

‘Not better late, but it was never going to be never with you. Took me a minute to get the courage to text a girl like you. Been thinking about you. You gonna be in London anytime soon?’

Your stomach twisted. It was everything you had wanted to hear, everything your heart had been aching for. It was cheeky, it was sweet, it was honest. It was him. It was a plan—finally, a plan. And yet, the ghost of two weeks’ silence still lingered in the spaces between his words, in the void he had left you in. You swallowed, fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing:

‘I would say it’s nice to know you’re still alive, thought something bad might’ve happened to you but you’re on the telly every weekend.’

Play it cool. Be cool. Be fucking cool. You tried. You really did. But no matter how nonchalant you sounded, the truth was written all over your face—your lips betraying you with the way they curled into a smile, your body giving you away as you rolled onto your stomach, phone clutched in your hands, breath held hostage as you waited for his reply. And then it came.

‘Let me make it up to you. I gotta game down in London, any chance a pretty girl like you will be around?’

Something inside you deflated. The excitement, the hope, the warmth that had been building inside you fizzled out in an instant. No. No, this wasn’t what you wanted. This wasn’t making it up to you. This was convenient for him. This was easy. A ticket to his game? A seat among thousands? Watching him from a distance for ninety minutes? No mention of after. No mention of you. You stared at the screen, the light from your phone casting a cold glow over your face as the weight of realization settled in your chest. He had done this before. The confirmation you never wanted proof of. You weren’t special. You were just another girl he sent tickets to, and an away game too. Was that part of the plan too? Your fingers hovered, then hesitantly typed that you’d try to make it. A lie. You didn’t even want to try. He replied with something relatively cheeky, suggestive, but then said he’d have a ticket sent to you and more logistical things and it left a bad taste in your mouth.

You said you’d try and that’s where you left things. The morning felt heavier than it should have. Saturday crept in like an unwanted guest, settling over you with a weight that made it hard to move, hard to breathe. The invitation had lingered in your mind all week, festering, growing into something that felt hollow. By now, it wasn’t even about going or not going—it was about what it meant. And it meant nothing to him. You found out from Foster that Trent’s mate, Leon, was also going. He had extended the same invitation to her, casual and easy. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just another name on a list. But like the good friend she was, she saw right through it. She had lied—said she might have to help you with work, might not make it.

Only, neither of you were working. You were tucked into a small coffee shop, a few stops on the Victoria Line away from Selhurst Park, where rain drizzled against the windows and pooled in the grooves of the pavement. The scent of espresso and cinnamon curled in the air, but nothing felt warm. You stirred your drink absentmindedly, a spoon clinking against ceramic, while Foster listened—patient, understanding, letting you unravel even though you both knew it was redundant. You’d been talking for ages and ages and god bless her because it was just repetitive. You didn’t like that you were one of many to Trent. And a part of you felt a little naive to believe that maybe he understood you enough to know that but here you were, proven otherwise.

“I just—” You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “I’m not interested in this. If he wanted to take me out, it’d be different…” You repeated for the fifteenth time, Foster nodding. You had been replaying it in your head over and over again. The club in Ibiza. The way he had moved through that night with ease, the way he had known exactly what to say, how to touch, how to leave you breathless. He had a playbook, a script, a pattern. And the worst part? You had felt it. Even then. The voice in the back of your head whispering that you were just another name he knew how to make sound special. It took you fifteen minutes into the first half of the match to decide you weren’t going.

“He said, ‘Let me take you out.’ Those were his words,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you mimicked his Scouse accent saying the phrase, exaggerated and mocking. It wasn’t even bad, but Foster still chuckled, squeezing your knee beneath the table.

“Good accent, babe,” she teased lightly, and normally you’d smile, but today everything felt off. You hadn’t even dressed like you were going to see him—not that you ever planned to really. The outfit [ref index] was cute, but not one you were wearing to impress a boy. Your jeans, oversized sweater, the way you hadn’t even bothered with much makeup. You had told yourself it was because you didn’t care. But didn’t you, the lace bralette and heeled boots implied otherwise. Because if you didn’t care, why did everything feel so heavy? “No, but seriously, I agree with you,” Foster said, shaking her head. “Like, asking to see someone again—implying it would be a date after all his talk in Paris, after Ibiza—and then this? He’s basically just asking you to watch him at work. In the pouring rain. Like, sorry, but that’s a favor to him.” She said calmly, able to keep her composure unlike you.

“Right!?” You threw your hands up, relief flooding your chest that she understood. “I mean, yeah, he texted me, and I guess that’s something. But it also has been two weeks with nothing from someone who was calling me baby in bed. And still—don’t you think it kind of loses all meaning if he was inviting other people too? Like, cool, watch me run after a ball like the other 20,000 people who are also there to see him. I know I’m kicking off, but it’s just—” You trailed off. Because what was the point in even saying it? The words felt childish, petty, but the ache in your chest was very real. The disappointment sat heavy, bitter on your tongue, the confirmation of everything you had tried to ignore. Foster sighed, her expression softening.

“Babe, I think this is when boys are just fucking stupid.” You let out a humorless laugh, picking at the corner of your napkin. “Like, yeah, it’s nice he finally texted, and that first message was sweet. He obviously likes you enough to invite you—” she emphasized when you made a face, “—and the fact that he’d want you there with his friends? I mean, that is a compliment. But at the same time… he’s stupid for thinking that would be enough.” The words sat with you. Not wrong. Not exactly right, either. But still, they pressed against something tender inside you. Your breath wavered, your vision going slightly blurry. Shit. “Babe…” Foster cooed, leaning in, but you shook your head quickly.

“No, it’s fine.” You swiped at your eyes before anything could actually fall, waving her off as if you could dismiss the feeling itself. “It genuinely isn’t a big deal. I don’t even know the kid. We move.” Foster didn’t argue, but she didn’t look convinced. She just squeezed your knee again. “Go meet Leon after, Foss,” you said, with glossy eyes, clearing your throat as you laid your hand over hers. “Really. It’ll be fun, and then it also won’t look like I’m a total mess.” She hesitated, searching your face, but you must have given her something that passed for okay, because she sighed again.

“Kay… You sure?” She asked you knowing you wouldn’t accept anything but a yes. You nodded quickly, swallowing down every emotion that had threatened to surface. Foster pursed her lips, then sat back with a little smirk. “Want to like go get something stronger than coffee… I’m nervous to meet him.” She giggled. You rolled your head already standing up. You exhaled, already grabbing your purse and jacket.

“Please god.” You smiled sadly at her.

The rain hadn’t stopped all night. Trent sat in his usual window seat on the team flight back to Liverpool, forehead resting against the cool glass as the city lights of London faded beneath them. His knee bounced restlessly, jaw tight, fingers gripping his phone, though there was nothing new to check. No text from you. No last-minute excuse, no apology, not even a half-hearted lie. Nothing. It didn’t make sense. You’d said you’d try to make it. He’d imagined seeing you in the stands, imagined the way you’d look at him, maybe even waiting for him after. He’d thought—hoped—it meant something. That this was the start of… something. But instead, he’d been left scanning the crowd for a face that was never there. And you hadn’t even told him. It pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

He should’ve gone out, should’ve let the boys drag him somewhere loud, somewhere distracting, stay in London for the night. Instead, he’d sat on this flight, arms crossed, head full of questions he didn’t want to ask. The hum of the engines did nothing to quiet the buzzing frustration under his skin. He kept telling himself he wouldn’t text, that he wouldn’t be that guy—desperate, chasing, waiting. But by the time he got home, alone in his bed, the silence of his room made it impossible to think about anything else. What the fuck had happened? The sheets were cool beneath him as he lay on his back, phone in his hand, the screen dimly lighting his face. He scrolled absently, past the messages, rereading your last text. He could’ve let it go, could’ve pretended it didn’t bother him. But it did. It really did.

When Trent woke up the next day he rolled over in bed, sore from the match and hurt by you. He let out a sharp sigh and he gave in.

‘Didn’t see you yesterday… Checking to make sure you’re all good.’

He stared at the message for a second before hitting send, then let his phone drop onto his chest with a frustrated exhale. He hated this. Hated feeling like he cared more than he should. But the thing was—he did care. And you? You saw the text blinking against the glow of your screen as you sat curled up on your sofa, a blanket wrapped around you. Your heart sank. Not because you weren’t expecting it—but because it was too late. He was already back up north, sending a half-hearted check-in after the fact. If he had really cared, wouldn’t he have texted last night? Wouldn’t he have asked sooner? Instead, he’d left London without a word, and now he was messaging like it was an afterthought, like you were a platonic friend. And your mind—stupid, reckless, wounded—spun in circles. Had he gone out after the match? Found someone else to fill the void you left? The idea made your stomach twist. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter. But it did. And so, you didn’t reply. Not because you wanted to be petty. Not because you wanted to hurt him. But because you wanted him to sit with the silence he’d given to you just the same.

The restaurant was buzzing with conversation, the air thick with the scent of grilled steak and something citrusy from the cocktails circling the room. Trent sat at the long, dimly lit table, swirling the ice in his lowball glass, barely hearing the voices around him. He wasn’t in the mood for this. Not for the music pulsing faintly through the speakers, not for the half-hearted banter, and definitely not for the girls who kept side-eyeing him, waiting for an opening. He should’ve stayed home. His form in training had been off all week. Sloppy passes, slow reactions, his head anywhere but where it needed to be. And no matter how many times he told himself to shake it off, the irritation only deepened. You still hadn’t texted him back. Not even a one-word answer, nothing to let him know where he stood. He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—the fact that you didn’t come to the game or the fact that you hadn’t even acknowledged his messages. It was making him restless. So, against his better judgment, he pulled out his phone.

'I’m going to Cassie’s party tonight… you going?'

As soon as he hit send, he regretted it. Fuck. His jaw tensed, fingers tapping against the screen as he watched the message turn from sent to delivered. He felt like a fucking idiot. A desperate one at that. Cassie’s name, the casual invitation—it looked like he was trying to bait you, like he was trying to make you wonder. He wasn’t, not really. He just wanted to see you, wanted something from you, even if it was just a sharp-tongued reply telling him to fuck off. At least that would be something. Instead, the silence pressed in heavier. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before quickly typing again.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you down in London. Hoping you’re alright.’

He meant it. But he knew how it would read. How you’d see the first message—the name of another girl, no matter his relationship with her, the half-hearted you going?—before the apology landed. It was damage control, whether he liked it or not. And you? You saw it all. The two messages stacked on top of each other, your stomach twisting instantly. First, Cassie’s party. A name you knew but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care. It was enough to light a spark of something ugly in your chest, even though you told yourself it shouldn’t. And then, the second message—an apology that only made the first feel even more hollow. You wanted to scream. You were right in that Marina in Ibiza. It was exactly what you had been trying to convince yourself of since meeting him. That he wasn’t good for you. That he lived behind this film that made everything a little glossier but in reality it was all the same. That you were setting yourself up for failure, for heartache, for something that would only end with you feeling small. And yet, here you were, fighting every urge to respond. You gritted your teeth, locking your phone and throwing it face down onto your bed like it burned you. He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to worm his way into your head, making you question everything. You barely knew each other, and still, he had you on the verge of tears in coffee shops, staring at your phone like it held the answer to something unspeakably important. No. You weren’t going to do this. So, you did the only thing you could. You aired him. Again.

Another day, another restaurant alive with the hum of conversation, mocked him. The clinking of silverware against plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table felt like white noise, merely background noise one ping from his phone he was desperate for. Trent wasn’t really there, though. He was physically present, sipping on his drink, nodding when appropriate, but his mind was tangled in something else—someone else. You. He wanted to give up. Should give up. But he couldn’t shake the frustration gnawing at him, the way his stomach twisted every time he unlocked his phone only to see nothing from you. He wasn’t used to this. To silence. To being shut out so completely. He’d invited you to London, reached out after the game, even tried to catch you on a night out, and still—nothing. Cassie’s birthday came and went, no sign of life. And now, here he was, out for dinner with his friends, meant to be enjoying the night, but instead, he was restless. Then he saw her.

Campbell. She was waiting by the bar, scrolling on her phone, her posture relaxed in a way that told him she had no idea she was about to be ambushed. He moved on instinct, weaving through tables until he was right beside her, his hand gripping her arm discreetly. She startled slightly, her brows raising before she caught sight of him and let out a knowing sigh. Trent didn’t even have to say anything. She knew. You had already spilled your thoughts to her in the same way you had to Foster, to Delaney. Rambling, dissecting, trying—and failing—to convince yourself that this thing between you and Trent was nothing. That it should be nothing. And yet, here he was, desperate for answers.

"Cam, what’s the deal with Y/N?" he asked in a hushed tone, mindful of the buzzing restaurant around them. Campbell blinked, playing dumb. His desperation palpable.

“Erm.. hello to you too." She smiled at him but his expression didn't change. "What do you mean her deal, T?” She asked him knowingly. Trent exhaled sharply. He exhaled looking past her as if he was too afraid to look her in the eye.

"Like... I invited her and nothing. I texted her and nothing..." His voice was tight, his frustration bleeding into every word. Then in a moment of vulnerability his gaze snapped back to her. His eyes searched Campbell’s face, desperate for some kind of explanation. What did he do wrong? Campbell hesitated. She could feel the weight of your words, the things you hadn’t explicitly said but had implied through every frustrated sigh, every conversation about him that always ended in some variation of this isn’t what I want.

"Maybe she was busy then..." she offered carefully, her tone unreadable but apologetic. Trent’s jaw tensed.

"Busy..." he muttered, repeating the word like he was trying to make sense of it. And for the first time, it occurred to him. Maybe you just didn’t want this. Maybe he meant nothing to you. If you were busy, then of course you wouldn’t reply. That’s what people did when something wasn’t a priority, right? When something wasn’t important. His chest tightened. The thought felt foreign. Impossible. His face fell into an unintentional pout, the weight of rejection settling deep in his stomach. It was one thing to have a girl lose interest—it happened, he wasn’t stupid—but this? This wasn’t just disinterest. This felt like something else. Campbell sighed, shifting her weight in her heels before finally deciding to throw him a lifeline.

"T, look. I won’t speak for her, but just something to consider. Some food for thought, if you will…" She tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Maybe huge public events aren’t everyone’s thing when they want to get to know someone properly." She cooed and Trent stilled. It hit him like a slow, creeping realization. When was the last time he had actually gotten to know someone—properly? His mind flashed back to the yacht in Ibiza. The way conversation had flowed between you two like it was the most natural thing in the world. No crowd, no cameras, no distractions. Just you, giving as good as you got, challenging him, making him want to chase you even when he didn’t understand why. And before that? He couldn’t even place a time. His throat felt dry. Fuck. Campbell watched him carefully, hoping—praying—he’d take the hint. She wasn’t about to push him, but she also wasn’t going to stand here and watch him fumble something that was so obviously important to him. Finally, he nodded, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

"Alright. Thanks, Campbell… Sorry, have a good night, yeah?" He turned to walk away, looking—feeling—defeated, his brain still scrambled. Campbell sighed, leaning against the bar with a slow exhale. She felt like a damn live wire connecting the two of you, but she could only do so much. The rest? That was on Trent.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 6 - Staying In

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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optimisticgardenhologram · 6 months ago

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That Wammy Boy stare.

Or - eye colors, symbolism, and my head canon about L, Near and Mello's "weird dead eyes".

In Volume 13 Takeshi Obata reveals that because Ohba requested Near and Mello each have something reminiscent of L in their character designs he decided to express this by giving them the same eyes as L. As a result in the manga all three have black seemingly iris-less eyes.

So are we meant to understand that they all actually had pitch black pools where most humans and indeed everyone else in the manga had normal human eyes including the luxury of colored irises? On the other hand, in the anime L retains his familiar black eyes, however Near's are grey and Mello's are blue.

So why the inconsistency? In my opinion....BOTH are true.

It's not impossible to have eyes that are so dark brown they appear practically black, and the line between iris and pupils becomes hard to distinguish. But Near and Mello both have very fair skin and hair, it makes sense for them to also have light eyes.

My interpretation is that Obata's intent here is meant to be more symbolic than literal. Their black eyes may indeed actually be brown, grey, and blue respectively. But the similarity Obata tries to convey is not in the surface of their physical appearance, it's their essence that shines through. It's what I will call the "Wammy Boy stare" (admittedly something of a misnomer because it's really only a quality shared by L and his successors, but bear with me I wanted to use a catchier term).

The stare is the feeling those eyes project, the unnerving sense that they observe and analyze everything around them. That they can see into your soul, through and past you, and against your will can unearth your sins. That they know what makes you tick and just what buttons to push. That they know something you don't. It's in equal parts mysterious and alluring and intimidating as fuck. It's psychic damage, a feeling of exposure, a gaze that can make you squirm and stammer and reveal your secrets. Eyes that see everything but reveal nothing about the mind of their bearer.

Since I like to try to ground my theories in at least a crumb of source material, this ties in also to Near's comments in the C-Kira one shot where he said the reason L singled out himself and Mello and chose them as his potential successors was because of how they observe, and "the nasty look in our eyes".

In conclusion: Near has grey eyes, and Mello's are blue. But they are both distinctly L's.

#very bravely and at great personal expense resisting making a Black Eyed Children parallel #death note #death note meta #near death note #mello death note #mihael keehl #nate river #l lawliet #oculomancy #eldritch physiognomy #wammy boys #death note head canons

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serenityluvz · 4 months ago

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𝙄𝙍𝙍𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙄𝘽𝙇𝙀

(𝘌𝘯𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘑𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘚𝘮𝘶𝘵 | 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 | 18+)

⋆𐙚₊˚ˢᵉʳᵉⁿⁱᵗʸᴸᵘᵛᶻ

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, strong emotions, pregnancy themes, angst, unprotected sex (be responsible!), and a shocking revelation.

Summary: One night. That’s all it was supposed to be. A moment of weakness, fueled by tension and buried feelings. You and Jake swore it wouldn’t mean anything—just physical, no strings attached. But fate had other plans. When you discover you’re pregnant, the truth becomes impossible to ignore.

"This is a bad idea."

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it does nothing to stop the way Jake's lips trail down your neck, igniting a fire in your veins. His hands grip your waist, pressing you against the mattress as his body hovers over yours.

"Then tell me to stop," he murmurs, eyes locked onto yours, dark and full of something dangerous.

You don’t.

Because you can’t.

The weight of everything unspoken between you drowns out logic. The tension has been building for months—lingering glances, stolen touches, the way he always finds an excuse to be near you. And now, with his body flush against yours, the last of your restraint crumbles.

"Jake," you breathe, fingers threading through his hair as he kisses you senseless.

His response is a low groan, his hands pushing up your shirt, palms burning against your skin.

"Let me make you feel good, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

The air between you turns electric as clothes fall away, lips and hands roaming desperately. It’s messy, heated, raw. Every touch, every gasp, every moan is a silent plea for something neither of you are willing to say out loud.

When he finally pushes inside you, a strangled moan leaves your lips. His name tumbles from your mouth like a prayer, and Jake buries his face in your neck, groaning at the way you clench around him.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, hips snapping against yours.

The pleasure builds quickly, overwhelming and intoxicating. Your nails dig into his back as he thrusts deeper, harder, chasing the high that neither of you are ready to admit means everything.

It’s reckless. It’s inevitable. And neither of you think about the consequences.

Not until it’s too late.

YOU STARE AT the pregnancy test in your trembling hands, nausea rolling through you in waves. Two pink lines.

Positive.

Your breath comes out shaky as reality crashes down on you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was one night. One mistake. And now, everything is ruined.

"Shit," you whisper, pressing a hand to your stomach.

What the hell are you going to do?

Telling Jake feels impossible. You weren’t even together. Just friends—if you could even call it that. Friends don’t fuck like their lives depend on it. Friends don’t look at each other the way you and Jake do.

But this? This changes everything.

And the worst part?

You’re not sure if he’ll stay.

DAYS PASSED BEFORE you finally gather the courage to face him. Jake notices something’s off the moment you step into his apartment, fingers fidgeting, lips pressed together.

"What’s wrong?" he asks, eyes scanning your face.

Your throat tightens. "Jake, I need to tell you something."

His brows furrow. "Okay...?"

You take a deep breath, your hands shaking. "I’m pregnant."

Silence.

Jake just stares at you, his body going rigid. His lips part, but no words come out. The color drains from his face.

"What?" His voice is barely above a whisper.

You swallow hard. "I—I found out a few days ago. I wasn’t sure how to tell you, but I—"

"Are you sure?" he interrupts, his voice strained.

You nod, gripping the fabric of your sweater. "I took multiple tests. I went to the doctor. It’s real, Jake."

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. "Fuck."

You feel your chest tighten. "Jake, if you don’t want to be involved, I understand. I just thought you should—"

"Stop." His voice is firm, eyes flashing with something unreadable. He steps closer, hands cupping your face. "Do you really think I’d leave you to do this alone?"

Tears prick your eyes. "I don’t know."

His jaw clenches. "Y/N, I—" He pauses, looking away, as if he’s battling something inside him.

"What?" you whisper.

He hesitates, then sighs. "There’s something I need to tell you too."

Your stomach churns. "What is it?"

Jake exhales sharply, his grip on you tightening. And then, he drops the bomb.

"I knew."

You freeze. "What?"

His eyes are filled with regret as he says the words that shatter everything.

"I knew you were pregnant before you told me."

Your heart stops. "Jake, what the hell are you talking about?"

His hands tremble slightly as he takes a step back. "Y/N... I overheard you on the phone with your doctor last week."

Your blood runs cold.

"You knew? And you didn’t say anything?"

"I wanted to," he says quickly. "I was going to. But I was scared. I didn’t know how to bring it up, and I—"

You feel sick. "You let me sit in my own fear, thinking I was going through this alone?"

Jake’s face falls. "I fucked up. I know I did. But I need you to know that I never planned to leave you, Y/N."

Tears spill down your cheeks as anger and heartbreak war inside you.

"Then why didn’t you say anything?"

"Because I didn’t want to lose you!" His voice cracks, eyes desperate. "I didn’t know how to fix this. I didn’t know if you wanted me to be part of this."

The weight of everything crashes over you. The fear, the uncertainty, the love buried under layers of mistakes.

Jake steps closer again, his hands trembling as he reaches for you. "But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere."

Your breath catches as he presses his forehead against yours.

"I want this," he murmurs. "I want you."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. But maybe… just maybe… it’s exactly what was meant to be.

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gisachi · 2 months ago

Text

12 Games: Shinichi and Ran Game # 8 - Secret Rating: T Summary: How long can they keep up? How long until they give in?

(Read here or in FFN ! Link provided.)

It wasn’t that they were purposely avoiding the topic of their relationship.

First of all, and to be absolutely clear, there was no relationship to speak of. They were as casual as could be, the typical standout beauty and brains, coexisting with the mortals in class. But everyone in the room thought they looked good together, and it came as a shock when one blessed soul mustered the courage to ask, “Are you two secretly dating?”

Shinchi blinked once, Ran looked at Shinichi, Shinichi looked at Ran, both looked at the classmate.

“No we’re not,” they said in unison, in a manner that sounded like they were actually secretly dating.

“You’ll make beautiful babies really,” the blessed soul blushed. Shinichi’s eye twitched. Ran nearly choked. Both could hear Sonoko’s laughter in the distance.

To be asked that question was crazy, to hear that follow-up was even crazier, because not only did it plant strange seeds in their heads - they were good friends, damnit - but constant and collective affirmation by people around had made them pause and think and wonder, really wonder, whenever they’d lend the other a pen or space out at lunch break or lie alone in bed at night, even for just a split second, whether as just a joke, what it would be like to bond, to date, or–god forbid–to hook up.

Which they hadn’t done, of course. All silly thoughts stayed in the head. Perhaps the farthest they’d gone physically was that extra two-second fingertip graze during the baton pass at the sports festival. The touch lingered a bit, and Shinichi wasn’t exactly sure if the burning sensation up his skin was due to the scorching heat of summer or something else as he watched Ran's back, sun kissed and sweaty, ponytailed hair flowing gloriously with the wind as she sprinted to the finish line.

They did hang a couple of times since then, left in the lab after school for research. Contrary to what others may imagine, all interactions were in fact, wholesome. In empty classrooms they learned a lot about each other – her favorite color, his favorite food. The way she’d touch her chin before selecting strawberry yogurt from the vending machine. The way he’d crinkle his eyes when reading texts from the bulletin board like he needed a pair of glasses. All sorts of trivial matters only a few knew about because nobody would dare hang around popular kids unless they were themselves popular. A misconception the rest of their classmates should learn to shake off.

Because the thing was, whether or not the other held such stature, it had nothing to do with why his heart did weird somersaults on the day she started addressing him by his first name. It was silly, it happened after a successful English report and he found himself fighting the urge to ask 'it isn't just me, is it?' in front of the whole class like a desperate sadboy loser. The same way it wouldn’t alter the words scribbled behind her notebook - her full name beside a heart beside his full name beside a question mark, under jagged loops of erasures caused by an approaching threat that was Sonoko.

There was no relationship to speak of. Not even situationship. But definitely there was something that had become impossible to ignore. And if it weren’t for that godforsaken question still lingering in their minds a month after it had been asked, they wouldn’t allow themselves to be put into this awkward position.

Maybe the best way to let the telltale fire die down was to be firm in the belief there was none to begin with. So they wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't dwell on it.

If it was just them, they could survive this easily. But there was one major factor to take into account. The setting.

For what was high school if not absolute lack of privacy and the inane need of youngins to be informed of one another’s lovelife?

“I guess our friendship means nothing to you now huh, Kudou-kun.”

Shinichi glanced up and back at his phone, merely giving a light snort to Nakamichi who sat opposite him, back on the blackboard. After seconds of his classmate’s unrelenting stare of death despite Shinichi’s obvious nonchalance, he decided to address the lad, albeit begrudgingly. “What’s it this time, Nakamichi.”

“Suzuki-san said she saw you and Mouri-san walking home together yesterday. As expected, getting the girls waay before us.”

Shinichi sighed. “I told you. Our houses are in the same direction. It was nothing.”

“It rained and she said you shared an umbrella.”

“She left hers at home. Were you expecting me to let her get soaked while I hog the umbrella?”

“Nah actually, was expecting you to give her the umbrella and you dash under the rain, dude.”

“She wouldn’t allow it. Ran isn’t that type to let such a situation happen.”

“Huh. Already at that level of familiari– wait, first name. You heard that, Aizawa?”

The classmate sitting diagonally across Shinichi nodded, invested in the ongoing conversation.

“Again. You all are misguided moro–”

“Guess brushing shoulders with Mouri-san and having his own seinen manga moment are just something he can do so freely now. I get it man. We all do. We’re jealous, man, but we’re happy for you, congratulations.”

“Guys, please–” Shinichi ran a hand over his face, “Quit it. Ra– Mouri-san and I have nothing going on. She can stare me down all day and we’ll both be chill. Take everything she does and everything she says like a classmate to a fellow classmate. Nothing more and nothing less. Believe me.”

Shinichi regretted making that remark instantly.

Because with eyes drilled to his phone, he could practically see the menacing expression exchanged between the two dudes in front of him. Talk about a non-existent fire. Just now, he believed he might have fueled something akin to a disaster.

It didn’t take long for the bad hunch to be validated as the next thing he heard was Nakamichi beckoning to someone across the room.

“Mouri-san! My bad. Are you doing something right now? Have time to spare before our next class?”

Ran, ever so courteous, acknowledged Nakamichi. A quick glance at the wall clock, before a friendly “sure, what is it?”, facing his direction. A mix of emotions stirred inside Shinichi. He especially felt sorry for Ran. More so for himself, because whatever the hell his friends were about to do, he knew they were up for the kill.

What was high school if not a bunch of teenage idiots and their countless attempts to embarrass their friends in front of the opposite sex just for something to talk about over SNS the same night?

“Our good friend here–” Nakamichi walked behind Shinichi and patted his shoulder, about to go on with a fake script, “There’s something off with him today, or not, maybe just his usual conceit, but in any case we need you to say magic words to him to bring him back to earth.”

‘I have no idea what he’s talking about.’ While Nakamichi droned on, Shinichi relayed his message to Ran through telepathic eye contact, as he often did. Easy to catch his worldless complaint, Ran fought back the smile that wrung her lips, acknowledging Shinichi’s honesty with a soft knowing blink.

Jesus, why did that gesture make his heart tumble for a second?

“Ten times and… Has to be me?” Ran pointed to herself, tone slightly surprised. Shinichi snapped back to reality and became aware of the way her eyes widened at Nakamichi, Shinichi having completely missed the latter’s words.

“Has to be you, yes.” Nakamichi replied gallantly.

“Has to be what?” Shinichi turned around to seek confirmation, only to be answered by Nakamichi’s sly grin.

“Yeah right, Kudou-kun. Pretend you didn’t hear what I just said.”

“I really didn–”

“I like you, Shinichi.”

As quick as lightning, Shinichi whipped his head back at Ran, who sat across her resolutely, eyes fixed on him. “Wh–”

“That’s the first! Wahaha nine to go!”

Almost everyone started gathering around their table by then. Nakamachi’s roastings were morphed out as Shinichi remained dumbfounded the entire time. All that was in his head was the ringing of Ran's words. Something like—

“I like you.”

He didn’t mishear, right? That was the second time. But despite this phrase uttered out of her lips, shouldn’t it have caused everyone to shut up like he was now, instead of creating a ruckus around the room? Was the world tripping with him right now?

Maybe it was, because in the haze of his senses he heard the girls squeal and Nakamichi declaring “That’s two already! Whoa, Mouri-san’s good!”, almost like a referee in a boxing match with Shinichi close to being K.O.’ed. And they were just at round two.

Immediately, his mind tried to digest the scenario: the stupid classmates horsing around five minutes ago, the blurred words of Nakamichi consisting of phrases ‘ten times’, ‘magic words’, ‘say it with a straight face’, ‘maintain eye contact’, ‘we tried but he kept winning’, Ran in front of him being a good sport acknowledging Nakamichi, Ran’s surprised gaze, Ran’s determined self as she said the sacred phrase twice without faltering… wearing her usual game face.

It didn’t take long to click. This was the game. This was a game.

The first ‘I like you’ made him want to float and disintegrate into particles. But that was the trap. He wanted to check his watch and glare at Nakamichi but surprisingly had the mind not to in fear of being called a loser. Great. Now he felt like he was indeed in high school. Had the game already started? Why did he suddenly become so competitive?

“I like you.”

She said so again, and at this point he was uncertain if he was being absorbed by the game or by his own delusion. He could hear his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, uncertain if caused by the thrill of the game or the actuality of hearing Ran say those three words, eight letters, to him.

“I like you.”

She was a natural, saying heartstopping lines meant to be told to a lover while looking him straight in the eyes. They weren’t lovers, maybe he wished they were, oh dear lord what was he thinking? What was she feeling?

“I like you.”

That phrase made him want to throw himself out the window to hide the gradually shifting colors of his cheeks, to loosen his tie to allow himself to breathe.

“I like you.”

It made him sweat on his palms, eyes unable to drag themselves away from hers because perhaps, there was no harm imagining that this could be real.

“I like you.”

It made him want to cave in and pull her close and kiss her senseless like they were meant to do that for ages. But before he could do that, of course, he must…

“I like you, I like you, I like y–”

“Marry me, Ran.”

The classroom went still.

And then, berserk.

Nakamichi may in fact be right. There was something wrong with Shinichi. On a normal day, his brain generally worked faster than his mouth. Not today, he supposed. He wanted to put a tape over it, having imagined himself in the headlines: high school boy slapped hard on the face for being too rash to ask a classmate’s hand in marriage. All because the concept of ‘like’ got him reeling. Let the collective yelps drown out her response, he’d rather not hear it. Whether it be a good or bad one, he’d die.

Stunned at Shinichi’s sudden declaration, both Shinichi and Ran remained unmoving as the rest of the class celebrated what seemed like a successful engagement. The game had ended, right? Would he even call it a game? How stupid. God forbid he had to repeat what just left his mouth nine more times–

“Might be more apt to ask again in ten years, don't you think?"

As much as they couldn't keep the excitement back, all became silent when Ran spoke. Her eyes were set on Shinichi, gentleness marking her features. The apple on her cheeks was pinker than ever, but she spoke with utmost sincerity, enough to make everyone in the room partly scared and partly curious. Had she started taking this seriously amidst the crazy childish chaos?

“I– huh. In ten years? No, I dunno, Ran, sorry I was– Um.”

A bumbling mess, Shinichi tried his best to swallow the lump down his throat and meet her eyes. It was for this exact reason that Shinichi held back for the longest time, aware of the risk of putting people on the spot. The risk of falling, and failing miserably. Yet, at that moment, deciding between taking everything back and succumbing to his yearning tore his teenage brain apart.

The ticking of the clock was so loud that it could drive one mad. Expectant eyes were all set on him and her. He knew, absolutely knew at this second he should stop prodding. Because the moment he spoke it into existence–

“Okay. If ten years is now, Ran – What will you say?”

“Yes, I think I will marry you.”

Everyone along with him died.

It was a mystery when the game started and when it culminated, who won and who lost, what their classmates chanted and screamed in the background. Even as the noise receded after their teacher came in class and students hustled to their desks, two pairs of eyes refused to break connection, subtle, secret, relenting only when the teacher started recapping yesterday’s Biology lesson.

All he could think about was how he’d actually, actually want to put a ring around that finger, ten years into the future.

(And perhaps, maybe, possibly, kiss her senseless, later.)

A/N: This one is inspired by the Aishiteru Game, Tama Craindre’s one-page comic, and an anon request. (Hi all. Yes, I am still alive. :D)

#shinran #kudou shinichi #mouri ran #fanfic #12 games #wowoooewuw is this the real life i updated !#a shinran oneshot in the year of our dear lord 2k25?#i think i ate some cutesy high school butterflies for dinner so here we freaking go lmao #oh to be sixteen again #SIGH #with this i hope to pick up on my wips #anyway if you read this thank u! this sat for 4 yrs in my draft so 4-yrs ago gisa is glad it saw the light of day

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love-you-likeallfire · 2 months ago

Text

Sunshine and Roses

Chapter 5- Girl on Fire

First chapter, Previous chapter

Haymitch and I are holding hands as we step off the train.

The lights flash — harsh, hungry — and the air tastes like electricity. The platform is a blur of Capitol officials, stylists, and cameras already scrambling for the best angle.

Effie is a hurricane of color and nerves, hustling Katniss and Peeta toward the recreation center without a backwards glance. They're gone in seconds, swallowed by handlers.

But Haymitch doesn't let go of my hand.

I file this kind of action away under Capitol romance, the fake narrative we’re supposed to sell — Panem’s golden couple, still so desperately in love six years after the wedding of the century.

And yet.

Sometimes, I wonder how far the lie really goes.

How much of it is reflex.

How much is real.

Because Haymitch only lets go when he physically hands me off — palm to palm — into the sharp-clawed care of my stylist, Fabricia Vellore.

The prep room smells like steamed linen and overpriced polish, the air scrubbed clean until it feels sterile against my skin.

I stand under a flood of white lights in front of a floor-length mirror, adjusting the hem of my dress while Fabricia circles me like a shark with a pincushion strapped to her wrist.

Her nails are lacquered the same molten orange as the silk and tulle she’s wrapped me in. Every few seconds, she lets out a pleased little hum, the sound sharp and self-satisfied.

“You’re citrus perfection, darling,” she trills, yanking the waist tighter until I can barely breathe.

"Like something you’d sip at an evening party. A Tequila Sunrise, perhaps."

I glance at my reflection, barely recognizing the girl staring back.

The layers of burnt orange and amber fall like molten waves just below my knees.

The heels Fabricia insisted on — nude, high, vicious — make my legs look impossibly long.

The neckline dips just enough to show off the Capitol’s 'improvements' — the ones I never asked for — and the fit skims the new edges they carved into my body until it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

It’s not obscene.

It’s... tasteful.

Tasteful in the way Capitol citizens like best: provocative enough to gossip about, polished enough to pretend it’s admiration, not possession.

I smile —

That same polished, hollow smile I used on the Victory Tour.

The one I practiced until it didn’t feel like a blade against my teeth.

Innocent. Mature. Golden. Untouchable.

Panem’s Princess.

Fabricia hums again, adjusting a fold of tulle near my hip like she’s reposing a statue.

Satisfied, she spins me toward the door with a flourish. "Go, darling! Go make them weep with how radiant you are!"

I step into the hall —

And there he is.

Haymitch leans against the opposite wall, arms folded, one foot braced lazily behind the other.

He’s dressed in a deep blue jacket that should make him look overdressed, out of place.

It doesn’t.

It fits him unfairly well, despite the obvious lack of effort: the slightly rumpled collar, the tie half-assed around his neck, the faint look of irritation like the clothes personally offended him.

He’s fiddling with the knot now, picking at it like a man faced with a puzzle he has no intention of solving.

"Here," I say, already moving toward him. "Let me."

He grunts — a sound halfway between permission and annoyance — but doesn't pull away.

I slide my fingers under his collar, fix the knot properly, smooth the line of his jacket.

The fabric is cool under my hands; he’s warm underneath.

The faint scent of soap and coffee clings to him, along with something sharper — a trace of whiskey. Something entirely him.

"We’re gonna survive talking to Capitol citizens for a whole hour," I murmur, fussing with his lapel. "So you’ve got to remember—you’re head over heels in love with me, even after six years of marriage."

His mouth twitches, something not quite a smile flickering across it.

"Head over heels, huh?"

"Mmhm," I hum lightly. "Hopelessly."

He huffs a breath — almost a laugh — but says nothing. I step back, he offers me his hand again, and I take it and we fall into stride together without needing to speak.

Not even ten minutes later and we’re there.

The City Circle.

The heart of the Capitol, the stage for all its glittering, grotesque displays.

An hour until the tributes arrive.

The square buzzes with anticipation, glittering gowns and sharp-creased suits flashing under the midday sun. Capitol elites mill around in clusters, sipping jewel-colored cocktails and flashing diamond smiles.

Haymitch still hasn’t let go of my hand.

It’s not romantic.

It’s not tender.

It’s just —

A tether.

Steady. Warm. Real.

I can feel the beat of his pulse against my skin, a quiet counterpoint to the pounding noise of the crowd.

I hold onto it as we do the rounds like we’re supposed to.

Smile, nod, laugh at the right times, pretend we’re sickeningly in love.

Shake hands with people who wear more makeup than I did at my crowning ceremony.

Haymitch plays along better than usual — tossing dry quips at high-society types, looking at me in a way I’d swear was real if I didn’t know better.

But he’s quieter tonight, in a way that sets my nerves on edge. So I watch him closely as we move through the throng, brushing shoulders, hands grazing, never quite breaking contact — until suddenly—

We do.

I turn from one Capitol woman — shrill, caked in powder, dripping pearls — and Haymitch is just — gone.

Gone.

The breath catches in my throat, sharp and stupid.

It’s just a crowd.

I know he’s nearby.

I know that.

But something inside me crawls anyway —

Fingers twitching, chest tightening, the colours too bright, the noise too loud.

I start scanning.

Frantic.

Flicking from one head to another, searching for a flash of blond hair, that slouching, unimpressed posture.

And then—

"Well, if it isn’t Panem’s Princess herself."

The voice — warm, teasing — cuts through the rising panic.

I spin around, and—

“Finnick!”

And then he’s hugging me, folding me up against him without hesitation.

He smells like salt and clean linen and something bright, something wild and free the Capitol hasn’t managed to strip from him yet.

I let myself fold into it, just for a second.

When he pulls back, he grins, that easy, reckless grin that once broke half the hearts in Panem.

"You look like a Tequila Sunrise," he says, sweeping me up and down. "A very expensive, very intoxicating Tequila Sunrise."

I laugh —

A real laugh —

Surprising myself with how easy it comes.

"That’s exactly what Fabricia said! I think she’s some kind of genius honestly, one with too much time on her hands."

Finnick chuckles, soft and genuine.

"You look beautiful, Ember."

"Smooth one, Odair." I tug absently at the hem of my dress, grounding myself. "Should I be worried about you sweeping me off my feet?"

"Wouldn’t dream of taking panem’s princess away from her prince" His grin softens into something warmer.

Finnick looks unfairly good too — a dark green ensemble with pale sea-glass accents that scream District Four but whisper Capitol darling.

He wears it like armor.

Like bait.

The same way I wear this dress.

"How’s Mags?" I ask, glancing around for her tiny silver figure.

"Running circles around the stylists." His eyes gleam. "Already told Caesar Flickerman she’d sponsor someone if he shut up for five minutes."

I laugh again, softer.

Mags — mute and still sharper than anyone here — remains undefeated.

"She’s my hero," I say.

"And how’s the husband?"

He winks as he says it, teasing but the weight behind it is real.

Finnick knows.

Knows everything.

Knows what Snow tried to do to me — what he did do to him.

He knows what Haymitch is to me, what he isn’t.

“He’s fine. I think” I say “probably hitting up a waiter for drinks or something”

He watches me carefully, not pitying — just aware. Gentle.

"You doing okay?" he asks, voice low.

My smile tightens. "I'm fine."

He nods, not believing me, but he lets it go.

"Annie asks about you," he says. “All the time."

My chest pulls tight. I can picture her — hair tangled, barefoot on the beach, book open on her lap.

"Tell her I think about her more than she probably wants me to."

He smiles. "She misses you. She’d like to see you again."

"I’d like that too," I murmur.

Then carefully, he leans in, just so I can hear.

"You’re still doing the list thing?"

"Yes, Finnick," I sigh, exasperated but fond.

Finnick’s gaze lingers on me — not heavy, not pitying. Just knowing.

Because understands counting days and promises like talismans against the dark.

"I should find him," I say suddenly, scanning the crowd again. "Haymitch."

Finnick nods. "Go. But hey—"

He grins, wide and wicked.

"If you vanish again, I’m stealing your crown. And your stylist."

"Just you try it," I shoot back with a smirk, already moving.

But the smirk fades fast as I weave through the crowd because something’s wrong.

I can feel it.

The air’s too heavy.

The crowd too loud.

My skin prickling like a warning I can’t explain.

I find Haymitch halfway up the staggered seating, —close enough to be seen, to be captured by the endless sweep of Capitol cameras, but never important enough to be the centrepiece. Not unless you’re selling something. Fame. Drama. Death.

I move carefully through the rows, feeling the sharp buzz of dozens of lenses turning my way as I go. Smile here. Tilt your head there. I slide into the seat to Haymitch’s left, smoothing the cascading layers of silk and tulle beneath me, careful not to wrinkle the illusion Fabricia spent hours stitching onto me. My prosthetic arm, too polished, too perfect, rests heavy and foreign in my lap. I cross my ankles and fold my good hand over the other, willing myself to seem serene. Controlled.

Haymitch doesn’t move. Doesn’t even glance at me.

He just sits there—stiff, knotted, brittle—with his hands braced against his knees like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. Like if he lets go, even for a second, the pieces of him will scatter across the marble floor, and no one will bother to pick them up.

There’s no drink in his hand.

No easy, sloppy smirk. No muttered curses.

Just silence. Tense. Heavy.

And that tells me more than any words ever could.

Because Haymitch Abernathy without a drink is a man standing on the edge of something sharp and terrible. A man who remembers too much.

I don’t speak.

Not yet.

I just sit there and watch him, my heart twisting painfully in my chest.

Watch the way his jaw tightens with every cheer that goes up from the glittering audience. Watch the way his shoulders curl inward like he’s trying to shrink, to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less here.

Finnick once told me, in a rare, hushed moment, that there'd been an accident during Haymitch’s own parade. An accident the Capitol never spoke of, but one they never really forgot either. He didn’t tell me the details—said he wouldn’t. Said it wasn’t his story to tell.

But I saw the way Finnick’s face looked when he mentioned it.

I know whatever happened, it left scars that never really healed.

And maybe it’s selfish, but this year... seeing Haymitch like this, so silent, so frayed at the edges—it hurts more. Cuts deeper.

Because I know him better now.

Because he matters more now.

The cameras sweep the stands again. I catch a glimpse of my own reflection on a massive screen—a perfect, poised Capitol darling.

I hate it.

But I know the game.

So I move. Slowly. Carefully.

I reach over with my right hand—the one that still feels like mine, still has scars and heat and blood—and lay it gently over his.

He jolts. Just a tiny twitch.

That old panic flashing through him, so fast most people wouldn’t even notice.

But I notice.

I always notice.

For a breathless second, I think he might pull away.

But then—

His hand shifts. Turns under mine. And his fingers, rough and calloused and trembling just slightly, lace through mine.

It’s slow. Uncertain. Like he doesn’t quite trust himself to do it.

But he does it anyway.

Our hands stay there, knotted together between the gleaming fabric of my dress and the worn fabric of his jacket.

Not Capitol theatre.

Not a calculated move for the cameras.

Just...

Us.

I squeeze lightly, brushing my thumb over the ridge of his knuckle. A small touch. A steady one.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t need to.

The anthem blasts through the stadium, a bombastic explosion of sound and hollow patriotism.

I stiffen instinctively, the training of a thousand public appearances snapping into place. Sit straight. Smile small. Look proud. Look loyal.

The first chariot rolls into the City Circle. District 1- A shimmering feathery monstrosity of pink and glitter and false promises.

The crowd roars as if they’re witnessing a coronation, not a parade of doomed children.

I barely register it.

District 2. Gold metallic . District 3. Silver sequins. District 4. Turquoise blue tunics.

Each one more garish than the last, dressed like walking stereotypes of their industries.

The Capitol eats it up.

Cheering. Screaming. Applauding the spectacle.

And then—

Finally.

The low rumble of hooves.

District 12.

Our district.

I brace myself for the usual unimaginative costume that every district 12 tribute has been forced into, myself included. The grim coal miners outfits, the soot-streaked cheeks, the itchy and questionably sturdy hard hats.

The Capitol’s favourite joke.

But instead—

They’re on fire.

Literally.

Katniss and Peeta glide into the Circle, flames crackling at the edges of their black suits. The fire clings to them like living things, devouring the fabric without harming them, licking along every movement they make. They shine against the dark marble, the low burning embers turning them into something fierce, something untouchable.

The crowd erupts. Screams, gasps, frenzied applause crashing like a wave against the walls of the Circle.

I hear it distantly, muffled under the roaring in my own ears. Under the swell of panic I am so hard to breathe through.

They’re not laughing.

They’re not mocking.

They’re watching.

Beside me, Haymitch shifts, leaning forward slightly, his hand tightening around mine.

I glance at him and he still looks like he’s waiting for disaster, his eyes keep moving from the teenagers to the horses pulling the chariot, but there’s something else there too.

Pride humming off him, subtle but fierce.

A glimmer of hope.

The aching need for this—this one small, blazing chance—to mean something.

The anthem fades into silence as the our district chariot rolls to a stop.

Snow appears on the high balcony, arms spread wide, voice rolling over the Circle like smoke.

“Welcome. Welcome. Tributes, we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice. And we wish you... Happy Hunger Games. And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

I force myself not to flinch at the words.

I force myself to keep smiling.

The tributes are herded offstage, swallowed by the marble guts of the city.

The cameras linger a moment longer, soaking up the glitz and madness before they, too, turn away.

Haymitch exhales.

A long, tired sound.

His shoulders sag.

His grip loosens.

Slowly, he releases my hand.

He runs the same hand through his hair, across his jaw, as if trying to shake the weight of everything off his skin and then he stands.

There’s a server nearby, gliding between the rows with a tray of champagne flutes.

Haymitch grabs one. Downs it in one breath and grabs another.

I rise to my feet and watch him, feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time.

“Feel better?” I ask, falling into step beside him as he starts toward the corridor that leads backstage.

He snorts, dry and humorless. “Not even a little. But I’ll take what I can get.”

I nudge his shoulder gently with mine.

“Come on,” I say, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Everyone’s talking about District 12.”

For once, they’re not mocking.

They’re not pitying.

They’re watching.

Tag list (if you want to be tagged just let me know, and sorry if I forget anyone): @maddiesreadinglog

#haymitch x oc #haymitch x reader #hunger games oc #the hunger games #haymitch abernathy x oc #haymitch abernathy x reader #sunshine and roses #fic:sunshine and roses

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ckret2 · 1 month ago

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(I haven't watched sj so forgive me if I contradict something, just going off secondhand knowlege) you ever think jack, after being fooled twice, secretly suspected ashi of being aku; And was low key relieved when it turns out she was actually his daughter and not him

joke answer? that would be hilarious. "oh thank goodness you're his daughter." "what do you mean 'thank goodness'?! that's HORRIBLE!" "look. i've been through some stuff, okay"

serious answer? I doubt it, mainly because of stuff you wouldn't know about due to the secondhand knowledge thing:

the first time Jack met Aku in disguise (Ikra) he was fooled.

the "second time" that I've mentioned on my blog (Jill) is technically non-canon due to appearing in the comics, and not even the good comic line, it's the weird OOC comics that get the whole vibe of the setting wrong. so jill is good for fanfic, but not for serious media analysis of jack

the CANON second time Jack met Aku in disguise (the hermit) Jack saw through him immediately. so by then he'd gotten good at picking out aku

and there's a pattern to all Aku's disguises that Jack probably would've picked up on by the time he ran into Ashi:

he's stuck with the same color scheme: black and green, a bit of red and white. (if we decide to count jill, aku disguised himself further with makeup.)

and more applicable to Ashi's situation: whenever Aku disguises himself, it's to pretend to be a helper to Jack, acting sympathetic to his cause, usually to trick him into doing Aku's dirty work.

that does NOT apply to Ashi. When Jack met her, she was one of seven ninja assassins from an aku-worshiping cult wearing aku-ish masks. he killed one of them before realizing they were human. (woulda been physically impossible to kill aku.)

jack's previously fought aku "in human form" and aku could NOT resist the urge to cheat and use his superpowers—and that was when he'd agreed to restrain himself. if the cultists were aku—or one of them was aku—they wouldn't have restrained themselves to human powers while trying to kill jack, they would've pulled out the laser eyes from the get go.

so: ashi was an enemy, with human capabilities. jack only befriended her because he got lucky enough to knock her out and tied her up, and even then while tied up she spent a whole episode trying to kill him before he began to convince her that she'd been brainwashed since birth and actually aku was the bad guy. if she were aku, either 1) he would've pretended to be on jack's side from the start (rather than antagonizing him by singing aku's praises right after he'd killed all six of the other cultists), or 2) he would've just shapeshifted out of the chains and tried to kill jack.

and most importantly: at this point, jack had lost The One Sword Capable Of Killing Aku. the ONLY reason he hasn't seen aku in years is because aku thinks he still has it. aku's been exclusively sending assassins after jack—assassins that jack's been very good at stabbing—so he doesn't put himself within stabbing range. he wouldn't approach jack while he thinks he still has the sword... and even if he did, the moment he realized it was gone, he would've dropped the disguise and killed jack on the spot.

so ironically, ashi—all dressed up like aku, wearing her little aku cultist mask, hollering about how great aku is, trying to kill him in aku's name—was just about the LEAST likely person in the world to be aku in disguise.

#anonymous #ask #samurai jack #meta

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science-lings · 2 years ago

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okay this has been going through my mind for days and I have to get my thoughts out before I explode

Disclaimer, this is not talking about a specific artist/person and would never condone or participate in anon hate or online bullying for any reason but especially this one.

I get why people are mad about Link being portrayed as this buff, hypermasculine, tall guy. I am too (again don’t fucking attack people over it though) and it seems like such an infuriating way to change the character just to fit into some ideal of hypermasculine attractiveness or to make a ship fall into a more hetero lense by making him a decent foot taller than whatever girl he’s being paired with.

The world of video games and action movies and every form of media ever is extremely saturated with male characters that are swole and manly and whatever other descriptors people are trying to push onto Link that don’t fit into his actual character. There are so many characters out there that already fit this male standard and having a clearly androgynous elf guy was like a breath of fresh air.

Link was literally designed to be a character whose lines on gender were blurred, ‘a girl with a masculine touch or a guy with a feminine touch’ so that anyone could project themselves onto him. His physical design in botw/totk was specifically made to be feminine enough to wear a certain outfit to pass as a woman (which includes a nearly mandatory cutscene where he puts on the clothes and blushes after being called pretty, like you have to be blind to think that its an experience that he doesn’t like at all) and in totk there are a bunch of outfits made for Link that are blatantly gnc, ones that are practically dresses, include nail polish and lipstick, you can even dye his hair bright and vivid colors and that’s half way to giving him new pronouns. The whole reason Linkle isn’t included in more mainline loz games was because her existence would force Link into a gender dichotomy, if there's a clearly female version of the main hero, that means the main hero has to be a man, and they would rather abandon a potential reoccurring character than make Link conform to a gender binary.

So pardon me when it feels disingenuous and even malicious for him to be morphed into these clear masculine ideals, where he towers over any female romantic partner (even when in canon he is regularly depicted as noticeably shorter than her) or even in m/m fanworks he’s really beefed up, perhaps to make the scene feel more gay or something.

Perhaps it’s because his more twink-y/ femboy body type is so heavily sexualized (though obviously when people are sculping abs on him it’s totally not because they’re horny about it) and that’s an issue in itself that bothers me. But it’s just so tiring to see one of the very few popular main characters who is short and feminine and androgynous be molded into just another bland muscle-headed action hero over and over and over again.

I’m not mad at the creators for portraying him differently than how I like him portrayed, I’m mad because we really do get so few characters like him in good popular media, and to be honest, I really like him the way that he is. I love that he’s tiny and has long hair and has the option to dress any way the player likes. It seems a little distasteful to make him taller than a female love interest just because that’s how straight couples have to be, there’s just never been a real straight couple where the guy is shorter than the girl, that’s just Impossible! (/s)

#i doubt anyone read this all i just needed to get it off my chest and this felt like the best place to do it #again i don't think it's a reason to bully or even just say mean things to people over their portrayal of link #but i get why it's so frustrating to people #like... link is lowkey a hero for trans guys who aren't tall and aren't ending up as masculine as they had hoped #but he's still exceptionally capable and he's still there to be an image for people who see themselves in him #idk this is just a rant #rant #zelink #loz #botw #totk

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theshiniestgemstone · 12 days ago

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The baby shower was happening far later than you would’ve liked. Your lower back ached with each step, and your feet were so swollen you had to keep them propped on a folding chair beside you, ankles barely visible over the edge. Between other engagements, family events, and scheduling nightmares, it had been nearly impossible to find time. But by the grace of God himself, and a particularly aggressive group chat, you managed to pull it off.

The sun was high, casting a golden warmth over Eli’s backyard. Tables were draped in pastel linens, and the decorations were simple but charming, with baby blue balloons tangled with soft yellows and tiny plastic ducks floating in mason jars filled with lemon water. Someone had even arranged a garland of onesies across the back fence, clipped up with clothespins and tagged with handwritten notes of advice.

Gideon stood by the grill with Eli and Jesse, locked in minute thirty-five of unsolicited fatherly advice. Eli had one hand resting heavily on Gideon’s shoulder, his other gesturing with a beer as he rattled off a story from Jesse’s infancy. Jesse, for his part, nodded sagely before adding his own two cents, which mostly involved listening to whatever the hell you said and never commenting on your mood unless he wanted to die.

“Just let her make the decisions, son,” Jesse was saying. “Even if you think you’ve got a better one. You don’t. Trust me.”

Eli hummed in agreement, flipping a burger. “And don’t be afraid to cry. Babies bring out strange things in a man. I wept for two hours when Judy was born.”

Jesse smiled smugly. “What about me, daddy?”

Eli took a breath. “Point is Gideon, don’t be afraid to feel your feelings.”

Across the lawn, Kelvin proudly presented a foam board decorated with glitter pens and cut-out baby bottle stickers. At the top, in bold block letters, it read: Guess Baby’s Weight and Length! The guesses varied wildly, from eight pounds and delicate to one that looked suspiciously like a small turkey.

That was how you found out Gideon had been an eleven-pound baby.

You’d blinked at his mother's scribbled guess on the board. 11 lbs, 23 inches :). Then slowly turned to look at him in stunned horror.

Amber, who’d been standing behind you in line for deviled eggs, caught a glimpse of Judy’s guess, twelve pounds and physically shuddered. Her fork nearly dropped.

“Oh honey,” she murmured, leaning closer. “God bless you if that runs in the family.”

You just nodded, hand instinctively going to your belly. You weren’t even sure you could carry a baby that size. But now the thought had wormed its way into your brain, and it refused to leave.

A gust of wind fluttered the paper plates and set the balloons bouncing. You shifted in your seat, watching as Gideon laughed at something Jesse said, eyes squinting in the sun, smile wide. He was glowing and he didn’t even know it.

And despite the discomfort, the worry, and the trauma that might come with birthing a future linebacker, you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

The first baby of the next generation had everyone in an uproar, practically foaming at the mouth for details. You and Gideon, to your credit, had kept things airtight. No slip-ups. No clues. Not even the faintest hint when Judy cornered you in the kitchen with a tray of mini quiches and a suspicious glint in her eye.

“The gender will be a surprise,” you’d repeated more times than you could count, always with a tight smile and a rehearsed shrug. “Even we don’t know.”

It drove them crazy.

They tried everything from rubbing your belly for “energy” to analyzing the way you carried and even cross-referencing old wives' tales with the color of your cravings. Jesse swore he saw a flash of pink on one of the sonogram prints that Gideon kept tucked in his wallet. Amber claimed your nose hadn’t changed, and that was a sign. Eli refused to play the guessing game entirely, insisting it was none of his business until the baby was in his arms. Ten minutes later, he slid you a twenty dollar bill in a poor attempt at bribery. You plucked it form his hands with a grin, thank you for the first contribution to the college fund.

As for names, there was a short list of three or four you both loved, a few backups in case the baby came out and just wasn’t a Ruthie or an Alex or whatever mood you’d settled on that week. One name had stuck harder than the others, lingering in quiet conversations at night, whispered against your neck while you lay in bed tracing the curve of your stomach. But even that wasn’t shared. Not yet.

“They’ll know when they need to know,” Gideon said with a grin every time someone pushed.

And so the guessing continued. Kelvin tried to bribe it out of you with baby books and foot rub coupons. Judy dropped hints she liked gender-neutral names. Jesse scribbled a list of boy names on a napkin and tucked it into Gideon’s back pocket like he was doing God’s work.

But the two of you just smiled. Let them twist.

More games were played, each one more ridiculous than the last but, somehow, all of them were perfect.

“Pin the Diaper on the Baby” was a crowd favorite, mostly because Kelvin had made the baby poster far too realistic, and no one could stop laughing at the tiny cartoon version of Gideon’s face pasted over it. You had to sit that one out, belly far too big for blindfolded stumbling, but you laughed so hard your ribs hurt when Eli ended up diapering the baby’s face.

Then came the race to see who could diaper and swaddle a teddy bear the fastest. Judy moved like she’d trained for it her whole life, snapping a cloth diaper into place with military precision and wrapping the bear up tight in less than thirty seconds. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin as if daring anyone to challenge her. No one did. By the end of it, she’d declared herself top babysitter, and Amber claimed the bear was rigged.

And then, it was time for gifts.

The energy in the room shifted as everyone gathered around, plastic folding chairs creaking and camera phones at the ready. You were helped into the center seat, propped up with cushions and a plate of fruit you didn’t ask for. Gideon sat behind you, legs on either side of yours, arms wrapped around your waist like you were made of glass.

Each gift was its own little spectacle. Tiny booties hand-knit by Aunt Tiffany. A stack of bibs embroidered with inside jokes from Jesse (“Lil Puker” in glitter thread). A fancy bottle warmer that Kelvin insisted was the one all the celebrity parents used.

You tried not to cry when Eli handed you a box filled with a baby quilt stitched from pieces of old Gemstone t-shirts. Some were faded from tours, others from church events long past. He’d labeled each square with a little note, written in his careful block letters.

“This one’s from Jesse’s first baptism. This here’s from the youth retreat in 2003. Thought it might be nice to wrap ‘em in a bit of home.”

You squeezed his hand, tears slipping down your cheeks as the room quieted for a moment.

And Gideon? He just held you tighter, whispering softly into your ear, “They already love this baby so much.”

Kelvin’s voice cut through the hum of overlapping conversations about swaddles and onesies. “Keefe also has a gift for you!”

There was a collective ooooh from the crowd, and before you could ask what he meant, Keefe was already beside you, cheeks flushed and hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Gideon rose from behind you, steadying your elbows as the two of them helped you up from the lawn chair you’d been parked in for most of the afternoon.

They guided you around the back of the garden, past a row of neatly trimmed hedges. The din of the baby shower faded just slightly, the shade offering a moment of cool reprieve from the sun, and then you saw it.

Nestled beneath the branches of a tall magnolia tree stood a crib.

It was made of rich, honey-toned cedar, polished to a soft glow, the natural woodgrain left exposed like an artist’s signature. The edges were smooth and rounded, sanded down with meticulous care. No nails were visible; everything was joined together with precision and craftsmanship that spoke of long hours and careful work. Tiny carved doves lined the headboard, each wing and feather lovingly detailed. On the footboard, there was a hand-burned etching of a gemstone, an obvious nod to the family, though subtly done, surrounded by sunbeams and flowers.

The slats were spaced perfectly, safe and secure, and the whole thing sat sturdy on a soft-rocking base, like it was designed to gently sway, not startle. Tied to one of the posts with a delicate white ribbon was a card that read, in Keefe’s handwriting: May they sleep like an angel, even when they scream like a banshee.

Gideon let out a breath beside you, visibly moved. You turned to see Keefe watching your reaction with wide, nervous eyes, his hands clasped together like he was praying it wasn’t too much or too little or somehow wrong.

“I didn’t have much growing up,” Keefe said quietly, “but I know what it feels like to want your kid to sleep in something that was made with love. So, I just… I wanted y’all to have that.”

You didn’t say anything at first, just reached out, hand brushing the smooth surface of the wood, letting the love and care he’d poured into every inch soak in. Then you turned and hugged him, as best you could with your belly between you.

Gideon reached over and gripped Keefe’s shoulder with quiet, wordless gratitude.

“I even left a space for their name when they get here.”

You wailed. Literally wailed.

It wasn’t a cute, misty-eyed sniffle or a graceful tear rolling down your cheek. It was a full-on, chest-heaving, snot-forming, couldn’t-even-speak kind of cry. The kind of emotional floodgate that came only with months of pregnancy hormones, sleepless nights, and the overwhelming kindness of a man like Keefe who had, unprompted, made room for your baby’s name before they’d even taken their first breath.

Keefe’s eyes widened in alarm. “I didn’t think you’d cry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

Gideon, gently chuckling, pulled you into his side with one arm while using the other to wave Keefe down. “No, no, she’s not sad, man. You just broke her heart in the nicest possible way.”

You nodded through your sobs, pressing your face into Gideon’s shoulder and raising one thumb in the universal sign for I'm okay but also devastated in the best way imaginable.

Keefe softened. “There’s a little wood-burned plaque, right there at the top,” he said quietly. “Just four nails holding it in. You can pop it off and switch it out, once you know who they are or if you have more."

You peeked through your tears, and sure enough, there was a gently curved space left bare at the crest of the headboard, framed with carved laurels. Waiting for a name, a little life that would make the crib complete.

Gideon exhaled slowly, jaw clenched, eyes glassy. He stared at it like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen.

“Keefe,” he said, voice thick. “That’s the most thoughtful damn thing anyone’s ever done for us.”

Later that night, after they’d brought the crib into the nursery, you stood there in the doorway thinking about it. In just a few weeks, there'd be a baby in that crib, dozing quietly after a tough day of diaper changes and meals. You could feel the tears running down your cheeks as Gideon's soft snores carried down the hallway. You pressed a hand over your bump, the skin warm beneath your palm. The little one was still kicking, still running laps like they had no intention of letting you sleep. You smiled through the ache in your ribs, tears sliding silently down your cheeks.

"Any day now, baby," you whispered, moving to take a seat in the rocking chair Jesse had given you at some point during your pregnancy.

#gideon gemstone #the righteous gemstone #gideon gemstone x you #gideon gemstone x reader #the righteous gemstones #gideon gemstone fanfic #gideon gemstone x fem reader #fanfic

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dudeimjustagirll · 1 month ago

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Time and Again

Ao3 link :p

A short mutual pining fic I made for Dick Grayson from Young Justice This is set in season 2 Haven't watched S4 yet so no spoilers pls :( This is very good for 10 year old me bc when I say that I was in love with this boy I am NOT kidding🥀

Your story didn’t start with an explosion, though it may as well have. You were eleven when you first tried to harness exotic energy, a science fair project turned personal obsession. Inspired by the pages of physics textbooks far beyond your grade level, you had an idea—a reckless, brilliant, world-breaking idea. A closed-loop energy system, something that should have been impossible. But you had to try. You built your experiment in the basement, cobbled together from scavenged parts and your father’s old lab equipment. He had always encouraged your curiosity, always pushed you to think bigger, dig deeper. He never expected that his daughter would accidentally tap into something beyond normal physics.

The moment the feedback loop engaged, time itself seemed to shatter around you. A single second stretched impossibly thin, the world around you slowing to something unrecognizable. The air thickened, clinging to your skin, resisting every movement. Light fractured, bending at unnatural angles, warping colors into hues your brain couldn’t fully process. Sound distorted—muffled and stretched, then sharp and stinging, like reality itself was trying to right what had just been broken.

And then, just as suddenly, it snapped back into place.

You were on the ground, your lungs burning as you gasped for air, every muscle trembling from the sheer force of whatever had just happened. Your head pounded, your limbs ached, but you were alive. Changed.

Your father found you there, wide-eyed and breathless. He should have been terrified. Any other parent would have panicked—rushed you to a hospital, called specialists, tried to fix whatever had gone wrong. But not him. No, the moment he saw you—really saw you—his expression wasn’t one of fear. It was fascination.

He crouched beside you, studying your face like he was cataloging every micro-expression, every telltale sign of something extraordinary. His voice was steady, curious. What did it feel like? he asked. What did you see? What do you think happened? There was no panic, no hesitation—just pure, unfiltered wonder.

And in that moment, you realized—he wasn’t going to treat this as a curse. He wasn’t going to try and take it away.

From that day forward, he helped you understand it. Nurture it.

Chronokinesis. That was the closest term you eventually settled on, though neither of you had a perfect name for it back then. You could slow time, speed it up in bursts, navigate the seconds and minutes with a precision no one else could comprehend. But stopping time completely? That was something else. That was unnatural. It tore at you, unraveled your muscles like fraying thread, left you writhing in agony when you pushed too far. You learned your limits fast. But pushing them? That became an inevitability.

Because if there was one thing your father taught you, it was that the boundaries of science existed only to be tested.

Joining the Team had been a natural step forward. Your abilities were invaluable in the field, making you a nightmare to fight and a godsend in a crisis.

And then there was Robin.

The two of you were cut from the same cloth—strategic, chaotic, too damn smart for your own good. You understood him, and he understood you. Matched each other’s energy. Missions together felt effortless, like you were operating on the same frequency, anticipating each other’s movements before they happened.

And somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

There wasn’t one particular day that you admitted your feelings to one another like a pair of lovesick fools in a romantic comedy, but there were moments—small, fleeting ones—that built into something undeniable. A glance held too long after a mission. The way his fingers brushed against yours when handing you a weapon, only to stay there a second too long. The way your heartbeat picked up when he laughed, like some part of you knew before you ever did.

Furthermore, there was never an official label, never a moment where either of you sat down and said this is what we are . You weren’t interested in all that. It was just… you and him . Late-night stakeouts that turned into whispered conversations. Training sessions that ended with breathless laughter and lingering touches. Trust deeper than words.

Wandering eyes when you thought the other wasn’t looking. Hands that strayed—just for a second longer than they should have—brushing over knuckles, ghosting against jawlines. And the kisses—never planned, always inevitable. The kind that started as curiosity but quickly turned into something else, something neither of you cared to name. The kind stolen in dimly lit hallways, behind doors that should probably have been locked.

And maybe that was why it hurt so much when it had to end.

You remembered it so clearly. It was around two years after you had initially started going out. It had been late, Mt. Justice’s kitchen empty except for the two of you. You hadn't wanted to have this conversation, but it had to happen. It was for the best.

He stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, gaze locked onto you like he already knew what was coming. Of course he did. He was Robin. No, Nightwing, now actually. He was the World’s second greatest detective. He noticed everything.

"So that’s it?" he had asked, voice steady. Too steady. Like he was already bracing for impact.

You swallowed hard. "I don’t think I can do all of this."

His expression didn’t change, but you saw the shift in his posture, the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. "All of what?"

"I’m joining the League," you said, the words steady, certain. You’d been turning the decision over in your head ever since the offer came. And the more you thought about it, the more it just felt... right. Like the next step you were meant to take.

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—something you caught even through those stupid sunglasses he insisted on wearing indoors. Pride. Admiration. But beneath it, something else. Something sharp. He nodded, exhaling slowly, like he was piecing it all together in real time.

"That’s... that’s amazing." His voice was warm, sure. "You deserve this. You’re going to do incredible things—I know it."

You swallowed, the weight of his words settling in your chest. He meant it. You could hear it in the way he said it, in the quiet certainty of his voice. And yet, part of you wondered if he knew just how much it meant to hear him say it.

You forced a small smile. "Thanks. You too."

Silence settled between you for a beat, stretching just a little too long. Then you took a breath.

"It’s just…that, and university, and this life..." You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. "And us—whatever we are."

Saying it out loud made it real in a way you weren’t ready for. You’d always known this moment would come—that you couldn’t stay in the same place forever. You had pushed yourself too far, worked too hard, to not take this step forward. And yet, the weight of it settled heavily in your chest.

His smile faltered, just at the edges, and that told you everything. He meant what he said. He was proud of you. But there was something else, something unspoken sitting heavy in his throat.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You don’t have to—"

"I do." Your voice was quieter now. But firm. "You know I do. If I can’t give this my all, then what’s the point?" A breath. A beat. "And you... you deserve someone who can."

A silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. For a second, you almost wished he’d argue, tell you that you were wrong, that you could make it work. But you knew him too well. He understood why you were doing this, it just... sucked.

Finally, he let out a breath, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "We’ll still be friends. I’m not going anywhere."

And he didn’t.

But that didn’t mean it got any easier.

Neither of you let go, not really. The habits never faded. The casual touches, the way you still worked together seamlessly on joint missions, the way you fell into old rhythms like muscle memory.

The way he still lingered when he walked past you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. The way your hands still found each other in the chaos of a fight, grasping wrists, steadying shoulders, anchoring each other like you always had. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was all business, even when he pretended none of it meant anything anymore.

And the worst part? The way you caught yourself waiting for it, anticipating it, like some part of you still thought things hadn't really changed. Like some part of you was still his, and he was still yours.

It was stupid, you knew. Dangerous, even. But neither of you could seem to help it.

And it wasn’t just that you were passionate—you were brilliant. Genuinely, undeniably intelligent. Your professors saw it, your classmates saw it, and it had even landed you an internship at S.T.A.R. Labs. The kind of opportunity people fought tooth and nail for, and yet, you had earned it with sheer capability. There were days you spent hours in the lab, pouring over equations, running simulations, and discussing cutting-edge theories with scientists who actually valued your input. It was exhilarating.

But balancing hero work? That was a different beast entirely. Juggling late-night missions with early-morning lectures, reviewing mission reports while trying to finish your thesis—sometimes it felt like you were living in two different timelines. You’d show up to class bruised, exhausted, chugging coffee like your life depended on it, but somehow, you made it work. Barely. There were nights you crashed at your desk, costume still on, half-written reports scattered between physics textbooks and mission briefs. You were constantly running on the edge of exhaustion, always one misstep away from burning out completely.

And yet, you wouldn’t change a thing. Because this was the life you chose—the life you wanted . Even if it meant stretching yourself impossibly thin, even if it meant stealing moments of rest in between saving the world and trying to understand it.

And then, there was Nightwing.

He had always been sharp—quicker than most, both physically and mentally—but becoming the team’s leader had refined him. The way he assessed a battlefield, how he calculated risks in an instant, the sheer weight of responsibility he carried—it was something honed through years under Batman’s shadow. He never had the time for college, never needed the degree to prove what everyone already knew. He was brilliant, his mind working a mile a minute, always solving, always planning. But there were moments—quiet, stolen moments—where he let himself just be .

And in those moments, he found himself yearning . For you.

He’d never admit it, but he loved the conversations you had, the way you could switch from discussing mission logistics to debating the nature of particulate matter without skipping a beat. He loved the fire in your eyes when you got passionate about something, the way your mind worked through problems even he couldn’t solve right away. He had faced some of the greatest minds in the world, but none of them made him feel the way you did when you got lost in a theory or cracked a joke mid-equation.

And then there was your game—the ridiculous, nerdy drinking game that started as a joke but had become something sacred. Whenever you had the rare moment to grab a drink together, you’d throw impossibly hard math problems at each other, laughing as you scribbled solutions on napkins, pretending you weren’t just looking for excuses to stay in each other’s orbit. Maybe even an opportunity to show off for the other? Multivariable calculus, theoretical physics, puzzles only the two of you would ever think were fun. No one else knew. It was yours.

One night, after a particularly grueling mission, you found yourselves at a dimly lit bar, phones in hand, generating math problems through some question-dispensing app. The drinks had loosened you both up, and at some point, you absolutely butchered the pronunciation of the binomial theorem. The syllables came out in a tangled mess, and Nightwing nearly choked on his drink from laughing so hard. You smacked his arm, grinning through your own laughter, and just like that, the exhaustion of the mission melted away.

It was in the middle of that shared, breathless laughter that a pair of strangers—just as tipsy as the two of you—pointed and slurred something about how you made an adorable couple. You barely had a second to process before you and Nightwing were tripping over each other’s words, voices overlapping in a frantic attempt to correct them. “Oh, no—” “We’re not—” “Just friends—” “Not like that—”

The strangers exchanged a look, smirks creeping onto their faces before one of them raised their glass in a lazy toast. “That’s what they all say,” they chuckled, eyes glinting with amusement before turning back to their own conversation. You both sat there for a beat too long, letting the words settle uncomfortably between you. He was the first to clear his throat, pivoting the conversation back to your next problem with forced ease, but you couldn’t quite ignore the warmth spreading across your chest—or the way he suddenly couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

He loved the sound of your laugh—bright and unguarded, something that felt like home, in the most abstract way possible. He loved the way your eyes lit up when you found a breakthrough, the way you challenged him without ever making it feel like a fight. He loved your attitude, the way you pushed yourself, the way you never let anything—powers, expectations define you.

And so he yearned. Silently, skillfully. Because that was what he was best at, wasn’t it? Hiding things. Bearing weight without complaint. He told himself it was fine. That you had moved on, that he had too. That this was just another part of the job.

But sometimes, when he caught you looking at him like you used to, when you laughed just a little too long at one of his dumb quips, when your fingers brushed against his for just a second too long—

He let himself wonder if maybe, just maybe, you were yearning too.

The latest mission had been a success—both League and Team members working together, efficient, coordinated, seamless. Adrenaline still buzzed under your skin as the dust settled, relief washing over you. And before you even thought about it, you turned to him, grinning, and pulled him into a hug.

Big mistake.

Your heart lurched in your chest, and you felt it—felt everything. The way his arms tightened around you just slightly, the way he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. The way his fingers pressed into your back, firm but reluctant, like he didn’t want to let go. The second stretched impossibly long, dragging you back to all the times before, all the fleeting touches and stolen moments you told yourself didn’t mean anything. But they did. Every single one of them.

You could feel the familiar warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, just a little too fast, just a little too telling. It was dangerous, this feeling, this moment suspended in time where it felt like the past and present had blurred together. You knew if you looked up, if you met his gaze, you’d see it—the same unspoken thing that had always been there, just beneath the surface.

But this—this was a mistake.

You pulled away quickly, muttered something incoherent, barely trusting yourself to form words. His arms dropped to his sides, a fraction too slow, like part of him had still been holding on. And for a split second, before you turned away, you swore you saw it—the flicker of something raw, something unresolved, in the way he looked at you.

You forced yourself to move on like it never happened. Like it didn’t shake you to your core. Like you weren’t already thinking about calling your dad the second you were alone, because god, you needed to talk to someone about this.

You told him everything. The way you still felt. The tension, the familiarity, the stupid, frustrating fact that you weren’t over it, not even a little bit.

He listened, letting you get it all out before finally speaking. "Time moves forward whether we like it or not. Nobody’s an exception to that rule, not even you," he said, voice steady. "But that doesn’t mean we don’t carry pieces of the past with us. Maybe the question isn’t if you still feel something—but what you’re going to do about it."

The next time you saw Nightwing, it was in a training session. You had volunteered to help the freshmen with their sparring, something you did every now and then. He was there, observing, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"It’s good to know you’re playing teacher today," he teased as you stepped onto the combat simulation floor.

"Figured someone’s gotta make sure these kids can throw a decent punch," you shot back. "Unless you wanna take over?"

"Oh no," he grinned. "I’d hate to steal your spotlight."

With the team gathered, you scanned the room. "Alright, who wants to volunteer first?"

Silence. Nobody moved. You sighed, folding your arms. "Seriously? Nobody?"

And then, after a beat, he stepped forward. "I’ll go."

You rolled your eyes. "Of course you will."

He just smirked.

The spar was intense—quick strikes, dodges, counters. It was easy to forget the audience, easy to fall back into the familiar rhythm of fighting him. Blow for blow, neither of you relented. Footwork sharp, bodies twisting, the tension building with every dodge, every calculated move. A step too close, a brush of skin, a heartbeat too long staring at each other before the next strike. It ended in a tie, both of you breathing hard, staring each other down with something charged in the space between you.

"You’ve gotten better," he mused, tilting his head.

You smirked, heart still hammering. "You haven’t seen my best yet."

"Maybe I should."

Time stretched impossibly thin, the weight of his words hanging heavy. Reckless. Stupid. But you still smiled, still let yourself fall into the banter, the tension, the pull that neither of you ever really let go of.

You were in trouble.

"These two need to get a room," someone muttered, just loud enough to break the moment. You snapped your head to the side, catching Beast Boy leaning toward Blue Beetle with an exaggerated wiggle of his brows.

M’gann smacked him upside the head before you could even open your mouth. "Not. Helping."

Beast Boy yelped, rubbing the back of his head.

You rolled your shoulders. "Focus up, Beastboy. Unless you want to be my next sparring partner?"

He threw his hands up in surrender. "Nope! I value my life, thanks."

Nightwing chuckled beside you, a familiar, low sound that sent something warm curling in your stomach. "I don’t know. Could be fun watching you take him down."

You arched a brow at him, still catching your breath. "And what, you think you’d last long against me at all?"

That damn smirk. "I think we both know the answer to that."

Your pulse kicked up, and you hated how easy it was to get lost in this—how easy it was to fall right back into the push and pull, the teasing, the almosts.

Yeah. You were so, so in trouble.

Eventually, the training session wrapped up, but Nightwing didn’t leave. He stayed behind, and so did you. The others filed out, leaving the two of you in the lingering quiet of the training room. It wasn’t awkward—at least, not in a way you weren’t used to.

You could still hear the distant murmurs of conversation from the hallway, the shuffle of boots against the floor, but in here, it was just you and him. The overhead lights buzzed softly, casting long shadows across the tile beneath you. You rolled your shoulders, stretching out the lingering tension from the session, acutely aware of the way his gaze lingered.

He stood by the railing, arms crossed, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. His mask hid his eyes, but you knew him well enough to catch the flickers of emotion beneath it. "You really haven’t changed at all. Still showing off, huh?"

You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no real malice in them. "I think that someone's just a little bit salty."

He tilted his head, smirking. "You sure you’re not cheating? Maybe freezing time mid-fight to reposition yourself, get the upper hand on me?"

You gasped, clutching your chest in mock offense. "How dare you? Accusing me of using my powers unfairly—right to my face, no less."

He chuckled. "I mean, you do have a history of bending the rules."

"I bend physics, not rules. Big difference."

"Mhm. Convenient excuse."

You rolled your eyes, but the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you. "Just admit I’m better and move on."

"You’re so much more than that."

It was casual at first, but something in his voice shifted, something more than just playful rivalry. You turned to face him fully. "Spit it out, Grayson."

His jaw tensed, and for a second, you thought he’d brush it off. But instead, he exhaled, looking at you like he was trying to memorize every detail. "We never really let go, did we?"

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

"You know what I mean." His voice was quieter now, but heavier. "I thought we were doing the right thing—giving ourselves space, focusing on work. But… every time I see you, it’s like none of that mattered."

You swallowed hard, because—God—you knew exactly what he meant. Every time you worked together, every mission, every glance across a crowded room, it was like the universe itself was conspiring against you.

"I still think about you," you admitted before you could stop yourself. "More than I should."

His lips quirked, but there was no amusement in it, only something raw. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "Yeah."

Silence. The air between you crackled like a live wire. His gaze flickered to your lips—briefly, almost imperceptibly—but you caught it. You always did.

"This is a really bad idea," you whispered, and you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

"Probably." His voice was barely above a murmur.

But neither of you moved away.

His hand brushed yours, hesitant, then firm. His fingers curled around your wrist like he was grounding himself—like he was making sure you were real. And then, finally, finally , he closed the space between you.

The kiss was slow at first, like testing a theory, like waiting for the universe to correct this mistake. But when it didn’t, when the only thing that happened was the way his hands slid to your waist, the way you pressed into him like you’d never stopped—

It deepened.

Eighteen months of restraint cracked apart in a second. One of his hands found the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly close. Your fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him further into you. It was messy, desperate, overwhelming, but it was real. And you weren’t stupid enough to run from it this time.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His grip on you hadn’t loosened, like he was afraid letting go meant waking up from whatever the hell this was.

Your breath was uneven, your pulse pounding in your ears. His was too—you could feel it against your skin, rapid and unsteady, betraying the calm he usually wore like armor.

You let out a shaky laugh, your lips tingling. "Well. That was… nostalgic."

Nightwing chuckled, low and hoarse, his breath fanning across your cheek. But there was something else beneath it. He exhaled sharply. "Yeah, we’re screwed."

Your breath hitched at the admission—at the way he said it, like he wasn’t dreading it. Like he was already coming to terms with it, as if he’d known all along that resisting this was a losing battle.

"Probably," you echoed, softer this time.

His fingers flexed against your waist before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable, but there was something there—something searching. Like he was waiting for you to say it first.

"So what do we do now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

A part of you wanted to overthink it—to map out the consequences, the risks, the inevitable fallout. But another part of you, the part that had been holding back for too damn long, already had the answer.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, grounding yourself. "We figure it out."

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head, but there was no hesitation when he whispered back, "Yeah. We always do."

#dick grayson x you #Dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x y/n #young justice #fluff #dick grayson fluff #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you

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