#it is/was something seen as funny enough that it didn’t matter

[a-whispering-echo]

Egg Man

Horror and Dusts first meeting!

fic for the Uni au that i was working on when i STARTED thinking about the dam thing. this was meant to be the BASE, like, draft thing, and id buff it out with more thoughts and descriptions and things later, but i couldnt be fecking bothered, so im posting this as it is now. i put so many random Deltarune and undertale references in here that are stupid and tiny and some more noticeable than others, but i did it, so- like, if you spot them...

Horror wasn’t sure what to make of Dust.

There were plenty of weird people at university - himself included. But Dust was… a particular flavour of weird. The kind of weird that made you wonder if he was actually a person or just some cryptid that had wandered onto campus and decided to stay.

He was easy to spot, at least. Always slouched, always in a hoodie and sweats, shuffling around in slippers with his ever-present red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. The rest of him looked like a disaster - his clothes wrinkled, his eyelights wild, his expression somewhere between dazed and vaguely amused - but that scarf? Pristine. Always clean. Always neat. It didn’t make sense.

But then again, nothing about Dust did.

Horror had seen him around. The first time, he’d assumed the guy was just some perpetually sleep-deprived student, muttering to himself and shambling across campus like a ghost with a caffeine addiction. But the more he saw him, the more odd details he picked up. The way vending machines never seemed to reject his money, no matter how finicky they were for everyone else. The way he always had a pen and would scribble random equations on napkins or receipts. The way he never showed up to lectures but somehow still aced exams.

And then, of course, there was the talking-to-himself thing. Not in the casual way people muttered under their breath, but full conversations. Arguments, even. Horror had walked past Dust in the library once and caught him saying, “That’s a fucking terrible idea,” to thin air, pausing, and then sighing. “No, it would not be funny. Stop.”

Horror had quickly pretended he hadn’t heard anything.

So yeah. Dust was weird.

But Horror didn’t make a habit of judging people too harshly. He knew he wasn’t the most approachable either, being a big guy with a scarred-up face, a thick build, and a permanent case of looking vaguely pissed off even when he wasn’t. Add the head wound that made his memory spotty and his hands a little shaky, and he figured most people saw him as some sort of brute. He got it. He didn’t blame them.

Which was why he didn’t really plan on ever talking to Dust.

Until the egg incident.

-

Horror liked the communal kitchen at night.

It was quiet, for one. For another, it meant he could take his time cooking without anyone hovering or making jokes about his size versus the tiny cakes he liked to make. And tonight? Tonight, he was making one of those tiny cakes. Or at least, he had been until he realised he was missing an egg.

“Shit,” he muttered, staring at the counter like the egg might magically appear if he glared hard enough. “Thought I had enough…”

He checked the fridge. No eggs. He checked his grocery bag. Still no eggs.

With a groan, he rubbed his face. It was a bigger issue than it sounded; he’d already pre-heated the oven, mixed most of the ingredients, and was at the point of no return. If he abandoned the cake now, the batter would go to waste. And after the day he’d had? He really needed this cake to happen.

Horror sighed, leaning against the counter. Maybe he could substitute something - banana? Yogurt? He wasn’t sure if he had either. Maybe he could knock on a few dorm doors and ask around. Or maybe he should just call it a loss and-

“Need an egg?”

Horror nearly jumped out of his skin as something heavy landed beside him. He turned sharply, hands clenching into reflexive fists - only to find Dust standing there, blank-faced as ever, dressed in his usual chaos of wrinkled sweats and that damn red scarf.

“Stars-” Horror started, his heartbeat still trying to settle. “Where the hell did you-?”

Dust cut him off by reaching into the pocket of his hoodie and pulling out… an egg.

Horror stared.

Dust held it out, wordlessly, like this was a completely normal thing to do. Like it wasn’t fucking insane that he had an egg just hanging out in his hoodie pocket.

Horror didn’t move at first. He wasn’t even sure how to respond. He had questions. So many questions. Where had the egg come from? How long had it been there? Why did Dust have an egg in his pocket? Why was he just handing it over?

More than anything, though, Horror was just… confused.

Dust raised an eyebrow. “You wanted an egg,” he said, like he was reminding Horror of some very simple, obvious fact.

“I- yeah, but-” Horror stopped himself. There was no logical way to approach this situation.

After a moment, he sighed, wiped his hands on his apron, and gingerly took the egg. It was cold. Fresh. Not cracked, not even slightly damaged from being in a pocket, somehow. Like it had just been taken out of the refrigerator a few seconds ago.

“…Thanks?” Horror said, though it came out more like a question.

Dust just nodded and turned to leave. No explanation, no lingering, nothing. Just a simple handoff, like a man on a mission, and then he was gone, shuffling back down the hall as silently as he’d arrived.

Horror stood there for a long moment, staring after him, before slowly looking back down at the egg in his hand.

“…What the fuck,” he muttered to himself.

But he used it.

Of course he did. He wasn’t about to let a perfectly good cake go to waste just because the circumstances around acquiring one single egg were deeply unsettling.

The cakes came out great.

-

Horror wasn’t the type to let things go. When something got stuck in his head, it stayed there, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts until he either dealt with it or let it drive him insane. And the whole Dust Egg Situation was one of those things.

So, he did what any reasonable person would do: he took a few of the finished mini cakes, packed them up, and went to find Dust’s dorm.

Tracking him down wasn’t hard. Identifiable was a good word for Dust. Everyone knew of him, even if no one really knew him. Horror asked a few people in the dorm hall if they knew where he stayed, and it only took two or three conversations before someone directed him to the right door.

Horror knocked.

There was a long pause before it swung open - except, the guy standing there was not Dust.

The monster at the door was big. Built, that was, because he was actually quite short. A scar under his right cheekbone and over his nasal ridge, wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, arms crossed over his chest as he gave Horror a once-over with sharp, suspicious eyes. Horror blinked, momentarily thrown off by how Not-Dust the monster standing in front of him was.

“Can I help you?” Dust’s-maybe-friend asked, his higher than Horror had expected, but not unfriendly.

Horror cleared his throat, still a little thrown by the unexpected presence of someone so… imposing. “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for Dust. Is he here?”

Dust’s-possible-Roommate - who looked like he could bench press a small car - raised an browbone, “Did he give you something weird or did he piss you off? Cus I’m not his personal handler, but I’ll punch him in the face for you if you want.” He didn’t seem particularly bothered by the suggestion, more like he was offering a casual favour.

Horror blinked, unsure whether the guy was serious or not, but decided to keep his cool. “Uh, no, no, nothing like that. He just… gave me an egg. And, well, I made something with it, and I wanted to thank him. You know, for the egg.”

Dust’s-perhaps-brother’s face didn’t change. “He gave you an egg.”

“Yeah, just- It was helpful so I figured I’d return the favour..?” Horror trailed off, unsure how much more explanation would be necessary for the egg incident.

Dust’s-mayhaps-Lover started him down for a second longer, eyelights flaring in suspicion in narrowed sockets, before he seemed to decide that, yes, the situation was too weird to be anything but genuine. He deflated, letting his arms drop to his sides with a heavy sigh. “Yeah, that.. sounds like Dust. Right, fine, you can come in. He’s probably still in his cave.”

“Cave?”

“You’ll see.” He turned and called over his shoulder. “Dust! You’ve got a guest. Someone who wants to thank you for giving them an egg, apparently!”

There was a muffled voice from the back room that might have been a groan, or might have just been Dust making a noise for the sake of not coming out.

“Sit tight,” the guy said, stepping aside to let Horror in. “I’m Cross, by the way.”

“Horror,” he replied, ducking slightly as he stepped through the doorway. It was an old habit - he’d hit his head on too many low frames over the years, and more cranial trauma was the LAST thing he needed.

The dorm was… something.

Half the room looked like it had been touched by divine light and a military bootcamp at once - neatly organised bookshelves, immaculate floors, a faint scent of lavender and clean linen. The other half?

Chaos.

A storm of paper scraps, half-disassembled gadgets, what might have been a melted kettle (or possibly modern art), open textbooks stacked in precarious towers, mismatched mugs everywhere. Clothes strewn about, socks somehow pinned to the ceiling. A white noise machine hummed in the background, mingling with the low patter of rain sounds from a speaker in the corner.

Horror didn’t need to ask which half belonged to Dust.

Cross gestured vaguely toward the disaster zone. “Help yourself to the couch - if you can find any of it under that mess.”

Horror took a careful step forward, spotting a relatively clear spot on the edge of the couch and lowering himself down with the grace of someone trying not to break a student-loaned piece of furniture. He still clutched the small cake container in his hands like it was the most reasonable object in the room.

A minute passed. Then two.

He was about to ask if Cross had meant to actually retrieve Dust, or if this was some kind of weird hazing ritual, when he finally heard soft shuffling from the back. There was a faint clunk, a muttered curse, and then - Dust appeared.

Well. “Appeared” might have been generous. He half-limped, half-drifted into the room like a hungover ghost who’d overslept by a decade. His hood was up, his scarf wrapped tight, and his slippers made a soft sht-shhh noise against the floor as he dragged one foot slightly as he moved. He blinked at Horror like he wasn’t entirely sure he was real. His red scarf was perfectly wrapped, of course, but everything else looked like he’d just escaped a lab explosion - and maybe had.

“…Cake guy,” Dust said, voice low, rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

“…Egg guy,” Horror replied, equally flat.

There was a beat. Dust tilted his head slowly, sockets narrowing a fraction. “Did you come to give it back?”

“What- the egg? No. I used the egg. You gave me the egg.”

Dust considered this. “Yes.”

“I brought you cake,” Horror said, holding out the box like a peace offering. “To say thanks. You know. For the egg.”

Dust stared at it like it might explode. His hand didn’t move.

“…You don’t have to eat it right now,” Horror added quickly. “Or at all. I just thought- I mean, you saved my baking session, and that doesn’t happen a lot, so I figured it was polite.”

Finally, Dust reached out and took the box. He didn’t open it. Just looked at it, then back at Horror. “..Why’d ya do that?”

Horror blinked. “Do what? Bake something?”

“No.” Dust’s voice was soft, distant. “The returning part.”

Horror scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s… just manners, I guess. You helped me out. Didn’t have to, but you did. Figured I’d say thanks.”

Dust hummed, almost like he was tasting the words, turning them over in his mind to see if they made sense. “Weird.”

“Yeah,” Horror agreed, deadpan. “The egg part was already weird, though, so I figured we were past that.”

Dust ust stared at him, wonky eyelights staring into Horror’s soul, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he sank down onto the edge of the couch, cake box balanced carefully on his knees, like it was something precious - or volatile. Horror watched him pick at the tape, fingers careful despite the ambient chaos that clung to the rest of him like static.

They sat in silence for a bit. The rain sounds in the background filled the space between them with a calm, distant rhythm, and the white noise machine hummed like the inside of a shell. Cross had vanished down the hallway at some point, giving them the kind of privacy that didn’t feel intentional but was deeply appreciated.

Eventually, Dust peeled the box open and peeked inside.

“They’re tiny.”

“They’re mini cakes.”

Dust blinked at them, brow faintly furrowed as though he was trying to solve a riddle, or maybe just trying to remember how food worked. “Why would you make them tiny? You’re… huge.”

Horror shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Big hands. Makes them look smaller. People laugh.”

Dust looked up. “You like that?”

A pause.

“I like feeding people,” Horror said eventually. “And tiny food makes them smile. Plus, it’s easier to make in batches. Less risk of it going bad before someone eats it.”

Dust stared at him for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “Huh.”

He reached in, took one of the little cakes with oddly reverent hands, and just… held it. Didn’t eat it. Just looked at it like it was some tiny miracle that had fallen into his lap. Horror wasn’t sure if he was offended or flattered.

“Y’can eat it, you know,” he prompted after a moment.

Dust blinked once, twice. Then slowly, with the awkward focus of someone who hadn’t quite decided whether this was a trap or a gift from the gods, he lifted the mini cake to his mouth and took the smallest possible bite.

Horror watched him chew, dead silent, like he was observing a wild animal trying fruit for the first time.

Dust froze mid-chew. His sockets went wide, eyelights dilating with something close to awe. Then he gave a tiny, breathy exhale that might’ve been a laugh.

“Oh fuck,” Dust whispered. “She’s delicious.”

“She?” Horror repeated, both amused and slightly concerned.

Dust gestured vaguely with the half-eaten cake. “Her name’s definitely Susie.”

Horror blinked. “You named her.”

“You do,” Dust said, head tilted in confusion like a dog, “Thought I’d return the courtesy.”

“…How do you know I name them?”

Dust licked a crumb off his thumb with casual, unblinking focus. “You talk to them.”

Horror’s mouth opened. Then shut. He floundered for a second. “… I do not,” Horror managed, cheeks burning. “I don’t- talk to the food.”

Dust didn’t look up from where he was licking frosting off his finger with alarming dedication. “You told the last batch ‘sleep well, little guys’ before putting them in the fridge.”

Horror stared. “You were there?!”

“Library window. Good view. You hum badly when you bake.”

“I- okay, rude- ”

“Wasn’t a complaint,” Dust interrupted smoothly, finally looking up at him again. His expression was unreadable, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that might’ve been a smirk, might’ve been a tic, or both. “Just an observation.”

“Observation,” Horror muttered, folding his arms. “Right.”

Dust didn’t even blink. “You were whispering sweet nothings to a lemon tart last Tuesday. Called her Lilith.”

Horror’s soul attempted to exit his body through sheer embarrassment. “Okay, that’s- nope. We’re not doing this.”

Dust took another bite of the cake - Susie - and chewed thoughtfully. “She deserved it. Good crust. Solid flavour profile. A little clingy, though.”

“You are not psychoanalysing my pastries.”

Dust raised a finger in solemn objection. “They’re people too.”

Horror ran a hand down his face with a groan, but he was laughing under it, helpless and hoarse. “Stars, you are so fucking weird.”

“‘Says the guy who named a cinnamon roll Benjamin.’”

“I never said Benjamin out loud- ”

“You muttered it. Real soft. Like you were ashamed of how much you loved him.”

“Okay,” Horror huffed, looking vaguely to the ceiling as if asking some divine power for strength, “you’ve clearly been eavesdropping for weeks, and this is officially harassment.”

Dust shrugged, entirely unbothered. “You’re welcome to file a complaint. I’ve got a form somewhere.” He began patting himself down half-heartedly, as if he genuinely might produce a complaint form from his hoodie pocket.

Instead, he pulled out a gum wrapper. Then another pen. Then - concerningly - a paperclip chain long enough to strangle a mid-sized dog. He looked at it blankly. “…This is not a form.”

Horror stared at it. “What in the actual- why do you have that?”

“For emergencies,” Dust replied, as if it were obvious.

“Emergencies that require four feet of linked paperclips?”

“You’d be surprised,” Dust said. Then tucked it back into his hoodie.

Horror didn’t even have the energy to press it. There were some battles you just let go.

He watched as Dust delicately finished Susie off in three more bites, licked his thumb again, and held the empty wrapper up like it was a treasured artifact. “She was magnificent. May she be remembered fondly.”

Horror blinked. “You… want more?”

Dust tilted his head. “Do I look like I can feed myself?”

Fair. Horror’s eyes flicked briefly to the apocalypse that was Dust’s half of the dorm, to the open coffee cup that was growing mold, to the charred whatever-it-was in the sink. “…You shouldn’t be allowed near ovens.”

“I’m banned from four.”

“Of course you are.”

Dust leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping the empty box like he was deep in thought. ““…I like your cakes.”

The words were simple, but the way Dust said them made Horror pause. They weren’t just polite. They weren’t said out of obligation. They came out like a confession. Like something that had been sitting on the edge of his ribs for a while, waiting for the right moment to tumble out.

Horror glanced at him, surprised. Dust’s expression hadn’t changed, not really, but there was something in the way he held himself - shoulders dipped a little lower, hands relaxed against the cardboard like they trusted it. Like he trusted him.

“…Yeah?” Horror asked, quieter than before.

Dust gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

The silence returned, but it didn’t feel awkward now. It sat between them like a cat, warm and vaguely smug, purring into the hum of the white noise machine and soft rain.

Horror shifted on the couch, resting his forearms on his knees and letting his hands hang between them, relaxed. “So… do you do this often? Hand out emergency eggs to strangers?”

“Strangers?” Dust echoed, sounding almost offended. “I’ve watched you make cakes for a month.”

Horror arched a browbone. “That doesn’t make me not a stranger.”

Dust shrugged. “You hum the same song every time. You like lemon zest even when the recipe doesn’t call for it. You do the little wrist shake when you mix batter. That’s not stranger shit.”

Horror rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning faintly. “Alright, stalker. You’ve made your point.”

Dust grinned. “Observer.”

“Stalker.”

“Enthusiast.”

“Psycho with an egg in his hoodie.”

Dust blinked at that. Something flickered behind his sockets - not hurt, not quite - but something sharper, something smaller, like a twitch behind the eyes you weren’t supposed to see.

Then he blinked again, and it was gone, replaced by a flat sort of amusement that was a little too practised.

He let out a soft huff. “You wound me.”

Horror didn’t miss the shift - but he let it go. Just tilted his head and gave a snort. “Good. You’re weird as hell.”

Dust perked back up like nothing had happened. “So are you.”

“Yeah, well, I own it.”

Dust’s grin stretched wider. “You name your cakes.”

Horror groaned. “We’re back to this.”

Dust held up the now-empty box like it was evidence. “I just think if they’re going to die delicious, they deserve an identity.”

“They’re not dying-” Horror stopped himself. Took a breath. “Okay. Technically, yes. But they’re pastries. They don’t have souls.”

Dust tilted his head again, eyes sparkling with something unnameable. “That’s speciesist.”

Horror opened his mouth to argue, stopped, then narrowed his sockets. “Are you telling me you believe in pastry souls?”

Dust didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set the empty cake box on the coffee table - or at least the vague pile of books and laundry that might have once been a coffee table - and looked up at Horror with that eerie sort of sincerity he wore like a second skin. “I’m just saying, if someone whispered loving affirmations to me while I was being born into a 350-degree oven, I’d probably haunt them forever.”

Horror stared at him. “That’s not-”

“And,” Dust continued, voice solemn, “if I came out golden and perfect and was immediately devoured, I’d want a name.”

“Jesus Christ,” Horror muttered, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge.

“Dust, actually.”

Horror let out a bark of laughter despite himself. “You’re cracked.”

Dust’s eyelights flared with delight. “That’s egg-cellent. Keep going.”

“No.”

“One more?”

“Absolutely not.”

Dust grinned wide. “You’re yolking.”

“Dust.”

“Egg-xactly.”

Horror buried his face in his hands. “Stars help me.”

“Don’t worry,” Dust said, patting his arm solemnly. “I’m egg-stremely supportive.”

“Stop.”

“I shell try.”

There was a pause, then a wheezing snort that bubbled up from Horror’s chest before he could stop it. He tried to smother it with his hand, but Dust caught it, grinning like he’d just discovered gold in his couch cushions.

“I knew you had a laugh in there,” Dust said, pleased with himself.

“I do,” Horror admitted, tone dry. “You’re just lucky I didn’t choke on my own tongue trying not to.”

Dust gave him a mock-bow where he sat, sweeping his scarf dramatically. “My talents are many. Inducing laughter-related cardiac events is just one of them.”

Horror squinted. “Is that why Cross offered to punch you for me?”

Dust gave a lopsided shrug. “He likes to feel useful.”

“And what, being a pain in the ass is your way of helping him stay busy?”

“Exactly. I’m a very giving person.”

“…You gave me an egg.”

Dust pointed at him. “See?”

Horror shook his head, fighting another smile. “Stars, you’re unreal.”

Dust leaned back against the lopsided couch cushions with a pleased sigh, hands folded over his now box-less lap like he’d just performed some ancient rite. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m not sure what it is,” Horror muttered. “But it’s definitely something.”

“‘Something’ is better than nothing,” Dust replied, then leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Nothing is boring. You’re not boring. Therefore, we’re friends now.”

Horror blinked slowly. “…That’s how this works?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure. You bring someone a tiny cake named Susie and laugh at their egg puns - friendship sealed. Boom. Social contract.”

“That’s not a social contract, Dust. That’s a hostage situation in a bakery.”

Dust looked thoughtful. “Could be both.”

Horror chuckled again, low and reluctant. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Dust said, lolling his head to the side with a crooked grin, “you haven’t left.”

“…I haven’t.”

They let the quiet hang for a bit, letting it stretch comfortably. The rain on the speakers hadn’t stopped - still steady, still rhythmic - and the hum of the white noise machine had become less noticeable, folding into the atmosphere of the room like background radiation.

Dust shifted, his scarf slipping slightly down one shoulder. Horror glanced at it - still perfectly clean, like it had been pulled out of a sterile museum display instead of worn by someone who looked like they bathed in espresso and nightmares.

“Where’d you get the scarf?” Horror asked, surprising even himself.

Dust blinked, slow and owlish, like the question had been in a different language. “Hmm?”

“Your scarf,” Horror said again. “It’s always clean. Even though you’re…” He gestured vaguely at Dust’s Everything.

“Oh.” Dust looked down at it, fingers brushing it lightly. The change in him was small, but immediate - the faintest shift in posture, the way his hand lingered just a bit longer than necessary. “It was a gift,” he said simply.

“From who?”

There was a pause. Then:

“My favourite hallucination,” Dust said, matter-of-fact.

Horror blinked. “You’re kidding.”

Dust didn’t look up. “Nope.”

“…So, a hallucination gave you that scarf. And you… kept it?”

Dust nodded.

“How.”

Dust tilted his head again, sockets wide like it was the most reasonable question in the world. “Wouldn’t you keep a gift from someone who only exists when your brain’s on fire?”

Horror opened his mouth. Closed it again. Thought about it.

“…Okay, when you put it like that, it just sounds metal.”

Dust snorted softly. “It is kind of cool.”

“Also a little terrifying.”

Dust grinned. “That’s me.”

Silence again. Not the bad kind. The kind that said you don’t have to fill this space if you don’t want to.

Horror leaned back, hands folded across his stomach now. He wasn’t sure when his guard had dropped. He wasn’t even sure he’d noticed it going. But something about Dust’s honesty - off-kilter, raw, matter-of-fact - was weirdly comforting. The guy wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Wasn’t even really trying to be understood. He just was.

It was kind of… refreshing.

“So,” Dust said after a while. “What are you gonna name the next batch?”

“…You think I’m gonna tell you?” Horror asked, amused.

Dust put a hand over his chest in mock betrayal. “After all we’ve been through? Susie would be heartbroken.”

“She’s crumbs in your hoodie now.”

“She lives on in spirit.”

“Again: pastries do not have spirits.”

“You just lack faith.”

Horror let out a slow breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Alright then. Fine. I’ll tell you one.”

Dust perked up instantly.

“Next batch,” Horror said, smirking slightly, “I was thinking of making little lemon cakes. You know what that means?”

Dust’s sockets brightened in anticipation and maybe hunger.

“Her name will be Ethel.”

Dust gasped like he’d just been given the nuclear launch codes. “Ethel.” He whispered it like a prayer. “She sounds regal.”

Horror couldn’t help it. He laughed - real, warm, unguarded. “Regal?”

Dust nodded solemnly. “You don’t name a lemon cake Ethel unless she’s got secrets. Unless she’s lived through at least one world war, three marriages, and still wakes up every day to terrorise the HOA.”

Horror laughed harder, shaking his head. “She’s got four lemon zests and a grudge.”

“She made her first lemon tart during Prohibition and never looked back.”

“She serves it to her enemies.”

“She is the enemy.”

Dust smacked the arm of the couch. “Ethel was born spiteful. She’ll stain your teeth with citrus and judgment.”

“She haunts fridges.”

“She is the fridge!”

They both broke then, giggling like teenagers, breathless and wheezing - Dust collapsing sideways with a strangled little sound that could not be real.

It wasn’t even a laugh - it was a full-on, wheezy, high-pitched giggle that sounded like it had snuck out without his permission. It tore out of him like a balloon deflating through a kazoo, helpless and shrill. Like a dying tea kettle mixed with a cartoon hyena.

Horror stared.

Dust clapped a hand over his mouth too late, eyes wide in panic.

Horror blinked at him, clearly startled. “…That’s your laugh?”

Dust froze, then slowly tugged his hood lower over his face like a turtle retreating into its shell. “No it’s not,” he mumbled, absolutely mortified.

Horror was still staring. Then - slowly - he grinned. A full, amused, genuine grin, the kind that didn’t come easy to him but felt worth it now.

“Stars,” he said, and laughed again, softer this time. “You sound like a broken whistle.”

Dust curled a little more inwards, clearly trying to die on the couch. “I will kill you and bake you into a pie. I swear.”

“You’d name it after me.”

“No, I’d name it Sharon.”

Horror snorted. “Why Sharon?”

“Because Sharon tastes like betrayal and too much nutmeg.”

There was a long pause. Then they both cracked, dissolving into laughter again - Dust’s a shrill wheeze muffled by his scarf, Horror’s deep and gravelly and coming from somewhere in his ribs. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. And it felt better than anything had all week.

Eventually, they both slumped against the couch like they’d just survived a war.

Dust sighed, defeated. He melted deeper into the couch, arms folded and scarf now halfway up his face like a security blanket. “I liked you better when you were just Cake Guy.”

“You mean when I hadn’t named your pastry’s soul and witnessed your horrifying laugh?”

Dust gave a one-finger salute from beneath the folds of fabric. “Exactly that.”

They fell into silence again, but it was different now. Softer, more lived-in. The sort of quiet that came when you realised you didn’t have to be funny, or clever, or particularly normal anymore. You could just… be.

Horror stretched his legs out, one heel knocking over a pile of newspapers that had definitely been there since the semester started. Dust didn’t even react.

“I’ll bring you more cake,” Horror said eventually.

Dust blinked at him, surprised. “Why?”

Horror shrugged. “Because you named Susie. Because you laughed like a dying goose. Because you’re weird.”

Dust tilted his head again, blinking slowly, expression unreadable for a moment - and then a soft, genuine smile bloomed on his face. Not the cracked little grin he used when he was plotting something unholy, or the sharp-toothed smirk that usually came with caffeine-fuelled chaos. This one was different. Quiet. Honest.

“Cool,” he said softly. Then added, even softer: “I’ll save you an egg.”

Horror blinked.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It shouldn’t have felt like anything. But something about the way Dust said it - like it was sacred, like it was some kind of promise - made Horror’s chest tighten just a little.

He chuckled low in his throat, rubbing the back of his head. “Well. Clearly, I owe you a whole carton now.”

“I take payment in baked goods,” Dust said solemnly. “And firstborns.”

“I’ll give you muffins,” Horror replied dryly. “And you can pretend they’re the children of my labour.”

Dust’s whole face lit up, alarmingly fast, like a child being handed a flamethrower. Horror could actually see the exact moment he came up with the joke, and braced for impact.

Dust opened his mouth-

“Don’t say ‘bun in the oven,’” Horror said instantly, jabbing a finger at him. “I swear to god.”

Dust’s jaw snapped shut with a tiny squeak. His shoulders trembled with held-back laughter, eyelights wide and manic.

“But- ”

“No.”

“C’monnnn.”

“I’ll take the muffins back.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Dust whispered, scandalised.

“I will eat Susie’s siblings in front of you.”

Dust gasped, hand to his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “You’re a monster.”

Horror gave him a toothy grin. “So I’ve been told.”

Dust’s eyes sparkled with unspent mischief. “Okay but… what if I do say it?”

“I’ll egg your bed.”

Dust threw his arms wide in theatrical defeat. “I’m already sleeping in crumbs!” he wailed. “Do your worst!”

And Horror looked at him - really looked - and realised with a sharp, unexpected certainty that somehow, without meaning to, they’d crossed a threshold.

This wasn’t just banter.

It wasn’t just some weird night and a weirder cake exchange.

It was a beginning. Something small and strange and alive, like the whisper of a song you hadn’t meant to hum, or a name carved in icing, or an egg from a strangers pocket.

And so, he smiled.

And Dust, scarf slipping loose, cheeks flushed with laughter and too many terrible puns, smiled back.

theyre sillies. Dusts a fucking loser, Horrors sweet, and theyre SO gonna kiss at some point lol.

[peach-pot]

something I’m so fascinated by is when tv show/movie writers want to include jokes at a groups expensive, but don’t make a decision on whether they want just the audience to be laughing at them or the other characters as well, and end up in this weird space where they are both… canonically unserious and serious. here it’s better to just give examples:

(gonna talk about fatphobia and homophobia typical of 2000s comedies for a sec)

in pitch perfect they have jokes about fat amy where what she says/believes is meant to conflict with what’s true in universe. she sings for the first time for chloe and aubrey and the joke is meant to be that what she’s doing is embarrassing, even though she’s trying to show off. a lot of her jokes with bumper boil down to her thinking she’s attractive, when he thinks she’s not. so these jokes are meant to be funny to us, because she thinks she’s talented/attractive/etc., when everyone around her sees she’s not. but they also include jokes where the audience is supposed to laugh because she IS actually these things, and it’s meant to be unexpected/unrealistic to reality. the big example that comes to mind is when she gets a phone call over a school break and we see that she’s actually hanging out at a pool with a few attractive guys around her, calling back to a joke where she referred to multiple boyfriends of hers. the first time it was meant to be funny because the audience would assume she was lying, the second time it’s meant to be funny because it goes against the audience’s expectations… but now all those jokes that rely on fat amy being unattractive within the pitch perfect universe don’t work. because they just told us that she is.

and then in community, there’s troy and abed, who have jokes where everyone around them thinks they’re gay, but they turn out not to be. a clear example of this is when troy’s textbook has a romantic drawing of abed in it that shirley thinks he drew, but it turns out to be a used textbook that came that way. but there are also jokes where the audience is meant to laugh about troy and abed doing something gay together. for example, there’s a joke where annie says she thought troy was trying to hold her hand, but he had actually just confused her for abed. these jokes, unlike the ones where the characters are in on it to a greater extent, don’t offer any explanation for why troy and abed are doing something gay, and end up just… making them gay. so troy and abed both aren’t actually gay (and the joke is that their peers keep assuming they are) and ARE actually gay (which is meant to be inherently funny to the audience because it’s 2009)

idk, i just think it’s interesting to see the ways in which creators kind of forget to keep things consistent when they have the opportunity to make jokes about a marginalized group. like it doesn’t matter if they make a firm call on whether or not amy is actually attractive or if they always remember to give an in universe explanation for why troy and abed are doing something seen as gay if they aren’t gay. no one will notice if it changes joke to joke as long as the jokes are funny.

[elikajinnie]

P: Situationship!Heeseung X Fem!Reader (recommended age 18+)

Warnings: Situationship, Hurt/Comfort, Suggestive Content, Tension, Flirting, Mature Content, Pursuing, Possessive & Needy Behaviour, Jealousy if you squint, Alcohol Consumption, Mentioned Drug Use.

Wordcount: 22k

Synopsis: For years, Lee Heeseung had been in your life—never close enough to be a friend but too familiar to be a stranger. You told yourself you weren’t interested, that he didn’t matter to you. But Heeseung had other plans cause he made it his mission to claim your attention—and eventually your heart. But love is never easy.

a/n: was watching the iconic Kuch Kuch Hota Hai when this idea came! (dont ask how) i also wanted to try something new with the title. (disclaimer! some of the scenes are written from experience)

now playing: truth or dare by tyla | friends by chase atlantic | awkward by sza | bloodline by ariana grande | twenty nights by nobu woods | gi faen by ballinciaga

School hierarchy never interested you—peaking in high school, the whole "king of the cafeteria" nonsense. Why would it? None of that mattered after graduation. You always thought it was a waste of time, all those petty dramas and desperate attempts to be remembered as something more than ordinary.

And yet, somehow, you were known, not because you clamored for attention or played into the social games everyone else seemed obsessed with, but because...well, you were you. Quiet, maybe. Not invisible, though. People knew your name, knew your face, even if you couldn’t recall theirs at times. Maybe it was the way you never fumbled over your words when teachers called on you or the way your presence seemed calm. You didn’t try to stand out, but you were noticed, even if you never asked for it.

Made you wonder what made you noticed.

And that question was solved pretty quickly, to be honest. All because you knew Heeseung since you were young.

And Heeseung? Heeseung was everything you’d expect from someone at the top of the high school food chain. Popular, effortlessly so. Basketball captain, the school’s golden boy, practically born to be the main character in someone’s coming-of-age movie. But beyond all that, he was still totally derpy—the same kid who used to trip over his own feet at recess, the one who cried when you beat him in hide-and-seek because he hid in the most obvious spot.

He hadn’t changed much, really. Sure, he had a little more swagger now, a charm that made people laugh at his terrible jokes instead of groan, but to you, he was just Heeseung.

You’d laugh every time someone brought him up to you, trying to see if you’d spill some secret about what he was like outside of the spotlight. “You’re friends with Heeseung, right?” they’d say, voices dipping into curiosity or jealousy. And you’d shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. Because to you, it wasn’t.

But somehow, knowing him—having that tether to someone like him—had put you on the radar, too. Even if you weren’t part of his crowd, even if you didn’t sit with him at lunch or go to the parties he got dragged to, people noticed you because he noticed you.

And that was the funny thing, wasn’t it? You never cared about being seen, but Heeseung never stopped looking for you in a room.

You were never really interested in initiating anything with him, even if he was very much 100% interested in initiating something with you.

He’d find you in the hallways, leaning casually against the wall, as if it was second nature for him to cage you in, corner you with a smile that made everything around you feel like it had slowed down. He’d ask you about your day, always interested in the little details you never thought anyone would care about. “Are you busy some day?” he’d ask, eyes sparkling, as if he was hinting at something more—something he probably expected you to say yes to.

Other times, he’d slide into the seat next to you in class, talking about his upcoming game like it was an invitation in itself. “You should come watch,” he'd say with that grin, the one that could melt anyone into agreeing. "I’ll even give you my jersey after I win.”

And then there were the parties—he’d invite you to those too, always the center of attention but always making sure you knew you were welcome. Sometimes he’d just come right up to you, all charm and boldness, flirting with you shamelessly, leaning in so close you could feel his breath on your skin. His presence was so intense, so overwhelming, that you couldn’t help but get those butterflies in your stomach, no matter how much you wanted to stay calm.

And yet, despite all of it—the smiles, the promises, the hints of something more—you rejected his advances.

Every. Single. One.

You couldn’t let yourself get caught up in it. You wouldn’t. Even if every part of you, every part of your mind and heart, screamed to take a chance, to let yourself fall into whatever Heeseung was offering, you pushed him away.

Mostly because you knew what type of person he was now. You saw how he was with other women in school, how effortlessly he had them wrapped around his finger, how they would come to him at the snap of his finger, eyes wide and eager for whatever he had to offer. They were drawn to him like moths to a flame, following him like he was the sun and they were planets orbiting around him. And, honestly, it was hard not to see the way his charm worked, how his attention seemed to shift from one girl to the next as if it was all just a game.

A game that you weren’t interested in playing.

You weren’t just going to be another face in the crowd, another person who would fall for his flirtations, get swept up in the thrill of his attention only to be tossed aside when someone else caught his eye. You were different. You had to be.

Heeseung was the type who could have anyone, but you weren’t just anyone. You were stronger than that, smarter than that. You didn’t need to be one of his many admirers to feel valued.

So, you kept saying no, keeping a distance, watching the way he’d grin like it was no big deal, then go off to let his attention drift somewhere else. And deep down, you knew you weren’t immune to it. Maybe you never would be. But the answer stayed the same.

That didn’t mean Heeseung didn’t stop going after you.

If anything, it seemed like the more you pulled away, the harder he tried. You'd find him lingering around your classes, catching you in the hallways, or showing up in places where you didn’t expect him to be. It was like a game to him, though you weren't sure if he knew it was to you. Maybe he thought he could win you over if he tried hard enough, if he kept being persistent, kept flashing that grin and throwing out just enough charm to keep you on the edge of saying yes.

He’d joke with you, pretending to be playful, leaning in with a wink like you were both in on some shared secret no one else understood. But you knew better. You could see through the act, see the way his eyes would light up when he thought he was getting close. It was almost like a challenge to him now, something he couldn’t let go of.

But you kept saying no.

And he kept coming back for more.

You would think that someone like him would give up after rejection, after rejection. But nooooo.

If anything, Heeseung only seemed more determined with each "no" you threw at him. You’d catch him looking at you with amusement, as if he were trying to figure you out, like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. You could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, plotting his next move. It wasn’t just persistence—it was obsession in its own strange way.

He’d show up at your locker with an extra wide grin, as if all the past rejections were just another small obstacle, one he was determined to overcome. He’d ask about your plans for the weekend, your favorite movie, your favorite ice cream flavor—all these little things that seemed innocent enough but were clearly his way of getting closer to you, of worming his way in until you couldn’t say no anymore. And each time, you’d refuse, hold firm.

It was like a tug-of-war, except you were the one refusing to be pulled.

And yet, he never stopped to one point that there was a part of you that wondered, almost begrudgingly, if anyone had ever resisted him like this before. You could almost hear the chuckles of his friends in the background, no doubt betting on how long it would take before you gave in.

It did kind of surprise you when, one day, you were walking down the hallway, busy trying to find your gum in your bag, when you accidentally overheard a girl confessing to Heeseung. You stopped, pausing mid-step as you heard her voice, trembling with nerves, pouring out her feelings to him.

You looked down the hallway you were passing, and there he was, standing with his back to you, his attention fully on the girl in front of him. She was shy, her words stumbling over each other, her face flushed as she nervously admitted what everyone probably already knew. She liked him. She wanted him.

But what he did next was something you did not expect at all.

He rejected her.

The words hit you before you could even process them. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice calm but firm. "But there’s someone else I’m interested in. Someone I want." He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even seem to waver. He was polite, but his words were clear and final.

The girl stood frozen for a moment, looking down, clearly embarrassed. You could see the brief flicker of pain on her face, but she nodded and walked away quickly, her head down.

You felt an unexpected sting in your chest, a strange mix of confusion and something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on. You couldn’t decide if it was relief or disappointment or... something else.

And as Heeseung turned around, casually adjusting his jacket, you quickly stepped into a side hallway, out of sight, your heart beating a little too fast for comfort. You had never expected to see something like that, especially not from him. Never from him. And it made you wonder, question everything you thought you knew about him.

Because after that moment, it seemed like he rejected girl after girl, all while still pursuing you with that same relentless determination. It was strange. You would never catch him kissing other women anymore, never saw pictures on social media of him with a girl on his lap at parties, never heard whispers of him flirting with anyone else. It was like the world around him had faded, and the only focus, the only person who mattered, was you.

No one else but you.

It made you question everything. Was he really serious about you? Or was this just some strange game he was playing, a challenge to see if he could win you over when everyone else had fallen for his charm? Or was it something more than the surface-level attention he gave everyone else? You tried to shake the thoughts from your mind, tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered when you realized you were the only one he seemed to want.

But the more you thought about it, the more it made you uneasy. Did you trust him? Or were you walking into a trap?

If it was a trap, it was a pretty good one, because something changed between the dynamic of you and Heeseung. You grew more compliant, more willing to give him a little piece of your attention, a little more of your time. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him shift gears. Heeseung, who had always been so confident, so certain, now seemed a little more desperate, a little more eager to make you notice him, to make you smile.

He’d go out of his way to do the smallest things just to get a reaction from you—whether it was showing up with your favorite drink, offering to carry your bag when you were weighed down with books, or trying to impress you with his random trivia knowledge that he knew you secretly found endearing. His usual cool composure was slipping, and in its place was a version of him you hadn’t seen since you were young.

And frankly, it was kinda cute.

It was like he was a little boy again, trying so hard to win your approval, doing whatever he could to get you to look his way, to see him the way he wanted you to.

You expected to play a little around with his attention, to enjoy the way he’d chase you, all while ignoring the stares you got from other girls. It wasn’t anything serious, just a game, a harmless little back-and-forth that didn’t have to mean anything. You didn’t expect it to go anywhere—after all, this was Heeseung, the golden boy who had his pick of anyone. He was just... fun to be around, right?

But how were you supposed to know that one measly party—just one event—would change everything?

It wasn’t even a big deal at first. Just a typical Friday night, with music blasting, lights flashing, and everyone packed together in some house that barely fit the crowd. You had told yourself you’d just go for a bit, maybe chat with some friends, and leave before things got too chaotic.

When you arrived, you decided to go get a drink first, something to ease your nerves. You weren’t exactly the type to jump into a party scene, so you figured a little liquid courage wouldn’t hurt. You made your way to the kitchen, and scanned the counter for something that would do the trick. You found a bottle of something strong, poured yourself a generous amount, and started nursing it as you made your way through the house, trying to find a familiar face in the crowd.

The music was louder now, almost deafening, and the air smelled like a mix of cheap cologne, sweat, and the faint scent of pizza. The people around you were lost in their own little worlds—laughing, dancing, talking—but you were searching for someone you knew.

Your search didn’t take long before you spotted a group of people you knew—friends from class, a few people you’d hung out with before. You made your way toward them, grateful for the distraction, and they welcomed you with smiles and waves. You could feel the tension in your body start to loosen as you joined in, taking a sip from your drink and laughing along with their jokes.

You stayed with them for a while, catching up on small talk, sipping your drink more leisurely. The conversation shifted from one topic to another—school, upcoming plans, random gossip about who was dating who—until eventually, the music started pulling everyone onto the dance floor. You found yourself swept along with the crowd, the beat of the song pounding through the floor and vibrating up your spine as you moved with the rhythm, the alcohol in your system giving you a little extra confidence.

It was fun, for a while. You lost yourself in the music, and you could feel the tension slip away with each step you took, each beat you moved to, until everything felt… easy.

Then, suddenly, you felt strong arms around your waist, pulling you close, a warmth pressing against your back. It took a split second for the reality to sink in, but you already knew who it was based on the familiar scent of cologne that filled your senses. You didn’t have to look to be sure, but you turned your head anyway, and as expected, there he was.

Heeseung.

He was right behind you, holding you effortlessly, his grip strong yet gentle as he matched the rhythm of the music with you. His chest pressed against your back, making your breath catch for a moment.

You could feel his chin rest lightly on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and despite every part of you telling yourself to pull away, to keep the distance you’d worked so hard to maintain, something inside you didn’t want to.

For a brief moment, you forgot to question it all. You forgot the reasons you kept pushing him away, the doubts you had about what he truly wanted.

And when he leaned close, his voice low and steady, you felt your resolve begin to crumble as his lips just brushed your ear. "You look so good," he murmured, the sound of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Dancing like that, looking so tempting."

The words were playful, but there was something in the tone that made it clear he wasn’t just joking. You could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck.

For a moment, you felt dizzy—not just from the alcohol, but from his proximity, the way he had you caught in his orbit, unwilling to let go.

"You’re driving me crazy," he whispered, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly as if to remind you of how close he was. The teasing had a bite now and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was testing you, seeing how far he could push.

And God did he push.

Heeseung’s fingers brushed lightly against your waist, sending a ripple of heat through you. "You know," he said, his tone softer now, almost a whisper, "you’re not making it easy for me to behave tonight."

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your body reacted to his every move, every word. But it was useless—he was too close, too overwhelming, and you couldn’t think straight.

When you finally found your voice, it came out quieter than you intended. "Maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink, Heeseung," you said, hoping to inject some distance, even though your own voice betrayed how unsteady you felt.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your back. "Maybe," he admitted, and you could hear the smirk in his tone. "But don’t act like you’re not enjoying this."

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. His gaze was locked on you, dark and intense.

"I’m not—" you started, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"You’re not what?" he murmured, his voice low and coaxing, daring you to finish your sentence.

You hated how your body betrayed you, how your heart raced, how you couldn’t seem to pull away, even though every logical part of your brain screamed at you to step back. But the warmth of his arms and the way he looked at you as if you were the only person in the room—it was all too much.

For once, you let yourself linger, not pulling away from his hold, not giving him the usual pushback. He noticed immediately, his smirk growing as if he had won some unspoken game between you two.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Heeseung said, his tone teasing but soft. His fingers traced small circles against your hip, his other hand resting lightly at your waist. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I’m just too tired to deal with your nonsense.”

“Oh, nonsense, huh?” he said with a mock-wounded expression, leaning closer, his lips hovering dangerously close to your skin. “Careful, or you might hurt my feelings.”

“I think you’ll survive,” you shot back, tilting your head to glance at him. But the way his gaze locked onto yours made your breath hitch.

He laughed, the sound low and warm, as he kept still. “You’re enjoying this,” he murmured, the words brushing against your ear. “Admit it.”

You didn’t respond right away, instead letting the music carry you both. There was something about this that felt different tonight. Maybe it was the way he wasn’t pushing too hard, wasn’t making this feel like a game. Or maybe it was just the way you let yourself relax for once, let yourself enjoy his attention without overthinking it.

“And if I am?” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended, but steady enough to hold his gaze.

Heeseung’s grin widened, his confidence shining through. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep doing whatever I’m doing,” he said, his voice full of promise.

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head, trying to brush him off, but he wasn’t having it. “Oh, don’t act so tough,” he teased, “I know I’m getting to you.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping back just enough to put some space between you, but Heeseung wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily. He followed, closing the gap again, his movements unhurried. “Running away already?” he said, his tone mockingly hurt.

“I’m not running,” you shot back, crossing your arms in front of you, though the small smile threatening to form on your lips betrayed you.

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not convinced. He reached out, gently tugging at one of your hands, his pouty expression exaggerated to the point of being ridiculous. “Don’t be mean, baby. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

You let out a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head again. “I’m not your baby , you know that right?”

“But here you are,” he replied smoothly, the grin returning to his lips. “Still talking to me, still letting me hold you like I belong to you. Makes me think you don’t hate this as much as you pretend.”

You wanted to argue, to push him away again, but before you could, Heeseung pulled you closer once more. “Tell me to stop,” he said quietly, “if you really want me to stop, I will.”

The words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say, but you didn’t want him to stop. You couldn’t say it either. And he noticed.

Instead of gloating, though, his grin softened into an almost shy smile. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his hand squeezing yours gently before letting it go, as if to remind you that you were the one in control, even if it didn’t feel like it right now.

“Don’t think this means I’m giving in,” you said, trying to regain some ground, but the way he was looking at you made it hard to sound convincing.

“Sure, sure,” he replied, his smirk returning. “But I’ll take it as a win anyway.”

You rolled your eyes at him, a playful smirk curling on your lips. Leaning in just enough so only he could hear, you whispered, your voice teasing, “Maybe you should work a little harder if you want to win me over pretty boy.”

Before he could respond, you pulled back and walked off toward the kitchen, swaying your hips just enough to make a point and you felt a surge of satisfaction when you glanced over your shoulder.

Heeseung stood frozen in place, his expression both shocked and in disbelief. His mouth hung open slightly, his eyes wide as he processed your words and the sudden shift. For once, it seemed like you had left him speechless—a rarity that made your grin widen.

You turned back around, hiding your amusement as you reached the kitchen and poured yourself another drink.

A few seconds passed, and you felt it—the unmistakable weight of his gaze burning into your back. Heeseung wasn’t one to give up easily, and you knew you’d just ignited a fire in him. It wasn’t a question of if he’d come after you, but when.

You took a sip of your drink, savoring the moment, and braced yourself for whatever Heeseung was planning. You barely had any time to react before you felt Heeseung’s presence behind you. His body pressed against your back, his warmth seeping through your clothes as his arms caged you in on either side of the counter. His hands gripped the edge, locking you in place.

A low, frustrated groan escaped his lips, brushing against your ear and sending a shiver down your spine. “You’re really going to do me like that?” he murmured, his voice laced with mock pain.

You tilted your head slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, unable to keep the grin from spreading across your face. “Do you like what?” you asked innocently, swirling your drink in your hand as if you weren’t trapped.

Heeseung chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that made your stomach flip. “Walking away like that,” he said, leaning in closer until his lips almost brushed the curve of your jaw. “Whispering things you know are going to drive me crazy, and then just leaving me standing there like an idiot.”

You giggled as you leaned back slightly, your head resting against his shoulder. “You looked cute like that,” you teased, your tone dripping with playful defiance. “Maybe I should do it more often.”

“Cute?” he echoed, his voice dropping an octave as his grip on the counter tightened. “I’ll show you cute.”

Before you could respond, Heeseung’s lips were so close to your ear that you could feel the heat of his breath. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his tone softer now, though still playful. “But it’s fine. I like trouble.”

You couldn’t help but laugh again, your shoulders shaking slightly as you set your drink down on the counter. “You’re so dramatic, Heeseung,” you said, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze.

Heeseung’s eyes locked onto yours, the grin on his face softening into something more tempting. “Dramatic, huh?” he murmured, “maybe. But you can’t tell me you don’t like it.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in closer, his nose almost brushing yours. “I think you like the attention,” he continued, his tone smug as his lips curved into that infuriating smirk. “You wouldn’t keep me guessing if you didn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your composure despite the rapid thudding of your heart. “Guessing? Please,” you scoffed, tilting your chin up slightly, refusing to back down. “You’re the one who keeps showing up, Heeseung. Not me.”

“And yet,” he countered smoothly, “you haven’t walked away yet. If you really weren’t interested, you wouldn’t still be here. With me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, even as a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe I’m just enjoying watching you make a fool of yourself.”

“Is that right?” he said, his voice dipping, playful but challenging. He leaned in even closer, so close that his lips were barely a breath away from yours. “Careful, baby, or you might end up falling for me instead.”

His confidence was maddening, but it was that same confidence that made your pulse race.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a raised brow. “Falling for you?” you repeated, your voice steady even as your heart betrayed you. “Don’t flatter yourself, Heeseung.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm as his hand left the counter to lightly graze your hip, his fingers lingering just enough to make you aware of every single nerve in your body. “Oh, I’m not flattering myself,” he murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. “I’m just calling it how I see it.”

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “You’ve got some nerve,” you said, shaking your head as you turned away from him.

His eyes following your every move as you picked up your drink again. “And you’ve got some walls,” he shot back.

You paused, glancing back at him as you took a sip of your drink. “Maybe they’re there for a reason,” you replied, your tone light but pointed.

Heeseung leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied you. “Yeah, but the thing about walls?” he said, tilting his head with a grin. “They’re meant to be climbed.”

You side-eyed him, the faintest smile tugging at your lips as you raised your glass to take another sip. “Try all you want mountain climber.”

Before he could come up with a response, you smoothly stepped away, moving around the kitchen counter to put some distance between you. His brows furrowed slightly in surprise, the sudden shift catching him off guard.

“Hey, wait a second,” he called after you, quickly sliding around the counter in an attempt to follow. The way he moved—quick but a little clumsy, as if he hadn’t expected you to slip away so easily—made you chuckle to yourself.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” you said over your shoulder, your tone full of challenge as you leaned casually against the far end of the counter, nursing your drink.

Heeseung stopped on the other side, his hands gripping the edge of the counter as he tilted his head. “Oh, so now we’re playing games?” he asked, clearly in disbelief.

“You started it,” you shot back, taking another sip and meeting his gaze head-on.

His eyes narrowed slightly as if accepting the challenge. “Fine,” he said, “but don’t be mad when I win.”

“Win?” you repeated, raising a brow at him. “Pretty confident for someone who just got left behind.”

That earned a laugh from him, and in one swift motion, he stepped around the counter, closing the gap between you. “Left behind?” he echoed, his tone playful as he leaned down slightly, his face closer to yours. “Nah. I’m right where I need to be.”

Your breath hitched for the briefest moment, but you quickly masked it with another sip of your drink, refusing to let him see how much his persistence was getting to you.

Heeseung’s smirk widened when you began moving around the counter again, and without missing a beat, he mirrored your steps, chasing after you. “Oh, you think you’re clever, huh?” he teased, his tone light as his eyes tracked your every move.

“You’ll have to be faster than that,” you shot back, a playful laugh escaping your lips as you darted around the other side.

His hands hovered over the counter, ready to cut you off, but you were quicker, slipping just out of reach. The look of mock frustration on his face was priceless, and you couldn’t help but grin at your small victory.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding his hands up for a moment as if calling a truce. But you weren’t buying it—not for a second.

When he lunged, you were ready, spinning on your heel and darting out of the kitchen entirely. “Nice try!” you called over your shoulder, weaving your way back toward the dance floor, the thumping bass and flashing lights swallowing you up.

You could hear him groan behind you, the sound half exasperated, half amused. “You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?”

You didn’t answer, slipping into the crowd and letting the press of people conceal you. It was easy to lose him in the chaos, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of him standing near the edge of the dance floor, scanning the crowd with a furrowed brow.

For a moment, you just watched him. The way he ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to spot you, made your chest tighten unexpectedly. But you shook the feeling off quickly, turning back to the music and letting yourself have fun.

The crowd seemed to shift and swirl, pulling you deeper into the dance floor. For a moment, you felt untouchable—lost in the freedom of the moment.

But that feeling didn’t last long. You could still feel him, even if you couldn’t see him. And then, just when you thought you’d successfully slipped away, a familiar voice cut through the noise, low and right near your ear.

“Thought you could run away from me?”

You turned your head sharply, only to find Heeseung standing there, a sly grin on his face. His hair was slightly mussed, and there was a faint flush on his cheeks, probably from weaving through the crowd to find you.

“How’d you—” you started, but he interrupted with a chuckle.

“You really think I’d give up that easily?” he asked, his tone almost incredulous. “I told you, I’m right where I need to be.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your lips tugged upward. “Maybe you’re just a little too determined,” you said, stepping back slightly, but he followed your movement effortlessly.

“Or maybe you like being chased,” he countered, his voice smooth as he matched your pace.

You opened your mouth to retort, but he caught your hand, gently spinning you back toward him, his movements seamless with the music. It was so smooth, so unexpected, that you didn’t even think to pull away. “Caught you,” he murmured, his voice low as his eyes locked onto yours.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding. “I let you catch me,” you replied.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he answered as he pulled you a little closer.

The space between you vanished, and for a moment, you were acutely aware of everything—his hand on your waist, his body, his gaze. It was dizzying, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you stayed there, caught in the moment, wondering how on earth he always managed to get under your skin like this.

Heeseung began to sway with you to the music, his hands resting lightly on your waist, guiding your movements with an ease that felt far too natural. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was just dancing, just a moment. And yet, you didn’t stop him. You let him lead, let him pull you closer, until his forehead was nearly brushing yours.

But then you noticed something. The way his steps were deliberate, not just moving to the beat but steering you. Slowly, subtly, his touch guided you backward through the crowd.

Your brow furrowed as realization dawned. Heeseung wasn’t just dancing. He had a plan.

“You’re sneaky, you know that?” you muttered, narrowing your eyes as you glanced over your shoulder and saw the wall creeping closer.

Heeseung’s grin turned wicked, a spark of mischief lighting up his face. “Sneaky? Me?” he asked, feigning innocence, though the way his hands tightened ever so slightly on your waist betrayed him. “Yes, you,” you shot back, even as your back brushed against the cool surface of the wall. He leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “Can you blame me? You make it so hard to keep my distance.”

You rolled your eyes, though your pulse betrayed you, hammering in your chest as his gaze locked onto yours.

His gaze never left yours for a second. The world around you seemed to fade away as he leaned in just the slightest bit closer, his chest rising and falling faster with each breath. You could feel the heat of his body so close to yours, could feel the tension between you, thick and heavy.

He glanced down at your lips, then back up to your eyes, the look in his gaze unreadable. It was almost like he was testing the air between you, measuring whether you’d pull away or lean in. His hands on your waist holding you in place as if he knew you wouldn’t make a move. His breathing had picked up now, shallow and just a little shaky, and for a brief moment, you wondered if he was just as affected by this as you were.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered, though you knew your voice was too soft to carry any real force. The words felt weak even as they left your lips, because you knew you weren’t really trying to push him away.

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and low, as if savoring the moment. “Like what?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—because the answer was already in the way your heart was pounding, the way your breath hitched every time he got a little closer.

And then, without warning, he leaned in just a fraction more, his lips hovering so close to yours that you could feel the heat radiating from them, but he didn’t make the move. He was waiting. Testing.

You both seemed to be holding your breath.

Just as you were about to say something, the world shifted unexpectedly. A figure stumbled into Heeseung from behind, knocking into him, and before either of you could react, the person’s drink splashed all over you. You gasped as the cold liquid drenched your outfit, your heart sinking as you saw the mess, the dark stain had spread across the fabric, leaving a damp, sticky trail. “Are you kidding me?” you groaned, trying to wipe it off, but it only made it worse.

Heeseung, who had been caught off guard by the collision, quickly turned around. His brows furrowed with frustration, but his gaze softened when he saw the mess on your clothes. Without missing a beat, he pushed the person who had bumped into him away with a quick but firm shove. “Watch where you’re going!” he snapped. The drunk person mumbled an apology, clearly embarrassed, but Heeseung didn’t seem to care. His attention was on you now.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his hand brushing against your arm as he looked you over.

You just sighed, wiping your shirt, but it was clear you weren’t getting anywhere. “This is great,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else, “I didn’t even want to be here tonight, and now this…”

Heeseung didn’t let you dwell on it for long. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand in a way that was surprisingly gentle for all the tension you’d felt earlier. “Let’s get you cleaned up. There’s a bathroom down the hall.”

You didn’t argue, allowing him to guide you through the crowd, his hand on yours was warm, and even though you were frustrated, there was something comforting in the way he took charge.

When you reached the bathroom, he opened the door for you, ushering you inside with a soft “After you,” before making sure the door was securely closed behind you. The bathroom was quieter, and the air felt colder, but it was a welcome change from the chaos outside.

“Sit down, I’ll grab you some paper towels,” he said, motioning to the counter as he quickly moved toward the sink.

You sat down on the edge, trying to assess the damage, but the sticky feeling of the drink on your skin made it hard to focus. Heeseung was quick, his movements efficient as he grabbed a handful of paper towels and wet them under the faucet.

“You’re really going to make me clean up after you now?” you teased, trying to lighten the mood, though there was still a hint of irritation in your voice.

Heeseung didn’t reply right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours as he handed you the damp towels. His gaze softened as he looked at you. “I’m not making you do anything,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Just trying to help.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the gentle way he was treating the situation. You took the damp towels from his hands, still a little flustered by how close he was standing, how his gaze was focused on you with such intent.

“I didn’t ask for help,” you muttered, not in an angry way but more out of habit, the natural instinct to push away when things got too close, too personal.

He smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. “I know. But that’s never stopped me before, has it?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words didn’t come. You couldn’t find the right response. Instead, you just looked at him, your heart doing that erratic thing it always did when he was this close.

Heeseung seemed to notice your hesitation, his smile softening. “You don’t have to push me away every time, you know,” he said gently, his voice almost too sincere.

You blinked, caught off guard. But before you could respond, he stepped back, giving you space, though his eyes never left yours. “I’ll wait outside,” he said quietly, his voice shifting back to its usual tone.“Take your time.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

Heeseung gave you one last lingering look before stepping out of the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind him. As soon as he was gone, you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still racing in your chest. You quickly went to work cleaning yourself up, though the mess on your clothes was much harder to fix.

Your thoughts were spinning. There was something about the way Heeseung was acting tonight, you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but there was definitely something there, and it made your stomach twist in ways.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to collect yourself. Why did he have this effect on you? You couldn’t figure it out, but the longer you stood there in the bathroom, the more confused you felt.

After a few more minutes, you gave up trying to fix the mess entirely. It was too late for that. Instead, you grabbed your things and stepped out of the bathroom. As soon as you entered the hallway, you spotted Heeseung standing by the door, his posture relaxed but his eyes immediately locking onto yours. “Well?” he asked, cocking his head slightly as he gave you a once-over. “Better?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, much better,” you replied, trying to act nonchalant, but you could feel your heartbeat quicken again under his scrutiny.

He gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “Good. You look… good.” There was a hesitation before the words left his mouth, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to phrase them.

You caught it, and for the first time tonight, you didn’t immediately push back. Instead, you simply looked at him, unsure of what was happening.

Wait.

You suddenly felt a strange sense of déjà vu wash over you. The way he looked at you, the way he was standing there waiting for you, felt familiar, like it was something you had experienced before.

Your mind wandered back to a memory from when you were younger, one that you hadn’t thought about in ages. You were just a child, maybe eight or nine, playing in the park with Heeseung not too far away. You’d been running around, laughing with the other kids when some clumsy little boy—one of your classmates—spilled his drink all over you. You’d been so upset, the sticky liquid ruining your favorite shirt, and you could feel tears threatening to spill.

But then, out of nowhere, there was Heeseung. He hadn’t hesitated for a second, not like some of the other kids who were too busy laughing or ignoring you. He’d been sitting nearby, playing with a figurine in the grass, but the moment he saw you, he dropped his toys without a second thought. Without saying a word, he had stood up, walked over to you, and gently grabbed your hand.

“Don’t worry,” he’d said with that soft, comforting tone only he had, “I’ll help you clean up.”

He had led you straight to the bathroom of the park’s little concession stand, where he carefully grabbed paper towels and dabbed at your shirt, his face set in a look of determination. You remembered feeling embarrassed, but somehow his presence made everything feel better.

And now, here you were, years later, with him standing in front of you again, doing the same thing—helping you, without hesitation. It made you smile softly to yourself, the memory tugging at your heart in ways you weren’t sure how to explain.

Heeseung, noticing the smile tugging at your lips, raised an eyebrow in playful curiosity. “What’s on your mind?”

You shook your head, trying to hide the faint blush creeping onto your cheeks. “Just… thinking about something,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

He didn’t push, simply giving you a small smile, as though he understood without needing any further explanation.

Before you could think too much about it, Heeseung suddenly moved with a surprising confidence, his hand finding your waist and gently pulling you along with him. The sudden shift startled you for a moment, but the warmth of his hand against your side made your breath hitch slightly.

“You look like you need another drink,” he said, his voice low, but playful, as he guided you through the crowded hallway and toward the kitchen. He left you no time to protest, and you found yourself following him without much resistance. You’d barely processed the familiar feeling of his touch when you were already in the kitchen, the sound of music and chatter fading slightly as you both entered the quieter space. Heeseung let go of your waist once you were in the kitchen, but he still stood close.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes as he turned to the counter, rifling through the bottles of alcohol, though his gaze never fully left you.

"Something strong this time?" he asked, his tone teasing but with a hint of genuine care, as though he wanted to make sure you were really okay. "Or do you want to take it easy?"

You were still caught off guard by the way he had pulled you along, the way he’d moved without hesitation, without waiting for permission.

"Maybe just something light," you replied, trying to play it cool, even though he was making it difficult to focus on anything else.

Heeseung worked quickly, his movements smooth as he reached for the bottle, his back was turned to you. But you couldn’t stop watching him—how his muscles shifted under the fabric of his shirt, how good he looked.

Heeseung eventually finished the drink and handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours again as you took the glass. For a second, you both stood there, neither one of you saying anything. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either. It was that kind of silence where it felt like something was about to happen, but neither of you were sure what.

“So, what now?” you asked, trying to break the silence, but you could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you spoke.

Heeseung took a step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Now," he said, "we get back to enjoying the night."

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. "Right," you said, your voice a little shakier than you intended, but you quickly recovered, giving him a small smile. "Let’s see if I can actually make it through the night without getting drenched in anything else."

Heeseung’s lips curled into a grin, and he chuckled softly. "I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again," he said, his tone playful but with an undertone of sincerity. He reached out and gently took your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.

You let him lead you back into the party, the music louder now, the crowd thicker. Heeseung didn’t let go of your hand, and you found yourself walking alongside him through the house, feeling uncertain.

✰ ✰ ✰

Somewhere during the night, you had lost sight of Heeseung. He had been dragged away by his friends, caught up in the crowd, and never returned after that. At first, it felt like a strange absence, the lingering sense of him still there even if he wasn't. But after a while, you pushed it aside, deciding it was fine.

You found yourself moving through the party, chatting with friends, laughing at jokes, and enjoying yourself. And as the night went on, you slipped into the comfort of familiar faces, people you could talk to normally. You were glad for the chance to just have fun, to forget for a moment the heat that always seemed to follow whenever Heeseung was around. You were fine without him, right?

You decided to step outside for a breath of fresh air. The noise and chaos inside had started to make you feel lightheaded, and the stuffy heat of the house wasn’t helping. A little solitude would do you good, you thought.

The cool air hit your skin as you stepped out into the backyard, a quiet escape from the party. You leaned against the outer wall, looking up at the night sky. The stars twinkled faintly above, and for a moment, you let the silence settle around you. It was peaceful, the kind of calm you needed after the madness inside. You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the chill of the night on your skin, and took a deep breath.

What you didn’t know was that someone was watching you from the shadows, standing just far enough away not to be seen. The shape of a figure, leaning against the corner of the house, observing you with quiet intensity.

The moment stretched on, the backyard still and quiet, until you felt a presence shift behind you. A movement you couldn’t quite place, and before you could turn around to see who it was, you felt the brush of someone’s body so close to yours that it made you freeze.

You slowly turned your head, your breath catching in your throat, and found yourself face to face with Heeseung. His lips were mere inches from your ear as he leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. But something was off.

His usually sharp gaze was a little hazy, his eyes unfocused as he smiled at you—though it didn’t reach the intensity of his usual teasing grin. He looked almost… detached. Out of it.

And then the smell hit you—a sharp, pungent scent of weed mixed with the alcohol. It hit you like a wave, and you realized just how much he'd been indulging tonight.

"Heeseung?" you murmured, taking a step back instinctively, your heart picking up speed as you watched him sway slightly, his breath coming out slower than usual.

He seemed to snap out of his daze for a moment, his eyes clearing slightly as he blinked at you. "Hmm?" His voice was low, almost lazy, and there was a softness to it that you weren’t used to hearing.

You studied him for a moment, his breath still tinged with the unmistakable haze of the night’s indulgence. He wasn't himself—at least not the playful Heeseung you knew. "Are you okay?" you asked cautiously, unsure how to navigate this new version of him standing so close.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before a slow, almost dreamy smile curled up on his lips. "Yeah, just needed a break too. The noise gets... loud. You know how it is."

He swayed again, his hand coming up to rest on the wall near you, his face inches from yours.

You stood still, your heart racing as you took in the unexpected sight of him like this. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. “Maybe you should head back inside.”

He chuckled softly, but it lacked its usual spark. Instead, it was drawn out and almost tired. “Nah,” he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m fine... just needed a minute.” His fingers brushed your arm lightly as if trying to keep himself steady.

He didn’t back away, though, and neither did you.

You were unsure what to say next, unsure of your next move. "You’re making this... hard," you finally whispered, uncertain whether you were talking about the situation or him.

Heeseung smiled, but this time it was slow, almost seductive, like he was savoring the moment. “Maybe I like it that way,” he murmured, his voice almost a growl. He leaned just a little closer, his breath mingling with yours.

Despite everything, despite all the confusion, you couldn’t stop the way your heart pounded. Heeseung had always been a game you couldn’t quite figure out, but right now, you were starting to wonder if maybe it was a game you didn’t want to win.

As he leaned in further, you had to make a decision: pull away, or let yourself fall into whatever it was that had been brewing between the two of you.

Before you could even make a decision, he made the decision for you. His lips parted, and he murmured a low, breathy compliment against your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You look so beautiful baby,” he said, and there was a sincerity in his tone that cut through the haze. But before you could respond, his hand shot up to grip the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your skin, holding you in place. The other hand moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Then, without warning, he kissed you. Hard. Hungry. His lips crashing against yours as if you were the air he needed to breathe, like this moment was the only thing that mattered.

You gasped into the kiss, caught off guard by the intensity of it. Heeseung’s mouth was possessive, eager, like he couldn’t get enough of you. He kissed you with a desperation that sent a rush of heat straight to your body, his hands pulling you closer, the pressure of his grip firm. It felt like everything had exploded in that moment, every feeling you’d been pushing away suddenly pouring out in a single, stolen kiss.

Your heart hammered in your chest, and even though every part of you knew this wasn’t how you expected things to go, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop it. The way he kissed you—like you were the last thing he’d ever touch—was overwhelming, and for the first time, you let yourself surrender to it.

His lips were intoxicating, and as he pulled you closer, you could feel the intensity in every movement, every press of his body against yours. The kiss deepened, more frantic now, as if neither of you could get enough. The feeling of him—so desperate, so needy—was something you never expected from Heeseung, and yet it was exactly what you found yourself craving.

You tried to stay grounded, to remind yourself of who he was, of all the walls you’d carefully built between you, but with each second, they seemed to crumble. His hands moved to your back, pulling you in as his kiss grew more fevered, his breathing erratic as he let out soft groans against your lips.

You couldn’t help but respond, your own hands rising to clutch at his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as if to keep him anchored to you, like the very act of touching him would stop this moment from slipping away. Heeseung’s body was solid against yours, and despite the confusion that still buzzed in the back of your mind, you couldn’t deny how badly you wanted this—wanted him.

His breath hitched as you pulled him even closer, you could feel the way his body seemed to tremble slightly as he held you in his arms, groaning lowly, the sound vibrating against your lips as he used one arm to brace himself against the wall, the other pulling you even closer, if that was even possible. His lips were desperate, claiming, his breathing heavy as it mixed with yours.

Your hands moved without thought, one gripping the back of his shirt, the other winding into his hair, tugging him even closer. He let out another low groan, the sound so needy it sent a shiver down your spine. Heeseung’s hand at your waist tightened, as if he was trying to merge your bodies into one.

Every part of you seemed to melt under his touch, all that mattered in that moment was the way he felt against you, the way his lips moved with yours, the way his hands seemed to be exploring every inch of your body. His lips moved with desperation, and each breathless kiss made it harder to remember why you had held back for so long.

But then, just as the kiss deepened again, your mind caught up with you. You could feel the weight of it—the gravity of what was happening. The familiar warning signs, the confusion, the uncertainty, all came rushing back to the surface.

You hesitated for a moment, your hands gripping his hair tightly, your chest rising and falling in quick breaths, trying to regain some semblance of control. Heeseung, sensing the shift, finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting softly.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice raspy and gentle, as if checking to see if you were still with him in that moment.

You pulled back slightly, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to gather your thoughts, but your mind was still clouded by the rush of the moment. "We... we shouldn't be doing this," you murmured, your voice shaky, feeling the weight of the situation. "You're drunk, Heeseung. This isn't you."

Heeseung blinked slowly, his eyes still heavy with that lazy, almost dazed look as he played with the strands of your hair, his fingers brushing gently against your scalp. He tilted his head slightly, giving you that smile—the one that always made your heart flutter, even in the most confusing of times.

He leaned in just a little closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and he spoke softly, his voice sincere "Even if I wasn't drunk," he said, his lips curling into a slow smile, "I’d still do this." His eyes locked onto yours, the haze in them making his gaze feel even more intense. "Because you're you. A pretty girl I've wanted for years."

You felt your breath catch in your throat, the heat of his words curling around you like a blanket, and you couldn’t help the way your heart skipped a beat. His hand on your hair moved down to gently cup your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "This... this is unforgettable. And I’d do it over and over again, no matter what state I’m in."

You were speechless for a moment, but you knew he was being honest, even if his current state made it hard to fully trust his intentions.

"But...," you started, still unsure, trying to hold onto your reason, "this isn't the right time, Heeseung. We both know that."

Heeseung’s lazy smile didn’t falter, though there was a longing in his eyes somthing you hadn't seen before. He slowly moved his thumb down, brushing lightly over your lips before leaning in again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Maybe not the right time," he said, his lips nearly brushing against yours once more. "But you’ve always been worth the wait."

Heeseung hesitated for a moment, his hand still cradling your face as if silently asking for permission. Then, he leaned in, placing a soft, tentative peck on your lips. It was gentle and when you didn’t pull away, he did it again, this time lingering a little longer. Each kiss felt like a question, and with every unspoken answer, his confidence grew.

The next kiss wasn’t as restrained. It was deeper, needier, as though the small taste he’d gotten wasn’t enough. His lips moved against yours with increasing urgency, quickly unraveling into something messier. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand moved to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

The kisses turned sloppy, his control slipping with every passing second. His breath came heavier, mingling with yours as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you, making your knees feel weak.

You couldn’t help but respond, your hands moving to grip his shoulders, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung broke away just briefly, as he gasped for air, his lips swollen and glistening. “You don’t know,” he murmured, his voice rough and filled with desperation. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.” Before you could respond, he captured your lips again, his kisses feverish, like he was making up for all the time he’d spent waiting. His body pressed you more firmly against the wall, as he completely lost himself in the moment, his body fitting against yours like a puzzle piece.

You tried to catch your breath, your head spinning from it all, but Heeseung wasn’t giving you a chance to think. His lips trailed down from yours, brushing along your jaw and down to your neck, where he placed hot, open-mouthed kisses that sent a shiver through your entire body. “Heeseung,” you managed to whisper, your voice shaky. You weren’t sure what you were trying to say—stop or don’t stop.

“Say my name again,” he murmured against your neck, his voice low and raspy. He placed another kiss just below your ear, his breath hot and tantalizing. “I love the way it sounds coming from you.”

You didn’t answer because the way he was looking at you left you speechless. His lips were swollen from the kisses, his hair slightly messy, and there was something in his gaze that you hadn’t seen before. “Heeseung,” you whispered again, softer this time, your hand reaching up to touch his face. The moment your fingers brushed his cheek, he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a second. When they opened again, there was a softness there that made your heart ache.

Heeseung’s lips found yours again, capturing them in a kiss so deep, so consuming, that it left you breathless. You could feel the way his fingers trembled slightly as they slid up your sides. One hand settled on the small of your back, keeping you firmly pressed against him, while the other moved to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just enough.

He groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine as his lips parted, inviting you to deepen the kiss. The way his tongue brushed against yours was dizzying, leaving your knees weak and your mind spinning. You responded instinctively, your hands moving up to tangle in his hair, pulling him even closer.

Heeseung’s breathing was heavy, uneven, as if he couldn’t catch his breath but didn’t want to stop. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing against your skin in a way that made your stomach flutter. It felt like he was memorizing the feel of you, the taste of you, the way you fit perfectly against him.

Heeseung’s lips suddenly left yours, trailing a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and onto your neck. “You don’t even know,” he murmured, his words slurred slightly but full of emotion. “How long I’ve wanted this… wanted you. God, you’re all I ever think about.” His lips grazed your collarbone, grounding you as he leaned his full weight into you, effectively caging you against the wall.

His rambling continued, each word pouring out like a confession. “I dream about you… about us. It’s always you. No one else even comes close, y’know that? The way you smile, the way you look at me… even when you’re mad at me, I can’t get you out of my head.”

His lips moved lower, pressing kisses along your chest as he spoke, his voice husky and raw. “You’re so beautiful… so perfect. And now you’re here, and I don’t want to let go.”

His words were pure need and desperation, and the way he shielded you with his body only amplified the intensity of the moment. “Tell me you feel it too,” he breathed, his voice breaking slightly. “Tell me I’m not crazy for wanting you this much.”

You were overwhelmed, caught between his touch and his words. Heeseung wasn’t holding back, and as much as you wanted to respond, the only thing you could manage was a shaky exhale, your hands clutching at his shirt to keep yourself steady.

Your voice wavered as you found the courage to speak, breaking through the haze of emotions swirling around you both. “But what about all the other girls, Heeseung?” you asked, your tone softer than you expected. “All the girls you’ve been with? The ones who’ve followed you around, who’ve—” You hesitated, the words getting caught in your throat.

Heeseung froze for a moment, his lips hovering against the curve of your neck, his breathing uneven. His answer was strained. “No one’s like you,” he said, his tone almost pleading. “No one even comes close.”

His hand moved up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “You think any of them matter?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “All those girls… they were never you. Never even close to being you. I don’t care about them. I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care about you.”

His lips found your collarbone again, lingering there as he continued. “I’ve yearned for you—God, for so long. You don’t even know what you do to me.” His hand slid down to your hips, gripping you as if to anchor himself. “Every time I see you, it’s like nothing else exists. No one else exists.”

He pulled back slightly, his dark, half-lidded eyes locking onto yours. “I’ll drop them all—every single one. I don’t need anyone else, never did. I just want you.”

Heeseung, ever the gentleman suddenly took you by the hand and led you back inside, away from the prying eyes of the partygoers. With a gentle yet firm grip, he guided you through the bustling crowd, his eyes never leaving yours, as he led your way towards an unoccupied bedroom. Once inside the bedroom, Heeseung closed the door behind you, locking out the world and creating a private haven for the two of you, as he leaned in and captured your lips in a desperate kiss.

You responded to his kiss with equal fervor, your hands finding their way to his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, while Heeseung's hands roamed freely, caressing your back.

Heeseung only pulled back slightly, his chest heaving with heavy breaths before he began to unbutton his shirt, revealing a well-defined torso.

Well this would be a fun night.

It was a fun night... but what ruined it was the fact that Heeseung suddenly seemed to forget who you were. The next few days at school were a complete shift. He avoided you. He didn’t look at you, didn’t talk to you, didn’t even so much as throw a teasing grin your way in the hallways.

No, instead, he went back to his old habits. He laughed and flirted with other girls, his charm as effortless as ever, like nothing had changed. Like you didn’t exist. At. All.

It was maddening.

But the worst part? Watching him smile at those girls with the same ease he once reserved for you, as if you hadn’t been pressed against that wall, that bed, tangled up in his words and his touch. It left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You didn’t know what happened. You wracked your brain for answers, trying to piece together where it all went wrong. But deep down, you should have known. Of course, you should have known.

Heeseung wasn’t the type to stay tethered. He wasn’t the type to settle. He was the type to chase, to get what he wanted, and then move on. And now that he’d tempted you, now that he’d had a taste of your attention, it seemed he’d gone on to the next woman.

Why would you be any different?

The thought made your stomach twist uncomfortably. You weren’t supposed to care. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t let someone like him get to you. But seeing him act as if nothing had happened—as if you were just another moment in his life—stung more than you wanted to admit.

And the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you that night, the way he touched you, the way his words had seemed so genuine. Had it all been a lie? Or had he just changed his mind?

Either way, you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much it bothered you. If he wanted to act like you didn’t exist, you’d do the same. Or at least, you’d try.

And you did try. You really did. Ignoring Heeseung, pretending he was just another face in the crowd—it seemed like the only way to keep yourself sane. And for a while, it felt like it might work. You told yourself you could move on, that you could forget about the way his touch had felt, the way his voice had sounded when he whispered your name.

Yeah, no. You couldn’t.

Not at all.

You realized that the moment you walked by the bleachers and saw a girl perched comfortably on Heeseung’s lap during basketball practice. She laughed at something he said, her hand resting casually on his shoulder. Your stomach churned.

Nope. Moving on wasn’t happening.

And then in the hallways, you would see him leaning against the wall, his signature grin plastered across his face as he shamelessly flirted with other girls. Their giggles echoed in the corridor, and Heeseung would tilt his head, his eyes sparkling like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Yeah, moving on definitely wasn’t in the cards.

Each time you saw him acting like you were meaningless, like the night you’d shared was nothing more than a passing moment, it cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the ache in your chest and the frustration bubbling under your skin, you couldn’t bring yourself to confront him. What would you even say? That he’d hurt you? That he’d made you believe you were different, only to prove otherwise?

No. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But pretending it didn’t matter? That was turning out to be harder than you ever imagined.

Okay, yeah, pretending it didn’t matter was much harder than you thought. Because now, standing in the doorway of your room, staring at a very intoxicated Heeseung, all of those feelings you were desperately trying to bury came rushing back.

His hair was messy like he’d run his hands through it a million times. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the smooth skin of his collarbones, and his belt dangled loosely from his hands like he’d been too distracted—or too far gone—to put it back on properly. The faint smell of alcohol and nicotine wafted off him, making you wrinkle your nose.

This was not how you’d planned to spend your night. You were supposed to be studying, maybe finishing the next episode of that series you were hooked on. A calm night. But of course, Heeseung had to ruin that.

“Heeseung,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe, trying to keep your voice steady, “What are you doing here?”

He blinked at you, his eyes glassy but still managing to hold that familiar spark that made your heart do stupid flips. “I—uh...” He trailed off, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to figure out what to say.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You don’t even know why you’re here, do you?”

“I know why I’m here,” he slurred, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “I just... I wanted to see you.”

You sighed, already feeling the headache forming. “Heeseung, you’re drunk. And not in your right mind. You should go home before you embarrass yourself even more.”

But instead of leaving, he gave you that boyish grin—the one that always made your resolve waver. “Can’t I stay here? Just for a bit?”

“No,” you replied firmly, but even as you said it, you knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

Heeseung’s expression softened, and his voice dropped, almost pleading. “Come on, don’t do this. I... I don’t want to be anywhere else right now.”

You hated how those words tugged at something deep inside you. Why did he always have to show up and mess with your head?

You found yourself hesitating, your hand still on the door, unable to slam it shut in his face, sighing, your hand gripping the edge of the door as you tried to keep your cool. "I can't do this right now, Heeseung," you said, your voice quieter than you intended. "I have too much going on. I'm stressed, and I really don't have the energy for this."

He didn’t back off. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. His voice was low and teasing, with that same lazy confidence he always seemed to have. "If you're stressed, I can help with that," he murmured. "Play with me a little, and I promise, you'll forget all about it."

You blinked at him, caught off guard by his audacity. “Heeseung—”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted, a small, mischievous smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, hazy but still focused on you, sparkled with that familiar glint that always left you second-guessing yourself. “I’m really good at relieving stress. Just give me a chance.”

Your mouth opened to respond, but no words came out. The sheer gall of him left you momentarily speechless.

Finally, you shook your head, trying to snap yourself out of the moment. "Heeseung, you're drunk. You should just go home and sleep this off before you say something else ridiculous."

He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Drunk or not, I’m still right,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned a fraction closer. “But if you really don’t want me here…” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, though he made no actual move to leave.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, trying to summon every ounce of patience you had left. “Heeseung,” you said firmly, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze. “I need you to take this seriously. Either go home, or...”

“Or?” he asked, his voice soft but teasing, daring you to finish the sentence.

Your frustration bubbled over as you only glared at him, the sight of his disheveled figure only fueling your anger. "No! Do you have any idea how mad I am at you right now?" you snapped, crossing your arms. "You ignored me for days, Heeseung. Days! You acted like I didn’t exist, like nothing happened, and now you just show up at my door like—like this?"

Heeseung blinked, the lazy smirk faltering slightly, but he didn’t say anything. That only made you angrier. "Do you even know how humiliating it’s been? Watching you flirt with other girls, pretending like what we had meant nothing? And now, you think you can just waltz in here, drunk and out of your mind and what—fix everything with a grin and some smooth words? You don’t get to do that, Heeseung. You don’t get to mess with my head and—"

Before you could finish, Heeseung surged forward, his hands grabbing your cheeks as he pulled you close. His lips crashed against yours with a force that took your breath away, silencing your ramble in an instant.

Your mind went blank, your words evaporating as his warmth enveloped you. His kiss was desperate, almost as if he was trying to convey everything he couldn’t say out loud. One of his hands slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place, while the other stayed firm on your cheek.

You froze, your anger momentarily eclipsed by the intensity of his actions. But then, your hands instinctively pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss as you stepped back, breathless and wide-eyed. “Heeseung, what the hell?” you whispered, your voice shaking, unsure if it was from lingering anger or the way your heart raced in your chest.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted quietly, his voice hoarse. “You were yelling at me, and I just… I missed you. I couldn’t stay away.”

You stared at him, torn between wanting to scream at him and wanting to pull him back in. “You don’t get to do that,” you said, your voice trembling. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and think it’ll fix everything.”

“I don’t think it fixes anything,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Before you could respond, he took a small step closer, his forehead gently resting against your shoulder. His breath was warm against your neck as he hummed softly, the sound low and almost comforting. He nuzzled against your skin, his movements slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Heeseung,” you said, your voice strained as you placed your hands on his shoulders, trying to push him away. But he didn’t budge, his larger frame pressing closer as his lips ghosted over the curve of your neck.

“I missed this,” he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss just below your ear, his hand curling gently around your waist to hold you steady.

You tried to push again, but it was weak, half-hearted, especially as his lips found a particularly sensitive spot, sending a shiver down your spine. “Stop it, Heeseung,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction, and he clearly noticed.

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and a little smug. “You’re telling me to stop,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your neck, “but you’re not really trying, are you?”

Your heart raced, torn between the anger still simmering in your chest and the way his touch was making your knees feel like jelly. “Heeseung, this isn’t fair,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression softer now. “You’re right. It’s not fair. But I don’t know how else to tell you that I’m sorry. That I’ve been a complete idiot. That I can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard I try.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. But before you could sort through your emotions, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against your neck once more, and you felt yourself faltering.

Heeseung’s movements were subtle at first, his arm tightening slightly around your waist as he guided you further into the house. You didn’t even realize he’d kicked the door closed until you heard the faint click of it shutting.

Your distraction gave him the advantage, and before you could voice even the smallest protest, he was steering you toward the couch. His hands were steady, firm, but not forceful, leaving you confused and torn between stopping him and giving in to the pull he had on you.

“Heeseung—” you started, but the words barely escaped your lips before his mouth was on yours again, silencing you with a kiss that was anything but gentle. His lips moved hungrily against yours, leaving no room for argument, and when you tried to push back against his chest, your resolve faltered as he moaned softly into the kiss. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, and to your dismay, a small whine slipped out in response.

His lips curved against yours as if he could sense your weakening resolve, his hands started guiding you to lay down on the couch. The weight of his body hovered close, not trapping you but leaving you with the realization that Heeseung wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips, “if you really want me to, I will.” But the way he looked at you, his dark eyes full of yearning and desperation, made it clear he didn’t want you to say the words.

When you didn’t respond, Heeseung’s lips curled into a slow, almost knowing smile. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. He leaned down, brushing his nose against yours before capturing your lips once more.

This kiss was different—softer at first, unhurried but still filled with that undeniable hunger. His weight shifted slightly, his chest pressing against yours while his hand slid from your cheek to your waist, steadying you. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, as though he wanted to memorize every detail, every sound you made, and every way you responded to him.

You couldn’t stop yourself from melting into him, Heeseung’s lips left yours only briefly, trailing kisses along your jaw, his warm breath ghosting over your skin as he murmured, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Your pulse quickened, your heart hammering in your chest. “Heeseung… please,” you managed to whisper, though your voice trembled, making it come out weaker than you’d intended.

But he only shook his head softly, his lips brushing against your cheek as he murmured, “Shh… Don’t.” His voice was low and soothing, almost pleading, as though he couldn’t bear to hear you say anything that might break the moment between you. “Just… stay with me. Don’t push me away right now,” he whispered.

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, this time slower, softer, as if he was savoring the moment.

And you couldn’t help but let yourself fall deeper into the kiss.

✰ ✰ ✰

Yeah, you were getting pretty tired now.

After waking up the next morning to an empty bed, Heeseung having dipped sometime before you even stirred, you couldn’t say you were surprised. Disappointed? Sure. Hurt? Maybe. But surprised? Not in the slightest.

The hollow feeling lingered as you dragged yourself to school, telling yourself to just push through the day like nothing had happened. It was easier said than done when the moment you stepped into the halls, you spotted Heeseung leaning casually against his locker, laughing at something one of his friends said, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And of course, he acted like last night didn’t happen. Not a glance in your direction, not a nod of acknowledgment—nothing. It was as if you didn’t exist, as if you hadn’t shared anything at all.

You bit down the frustration bubbling in your chest, refusing to let it show. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t let him get to you, that you’d play it cool, but damn, it was harder than you thought. Watching him joke around, watching him flirt effortlessly with anyone but you—it stung more than you wanted to admit.

You sighed, gripping the straps of your bag a little tighter as you walked past him, pretending you didn’t notice him either.

It got to the point where your friends couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“What’s going on with you and Heeseung?” one of them asked, their tone laced with curiosity and concern. “He was all over you, and now he’s... not. Did something happen?”

You hesitated, debating whether to say anything, but their expectant gazes made it clear they weren’t letting it go. So, with a deep breath, you told them everything.

Their reactions were immediate.

“He did what?” one of your friends exclaimed, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Are you serious? He was with you and then went back to ignoring you? Twice?!” another chimed in, her voice rising in anger.

They were shocked at first, then angry—angrier than you were, which was both comforting and a little overwhelming.

“You need to stop answering his calls,” one of them said firmly, leaning closer. “He’s just using you as a backup plan when he’s drunk and lonely.”

Another nodded, her expression equally resolute. “Don’t let him in, no matter how much he begs. If you let him in, you’re just setting yourself up to kick him out later. And trust me, that’s worse.”

“Exactly,” a third added, crossing her arms. “And don’t even think about being his friend. Friends don’t wake up in each other’s beds after nights like that.”

The last comment stung more than you cared to admit, but they weren’t done.

“If you’re under him, you’re never getting over him,” another said bluntly, her words hitting harder than you’d expected. “And you deserve better than this game he’s playing with you.”

You sat there, their words circling in your head like a storm. Deep down, you knew they were right. You knew you couldn’t keep letting Heeseung in only to get hurt every time he left. But knowing it and doing something about it were two very different things.

One of your friends sighed, shaking her head. “You know what this sounds like, right? A situationship. That’s what this is turning into.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“That’s exactly what it is,” another chimed in, crossing her arms. “He keeps you close enough to make you think you matter, but far enough to avoid any real accountability. Classic situationship behavior.”

You groaned, leaning back against the bench. “I don’t even know if it’s that deep. He probably doesn’t think about me at all.”

“Well…” one of them started, glancing over your shoulder, her expression shifting into amusement and curiosity.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her.

She hesitated for a moment before blurting it out. “Heeseung’s staring.”

Your head snapped around so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. And sure enough, there he was, standing at the edge of the basketball court, holding a ball loosely in one hand. He wasn’t laughing with his teammates or focused on the game. No, his eyes were locked directly on your group—or more specifically, on you.

Your friends followed your gaze, and a chorus of whispers erupted.

“Oh my god, he really is.”

“What is he doing just standing there?”

“Is it just me, or does he look like he’s debating something?”

One of them nudged you. “Okay, spill. What’s going on in his head? Did you say something to him recently? Text him?”

You shook your head quickly, still staring at Heeseung. “No, I haven’t even looked at him, let alone talked to him.”

“Then why is he staring like that?”

“I don’t know!” you said, your voice low but frantic.

Another friend tilted her head, watching him closely. “It’s not just a glance, either. He’s full-on staring. Like he’s trying to figure out if he should come over here or something.”

The thought made your stomach flip, cause there was something more intense in the way he looked at you—like he was fighting some internal battle.

“Well, whatever’s going on,” one of your friends whispered, “he’s definitely not over you.”

You turned back to your friends, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. “You guys are making this into something it’s not.”

One of them snorted. “Honey, he’s the one making it into something. Look at him.”

Against your better judgment, you glanced back at Heeseung, and your breath hitched when your eyes met his again. He didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze only grew more focused, like he wanted to make sure you knew he was looking.

You quickly turned back to your friends, forcing a tight smile. “Let’s go,” you said, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

They exchanged knowing glances but didn’t argue. One of them muttered, “Good idea,” as the group began gathering their things.

As you walked away from the bench, you resisted the urge to glance back at Heeseung. Your friends stayed close, their chatter filling the air as they tried to distract you, but it was hard to shake the feeling of his eyes still on you.

When you reached the school gates, one of them broke the silence. “So… are we just going to ignore the fact that he was practically burning a hole in your back with that stare?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, your voice sharper than you intended. “We’re ignoring it.”

Another friend chuckled softly. “Okay, okay. But just so you know, he’s not ignoring you.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you stepped onto the sidewalk. “Well, he’s doing a great job of pretending otherwise most of the time.”

“That’s the thing,” someone said thoughtfully. “Guys like him—they act like they don’t care, but the moment they think they’re losing you? They start doing stuff like this.”

You didn’t reply, tightening your grip on your bag as the group walked down the street. You didn’t want to talk about Heeseung anymore, didn’t want to think about the way he looked at you.

✰ ✰ ✰

It was a vicious cycle, one you hated but couldn’t seem to break. Each time you told yourself it would be the last, that you’d stop answering the door, that you wouldn’t let him in again. And yet, every time the night fell and he showed up—messy hair, glassy eyes, and a crooked smile—you found yourself giving in, letting him cross the threshold into your apartment.

Heeseung had this way of making you feel like you were the center of his world. His hands were always warm, his voice low and sweet, whispering things that made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t describe.

“Why do you do this to me?” you’d asked one night, your voice breaking as you stared up at him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

He’d only smiled, brushing his thumb against your cheek as if he didn’t have an answer, or maybe because he didn’t want to give you one. “Because I can’t stay away from you,” he’d said, his voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

But then morning would come, and he would vanish like a dream you couldn’t quite remember, leaving behind an empty space in your bed and a heavier one in your chest. And at school, it was always the same. His eyes would find you across the cafeteria or the hallway, and for a moment, it would feel like everything stopped. But he wouldn’t come over, wouldn’t talk to you. He’d just look.

Your friends noticed it, too, how he’d stare at you as if you were the only thing in the room, even when there were other girls around him, laughing at his jokes and vying for his attention.

“You’re letting him ruin you,” one of them said one afternoon, her voice tinged with frustration.

“I know,” you admitted, your voice hollow. “But it’s not like I can just stop.”

You wanted to hate him, for the way he seemed to pull you in only to push you away, for the way he made you feel like you were everything one second and nothing the next.

But you couldn’t. Because even though you knew it was toxic, even though you knew it was breaking you bit by bit, there was a part of you that couldn’t let go.

Because in those nights, when he looked at you like that, when he touched you like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, you felt wanted. Needed. And no matter how much it hurt afterward, you kept holding onto it, hoping that one day, he’d stop running.

It wasn’t until his friend Jake—of all people—came to talk to you that you started piecing things together. You’d been so caught up in the back-and-forth, the way Heeseung would tease you one moment and ignore you the next, that you never truly understood why. But now, hearing it from Jake, it was like a lightbulb went off in your mind.

Heeseung, despite all the other girls he flirted with, never gave them the attention he gave you. He never kissed them, never looked at them the way he looked at you.

And Jake had confirmed it. Heeseung was in love with you. Hopelessly in love, but he didn’t even know it himself. That’s why he acted the way he did. He didn’t know how to handle it, how to deal with it.

Jake had told you Heeseung was scared. He’d never felt this way about anyone before, and it terrified him. So, he’d masked it all with arrogance, with distance. But when he was drunk, then the walls came down, his real feelings would surface. That’s why he’d always show up at your door when he was intoxicated—because, in those moments, he couldn’t hide from what he truly felt for you.

You wanted to be mad at him for hiding behind that facade, for playing with your feelings. But now you understood. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about you; it was that he was so afraid of what this all meant, of what it would do to him, to both of you, that he couldn’t face it. So, he ran, and he used everything he could to keep you at arm’s length, to protect himself from being honest with you.

But knowing the truth didn’t make it hurt less. You still found yourself torn between wanting to be there for him, to help him figure it out, and wanting to protect yourself from getting hurt even more. Because at the end of the day, you were both so damn lost in this mess.

“Look, I know you’re confused. But you need to understand, Heeseung’s been a mess about this. He’s never felt anything like it before. And trust me, he doesn’t know how to handle it.”

You shook your head, trying to process everything Jake was saying. It didn’t seem to make sense. Why hadn’t he just told you? “But why does he act like he doesn’t care? Why ignore me at school like I’m nothing, and then do… all that when he’s with me?”

Jake shifted uncomfortably, knowing the weight of your words. “It’s easier for him to push you away than admit it to himself. He’s scared. He doesn’t get why he’s so into you. So he avoids it.”

You stared at him, your heart racing as everything started to fall into place. But you still had questions, things you didn’t understand. “But why doesn’t he just… talk to me? Be honest?”

Jake shrugged, his eyes softening. “He doesn’t know how to navigate this. It’s easier for him to hide behind his stupid behavior than face the truth.”

You were silent for a long moment, processing all of the information you had gotten.

When you didn`t answer, Jake let out a resigned sigh, his shoulder slumping slightly before he gave you a supportive pat on the shoulder. "You’ve got to make him talk," he said quietly, his voice filled with sympathy. "You’re the only one who can get him to open up. Just… don’t wait forever, okay?"

He gave you one last look before walking off, leaving you standing there with your heart racing in your chest, all of your emotions tangled up in knots.

Your footsteps were heavy as you walked away from the scene, feeling the weight of every question that lingered in your mind. Why did you have to talk to Heeseung? You weren’t his therapist, nor his emotional support. Wasn’t he man enough to talk to you? You clenched your fists, frustration building in your chest.

What if Jake was wrong? What if he was just trying to paint a picture that didn’t exist, feeding you some narrative to make you feel better about the mess you were in? What if you were making a fool of yourself? The thoughts spiraled, doubt flooding your mind. Every interaction with Heeseung now felt like a game you didn’t know how to play, where the rules were constantly changing and you were left scrambling to catch up.

What if you were just a sidepiece? The thought stung more than you wanted to admit, and the image of Heeseung laughing with other girls earlier flashed in your mind. He was always so charming, so easy with them, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe you were just another stop on his list, a temporary distraction, something to pass the time until someone else caught his eye.

You sighed deeply, rubbing your forehead as you made your way to your car. You wanted to be done with this—done with the confusion, the uncertainty, the constant emotional whiplash. But part of you knew it wasn’t that easy. Nothing with Heeseung ever was.

But maybe Jake was right. Maybe you could be the one to make him talk—to make him finally admit what was really going on in his head, what he was feeling. But was it worth it? Was risking your heart worth it?

You bit your lip, feeling a wave of frustration and sadness wash over you.

✰ ✰ ✰

Okay, to be fair, Heeseung had it coming. You repeated it in your mind like a mantra as you looked down at your phone, the screen lighting up with his constant calls and texts. Each one more desperate than the last, his words slurred, the grammar all over the place—clearly, he wasn’t in his right mind. The messages seemed to echo the chaos in your chest, but you refused to reply.

You stared at the phone, feeling a mix of frustration and something else—something deep and heavy that you couldn’t quite place. He had done this to himself, hadn’t he? He had made his choices, and now he had to deal with the consequences. The constant buzzing of your phone finally slowed, and you thought maybe he had given up. But then, the doorbell rang.

You froze, your stomach dropping. You crept cautiously to the door, standing there for a moment as the bell rang again and again, each chime making your heart race. The knocking started soon after, loud and urgent, but you stayed still, arms crossed, refusing to move.

You weren’t going to let him back in.

The knocking stopped suddenly, and for a moment, everything was silent. And then, through the door, you heard his voice.

“Please… please open the door…” His voice was shaky, desperate, as if he was on the verge of breaking. “I’m sorry. Please, I need you. I just… please don’t leave me like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t something you were used to hearing from him. It was different.

"I need to see you... I can't stop thinking about you... Please, don't... don't shut me out, not now."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you cautiously unlocked the door, the sound of the latch clicking echoing in the silence. When the door creaked open, you were met with the sight of him sitting on the ground, his posture slumped, eyes staring at the bottle in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

As soon as he saw you, he scrambled to his feet, his movements frantic, as if he couldn't wait another second. Before you could even take a step back, his arms were around you, pulling you into an embrace that was far too tight to push him off.

You gasped in surprise, your hands instinctively pushing against his chest. "Heeseung, wait—" But your protest was quickly smothered as he held you tighter, pressing his face into the side of your neck.

“I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about you,” he mumbled, his words slurred and uneven, the alcohol clearly taking its toll. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just…” His grip on you tightened, his hands shaking slightly. “Please, don’t hate me… I need you…” His voice faltered, and you could feel the tremor in his body as he clung to you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You took a deep breath, trying to gather the words to say, but before you could form anything coherent, Heeseung’s lips were suddenly on yours. His kiss was urgent, a little sloppy, as though he was trying to drown out whatever feelings were swirling inside him. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, and you could feel the weight of his need against you.

"Stop," you whispered weakly, your hands pushing against his chest, but it did little to stop him. If anything, he just leaned in further, his lips moving with a frantic energy as he kissed you harder.

You pulled back for a moment, gasping for air, but Heeseung wasn’t letting go. His forehead rested against your neck as he breathed heavily, his lips brushing against your skin. “I need this,” he muttered, almost to himself, his voice muffled but laced with desperation. “I need you.”

You tried again, more forcefully this time, pushing him back slightly, but his grip on you tightened. “We need to talk,” you managed, your voice breaking, your hands trembling as you tried to create space between you two. “You can’t just keep doing this—coming to me when you’re drunk, acting like nothing happened—”

But Heeseung didn’t seem to hear you. His eyes fluttered closed as he kissed you again, this time a little more gently, though it still held that same desperate edge.

You couldn’t help but respond, even if you didn’t want to. Heeseung was like a drug, and you were already too far gone, as his kiss deepened and his hands roamed, you couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that this wasn’t how things should be. You deserved more than this chaotic cycle, more than the confusion, the highs and lows.

But in that moment, you let him hold you, let him kiss you, because you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not when he needed you like this, not when you still felt that pull, even though you knew it wasn’t healthy.

And when he finally pulled away, looking at you with those dark eyes full of longing, you were left breathless, conflicted, and unable to move.

✰ ✰ ✰

It was like a cruel game he played—one step forward, two steps back. After the night, when he’d clung to you, he’d returned to his old ways at school, completely shutting you out. It was as if the moment he left your apartment, the walls came back up, and he was back to pretending you didn’t exist.

You’d see him in the halls, laughing with his friends, flirting with other girls, completely ignoring you like everything that happened between you two meant nothing. It was maddening.

You tried to act like it didn’t bother you. You went through the motions, keeping your head down, focusing on your schoolwork, your friends, anything to distract yourself from the constant ache in your chest. But the more he ignored you, the more you realized just how much it hurt. And it hurt even more because you knew that he wasn’t like this because he didn’t care. He was like this because he was scared. Scared of what was between you, scared of how vulnerable it made him.

Heeseung was a complicated mess, a boy who wanted everything but feared the very thing that could make him feel whole. And you? You were stuck in this limbo, torn between wanting to confront him and just walking away before you got hurt even more.

It was exhausting.

One minute, he was the boy who couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop kissing you, the one who made you feel like the only person in the room. The next minute, he was a stranger.

You were deep in thought, trying to make sense of the mess that was Heeseung, when you suddenly felt a presence beside you. Turning to your left, you saw a guy you barely knew—someone who kept to himself at school, never talking much. He was standing there, a nervous but hopeful look on his face, and before you could even react, he asked, “Hey, would you like to go out sometime? Maybe grab a coffee?”

You opened your mouth to decline, trying to find the right words that wouldn’t make him feel bad, but before you could say anything, an arm snaked around your waist, pulling you in close with surprising force.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you instinctively stiffened as you turned to see none other than Heeseung standing there. He leaned in just enough to block your view of the guy, his eyes focused on the nervous stranger.

Before you could protest or say anything, Heeseung’s voice cut through the tension, casual but firm. “She’s not interested,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The quiet guy who had been asking you out now looked taken aback, stepping back a bit, unsure how to respond.

You couldn’t believe what was happening. Heeseung had just walked up and made it clear to someone else that you weren’t available. You wanted to say something, to protest, but you couldn’t find the words. It felt as if everything had suddenly flipped upside down.

“I—uh…” The guy stammered, clearly intimidated by Heeseung's presence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He turned quickly and walked off, leaving the two of you standing there in silence.

You snapped back from the suprise and pulled away from Heeseung’s grip, your mind spinning. “What the hell, Heeseung?” you managed, your voice laced with frustration.

He didn’t say anything at first. His gaze flickered to where the guy had disappeared, and then back to you.

You stared at him, waiting for an explanation, but instead, Heeseung just stood there, his expression unreadable.

"What’s your problem, Heeseung?" you demanded, stepping back. You couldn’t contain the anger that was rising in your chest. "Why are you acting like this?"

He ran a hand through his messy hair, his eyes avoiding yours for a second. He let out a frustrated sigh before meeting your gaze. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, the words almost sounding like a confession. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Your heart sank a little, but it didn’t stop the fire that was still burning inside you. You’d had enough of this back-and-forth.

"Then figure it out," you snapped, pushing him off. "I’m not going to keep doing this, Heeseung. Get your shit together."

He didn’t say anything more, but the look in his eyes—so conflicted, so full of uncertainty—said everything.

You turned on your heel, walking away before he or you could say anything. You didn’t know if you were making the right decision, but you couldn’t keep letting him drag you around like this.

It was later that night, after you’d gotten a bit of distance and time to cool down, when you heard the familiar sound of your doorbell ringing again.

You froze for a second, unsure if you wanted to deal with him yet again, but the quiet, hesitant knock that followed told you it wasn’t the same as before. You found yourself standing by the door, hands gripping the doorknob, hesitant to open it.

When you finally did, your breath caught in your throat. There he was, but only.. not the usual version of him you were used to seeing. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale, and he looked... broken.

His eyes locked onto yours, and for the first time in a long time, there was no bravado. He was standing there, vulnerable, as if unsure of how to approach you after everything.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, his voice cracking. He wiped his face with his sleeve, almost embarrassed. “I fucked up. I know I’ve been an asshole… but I needed to see you. I need to talk.”

You stood there for a moment, trying to process everything. It was hard—too hard. You’d spent so much time questioning his intentions, wondering if he even cared. Seeing him like this, so exposed, made you feel conflicted. Part of you wanted to push him away for all the hurt he’d caused, but another part of you wanted to reach out and hear him out.

“Why now?” you asked quietly, your voice betraying the frustration you’d been holding back. “Why come to me like this? After everything?”

He looked down at the ground, visibly struggling. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. I’ve been running from this. From you. From how I feel. And now I’m just… lost.” His words were shaky, like he was trying to hold onto his composure but was failing. “I’ve been an idiot, and I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Everything felt like it was happening too fast. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead he stepped closer, and for the first time, there was no arrogance in his movements, no cocky confidence. He looked genuinely lost, as if he was desperately trying to figure himself out. “I don’t know what I’m doing… but I know I want to fix it. Fix us. If you’ll let me.”

You took a step back, crossing your arms over your chest as you tried to collect your thoughts. “I don’t know what to say,” you admitted softly, your voice trembling a little with uncertainty. “You’ve been so hot and cold. One minute you’re all over me, the next you act like I’m invisible. How am I supposed to trust that this is real?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was gathering the courage to say what had been haunting him. When he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper. “I know... I’ve been a mess. I was scared,” he confessed, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “You made me feel things I’ve never felt before. Things that… terrified me. And instead of coming to you, talking to you about it, I ran. I pushed you away, and I’m sorry for that.”

The way he was standing, so different from how he used to act, made you reconsider everything. He wasn’t hiding behind walls anymore. “I don’t want to be scared anymore,” he added quietly, his voice cracking just slightly. “I want to be with you. If you’ll allow me.”

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to figure out what to say next. You were so unsure now, seeing him spill his heart out for you.

“I don’t feel this with anyone else,” he said softly. “No matter how hard I tried to push it down, it’s always been you. You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.” He paused for a moment, before he dropped down to his knees in front of you, taking both your hands gently in his, while his eyes never left yours. “I don’t know what I was waiting for. I was stupid, I was scared. But I know now... I love you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, and I’m sorry for making you feel like you were nothing. You’re everything to me. Please... let me prove it.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a long moment, all you could do was look at him, trying to process what he’d just said. You had never imagined he’d say those words, especially after everything that had happened. But now, as he knelt before you, his hands still holding yours with such gentleness, it felt different. It felt real.

Doubts still lingered, but as you looked at him—really looked at him—kneeling before you, his hands gripping yours, something inside you began to shift.

The truth was, you loved him too. Despite everything—the hurt, the confusion—you couldn’t deny that your heart ached for him. And seeing him like this, open in a way you never thought possible for him, made you realize how much you wanted to believe in him, in this. You took a slow breath, your voice barely a whisper as you spoke. “I don’t know, Heeseung…”

He didn’t pull away, didn’t try to say anything more. He just waited, his gaze never leaving yours, hopeful but patient.

You looked down at his hands still holding yours, his fingers trembling slightly. “I’ve been hurt, and I don’t want to be hurt again,” you said, your voice wavering just a little.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve hurt you, and I’m so sorry. But I promise, I’ll do anything to make it right. Just… let me try.”

Your heart ached at his words. And slowly, almost hesitantly, you nodded. “Okay. We can try.”

He exhaled sharply, relief flooding his features, but you could see the uncertainty still lingering in his eyes. You knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but something inside you told you that this—he—was worth trying for.

He stood up, his hands still holding yours, and pulled you gently into his arms. You let him, your body instinctively melting into his embrace. He buried his face in your hair, his breath warm against your neck.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “I’m going to make you see that I mean it.”

Staning there in his arms, the doubts slowly began to fade. Maybe it would take time. But you felt hope stirring within you. Maybe you could try to make this work.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to read your emotions. His hand still cupped your face gently, waiting for a sign from you. "Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice low, filled with both uncertainty and hope.

"Yes."

Without another word, his lips descended onto yours, and the kiss was everything. Deep, urgent, and filled with so much emotion that it took your breath away.

When you started to feel breathless you tried to pull away, your breath ragged, but each time you did, he followed you, his lips catching yours again, desperate, insistent. Your heart raced, and your head spun as you tried to pull back for a moment’s reprieve, but Heeseung wasn’t having it.

"Please," he groaned between kisses, his hand gripping your waist tightly. "Just—just let me…" His voice was rough, desperate, as if your lips were the only thing keeping him grounded. "I need you. You… You make my heart beat. You make everything else fade. I want to breathe you in until I can’t breathe anymore."

His words were tangled, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough, like he was trying to make you understand something, but what, exactly, you weren’t sure. His kisses grew more frantic, more needy, and despite your attempts to catch your breath, you couldn’t help but respond to him.

You finally managed to gasp out his name, your voice barely a whisper, "Heeseung... Stop, I need to breathe."

He paused for a split second, just long enough for you to catch your breath, his breathing just as erratic as yours. "I can't... can't stop," he muttered. "You're all I think about... all I want."

✰ ✰ ✰

It was funny how much things had shifted since Heeseung’s confession. You couldn’t deny the change in him. He meant every word he’d said that night, and he made sure to show you just how serious he was about being with you.

Heeseung was intense in everything he did, and his love for you was no exception. It wasn’t just in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only person in the room, or the way he clung to your hand like letting go would mean losing you. No, it was in the small things too. The way he remembered the little details about you, how he stayed up late just to make sure you got home safe from your late-night shifts, or the way he’d pepper your face with kisses whenever he thought you looked stressed.

And then, there were the nights. Heeseung had always been passionate, but now that he wasn’t holding back, it was overwhelming in the best way possible. He left no part of you untouched, no part of your heart unloved. Your skin bore the evidence of his intensity, faint marks that lingered long after his lips had moved on, a testament to just how much he adored you.

He didn’t just say he loved you; he showed it. In every kiss, every touch, every whispered word, Heeseung made sure you knew just how much you meant to him. And while it could get a little overwhelming at times, you couldn’t deny that it felt good—so good—to be loved so completely.

Heeseung's love was all-consuming, and with it came an intensity that left you breathless. He made it his mission to show you just how deeply he cared. But he never lost the playful side that made you fall for him in the first place.

He still teased you relentlessly, knowing exactly how to make your cheeks flush. “What’s that look for, baby?” he’d smirk when he caught you staring, leaning in close to whisper, “Can’t get enough of me?” His confidence was maddening, but you’d learned to give as good as you got.

Sometimes, he’d flirt with you like you were strangers meeting for the first time. “Hey, gorgeous,” he’d say, slidling up to you with a grin. “Come here often?” It didn’t matter if you were at your desk or in the middle of a crowded hallway; Heeseung always found a way to make you laugh and roll your eyes at his antics.

But then, he’d do a 360 and leave you utterly disarmed. Like the way he’d wrap his arms around your waist out of nowhere, pressing his lips to your ear to murmur, “I love you so much.” It was whiplash, the way he could go from cocky to soft in an instant, and it kept you on your toes.

Now that you had Heeseung basically wrapped around your finger, it felt empowering. He catered to you, always quick to appease your whims, and he seemed to thrive on your happiness. Whether it was picking up your favorite snacks, carrying your bag, or pampering you after a long day, Heeseung was yours—and he made sure you knew it.

But he had his limits.

There were moments when he reminded you that, while he adored you, he wasn’t completely under your control. Like when you pushed him too far with teasing, a playful remark about him being “so soft” for you turning into a challenge in his eyes.

One such night, you’d been cheeky, testing how much you could get away with. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” you’d teased, a smirk playing on your lips.

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, the shift immediate. “Anything?” he repeated, voice low and laced with something that sent shivers down your spine. Before you could process, he had you pinned, his hand firm but careful as it held your wrists above your head.

“You like to push me, don’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Think I’m all soft and sweet?”

You didn’t have a chance to respond before he showed you just how wrong you were. Heeseung wasn’t rough in a careless way—he was calculated, controlled, and oh-so-intense. He left no room for doubt about who had the upper hand in those moments.

By the end of it, you were breathless, your legs trembling as you clung to him for support. Heeseung’s smug grin and the way he kissed your forehead tenderly afterward only made it worse.

“Still think I’m soft?” he teased, brushing a strand of hair from your flushed face.

You couldn’t even answer, too dazed to form words, which only seemed to please him more.

The next day, walking was a challenge, and Heeseung, ever the charmer, had the audacity to chuckle when you winced. “Told you there’s only so much I’ll let you boss me around,” he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple.

It was infuriating, but it was also Heeseung. And if you were being honest, you loved every second of it.

a/n: finished this while waiting for the train to come, in the snow storm :) reblogs and commentary are appreciated <33

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Perm taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine @badtzsan @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @chocowonnie

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @bussolares @kiripimaspillow

@sumsumtingz @norucking @tunafishyfishylike @txnwvc

@jakeluvrrs @firstclassjaylee @xnatqq @arclviie @aussie-boys-wife

@vvenusoncasual @bamguetismee

Wanna be in the perm taglist? Lmk <3

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 In Pink Sheets.

Spencer Reid x Avoidant!BAU!reader

series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: After spending the first night with Spencer, doubts arise about the nature of your behavior at work from now on. How could you not make it obvious that you two had already passed all the bases?

Words: 3k.

Warnings & Tags: +18 (for suggestive talk, they are naked lol, aftercare? but no explicit). fem!bau!reader. established relationship. reader is overthinking and being dramatic (literally me). first “I love you” yep. making out interrupted. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Literally my sheets are pink, this is personal and pure fluff to try to fix my tortured heart.

The world outside barely existed. The light filtering through the curtains felt softer, the air warmer, the distant clatter of construction dull and unimportant. Everything that mattered was here, wrapped up in the quiet rise and fall of Spencer’s chest beneath your cheek. Your pink sheets tangled around you felt almost too soft, like they might dissolve if you moved too quickly. But you didn’t want to move anyway. Not yet. Please.

His arm was placed gently around your back, and his fingers drew simple circles against your skin. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and rooted, as your breaths gradually came into sync. It was the closest you had ever been to a state of pure bliss.

You moved slightly, just enough to feel him tilt his chin down, to feel him sweep over you with a careful gaze that made you feel completely seen and literally naked. His breath caught, his throat cleared slightly, and you knew what was going to happen before he even tried.

“Don’t even think about asking if it was good,” you murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his skin. “It wasn’t good. It was perfect.”

You definitely knew him a lot.

His chest shifted under you as a soft, nervous laugh escaped him, breaking the quiet. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that carried confidence or certainty—it was shy, almost unsure, and it made you lift your head slightly to look at him. His cheeks were flushed, a faint pink that spread up to the tips of his ears, and his lips curved in a sheepish smile as he avoided your gaze.

“What’s so funny?” You asked gently, your voice low and curious, tilting your head to study him.

He glanced at you then, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before flickering away again, as though the intensity of the moment made him squirm. His fingers, which had been tracing lazy circles on your back, paused, and you felt him take a breath like he was gathering his words.

“It’s just…” he started, his voice soft, hesitant. “I guess I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that…this is real. That you’re here. That we’re here.”

His words hung between you, vulnerable and raw, and you felt your heart ache with a warmth so deep it was almost overwhelming. You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, coaxing his gaze back to yours.

“Hey,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. “I’m here. This is real. You’re finally in my bed, and now I’m probably going to have to figure out how not to smile so much at work.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across Spencer’s face at your words, and for a moment, you both just looked at each other, as if savoring the perfect reality of the moment. He exhaled, his tension easing slightly, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something that hinted at both excitement and uncertainty.

“You think you’re going to be able to hide that smile?” He teased, his voice a little more confident now, but still carrying that softness that made your heart flutter.

“Probably not,” you replied, the hint of a smile tugging at your own lips. “But I’ll try. For the sake of professionalism, of course.” You raised an eyebrow as you added, “It’s not like anyone needs to know I had a…very good moment.”

“Moment?” He smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

You bit your lip, feigning innocence as a faint heat rose in your cheeks. “I didn’t want to be too explicit. You might not be able to handle it.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that,” he quipped, his grin widening into something sly, the corners of his mouth betraying his growing confidence.

It's hard to believe that this is the same shy, awkward boy who, before he started dating you, could barely look you in the eye without stuttering or turning red.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, your tone playful but sharp as you leaned in closer. “Well, aren’t you bold now?” You tilted your head, studying him with mock seriousness. “I think I might have corrupted your innocent soul.”

And in a way you already had. For some reason, you had the genius that everyone told their secrets to because they thought he had no one to air them with, telling everything to you and having to hide his own secrets. Two months of dating and sneaking kisses were under a thousand keys, and no one suspected anything. Thank God.

It was common knowledge, especially for someone like Reid, who could recite all the FBI rules without a problem, that romantic relationships were off-limits between coworkers. Even though you understood the logic from day one and knew that feelings and professionalism could be a dangerous mix, you still couldn't help but fall for someone like Spencer without return.

However, it wasn't your fault. I mean, who wouldn't fall in love with someone they see every day and who is clearly the perfect man? You just blinked, and there you were, already dreaming about him and feeling butterflies every time you heard his nervous laughter or ramblings on different topics. If your team hadn’t noticed the way your gaze lingered a little too long or how you always seemed to brighten when he entered a room, it was pure luck.

“You know,” you began thoughtfully, breaking the silence, “I read something once…about how people can always tell when two people have…slept together.”

Reid tilted his head slightly to look at you, his brows drawing together in curiosity. “Oh?” he asked, his tone both amused and intrigued. “And where exactly did you read that?”

You hesitated for a moment, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze. “Um…” you started, biting your lip as your cheeks warmed. “It was in a magazine.”

His eyebrows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a barely contained smile. “A magazine?” he repeated, the question laced with playful skepticism.

You rolled your eyes, groaning softly as you buried your face in his chest. “Okay, okay, I know. It’s not exactly the kind of reading you’d respect, but I was sixteen, okay? It was one of those random magazines my mom had lying around the house.”

Spencer chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath you. “I’m not judging,” he said, though the amusement in his voice made you peek up at him skeptically. “I just find it fascinating that a teen magazine would tackle…body language.”

Of course, he definitely wasn't the kind of person who read gossip or fashion magazines in his spare time. It was possible to believe that he had never even opened one in his life and had only seen them from afar, hanging next to the newspaper.

You groaned again, pulling a pillow closer as if to shield yourself from his teasing. “It wasn’t exactly a scientific study, okay? It was more like—‘How to Spot When Two People Have Chemistry,’ or something equally ridiculous. But it stuck with me for some reason.”

For some reason? Or because when you were bored, you played at analyzing people and their relationships?

His eyes softened, and though he was still clearly amused, he propped himself up slightly, leaning his head toward yours. “Okay, so tell me—what did this magazine say?”

You sighed dramatically, though you couldn’t keep the grin from your face. “It said people can’t help themselves. They look at each other differently. Their body language changes. The way they smile, how close they stand, the way their energy shifts. It’s like this unspoken, glowing secret, and apparently, everyone can see it.” Especially profilers.

His lips twitched again, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced with something softer. “So, according to this magazine, we’re giving off some kind of…post-coital signal?”

“Oh my, when you put it that way, it sounds even worse.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “That's something an old scientist would say.”

He laughed quietly, pulling your hands away so he could see your face. “Hey, I’m just trying to understand you. But I guess I can see the logic in that. People do give away a lot without realizing it.”

You exhaled, relieved that he wasn’t outright laughing at you. “Exactly,” you said, your confidence returning slightly. “And now I can’t stop thinking about how obvious we’re going to be at work. Like, what if everyone knows the second we walk in?”

It's easy to imagine your coworkers looking at you funny as soon as the elevator opens, Morgan making some jokes about your goofy smile, and you laughing in a way that makes it seem like you're not owning up to everything.

He smiled, his expression softening. “Well, if it’s true, then I think it’s more about them noticing how happy we look. Not anything…incriminating.”

“Just tell me, why would you be happy on a Monday morning?” you asked, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes in playful suspicion.

He gave a small shrug, his tone matter-of-fact. “Honestly, for us, is there even a difference? We work almost every day—it’s like weekends don’t exist.”

You chuckled at his answer, the playful spark in your eyes never quite fading. “I guess you’ve got a point here, Dr. Reid. But still, Mondays are supposed to be miserable, right? Isn’t that like, the universal rule?”

“Well, if we’re being honest, I think that’s just a myth. I mean, when you get to spend your weekends like this…” He gestured between the two of you with a light, affectionate movement, “Mondays don’t seem so bad.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes with a teasing smile. “And that’s exactly why everyone’s going to know what we’ve been up to when we show up at work. It’s like you have a neon sign flashing above your head saying, ‘I had an amazing weekend.’”

Spencer chuckled softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I don’t know if that’s true. I think we’re good at keeping things under wraps,” he said, his voice light but carrying that hint of uncertainty.

It was a good argument; he had two months in his favor.

“Just...don't point your feet at me or hug me so closely." You said with surprising seriousness. “The magazine says those are clear signs.”

“I’m not going to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he said quietly, his voice gentle and reassuring. “Feet and hugs, noted.”

Wow, he was taking it so seriously that it made you feel tender.

“Maybe we should act like we hate each other, put on a show.” You said, raising an eyebrow, unable to suppress a sly smile.

He gave a gasp, looking confused. “Oh, I’m not much of an actor, but if you want…”

You cut him off with a playful scoff. “It was a joke, sweetheart. I’m not really trying to pull off some dramatic office rivalry.”

“Good,” he replied quickly, his voice almost too serious, “because I don’t know how to act like I hate people I love.”

He…what?

You blinked, stunned. “People you what?” you asked, your tone catching in surprise.

His cheeks flushed a deep red, eyes darting away as though he were trying to escape the weight of his own words. “I…people I love,” he stammered.

You stayed silent, studying him, your gaze softening as the words lingered in the air between you. It was clear that this wasn’t something he said lightly, and his vulnerability made your heart ache in a way that was both comforting and new.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Spencer turned toward you, his eyes meeting yours with a fierce intensity that stole the air from your lungs. His breath was shaky, his words barely more than a whisper, but they struck you like lightning. “I love you,” he said, his voice full of quiet sincerity, each syllable wrapping around you like a promise.

He said it. He really said it.

“You love me,” you whispered, your voice shaky, as if the very sound of those words was too much to fully comprehend. You repeated it, a little louder this time, trying to grasp it, to make it real. “You, Spencer Reid, love me.”

He nodded, his eyes soft but unwavering, the faintest trace of a smile curving on his lips. “I do. Me, Spencer Reid, I love you.”

A soft, breathless laugh bubbled up from your chest, and before you could stop it, the smile that had been lurking there finally broke free. It was impossible to keep it in, not when everything inside you was overflowing with a joy you hadn’t known was possible.

“God…” you exhaled, your heart swelling with warmth. “I don’t think I can hide this smile now.”

The air between you both felt charged, like a fine thread of connection weaving you closer with each passing second. His gaze was soft but unwavering, a silent promise in his eyes that made everything else fade into the background. The gentle rhythm of his breath mingled with yours, and before you knew it, your hand instinctively found the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the soft skin there. You pulled him just a little closer, as if the pull of your desire and your heart was impossible to resist, a gravity stronger than any force you’d ever known.

He shifted beneath you, guiding you to lie on top of him. His hands were warm against your skin, and you could feel his pulse, steady and strong, under your fingertips. Slowly, your lips met in a kiss—tentative at first, as if testing the waters, but it deepened quickly, drawn by the magnetic force of everything left unsaid, all the things you were only just beginning to understand.

“You love me,” you whispered between kisses, the words tumbling out in disbelief, as if the very idea of it needed to be reaffirmed with each touch. “You love me.”

Spencer’s response was immediate, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer, his lips skimming the sensitive skin of your jaw, his breath hot and urgent against your ear. “I love you,” he breathed softly, the words coming out as a promise, each syllable wrapped in a depth that made your heart ache.

You kissed him again, this time with a softness that felt more vulnerable, more like a question—one you didn’t need an answer to, but you couldn’t help but ask anyway. “You love me,” you murmured, not sure if you were trying to convince yourself or him. But as you pulled him closer, his lips finding yours with a quiet urgency, you knew, deep in your bones, that it was true.

His lips found yours again, this time with a fervor that left you breathless. The kiss was deep, desperate—both of you giving in to the craving that had built up between you, a need so raw and powerful that neither of you could hold back. His tongue swept against yours, slow at first, savoring every moment, every sensation. But the deeper the kiss became, the faster it escalated, a fire starting to blaze where there had once been only a flicker.

“I do,” he whispered, the words coming out in a low, steady stream as his hands slid up your back to cradle your face. His touch was gentle but firm, as if he wanted to hold you forever, as if the very act of touching you was something sacred, something worth cherishing. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

The repetition of those words stirred something deep inside you, a quiet happiness that blossomed with every echo. You smiled against his lips, your heart swelling with warmth, and for a fleeting moment, you felt invincible, as though nothing in the world could touch you. It was just him and you, here, in this sacred space, and you didn’t care about anything else. Not the noise, not the chaos, not even time itself. Nothing mattered except this, except him.

His hands gently slid the sheet that still covered part of your body, the coolness of his fingertips contrasting with the warmth of your skin, and you couldn't help but shiver at the contact. You responded with a kiss, your lips meeting his in a passionate embrace. His mouth was everywhere: your lips, your neck, your jaw, tasting, exploring, claiming. It was as if time had stopped and there was nothing but the two of you, lost in this world of sensations and feelings.

But then, as if the universe couldn’t bear to let you stay in this blissful bubble for even a moment longer, there was a sudden, sharp buzz. It broke through the air with an almost cruel precision, pulling you both out of the fragile world you had created. You groaned into Spencer’s mouth, breaking the kiss reluctantly, your forehead resting against his. His chest was heaving beneath you, both of you struggling to regain control of your breaths, your bodies still humming with the aftershocks of the kiss.

The buzz came again, persistent, urgent. Your eyes flicked to the phone on the bedside table, and your stomach sank as you saw the name that appeared on the screen: Hotch.

His expression mirrored yours, frustration creeping across his face. “It’s a text…” he muttered, but he didn’t reach for his phone. He simply sighed and buried his face in your neck, the sudden weight of reality settling between you both.

You kissed his forehead softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “Not now…please,” you whispered, as if pleading with the universe to give you just a few more minutes of peace.

He chuckled lightly, but the sound was laced with a hint of frustration. “I’m sorry.”

You gave him a mock frown, but the smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. “How dare you,” you said with a sigh, unable to fully suppress the warmth in your chest.

Before you could kiss him again, another buzz came—sharp and relentless, interrupting the fragile peace. Spencer groaned, reaching for the phone with a resigned sigh. He checked the message, reading it without making any effort to sit up or pull away from you. You could see the familiar irritation flicker across his face as he absorbed the contents.

“It’s a case,” he said softly, his voice heavy with disappointment. “They need us. Now.”

And just like that, it's time to say goodbye to soft pink sheets and sweet kisses and hello to body language techniques for hiding the memories made in your bed and the fact that Spencer Reid loves you.

[princesssmars]

home sweet home

a vi x reader.

the war between the silco and the firelights has gotten tense, and all you want is a day off to rest. but when an old flame returns from the dead you find the energy to give her a welcome home present she won’t forget.

wc: 4.491

contains : fluff, adoptive brother ekko and firelight reader. mentions of vi's abuse in prison :c smut. dry humping and tribbing yippee.

a/n : idk something about being separated for years and celebrating the reunion with rough and/or desperate sex does it for me bro 💔 started this beforeeee everything and hopefully this gets posted the morning of act ones drop <3 update i love vi but i need to kick her ass yayyy enjoy.

-

for lack of a better word, your day was getting really fucking weird.

you woke up with a weird feeling in your stomach, an ache strong enough to rouse you from your sleep and out of your bed. you chalked it up to hunger, having skipped another meal last night to stay up looking over some of the injured firelight’s and new schematics for tools and weapons.

but once you got a good meal into your stomach, staring up at the giant tree you called your home, you realized the feeling wasn’t from neglecting your appetite. it was that feeing you got when something big was about to happen.

you felt it when the breakthroughs were made on some of the bigger inventions like the hoverboards, when the firelights found this impossible and beautiful grove and made it their home, on that day years ago where your life crumbled around you in the space of a few days.

so it was only up to fate if something bad or good would happen today. and you didn’t feel like waiting to find out.

quickly making your way up the tree, you rapidly do your special knock on ekko’s door, only to be met with silence. you try again and silence still. trying and slightly failing to keep yourself calm, you head back down and start asking others if they’ve seen him, the ache in your stomach growing at some of the awkward and shifty responses you get.

for six years you and ekko have been inseparable. both traumatized by the trials of growing up in the undercity, getting taken in by benzo, and then the sudden and bloody death of your friends, you had no one else to depend on except for each other. it was hard to put it lightly, navigating a rapidly changing undercity and taking care of your little adoptive brother while trying to deal with your own trauma. even as you met others and formed this group you now call family, you made a promise to each other to stick side by side no matter what.

and that included not running off and doing god knows what in the early morning while the other was sleeping.

you’re halfway through pulling on your coat and mask when you hear the sound of the main door opening and a small commotion, running as fast as you can to get down the tree again before a tall figure stops you.

he tries to be funny, throwing out a 'hey hey hey, slow down! your running like there’s a fire-ow!' before he holds a gloved hand to the side of his arm, cradling the spot where you punched him. you get a solid minute of berating and cussing him out before the look on his face tells you he's being serious, conflict clear in his brown eyes.

you have about a million questions running in your head as he leads you to one of the stock rooms, his breath inhaling multiple times to explain before he lets it out in frustration.

“just…promise you won’t freak out, ok?”

you nod before he pushes you inside and closes the door behind you.

you scoff, calling his name and knocking on the hard material for him to let you out. you weren’t in the mood today to entertain his hidden playful nature, most of the time you indulged him but you were too worried at the moment. you’re seconds away from cursing him out again when a soft voice calls out your name from the darkness behind you behind you.

no. it’s not possible. it’s deeper, more rugged then you remember, but you wouldn’t, couldn’t forget that voice. you heard it in your dreams for years, pushing you to keep going for yourself when you felt like giving up, reminding you she was always there by your side when you felt so alone.

you slowly turn your body, unconsciously trying to protect yourself from the possibility of this being a farce when two strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you into a sturdy torso. at the slightest glimpse of hit pink hair your eyes start to water and your chest is heaving with long building gasps, wrapping your arms around her shoulders and digging your face into her neck.

for years you’d daydream about this moment, what you’d say if you were reunited with the girl who was your best friend and likely the love of your life. you’d imagine the rushed out words and apologies, the shared wails as you assured the other you’d never leave their side again. but this silence just feels so right, makes so much sense for all the emotions you’ve been letting sit in your heart without any kind of resolution or closure.

she pulls away from you slightly and you hope she ignores the subtle whine that leaves your throat as she does. her large, and you mean really large, palms come up to cup your cheek as she stares at your face, blue eyes flitting across your features like she’s trying to commit every piece of you to memory. you don’t mind, you remember how she liked when you let her observe things so she could take in things as much as possible lest they be gone in a second. it just gives you an excuse to stare at her, too.

and gods above are you staring. obviously a large part of you is sentimental and sad as you see how much she’s changed over the years; the longer jagged shapes of her jaw, her nose. your heart pangs seeing the cuts in her brow and lip that you unconsciously bring a finger up to rub at. but it takes an embarrassing amount of strength not to pay attention just to her lips as you feel over the scar, how her bright eyes go wide and unblinking as she stands and lets you do whatever it is you’re doing.

you want to do anything to break the tension and you’re given the opportunity when your eyesight drifts slightly to the right and catches onto the tattoo on her upper cheek.

“did you…tattoo your name on your face?”

you’re still so close you can feel her laugh rather than hear it, her chest pressing into your when she huffs through her nose.

“wanted to make sure the guys in there knew who was kicking their asses without the need for introductions.”

“still punching first yelling insults later?”

“nothing anybody in there didn’t deserve.”

gods does your heart hurt for her. you knew it was likely other people like her were probably in stillwater, disposed of to cover someone’s ass or see as thrash just for where they were born. but you knew despite that she would have faced so much being thrown in there at such a young age that you not anyone else could understand, the way they must have treated her…

even after all these years it’s like she can ready your body language like a book, able to know your fingers stalling in their exploration means your mind is wandering, and given the previous subject matter she knows it can’t be good. her bandaged fingers gently wrap around yours and rub over your knuckles until your attention is back on her.

“hey, stay with me for now. we’ll have time to go over all that stuff later. right now just stay with me, alright?”

like you could ever say no to her.

you figure the best way to make progress until your much needed conversation is yo acquaint her with where your sure she’ll be staying until she gets back on her feet, however she chooses to do so. at first she seems uncomfortable with the idea of staying at the base, like she doesn’t want to intrude on the home you and others had built from the ground up.

“obviously i’ll help with anything you guys ask but are you sure everyone would be alright with me staying here? i kind of punched the shit out of that scar guy.”

“he’ll get over it just like everyone else. you’re a legend here, vi, you’re up on that mural for a reason.”

the whole time you show vi around you feel a warm mess in your chest. you forgot just how nice it was to spend time with her, thinking back on fond memories of the two of you sneaking away when the others were busy to spend time together on the safer and quieter parts of the undercity. your feelings aren’t helped with how close vi insists on being, hand never leaving your grasp as you tug her around and occasionally bumping her shoulder into yours when your mind wanders.

you’re recounting the story of how one of the hoverboards went haywire and crashed into one of the bases walls when a low rumble from the side of you cuts you off, footsteps halting you in place. when you turn to vi she has that same cute embarrassed look she used to have when you were younger, eyes wide and body still like if she didn’t move you wouldn’t acknowledge what just happened.

she knows better than to argue with you as you drag her pliant body somewhere, most likely to get her something to eat after only having some scarfed down jerichos a few hours ago. you bc lead her to some small communal dining area before not so gently guiding her to sit, eyes on her form for a few seconds to make sure she won’t be stubborn and refuse to let you grab some food for her.

and why would she even think of resisting when she can sit here and finally get a few minutes to just relax. ever since cait somehow managed to get her out of prison her body had been on, sheer stubbornness and willpower keeping her going until she found what she was looking for. a part of her knew she wouldn’t stop searching, wouldn’t stop hoping to see you and her sister again.

but as she watches you across the room pick and prod over a meal a vastayan is helping to out on your plate her shoulders unclench and the muscles in her legs ease. nothing felt better than when you’d dote over her. she remembers one time she caught a flu and had to stay inside and distant from everyone, ready to be miserable in solitude until you burst in with vander hot on your heels and insisted you wouldn’t leave her side until she was better, that she’d do the same for you.

which she did have to wind up doing as you caught the sickness from her after only three days. she never once complained.

when you finish her plate you look back to her with a sweet smile and start to walk back over to her. she writhes in her seat a bit under your gaze, suddenly feeling a little too warm when you sit the plate in from of her and tell her to eat up. she tries her best not to scarf this down as well, but when you give her a look that says you know how hungry she she is and won’t mind she can’t help herself.

she spends the rest of the day by your side, never leaving your sight as you introduce her to some of your fellow firelights and some of the younger kids who’d heard stories about her and vander. you can tell it still prods at an unhealed wound to talk about him in past tense, but that she still looks back on those fond memories with happiness. you’re more than happy to join in and help narrate the tale of one of your more adventurous and dangerous trips through the old undercity.

eventually the sun starts to set and the lights of the tree turn from a dazzling green to a soft collection of oranges and yellow, a signal to everyone that it’s time to wind down and end the day. the two of you meet back of with ekko who tells you he had already shown cait to an extra room she could use for the next few days.

“cupcake didn’t put up too much of hassle today, did she? don’t think she’s ever spent this much time past the promenade.”

“she was alright. uptight but i can tell she means well. you can talk to her in the morning, her room is right across from yours.”

you’re paying too much attention to just being in the space of two of your favorite people again that you don’t even notice how vi has turned her head to look at you, silently asking you to ask her for what she hopes you both want. by the time you realize and turn back to ekko he has that dumb little grin on his face that he used to wear all the time he’d catch the two of you getting a little too close for comfort.

“don’t even start, ekko.”

“i didn’t say anything! i’ll catch up with you two tomorrow. try not to be so loud, some of us need a good nights sleep tonight-“

you quickly reach over and swat at the young boys arm as he laughs and hurries away from the two of you, voice carrying as he leaves to head off to sleep.

it’s surreal as you take vi’s hand into yours and start the brisk walk to your personal quarters. you don’t have any expectations about tonight but you can’t lie and say a deep part of yourself isn’t hoping to get more than close with her tonight.

once you reach your bedroom you start shuffling for some clothes for the both of you to wear while she prods and examines all of your things. you watch her for a moment, nearly giving yourself away with a laugh when she nearly breaks the dusty antique snow globe you’d found abandoned on a scrap run.

“it’s crazy, right? how they’ll just abandon things without even thinking about their worth.” you speak offhandedly as you settle yourself on to your bed and start to remove your boots and holsters.

“yeah, no offense but i just. really don’t wanna talk about abandoning things right now.” her tone is malicious enough to make you sit your movements, eyes softening at the broken and tired woman in front of you.

“i’m sorry, i just-“

“no, no, it’s okay. i understand,” you gently reach out your hand to hold hers, locked in that tight fist she does when she’s bottling up her anger. “can you talk to me about it? whatever you want to say, just say it.”

she rolls her shoulder before setting down the globe and sitting on the bed, her tensed back facing you. you gently pass the spare clothes you have for her and watch as she takes them and sets them on her lap.

“every night for the first year i was in there i’d have these nightmares. about what happened. first it was just, replaying what happened on this endless loop. then it was wondering what i could’ve done different, if i could’ve been smarter-“

“vi dont do that,” you crawled over to sit right behind her body placed your hands on her shoulders, gently rubbing them across and down to her forearms. trying to look her in the eye proves useless. “what happened was…tragic, and blaming yourself is pointless. you did what you could, i know you did.”

“how? how could you possibly know?” she finally turns her head to you and the look in her eyes does nothing to help the sick feeling you have building up in your throat and stomach. “i told you to stay with ekko, you weren’t there. how could you not be even a little angry at me, for not being here for powder, for ekko and the firelights, for you?”

you can hear the lump in her throat and see the tears building in her eyes when you bring your hands up to cup her face. a stray tear runs down her face and you brush it away with your thumb.

“i could never be angry at you, vi. not for this. the girl i know always kept fighting for her family, and if she didn’t come back to us it was because she couldn’t. she’d never abandon us, you wouldn’t abandon us.”

she gently nods her head and nuzzles her face into your hands. you give her a minute to calm down, continuing to softly brush her cheeks and her crazy hair out of her eye.

“what is going on with your hair?” you whisper as you struggle to push a strand away and out of her face, giving up once it falls back into place for the tenth time.

her eyebrows scrunch. "what, you dont like it? its cool."

"its covering half of your face, its horrible."

"you'll get used to it." she shakes her head with a small smile before softly resting her hand on your lower waist.

"maybe, but im definitely not going to brush over you tattooing your name on your face. please tell me you didnt make any other rash b ody adjustments in there."

the growing smile on her simultaneously puts butterflies in your stomach and makes you very nervous. its not helped when she turns her back to you again and starts to shrug off her jacket, revealing the previous glimpse of her neck tattoo you'd seen goes further down. way further down.

"wow. that's...wow." you want to bury your head into your hands and leave the room. 'wow just wow?' really smooth. "can i touch?"

"uhhh yeah, no problem."

after she gives her consent your fingertips lightly hover and brush over the interlapping lines of curves inked into her skin. you feel a small thrill seeing the goosebumps rise on her arms when your hands glide down them, taking pride in knowing you can still bring out a physical reaction in her with your touch.

"this is really nice, vi. did you get someone in there to do it for you?"

"nope, did 'em both myself. wasn't exactly the best environment to ask people to have access to your body with a needle for hours at a time."

you hum in response while continuing to observe the tattoo. you can see it goes further down her back and decide to speak without thinking too much about what you're saying.

"can i see the rest of it?"

you're a bit scared at how still she goes, wondering if maybe you crossed a boundary before her hands slowly reach behind her and start to lift the white fabric of her shirt until its full taken off of her body.

you make sure to continue the gentle touches as your hands run down the muscles and planes of her back, continuing to admire the clouds and gears that make up the design. you feel a little pang in your heart when you see the initials of mylo and claggor at the bottom of the tattoo, along with the number of welts and scars on her skin.

"its beautiful, vi." you whisper. her body subtly scooches back on the bed to get closer to your touch. the moment is just shy of overwhelming, which is probably why you leave a small kiss on her shoulder, right where one of the scars starts before trailing down her back a few inches. she lets out a muffled noise and you start to pull away before the strong grip of her palm clasps down on your leg, holding you in place.

you leave more kisses and pecks over the length of her tattoo as your legs start to wrap around her from behind, both of her hands grasping your thighs as she relaxes into the affection. you test the waters when you come back up to her neck, lightly sinking your teeth into her skin.

"oh fuck-" her strained voice hits your ears right before she abruptly pulls out of your arms and tugs you by the arm and leg until your reversed, sitting in her lap with her hands gripping at your hips.

you continue to drag yours up and down her arms, reveling in the fact that you can now see her facial expressions, how her eyes droop and lips part as you slightly scratch at her skin.

you adjust your hips to sit closer to her at the same time she lifts hers up, the friction causing small noises to escape both of your throats. her eyes open up and she stares up at you with those big light blues.

your hand travels up to her hair, running through it as you keep looking at her. "are you sure? i dont wanna push you,"

"you wont, i do. please, just wanna be close to you."

you give in, wrapping your arms around her neck and bringing her into a sweet kiss, reveling in the feel of her arms coming up to grip on your back. its slow and languid as you get used to each other before she adds her tongue to the mix, pulling a moan from your throat as you try to bury yourself even closer into her hold.

you move your focus onto her neck, trailing kisses and bites down and across her throat, as she rocks your bodies together and claws at your back.

"used to dream about this, about you, missed you so much," her voice has a slight rasp to it already that drives you nuts, instantly darting back up to bring her into a messy kiss. she adjusts her knee to rest in between your legs and lifts it up into your core, pulling away to look at you as you moan at the friction.

"jeez, what'd they teach you in there?" you let out a breathy chuckle while you grind down into her knee. your eyes drift close before her gentle kiss to her cheek drags your gaze back to her, unblinking as she watches you come undone for her. her stare along with the hazy smile on her face yanks you to the edge, gasping and moaning as you come in her arms.

you feel almost drunk as you come down from your orgasm, nuzzling into her neck while she presses gentle kisses to your shoulder and the side of your neck. she starts to place your body on the bed before you tug her back on top of you.

"what, aren't you tired?"

"maybe, but not tired enough to stop now. take off your pants."

she grins like she'd just been offered free sweets from a piltovian candy shop for the rest of her life. you try not to giggle as she stumbles off the bed and tugs her pants off before settling her body back on top of yours. she resumes her barrage of kisses and bites into your skin, finally paying some attention to your chest while you bring your hands up to thumb at her nipples, biting your lip at how sensitive she is to the touch.

she wastes no time spreading your legs beneath you and getting your silent agreement before moving her lips to rest over yours, taking a second to drag her fingers through your cunt and stuffing them inside her mouth.

"vi!"

"sorry, was just curious." she leans down to kiss you sweetly before resting her self on you, legs draped over the curves of her arms as she oh so slowly starts to drag herself back and forth over you.

you slightly wish you had done this first as the overstimulation makes it oh so intense for you, the feeling of her hair and clit rubbing over yours nearly sending you into a frenzy. your eyes roll back into your head once she starts to speed up her movements, her soft whines and grunts into your neck only adding to the physical stimulation you're feeling.

your core feels like its on fire when you start to hear the subtle whispers she's letting out into your neck, curses of 'fuck, fuck oh-fuck,' and grunts of your name mix together to create a desperate harmony.

"vi, feels too- oh my god i-"

"i know, baby, i know," she moans, pressing a harsh bite into the underside of your neck. you can feel her smile into it when you involuntarily let out a squeal at the action. "never gonna leave you, pretty. could never leave you, leave this."

you never fancied yourself the possessive type, but the reaction you have to her words definitely proves there's something there as you wrap your hands around her shoulder and squish her down into you again, moaning just a little too loud at the lack of closeness and feeling of her chest rubbing against yours.

you can feel your next orgasm building quick and fast, thighs trembling as you desperately grind your hips into her even harder. you can tell she's close too, hips losing their rhythm as her panting gets even louder. you nudge your face to the side and rub your cheek against hers, thankful she gets the hint to smother both of your noises with an intense kiss.

"fuck, vi, missed you s'much, love this, love you-"

you're grateful that you have some semblance of brain activity left to drag her head down to your neck to bit down as she cums, her groan loud and long as she keeps moving her hips until you cum only a few seconds after she does. you can feel a tear or two escape your eyes, overstimulation so intense you think you see janna for a moment.

both of your chests are rapidly panting as you catch your breaths, dragging your hand through her sweaty hair while she presses gentle kisses over the marks she no doubt left over your chest. now you'll have to wear more layers for a while, but at the moment you cant find it in you to care.

"you have no idea how glad i am that i still have you," you almost dont pick up on the silent whisper she says, muffled by the current kisses. you lazily drag your fingers to lift her up by the chin until she's looking at you, eyes filled with nothing but love and affection.

"you're always gonna have me vi, i promise."

you can tell she has her doubts, you do as well. but she lets herself relax into your hand yet again and wears the tiniest smile while she starts to fall asleep in your embrace.

you gently pull the covers over both of your bodies and follow her into the lull of sleep, falling asleep in vi's arms again for the first time in years.

you have the nicest dreams you've had in years.

[charlvr]

- put your head on my shoulder

Pairing. Sophia Lafortezax Reader

w.c. 6.0 k

In the relentless rhythm of comeback season, Sophia is everything she’s supposed to be : composed, tireless, unshakably perfect. But when the cameras go dark and everything else falls away, it’s Y/N who stays.

The lights were always too bright.

Not in a way that hurt Sophia's eyes, not quite. She had long since trained herself not to squint, not to blink too much, to hold her gaze firm and open no matter how harsh the glare from the stage rigging or the camera flashes. But it still got into her head, the brightness. Not exactly painful but lingering. It crept into her thoughts and clung to her skin, made her feel hollowed out after long days of being seen, always seen.

She sat now on the floor of the practice room, her spine pressed flat to the mirrored wall. Her arms rested across bent knees, fingers loosely knotted. The air was thick with heat and humidity, faintly tinged with the chemical scent of old sweat and rosin. Her body hummed with the ache she knew too well: the pinch in her lower back, the dull, deep soreness blooming in her calves, the tense, knotted line running from one shoulder to the other no matter how often she tried to roll it out.

Around her, the other girls were scattered, their laughter filling the space like birdsong in spring. Lara and Daniela were bickering playfully over choreography counts. Megan was lying flat on the ground like a starfish, arms splayed dramatically. Manon scrolled through her phone, humming something under her breath. Y/N was recounting a funny story, while Yoonchae was giggling into her water bottle, legs swinging as she perched on a bench.

Sophia didn’t join in.

The rehearsal had taken more out of her than she liked to admit. Her legs had trembled, just slightly, when she’d pushed herself up from the floor. A faint, betraying quiver at the knees. But she’d ignored it, told herself it was nothing. Just the practice. Over six hours spent drilling the same eight counts until the moves lost their shape and her muscles gave up remembering them on their own. Her body was just tired, that was all. All the girls were tired. This was what it took to be good.

She told herself these things like they were mantras.

When the music started again, sharp and familiar like a knife she knew too well, she stepped into formation without hesitation. Her limbs obeyed without thought, muscle memory guiding her through the angles and pivots like machinery built into her bones. But her mind had drifted. Not fully, not dangerously. Just enough for a hum to start in the back of her skull. A low, pulsing rhythm that didn’t belong to the song.

It was a warning. One she knew to ignore.

She was slipping. Slowly, quietly. In ways no one was supposed to notice.

And they couldn’t. Not when they needed her. Especially now, with the comeback looming like a deadline written in permanent marker. Management had been relentless lately, as if each of them were raw material waiting to be reshaped. Slimmer silhouettes. Tighter formations. More engagement. Cleaner visuals. Always cleaner.

Yesterday, the teaser had gone live. A fifteen-second flash of perfection meant to sell everything they were. And like a fool, Sophia had scrolled through the comments.

"The group would be great if their leader smiled more." "She always looks like she’s trying too hard." "How is she one of the oldest and still not the best dancer?"

And then the ones that cut deeper, not aimed at her directly, but through her.

"Their maknae’s clearly better than her already." "Does she even lead them?"

She had deleted the app by morning. Thrown her phone face-down on the bed and stared at the ceiling until her chest stopped aching.

She had to be better. Had to be everything they needed her to be. So when the choreographer’s voice rang out again with a flat, familiar "Five, six, seven, eight," she jumped.

Too late. A heartbeat behind.

The disappointment in their trainer’s face was immediate. Not anger, not frustration. Just the subtle tightening of the jaw, the way the clipboard lowered slightly, the absence of praise.

"Reset. Again."

She didn’t dare to make another mistake.

Not for the next hour. Not ever again. Not a single missed beat, not a single misplaced hand.

But the way she locked her jaw every time the music restarted, the way her arms moved like they were made of steel wires, too taut, too precise: it wasn’t from the fluid grace they had once praised her for.

It was survival.

When practice finally ended, and the others filed out around her, chattering about dinner plans and shared showers and who had borrowed whose hairbrush, Sophia hung back. She pretended to check her water bottle, to tie her shoelaces. She smoothed her hair back even though no one else was watching, kept herself believably busy with the small things, until the room emptied.

Almost.

She turned, reaching automatically for her bag, and froze when she saw Y/N still standing in the doorway.

Her figure was silhouetted, one hand gripping the strap of her gym bag, the other holding the straps of Sophia’s. Her gaze was steady, not asking anything. Just waiting.

Sophia’s throat closed.

“You don’t have to—” she started, already regretting the sound of her voice, too rough, too revealing.

“I know.”

That was all.

Y/N didn’t move. Didn’t approach. Didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, quiet and patient, giving Sophia the choice to come or stay.

And somehow, it felt like the first time someone had given her a choice.

—

That night, in the dorm, Sophia barely made it past brushing her teeth before her hands began to shake.

She wrapped herself in a hoodie three sizes too big and padded into the living room on quiet feet, curling into the far corner of the couch. The lights were dim. A single lamp near the hallway cast a soft glow over the fabric, warm and golden, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her legs tucked under her, she gripped the hem of the hoodie sleeves and pulled them over her fists.

The others were still in their rooms. Someone—Manon, maybe—was playing music behind a closed door, something soft and old, with a gentle rhythm and watery vocals. Laughter filtered out from Lara and Megan’s shared room, bright and sudden, then faded again.

Sophia closed her eyes. Tried to breathe. Remember her rhythm. But her chest was tight in that way it always got when everything caught up to her too fast.

It had started after practice.

The message from their choreography trainer had come through while she was still on the van ride home. Not cruel, just clipped. Clinical.

Still too tight in the transitions. Watch your timing. You're always half a beat behind.

She already knew. That had been the worst part. She had felt it in her body, the slight lag, the slippage between mind and motion. Felt it in her chest, everytime she tripped up. 

She didn’t respond back. Couldn’t scrape up the dignity to. 

At the dorm, she had barely stepped inside when one of the managers pulled her aside. Yoonchae had frozen up before they could film a quick promotional video: some silly, throwaway clip for social media, a trend they were meant to jump on with pre-made choreography and a one-liner about the new album.

“She’s just a little homesick,” the manager said, glancing toward the hallway, where the youngest had locked herself in the bathroom. “Can you fill in? Just this one.”

Sophia said yes. Of course she did. Even though she had vocal practice in twenty minutes and hadn’t eaten since noon. Even though her throat was raw and her feet burned. She smiled for the camera. Hit every mark. Said the right line. Laughed on cue.

Then, later, after scarfing half a protein bar and washing it down with room-temperature water from her tote bag, she got the message she had been looking forward to all day. A missed call from her mother. Just one ring before it stopped.

She tried calling back, but management had double-booked her again. A one-on-one dance session they hadn’t warned her about, followed immediately by a briefing for a skincare CF. When she pointed it out, the reply had been simple: Just be quick. The rep can wait five minutes if needed.

She had rushed through both. Fumbled a transition in the solo run-through. Missed a small but important note in the product script. The staffer’s face afterward had been polite, but something in their eyes told her she had slipped again. That there was something else to fix tomorrow.

Failure after failure after failure.

Now, her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

She didn’t cry. She never cried. Not where anyone could see. But her jaw was clenched so tight her molars ached, and she stared blankly at the weave of the cushion beneath her fingers, trying to remember what it felt like to be a person. Not a brand, not a leader, not a checklist of deliverables and rehearsals. Just a person. A girl.

A shadow passed over her peripheral vision, causing her to blink, slow and sluggish, as a mug of warm tea appeared in front of her held by steady hands.

Sophia looked up.

Y/N stood over her, dressed in a faded university sweatshirt and pajama shorts. Her hair was still damp, curling softly at the ends like she had just gotten out of the shower. She didn’t say anything. Just held out the mug, both hands wrapped around it like it was something she had warmed herself with first.

Sophia reached for it slowly, and their fingers brushed. A light touch, but it sparked something beneath her skin, small and electric.

“Chamomile,” Y/N said, voice low, almost lost in the rustle of fabric “It’s supposed to help.”

Sophia’s gaze dropped to the mug, and then back to Y/N. The implication wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers around the warm ceramic as if it could anchor her.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Y/N didn’t go far. Instead, she eased down beside Sophia, settling in without a sound, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever held the moment in place. Their knees touched, but neither of them shifted.

The tea was warm in Sophia’s hands. Steadying. The steam ghosted against her face, carrying the faint floral scent of chamomile and something sweeter she couldn’t name. She took a careful sip, then another, letting the quiet stretch out between them.

On the coffee table, a half-folded blanket sat beside a remote and a phone charger. The room had that lived-in feel, cozy in a way that only came when everyone else was tucked away in their own spaces. Behind the closed doors, the dorm buzzed gently with muffled voices, humming water pipes, and the distant click of someone typing.

Y/N leaned forward slightly and grabbed the remote. She didn’t ask before flicking on the TV, and the screen lit up with the familiar blue-white glow of the home screen. A few clicks, then a pause, and the opening bars of Mamma Mia floated into the air.

Sophia blinked. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the mug.

Of course.

It wasn’t a secret that the filipino loved the movie. The others teased her about it sometimes, when she insisted on watching it for the third time on a tour bus, mouthing the lines under her breath. But she never really talked about why. There was something in the messiness of it, the sunshine and absurdity, the way things still somehow ended up okay, that made it feel like a safety net.

She didn’t say anything. Just let the corners of her mouth lift, barely, as the camera panned across the sea and the first few lines of “I Have a Dream” played soft and familiar.

Y/N leaned back, one leg tucked under the other. Her head tilted against the couch cushion, gaze relaxed. “It was just on,” she said, offhand. “Figured it was better than scrolling.”

Sophia hummed quietly.

A few minutes passed. The tea was half gone now, the warmth from the mug slowly soaking into her palms, loosening something she hadn’t realized was clenched in her chest. Her body was tired in the deepest way, like the exhaustion had reached her bones, but she still sat upright, shoulders held in their practiced, unshakable posture.

The light above them buzzed faintly. Y/N shifted.

“Too bright,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “I’m turning it off so I can see the screen better.”

She stood without waiting for a reply and crossed to the switch near the hallway. The room dimmed instantly, leaving just the flickering light of the TV to wash over them. Everything softened in its glow. The room felt smaller now, warmer, like a cocoon. Sophia blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting, the sudden absence of overhead light making the tight band behind her temples ease just a little.

Y/N returned without ceremony, but this time she brought one of the couch pillows with her. She sat down again, closer than before. The pillow ended up between them at first, but then she adjusted it, tucked it behind her back instead. The space narrowed.

“It’s kind of cold,” she said, as though that explained it. “It always gets drafty near the window.”

Sophia nodded, quiet. The words didn’t matter. She knew what Y/N was doing, even if they were both pretending not to notice.

She felt it when their shoulders brushed, then settled. When Y/N angled her body just slightly, so that her knee pressed more fully against Sophia’s thigh. When the slow pressure of a hand, gentle and unassuming, found its way to the small of her back.

It was barely a touch. More like a weightless presence, a loose curl of fingers that moved in lazy, rhythmic circles. But it steadied her. Like ballast. Like the pressure reminded her she was here, not performing, not holding everything together. 

Sophia didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Her eyes drifted to the TV. Donna was arriving on the island, the screen a blur of colors and summer heat: sunlight in hair, singing at the top of lungs, a mother dancing barefoot on old floorboards.

Y/N’s scent curled around her. Something clean, a little citrusy, mixed with damp hair and the faint, lingering sweetness of body cream. And underneath it all, the same scent that had clung to the mug of tea—chamomile and warmth.

Sophia’s grip on the cup loosened. Her shoulders dropped, just slightly. The tension she had been holding for days, maybe longer, began to ease away. Her heartbeat slowed, and she let her head tilt. Just barely. Resting against the space between Y/N’s shoulder and collarbone. And when sleep came, uninvited but not unwelcome, it came gently. 

The mug, now empty, rested on the couch beside her.

—

Sophia didn’t mention the tea the next day.

She didn’t mention how she had drifted off to sleep in the living room, her head tilted softly onto Y/N’s shoulder, or how Y/N had stayed with her until the movie ended. She didn’t mention the gentle nudge that woke her, or the way Y/N had guided her to her bed with one hand resting lightly at the small of her back, no words, just presence.

She woke up still in her hoodie, her hands curled loosely like she had been holding something in her sleep even though she wasn’t.

The morning unfolded as it always did. The dorm was loud in its usual, comforting way. Megan wore mismatched socks again. Daniela argued cheerfully with Manon over who got to use the bathroom first. Lara braided Yoonchae’s hair from behind as she scrolled through her phone, never asking, just humming tunelessly. Y/N sipped her coffee in silence. 

That afternoon, they were called into the studio to record harmony layers for the bridge, each girl vanishing into the booth one at a time. Sophia had done this so many times it felt like breathing. She knew how to place her voice just behind the melody, to let it bloom then disappear.

When it was her turn, she adjusted the headphones and stood in the dim blue light.

The producer’s voice filtered in through the headset. “Give us that first harmony line, soft. Breathier. You know the mood.”

She did. Of course she did. The song had lived in her for weeks. It was all breath and ache and quiet yearning. Something that sat under the skin and stayed there. She sang it three times. Each take lighter than the last.

“Almost,” the producer said, not unkindly, “Give us something more fragile.”

Sophia closed her eyes and tried again.

This time, something shifted. Not her voice, that stayed even, trained and unwavering, but something inside her chest. Not a collapse. More like surrender. Like she had loosened her grip on whatever she was holding too tightly.

The silence in her headphones was longer than usual.

Then, “Good. That’s the one.”

She stepped out of the booth and back into the dim-lit studio. Manon offered her a banana with one hand while balancing a notebook in the other. Sophia took it silently and sat down.

Y/N was the last to record. She didn’t say much, just moved with easy familiarity, tying her hair back loosely and rolling her sleeves up to the elbows. She adjusted the mic herself, tested with a small hum, her fingers brushing the stand like she was tuning something delicate.

Sophia watched her through the glass. She wasn’t pretending to check notes or scroll on her phone. She just watched. The shape of Y/N’s mouth forming each note, the slight furrow in her brow when she focused, the way her body leaned into the sound without performing.

Their eyes met once. Only for a second. Y/N looked up and caught her gaze through the glass. Not long. Not deliberate. But it stayed with her anyway.

Later that evening, after dinner and cleanup and the slow settling of the dorm into quiet again, Sophia found herself in the laundry room, folding towels just for something to do with her hands.

The fluorescent light buzzed above her. The dryer clicked as it spun down to silence. She hadn’t turned on any music. There was a kind of comfort in the hush, even if it was edged with the kind of stillness that asked too many questions.

She was down to the last towel when Y/N stepped inside, holding something in her hands.

“You left this in the living room,” she said, lifting Sophia’s hoodie slightly.

Sophia took it with a nod. “Thanks.”

Y/N didn’t leave. She leaned against the dryer, arms crossed loosely, her face unreadable in that way she had: not guarded, just... unoffered.

Sophia folded the last towel with care. She didn’t rush. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but full. Then Sophia said it, quiet, barely louder than the sound of cotton being smoothed flat.

“Are you worried about the comeback?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. There was no hesitation.

“Yeah. I mean, how could I not be?”

Sophia gave a small breath of a laugh. It wasn’t bitter. Just real.

“But,” Y/N continued, her voice steady, “I think we’ve got it. We’ve been working hard. And it shows.”

Sophia looked at Y/N. Really looked. The soft line of her jaw, the calm in her eyes, the way she stood with her weight on one leg like she wasn’t afraid of stillness. There was no rush in her posture. No urge to fill the space. Just stillness, held without apology.

Y/N didn’t say the right things. She was the right things. Quiet and solid and warm.

It was like she knew Sophia didn’t need reassurance. She didn’t need praise or comfort or someone to tell her to slow down. What she needed, what she had, was someone who saw her. Who knew how hard she had been holding everything together and still chose to say nothing, to stand with her without trying to fix it.

Sophia nodded once, then tucked the hoodie under her arm.

“I’m going to start another load,” she said.

Y/N gave her a small smile. “I’ll help.”

And that was it.

Just the two of them in a too-bright laundry room, folding towels and sorting laundry, shoulders occasionally bumping as they moved. Together.

—

Sophia couldn’t remember exactly when the dizziness started. Only that it was always there now.

Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just persistent. A slow, creeping tilt beneath her feet, like the floor had shifted by a single degree and never settled back.

It followed her.

In practice rooms where the mirrors sweated and the music pressed like a second heartbeat under her skin. At night, when the hum of the dorm was too quiet to soothe her and too loud to ignore. During interviews, when her smile was so precisely shaped it left her jaw sore long after the cameras stopped.

She carried it like she carried everything else. Silently.

The weight, the expectations, the invisible calculations she performed daily to keep the others steady. Who needed more rest. Who hadn’t eaten. Who was nearing a crack in their veneer. She made herself the buffer without thinking, because that was what leaders did.

She didn’t resent it. Not really. She had made peace with the truth early on: people depended on her, so she didn’t get to fall apart.

But lately… she was slipping.

Not in a way others could name. Not in ways that would alarm anyone.

Megan handed her extra water bottles during practice without making it a thing. Manon joked louder near her, like joy could be volume-controlled. Lara would squeeze her hand before shoots, firm and grounding. Even Daniela wordlessly draped her jacket over Sophia’s shoulders on days when the heat didn’t reach her.

They noticed.

But Y/N, she saw.

And that was harder.

Because Y/N didn’t hover. She didn’t fill silences. She didn’t treat Sophia like a role to be performed. She simply existed beside her, quiet and steady — a stillness that never demanded, only invited. A stillness Sophia found herself drawn to more often than she ever intended.

It began with the small things.

A neatly folded packet of ginger candies, slipped by her bag on the day her throat burned after too many hours pushing her voice. A soft tug on her sleeve at midnight when she was still watching rehearsal footage on loop, eyes heavy and red, the tug saying clearly: enough for tonight. A subtle redirect during an interview when Sophia paused, words briefly caught between thought and phrasing, and Y/N filled the space with something warm and natural, giving her just enough room to breathe without anyone noticing she’d needed it.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic.

And maybe that’s what made it dangerous.

Because if Y/N had made it obvious — if she’d reached out with concern etched on her face and said, I know you’re tired. Let me help — then Sophia would have known what to do. She would have smiled and said, I’m fine, and built the wall back up.

But there was never a wall to build. No grand gesture to reject. Just quiet. And warmth. And the way Y/N’s hand might press briefly to her back as they passed in the hallway, grounding her like gravity. The way her voice softened when she said Sophia’s name. The way she never asked for space, but made enough of it for Sophia to step into when she couldn’t find her own.

And now, with every moment she leaned into that space, every time she let herself rest in it, even just for a breath, something twisted faintly in her chest.

Because Sophia knew what it meant to rely on someone. She’d spent her whole life making sure no one had to rely on her too much.

But here she was. Letting herself be seen. Letting herself rest in someone else's shade.

And it was getting harder to pretend it didn’t matter.

Harder still to admit how much it did.

—

The guilt didn’t arrive with a bang. It crept in softly, like a tide. Barely noticeable until her feet were already wet. Until it was too late.

It found her one afternoon, during a rare sliver of downtime. The studio had gone quiet. No shoots. No back-to-back rehearsals. Most of the girls had drifted off for bubble tea or sunlight in the back stairwell.

Sophia stayed behind, claiming she had emails to answer. She sat in the practice room with her laptop open in front of her, the cursor blinking on a half-written reply to their stylist. 

But she wasn’t answering emails. She was listening.

Y/N was just down the hall, her voice drifting through the slightly ajar door as she helped Yoonchae film a quick Q&A segment for socials. Light questions. Favorite snacks. Most-used emojis. Their laughter rang out, full and unguarded.

Sophia sat frozen, hands still, eyes on a screen she couldn’t see.

She didn’t want to be part of the moment. That wasn’t what hurt. What hurt was that she hadn’t even thought to be.

Y/N was always there. Always nearby. Never pressing. Never asking. Just quietly present, like a breath Sophia hadn’t noticed she was taking until the air got too thin. But that also meant that every quiet act of care — every mug of tea, every offered silence — came at a cost Sophia had never properly tallied.

And it made something bitter stir in her chest.

She closed the laptop and stood, suddenly needing air that wasn’t full of her own self-awareness. She grabbed her jacket and stepped outside the building, where the sky had gone faintly grey, spring light filtered through clouds.

She didn’t get far before she heard footsteps behind her.

“Skipping out on emails now?” Y/N’s voice was easy, teasing.

Sophia didn’t turn around. “Finished them.”

A pause. Then Y/N fell into step beside her.

They walked together for a while, not far. Just to the edge of the lot behind the studio where the pavement gave way to gravel and the smell of blooming grass lingered after the rain.

Sophia kept her arms folded. Not because she was cold.

Y/N said nothing for a few minutes. Just let the silence settle between them like breath. Then she nudged her shoulder lightly into Sophia’s. “You okay?”

It wasn’t intrusive. Wasn’t heavy. Just a thread cast out.

Sophia nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed a break.”

Another pause.

“Everyone does sometimes,” Y/N said.

Sophia didn’t answer.

She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to tell the truth.

Instead, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and said, “You’re good at that. Showing up. For everyone.”

Y/N tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning. “I try.”

Sophia hesitated. Then, too quiet: “I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

Y/N blinked. The wind lifted a strand of her hair, brushing it across her cheek. “You don’t.”

“But I could,” Sophia said. And then caught herself. “I mean, it’d be easy to. You don’t—”

She stopped. The words turned sour on her tongue.

Y/N didn’t press her. She just looked at her, really looked. The way she always did.

And it was too much.

Sophia turned her face away, jaw tense, eyes fixed on nothing. She said nothing. She couldn’t.

Then, quietly, Y/N stepped closer, not quite touching, but near enough that their shoulders almost brushed again.

“I don’t offer things I can’t afford to give,” Y/N said, voice steady. “So if I’m here, it’s because I want to be.”

Sophia’s throat tightened. Her hands disappeared deeper into her sleeves. 

The words were kind. Solid. True. And Sophia didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.  

—

That night, Sophia laid awake. 

She laid still long after the others had gone quiet, her body aching in every way it could: knees stiff, back tight, chest sore from holding too much. Her body longed for rest, but her mind ticked forward like a second hand gone haywire. Like if she didn’t move soon, she’d fall behind on something even if nothing was scheduled.

She rolled onto her side, the sheets whispering against her skin.

Across the narrow stretch of their shared room, Y/N lay in her bed, a soft silhouette framed by the silver pull of moonlight. Her blanket rose and fell in quiet rhythm, and even asleep, she faced Sophia, always curled that way, always toward her. It wasn’t something they talked about. It just... was.

Sophia stared at the shape of the other girl and felt like a thief.

—

The next morning, the rain came.

It started during their second run-through of the choreo: light at first, barely more than a whisper on the high windows. Then harder. Louder. Wind pushing it sideways. The rehearsal studio dimmed as the gray outside swallowed the morning. The mirrors fogged around the edges, and their reflections blurred into pale ghosts.

Everyone was dragging.

Manon missed a cue. Daniela’s ankle rolled slightly on a pivot. Megan kept rubbing her thigh between counts.

Sophia picked up the slack.

She shouted louder. Counted harder. Caught the missed formations. Cleaned transitions that weren’t even hers to fix. Her voice cracked halfway through, but she kept going. Her shoulder pinched. Her right knee gave a little shake at the end of a turn. But she kept going.

She always did.

Until she couldn’t.

Near the end of the fourth full-out, her balance slipped. It was not a full stumble, just a flicker, a shift in her center that made her land a beat late. She caught herself before anyone could say anything. Hit the final pose like always. Chin up. Core tight. Smile in place.

But she saw it.

Y/N saw it too.

When the trainer called dismissal, Sophia waited. Let the noise surge.

Someone shouted about fried chicken. Another cheered for bubble tea. The team took a blurry group selfie, everyone sweaty and radiant and too loud for how tired they were.

Sophia smiled, like it didn’t cost her anything.

Then she slipped out.

Not far. Just the hallway outside, dim and humming with rain still against the windows. She pressed her back to the wall, the tile cold through her damp shirt. Her hand was curled into the hem of her tank like she could press the tremor out of her fingers. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. The ringing in her head got louder as she did her best to stay upright.

Don’t fall apart. Don’t fall apart.

Her breath hitched. Sharp. Shallow.

And then there was movement. 

Y/N. 

Towel looped over her neck. Face pink from exertion, knee darkening with the start of a bruise. She didn’t say anything. Just came close. Closer. Until their forehead touched.

Just that. Nothing more. And it almost broke Sophia completely. 

She clenched her jaw. Bit down on the inside of her cheek. Swallowed the sound building in her throat.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a scrape.

Y/N didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing in tandem.

“I can’t—” Sophia tried, then stopped. Her throat worked around the truth. “I can’t keep needing you like this.”

Still, nothing.

Sophia turned her face slightly away, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t deserve it.”

This time, Y/N answered. Soft. Sure. “Why not?” 

Sophia blinked hard.

“Because I don’t give back the same way. I can’t. Because you’re always—” She broke off. Her breath came faster. “Because you’re always the one who catches me. And if I fall too hard, and you’re not there... I won’t know how to fix it. I won’t know how to be okay.”

Silence.

Sophia’s fists trembled at her sides. “I’m scared. I’m scared of letting you in too far. Of what it means. Of what it makes me.”

Y/N stayed quiet.

And that silence hurt — not because it was empty, but because it was patient. Because it meant she was still here.

Sophia looked at her, eyes glassy, throat raw. “I don’t even know what this is. It doesn’t feel like friendship. But it’s not just romance either. It feels... more. Somehow.”

Y/N reached out, brushing her fingertips along Sophia’s arm. Shoulder to elbow.

Sophia flinched. Not away. Inward. Like the contact struck something buried deep. But she didn’t move.

Y/N stepped closer. Slower this time. She leaned in, not to kiss, not to claim, not to fix. Just enough to press her lips to Sophia’s shoulder. A soft, fleeting touch on the edge of her damp sweatshirt.

Just enough to be real, to say: I hear you. I’m here. 

Sophia’s face crumpled. Her body sagged forward, surrendering inch by inch until her forehead found Y/N’s collarbone. Her whole frame shuddered once, then stilled.

Her hand reached blindly. Found Y/N’s. Their fingers tangled together, tight and desperate, a tether more than a hold.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Sophia whispered. “Not without ruining it.”

Y/N’s reply was soft, nearly lost in the fall of rain.

“Then don’t do it alone.”

Sophia trembled again. Once. Twice. 

And finally, finally, she let go. 

Not of Y/N.

Of the guilt. Of the fear. Of the weight she'd carried since the moment someone called her strong.

And in that small, rain-damp hush, they stayed.

—

Comeback week felt like a storm that never broke.

Everything happened faster now: call times, interviews, late-night rehearsals. Choreography on glossy floors that bruised their knees. Scripted soundbites. Smile for the camera. Blink. Breathe. Repeat.

Sophia moved through it like a machine.

Efficient. Composed. Dependable. 

Her voice stayed level. Her shoulders didn’t slump. She waited behind when the stylists needed last-minute fixes. She smiled, even when her chest pulled tight with exhaustion so deep she felt it in her teeth.

She didn’t complain.

Because this — the exhaustion, the discipline, the price — was the job. And she was good at it.

It was only in the silence after that Sophia ever felt the cost.

One afternoon, after an especially exhausting day, she sat on the practice room floor after the others had gone. The overhead lights were off, just the glow of her phone casting long shadows across the mirror. She hadn’t even taken off her shoes. She just sat with her knees drawn up, arms draped over them, as she stared into her reflection: Dim. Distant.

For the first time in what seemed forever, she let herself go. In this room, she didn’t need to hold herself upright for anyone else. She could just feel. All of it. The tremble in her fingers, the ache behind her eyes. The sinking pressure that didn’t quite have a name.

She didn’t hear the door open, but she knew who it was the second the silence shifted.

Like clockwork. Like a prayer. 

Sophia didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. 

And when Y/N reached over — slow, deliberate — and uncurled her hand from where it had been clenched into her hoodie, Sophia didn’t resist.

She simply let their fingers twine again. Familiar now. Sacred. And exhale. 

— 

Later, they would walk into the press event together, full makeup, styled hair, eyes bright like nothing ever tired them.

Sophia would smile with practiced ease. She would thank the interviewer, compliment the fans, lift Lara’s answer with a joke when the question got too deep. She’d stand in the middle of the group like she belonged there as if the foundation didn’t tremble beneath her feet.

And when it was over, when the cameras went off and the car doors shut behind them, she’d sit in the farthest seat in the van, head pressed to the window, and feel the ache return in silence.

But in the middle of it all, between the chaos and the pretense and the exhaustion so deep it hollowed her out, there would be that small moment from earlier.

The hum of the T.V. 

Y/N’s steady shoulder against hers.

The shape of breathing, shared.

Not a lifeline. Not a cure.

But proof.

That somewhere inside the exhaustion, she could fall. And that even if she did, Y/N would catch her.  

And that was enough.

—

was thinking about making this a hurt/no comfort piece, but then remembered that not everything has to be painful. sometimes, good things can simply be good. happy pride month, y'all. thank you for reading.

listen to. don't cry, put your head on my shoulder by tom odell

[heartsforkatsuki]

pining.  ｡°✩ k.bakugo

pov; you've been inlove with your now ex-bestfriend for 15 years

pairing: bakugo katsuki x gn!reader warnings: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers, unrequited (then requited) love, emotional confrontation, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, YEARNING KATSUKI!!! word count: ~1.2k - this is my first time writing angst btw ahah

i want someone badly

maybe it was the way you stopped paying attention to him. the way you stopped orbiting around katsuki bakugo like he was the sun and you were just some helpless, burning thing.

maybe it was the way you grew into yourself. someone with their own dreams now. someone who no longer waited for him to notice them.

it didn’t matter though. not really. because the result was the same.

after years of you trailing behind katsuki — always there, always his constant — now the roles were reversed.

you’d been in each other’s lives since you were five. your moms were best friends. you grew up side by side like a pair of badly stitched twins, bickering and inseparable.

you always lit up when you saw him. always hugged him tight like it mattered. told him you loved him like it was easy, like it wasn’t killing you slowly every time he didn’t say it back.

and god, did you love him.

you thought he knew. maybe a part of you hoped if you said it enough, did enough, he’d start to love you too.

but then came senior year. and izuku — your best friend since forever — sat you down one day, looked at you with tired eyes, and said:

“we’re about to graduate, y/n. you can’t chase him forever.”

and you knew he was right.

you started remembering things that used to slide off your back. like how katsuki never hugged you unless you were crying. how he never said “i love you” — not even in a joking way. how he’d call you annoying in front of people like it was funny. like you were a bit much.

you used to think it was just how he was. now, you weren’t so sure.

so you pulled away. slowly. quietly.

no more dropping by his dorm after class. no more late-night game sessions. no more laughing until you couldn’t breathe.

you made excuses. “my mom needed help.” “i’m not feeling well.” “sorry, i forgot.”

he didn’t buy any of it. but he didn’t stop you either.

and now it’s been two years. two whole fucking years.

katsuki hates every second of it.

he can’t sleep without thinking about what he could’ve done differently. what he should’ve said. should’ve noticed. he misses you in a way that’s physical, in a way that haunts him.

he misses your voice. your laughter. the way you used to throw your arms around him without warning. the way you’d look at him like he mattered more than anything.

you don’t do any of that anymore.

and it’s killing him.

so when he hears there’s a class reunion in some half-lit bar in osaka, he shows up early. waits. watches the door like a fucking lunatic.

and then you walk in. with izuku, of course.

you’re laughing. smiling. katsuki hasn’t seen you smile like that in two years and it splits something open inside his chest.

twenty minutes in, kirishima calls you over. katsuki hears your name and suddenly he’s sweating. your eyes meet his, and he knows that look. you’re nervous.

“hi, eiji,” you say softly. “bakugo.”

bakugo.

not katsuki. not suki. not anything that means he still matters to you.

he wants to punch a wall.

“y/n,” he says back, like it doesn’t gut him.

you talk to kirishima. a little small talk. fake smiles.

and then katsuki’s standing. grabbing your wrist.

“what the hell are you doing?” you ask, eyes wide.

he drags you outside. it’s raining. cold. your coat’s too thin. you’re shivering.

“it’s katsuki to you,” he growls. “or kats. or suki. i don’t give a fuck which nickname you use, just stop calling me bakugo like i’m a stranger.”

“this is inappropriate,” you snap, yanking your hand free. “let me go.”

he ignores you. stares at the ground like it might tell him what to say.

“what happened?” he asks. his voice is low. raw.

“what are you talking about?” you blink at him like he’s gone insane.

“don’t do that,” he snaps. “you know what i mean. you disappeared. one day you were just... gone. after fifteen years. what the fuck, y/n?”

you exhale shakily. look up at him through wet lashes.

“you know why i stopped talking to you.”

“no,” he says, voice cracking. “i don’t. tell me.”

you hesitate. because this hurts. it always hurts.

“you knew i loved you. i spent fifteen years loving you, katsuki. and it meant nothing. not once did you look at me like i meant something to you.”

he’s staring at you like you’ve punched him.

“what the hell are you talking about?” he breathes.

“you never hugged me unless i was crying. you never said you loved me back. and every time someone brought up how close we were, you called me annoying. like i was some bug you couldn’t shake.”

“i hugged you,” he insists. “i did.”

“a pat on the back isn’t a hug, katsuki.”

you’re crying now. not loud. just quiet tears running down your cheeks.

he steps forward. wraps his arms around you. tight. too tight. like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, voice shaking. “i’ll fix it. i’ll do anything. these last two years... i can’t breathe without thinking about you. i can’t sleep. i can’t do anything. i’m so fucking angry all the time because you’re not here, and it’s my fault, and i hate myself for it.”

you’re sobbing. shoulders shaking. rain soaking through your clothes.

“don’t,” you whisper. “don’t say this now. i’ve spent years making peace with the fact you didn’t love me. i’ve moved on.”

“shut up,” he says, desperate. “just shut up and listen.”

you do. because you always do when it comes to him.

“you’re everything to me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. “you always have been. even when i was too stupid to see it. i didn’t know how to show it. i didn’t know how to say it. but i do now.”

you’re frozen. staring up at him through rain and tears and years of ache.

“i love you,” he says.

and the world stops.

the rain, the noise, the pain in your chest — it all goes still.

you stare at him like the words didn’t make sense. like your brain needs to reboot just to process them.

you step back from his arms. look him in the eye.

he’s crying too. shaking. like he’s finally broken open.

“i’m sorry,” he says again, trying to wipe your tears with his thumb. “i’m so fucking sorry. don’t cry. please.”

you smile. small. sad.

and then you kiss him.

soft. slow. like you’re afraid it’ll disappear if you’re not careful.

he doesn’t pull away. for once, he pulls you closer.

the bar door opens behind you. someone gasps. but neither of you move.

because right now, the only thing that matters is that he said it back.

and this time, he means it.

“i love you,” you whisper.

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“i love you too, idiot.”

[slytherin-simpp]

“Seven minutes, one confession.”

Pairing: Theodore Nott X fem!reader

Summary: It was just a stupid party game—until the bottle landed on Theodore Nott. You weren’t expecting to end up locked in a broom closet with the most unreadable boy in school, and you definitely weren’t expecting the tension to snap the way it did. But Theo doesn’t play fair, and he’s not letting you walk away that easily. One kiss turns into something more, and suddenly, it’s not just a game anymore.

The party was already wild—red cups littered every surface, the bass thumped through the floor, and someone was definitely making out way too loudly on the couch. You weren’t exactly thrilled to be there, but Pansy had practically dragged you out of the dorm.

Which is how you ended up playing Spin the Bottle, wedged between Blaise and Daphne, pretending you weren’t internally cringing every time the bottle spun.

It was all stupid fun—until it landed on you.

And then slowly—almost dramatically—it stopped… right in front of Theodore Nott.

You froze. He just smirked, all cool and unreadable like always, tapping his fingers on his knee as if this didn’t matter at all.

“Closet. Now,” someone said—probably Pansy, because of course it was her idea.

Before you could protest, she shoved you toward the broom closet, and Theo casually followed behind you. The door slammed shut.

It was dark. Cramped. And smelled faintly of old wood and maybe broom polish.

You shuffled awkwardly to the side, trying to create space that didn’t exist.

“You hate me that much, huh?” Theo’s voice was low, amused.

“I just hate stupid games,” you muttered.

“That’s funny,” he said, his breath brushing your ear, “because I love them.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was doing stupid flips. You hated how smug he always sounded—how pretty his voice was, like he always knew something you didn’t.

Silence fell. Heavy. You could feel him staring at you, and you hated how aware of him you were. The way his arm brushed yours. The way he didn’t back away.

“You know,” he murmured, “I don’t think you actually hate me.”

You blinked up at him. “You’re delusional.”

He laughed under his breath. “Maybe. But I’ve seen the way you look at me. You only glare like that when you’re trying not to want something.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he was already stepping closer. His voice dropped to a whisper:

“I like you. Always have.”

You barely had time to react before his lips were on yours—soft at first, testing. When you didn’t pull away, it turned into something deeper, hungrier, full of all that tension that had been simmering under the surface for months.

Your hands found his collar as his found your waist, pulling you in like he’d waited far too long for this.

His hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of you. The kiss deepened—his lips moving against yours with just enough pressure to make your knees weak.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly your back was pressed against the wall, and Theo was right there with you, his body warm and solid, his lips relentless but somehow gentle, like he was trying to make up for all the times he didn’t say what he felt.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed down your jaw, then back to your lips—like he couldn’t get enough.

“Merlin,” he breathed between kisses. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“You’re not so unaffected yourself,” you whispered, brushing your lips over his again, teasing.

He groaned softly against your mouth, smiling into the kiss. “Touché.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, and he paused, eyes locked with yours, serious for a heartbeat.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “I like you. Not just because you’re fit or because you kiss like that—” he kissed you again for emphasis “—but because you don’t fall for any of my crap. And somehow, that only made me fall harder.”

Your heart stuttered, lips parted as you searched his eyes. But before you could say anything—

The closet door creaked open.

Light spilled in, and there stood Pansy, grinning like the devil.

“Oh, finally,” she said.

Theo didn’t even flinch. His arm stayed around your waist as he turned his head lazily toward her.

“We’re not done just yet,” he said, his voice calm, a little raspy, and entirely unbothered. Then he looked back at you, smirking. “Right?”

Your breath caught. And all you could do was nod.

[lazy-ahh]

YOUR SON, YOUR BLOOD, YOUR UNDOING

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

from a beautiful, monstrous thing

love is a weak human thing—until it isn’t. until it’s mark’s hands around his father’s throat, his lips stained with viltrumite blood as he gasps ‘mine’ like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. (or: the one where legacy means nothing, and you mean everything.)

this is for that beautiful, mysterious anon who dropped the w analysis of the sinister mark one-shot and even dropped a couple of scenarios that I JUST ABSOLUTELY NEED TO WRITE. this is one of three!

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

mark grayson had always loved superheroes. of course he did—his dad was one. you remember the exact moment you found out nolan was omni-man: you were twelve years old, curled up in mark’s room, the two of you tangled in that giddy, breathless laughter that only comes when you’re too tired to function but too wired to sleep, where everything seemed funny. the blanket over your heads was thin, the flashlight beneath casting warm, flickering shadows across mark’s face as he grinned at you, his knee bumping yours every time one of you dissolved into another fit of giggles. you were whispering nonsense, stupid jokes that weren’t even funny, but it didn’t matter because everything was hilarious when it was just the two of you like this—close, conspiratorial, like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

then the front door opened downstairs.

mark shot up so fast the blanket went flying, his face lighting up like a firework. "dad! you’re home!" he yelled, already scrambling off the bed, nearly tripping in his haste to get to the stairs. you followed, still half-laughing, your socked feet slipping on the hardwood as you chased after him—only to freeze at the bottom step, your breath catching in your throat.

because there, standing in the entryway, still in full uniform, was omni-man.

nolan’s eyes locked onto yours, wide with surprise—like he hadn’t expected you to be there. like you’d caught him off guard.

(you’d caught mr. grayson off guard a lot, actually. when you’d suddenly appeared behind mark as the two of you stumbled through the front door after school, laughing about something stupid. when he’d pushed open mark’s bedroom door to say goodnight and found you already there, hunched over homework or video games, your shoulders pressed together like it was the most natural thing in the world. when you’d gotten your powers, and mark had whooped so loud the neighbors probably heard, his hands gripping your arms like he couldn’t believe it.

and later—much later—when nolan had seen you and mark kiss for the first time, his son’s mouth smeared with blood, your fingers tangled in his hair, eve’s paralyzed body lying broken at your feet.)

you’d like to say you were close to mark’s parents, but the truth was… complicated. debbie had always been warm, pulling you into hugs and slipping you extra snacks and junk food when she thought mark wasn’t looking. but nolan? you and nolan… tolerated each other. at best. you weren’t enemies, but you weren’t friends either—just two people orbiting the same boy, careful not to collide. you’d always brushed off his aloofness, his stiff nods and clipped greetings, telling yourself it didn’t matter. why would it? it wasn’t like he hated you. as long as you were on decent terms with mark’s parents, that was enough.

but now, looking back, you wonder if nolan had known something you didn’t.

because there had been moments—small, fleeting things. the way his gaze would linger when you and mark sat too close on the couch, your thighs pressed together, mark’s arm slung carelessly over your shoulders. the way his expression would shutter whenever mark reached for your hand without thinking, an old habit from childhood that neither of you had ever outgrown. the way his jaw would tighten, just slightly, when mark’s cheeks flushed pink at something you said, his laugh a little too loud, his eyes a little too bright.

you’d seen it. you just hadn’t understood it.

not then.

not until it was too late.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the first time nolan tries to pull mark aside, his son barely glances up from where he’s sprawled across your lap like a contented predator—his arms locked around your waist, his cheek pressed to your thigh as if he’s trying to fuse himself to you. you’re sitting up against the headboard, a pillow wedged between your back and the wood for support, the latest (and last) issue of seance dog comics balanced precariously in one hand. mark’s stomach is flat against the mattress, his legs stretched out behind him, but the rest of him is all possessive weight and warmth, his fingers kneading absent circles into the fabric of your shirt like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

the room is dim, the only light bleeding in from the hallway where nolan stands, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. the air smells like sweat and the faint iron tang of old blood—mark’s split knuckles from earlier, the ones you’d pressed your lips to when he’d stumbled in, grinning like a wild thing—but beneath it all, it still smells like him: like the expensive shampoo he uses, like the fabric of his hoodie you’ve stolen too many times to count. (your presence lingers here too, in the dent your body leaves in his mattress, in the stray socks tangled in his sheets, in the way his room has slowly become yours without either of you ever saying a word.)

mark’s eyes are half-lidded but bright, fixed on you with a devotion that borders on worship, his gaze tracing the way your fingers turn the pages of the comic, the way your lips quirk at a joke he can’t see. you try to keep your expression neutral, like you’re still engrossed in the story, but it’s impossible—not when mark nuzzles closer, his nose brushing the inside of your thigh, his breath warm through the fabric of your boxers.

"mark," nolan says, voice low, that same unreadable tension tightening his jaw—like he’s been bracing for this moment for years. "we need to talk."

mark hums, noncommittal, his fingers tightening around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. "later," he murmurs, not to his father—to you, the word muffled against your leg, a secret pressed into your skin.

(and you know, without a doubt, that later means never.)

your fingers curl deeper into mark's hair, nails scraping against his scalp just hard enough to make his breath hitch—a sharp little inhale that sends warmth pooling low in your stomach. he's sprawled halfway across your lap, his head heavy against your thigh, one arm slung possessively around your waist while his other hand toys with the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing bare skin in slow, teasing circles. you smirk down at him, watching the way his lashes flutter when you tug just slightly at his roots. "listen to your dad, baby," you murmur, voice dripping with false sincerity, all honey-sweet obedience that neither of you believe for a second. your thumb strokes the shell of his ear, feather-light, and you feel the way his pulse jumps beneath your touch.

mark's grin is a wicked, feral thing—all teeth and sharp edges, his canines catching the light as he tilts his head further into your hand like a cat leaning into a stroke. "nah," he drawls, the word lazy and unrepentant, his fingers tightening against your hip in silent challenge. his eyes never leave yours, dark with something that makes your own breath stutter; it's the same look he gets right before he ruins you, right before he drags you under with him.

nolan's jaw clenches so hard you can hear the creak of his teeth grinding together. his hands flex at his sides, the muscles in his forearms corded tight with barely-leashed tension, and the look on his face—something caught between disgust and grim resignation—says he knows exactly what kind of game you're playing. his gaze flicks between the two of you, taking in the way mark's body curves into yours like a question you've already answered, the way your fingers never still in his hair, possessive even in their gentleness. there's a storm brewing in his eyes, thunderous and dark, but beneath it, something almost like grief—the look of a man watching his son slip through his fingers, and knowing he's already lost.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the second time, nolan corners him alone. or tries to. mark's already halfway out the door, fingers brushing against yours in that habitual way he has—always reaching, always connecting—when his father's voice slices through the space between you all like a blade.

"this ends now," nolan growls, the words vibrating with barely-contained fury. his massive frame blocks the doorway, shoulders taut beneath his compression shirt, veins standing out along his thick neck. "you're throwing centuries of legacy away for—" his eyes cut to you, lip curling like he's tasted something rotten, "—for that?"

mark goes preternaturally still. not the stillness of submission, but the dangerous quiet of a predator coiled to strike. your eyebrow arches as you meet nolan's gaze head-on, mouth quirking in silent challenge. what the fuck did you just call me? the question hangs unspoken in the charged air between you three.

you see the exact moment something fractures behind mark's eyes—that split-second where the last fragile thread of restraint snaps. his fingers twitch at his sides, the muscles in his forearms standing in sharp relief as his hands slowly curl into fists.

"say that again," mark murmurs, voice terrifyingly calm, the kind of calm that comes before hurricanes. the overhead lights flicker, casting jagged shadows across his face that make him look suddenly older, stranger—more viltrumite than you've ever seen him.

nolan doesn't hesitate. never does. "he's weak," he spits, gesturing dismissively at you. "can't give you proper heirs. just a distraction keeping you from your true potential." each word lands like a hammer blow, the air between you all growing heavier with every syllable.

the tension becomes something almost physical—a pressure building in your ears, in your chest. mark remains frozen, but you can feel it; the way every muscle in his body locks tight, the barely-perceptible tremor running through him like live wire. his breathing has gone shallow, shoulders rising and falling in quick, controlled bursts. you recognize that posture—it's the same one he gets right before a fight, that perfect balance between restraint and violence.

but then his eyes flick to you, just for a heartbeat—checking, always checking. his gaze searches yours for any hint of hurt, any crack in that carefully constructed armor. you let your lips twitch downward for just an instant, long enough for him to catch it, before smoothing your expression into something amused and disdainful. as if nolan's words are nothing more than the rantings of a pathetic old man. (and really, aren't they?)

nolan misreads the silence as surrender. his shoulders drop into that deceptively gentle slope you've seen him use on diplomats before reducing their cities to craters. "you think this is about prejudice?" he murmurs, voice slick with faux compassion. "i'm trying to save you from yourself, mark. keep your..." his eyes flick to you with barely concealed revulsion, "...plaything. but take a proper pet. a proper mate. someone who can actually give you what your blood demands."

you feel the exact moment mark's breathing stops. the air between you three grows thick enough to choke on.

"you're talking about him like he's livestock," mark says, so quiet it barely registers over the distant sirens. his fingers twitch at his sides—you recognize that tremor. it's the same one from when he'd first kissed you, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.

nolan actually smiles, the expression more terrifying than any snarl. "what is a human lifespan to us? eighty years? ninety?" he takes a step forward, boots crunching glass. "whether he has superpowers or not, he's still human. you'll watch him wither while you stay young. watch his mind go before his body does. and then what? you'll mourn for decades? centuries?" his voice drops to something almost tender. "or will you finally understand why we need our own kind?"

your chest aches where your ribs cage your pounding heart. the worst part? some sick, traitorous part of you has wondered the same things during midnight panics with mark's sleeping face pressed to your chest.

mark's laugh cuts through the tension like a knife. it's the most broken sound you've ever heard. "you really don't get it." his hand finds yours without looking, fingers slotting between yours with the ease of a thousand repetitions. "he's not temporary. he's not... he's not replaceable." His thumb strokes your knuckle—the same way he does when you're both falling asleep. "if he dies in eighty years, i'll burn the universe down to find him in the next life. if not, then i'll just meet him in whatever afterlife that exists."

nolan's expression shutters. "sentimental weakness. your ancestors would weep."

"let them," mark spits, and you feel the exact moment something in his voice changes—that shift from pleading to something far more dangerous. his pupils swallow the warm brown of his irises entirely, leaving only endless black.

your lips part on a sharp inhale—not fear, never fear with him—but recognition. this is the mark who'd leveled a city block when a villain once grazed your cheek. the mark who whispers "mine" against your skin like it's both prayer and threat.

nolan sees it too. for the first time, real unease flickers across his face. then, he sighs. "what a disappointment. i knew i should have killed him when i had a feeling you were starting to form feelings for him. i thought you were gonna be better than this, mark."

and everything goes deathly silent. nolan stands there, waiting, oblivious to the danger he's just unleashed.

then—

mark moves.

one heartbeat he's standing there—all coiled rage and trembling restraint. the next, his fist plows into nolan's stomach with a wet, meaty crunch that sends the older viltrumite rocketing backward through wall after wall after wall. concrete shatters like glass, the air filling with swirling dust and the shriek of twisting rebar as entire structural supports collapse inward. you don't even blink. instead, a laugh bubbles up from your chest—bright and startled, the same breathless giggle that escapes when mark whispers something stupidly sweet against your neck in the dark, when the two of you are tangled together under his sheets with only the glow of moonlight painting his smile.

the dust hasn't even settled before mark is on him again—a streak of black and yellow uniform and flying blood, fists pistoning into nolan's face with sickening, rhythmic smacks. each impact sends thick ropes of crimson arcing through the air, splattering across broken concrete in abstract rorschach patterns. nolan's head snaps back with every blow, teeth skittering across the rubble like dropped marbles before he finally roars and hurls mark off with an explosion of force. your boy just flips midair, lands in a crouch, and wipes the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, tongue darting out to taste copper as he grins.

"you don't get to talk about him," mark snarls, voice dropping into something guttural and raw. his chest heaves, shoulders rolling with barely-contained power as he steps forward, crushing chunks of concrete to powder under his boots. "you don't get to fucking look at him."

nolan lunges.

what follows isn't a fight—it's an annihilation. they carve through the neighborhood like gods playing demolition derby, each collision sending shockwaves that ripple outward in visible pulses, shattering windows three blocks over. nolan fights with centuries of experience behind every swing, his heavier frame turning each punch into a seismic event. but mark—mark moves like liquid fury, all feral grace and snapping teeth, his attacks sharper, meaner, fueled by something primal that has nothing to do with viltrumite legacy and everything to do with the way your fingers had tightened in his hair just hours earlier, the way you'd sighed his name like a prayer against his collarbone.

the ground quakes as they trade blows that would level skyscrapers, mark's laughter ringing out between impacts—high and wild and just for you, always for you—even as nolan's blood paints the ruins in glossy, arterial streaks.

your breath sticks in your throat like honey as mark drives nolan into the pavement with a force that spiderwebs the concrete for yards in every direction. dust plumes around them as mark's fingers lock around his father's throat, his knuckles bleaching white with the strain.

"he's mine," mark snarls, spit and blood flecking his lips. his voice cracks with something raw, something human beneath the viltrumite fury. "my life. my choices. mine to ruin."

nolan's gloved hands scrabble at mark's wrists, his boots kicking up rubble as he chokes out, "you'd choose... this weakness... over centuries of legacy?"

mark's grip tightens, his biceps trembling. "he's not a weakness," he growls, leaning down until their foreheads nearly touch. "and he is my legacy."

nolan's eyes widen—not with fear, but dawning horror as the truth cracks through him like the earth beneath their bodies. this was never about viltrumite supremacy. never about conquest or power or destiny.

this is about the boy who kissed his bloody knuckles after his first fight. this is about the hands that held him when his powers first came in. this is about you.

"pathetic," nolan wheezes, his lips peeling back from teeth stained red. "letting some... human pet make you soft—"

mark's snarl cuts him off as nolan suddenly twists with centuries-honed reflexes. his fist rams into mark's ribs with a sickening crack, the force lifting mark clean off him. in a blink, nolan's on top, his knees pinning mark's shoulders, one massive hand raised high—fingers curled into a killing blow, the other still gripping mark's throat.

"last chance, boy," nolan growls, his arm trembling with restrained power. "stand with your empire... or die with your distraction."

mark's lips move silently, forming a single word that makes your heart stutter even before you hear it—

"never."

nolan's fist comes down like a meteor—

you move.

you’re moving before the thought fully forms—a streak of motion so fast the air shrieks in protest. your knee connects with nolan’s temple just as his fist begins its descent toward mark’s skull, the impact cracking through the ruined street like a gunshot. nolan’s head snaps sideways, blood arcing from his split brow as he staggers back three steps—but he doesn’t go down. of course he doesn’t.

you land after doing a spin due to the force and speed, boots skidding across fractured pavement, leaving scorch marks where they brace against the ground. when you look up, nolan’s already wiping blood from his eye, his sneer more animal than man. "always hated you," he spits, the words thick with decades of loathing. "human cockroach clinging to what you can’t possibly understand."

"funny," you grin, rolling your shoulders as the familiar burn of your powers ignites along your spine. "i always thought you were just jealous."

nolan moves like lightning—but you’re faster. his first punch you duck, feeling the wind of it ruffle your hair. his second punch you catch against your forearm, the impact vibrating up to your teeth. you counter with an elbow to his ribs that makes him grunt, following up with a spinning kick that sends him crashing through what’s left of a fire hydrant. water geysers into the air, painting the battlefield in liquid silver.

"he was mine first," nolan snarls as he rises from the wreckage, shaking water from his hair like an angry bull. "my son. my legacy." his fist comes down on a parked car, sending the hood spiraling toward you like a deadly frisbee. you slice it in half with a precise energy blast, the molten edges dripping onto the asphalt between you.

"he was never yours," you pant, sidestepping a chunk of debris nolan hurls with his strength casually. you shoot nolan a sideways glance, a smug smirk forming on your lips. "you just didn’t notice until it was too late."

nolan roars, charging through the steam like a freight train. you brace—but then mark is there, a black-and-yellow blur intercepting his father mid-lunge. his fingers sink into nolan’s chest with a sound like tearing leather, muscles straining as he—

pulls.

the sound is obscenely wet. final. nolan’s heart beats once in mark’s palm, a grotesque, glistening thing that pulses weakly before stilling forever.

silence.

mark doesn’t look at it. doesn’t look at the body. his eyes find yours instead, wide and vulnerable in a way you’ve only seen in stolen bedroom moments. the heart drops from his fingers with a wet slap as something in him trembles. but when he sees you, something in him settles.

"hey," he breathes, like he didn’t just rip his father’s heart out. like he’s coming home.

you step forward, crushing nolan’s heart under your boot as you reach for him. "hey yourself."

you step forward, fingers trembling—not from fear, never from fear—as you cup mark’s face, smearing nolan’s blood across his cheekbone like war paint. it’s still warm, sticky between your fingertips, and you watch as a single crimson droplet trails down to the corner of his mouth. mark leans into your touch like a starving man, eyes fluttering shut just for a heartbeat before he’s surging forward, crushing you against him, his mouth crashing into yours with desperate, bruising force. he tastes like iron and ruin, like the copper tang of his split lip and something darker beneath—something that should scare you, would scare anyone else, but only makes you cling tighter. you kiss him back like you’re drowning, like he’s the only oxygen left in this ruined world.

when he pulls away, his grin is all sharp edges and bloody teeth, the kind of smile that would send sane men running. "love you," he rasps, voice wrecked, like it’s a secret. like it’s a threat. like it’s the only truth left in this godforsaken universe.

you press your forehead to his, breathing him in. "i know."

(and you do. you always have. even when the world called you unnatural. even when nolan’s eyes burned holes into your back every time your fingers brushed mark’s over the dinner table. even when you lay awake at night, tracing the scars on mark’s knuckles and wondering—just for a moment—if you were enough, if your human body could ever be what a viltrumite heir needed. mark had kissed the doubt from your lips before it could take root, his teeth sharp against your throat as he whispered, "don’t need an empire. just you.")

later, when the dust has settled and nolan’s corpse has gone stiff and cold, mark curls around you in the wreckage, his arms an unbreakable vice around your waist. his lips chart a familiar path along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw—every touch a brand, a promise, a prayer. you can feel the way his heartbeat stutters when your fingers card through his hair, like he still can’t believe you’re real, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

"no one's ever gonna take you from me," mark growls against your pulse, his teeth scraping the tender skin there in a silent promise. his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises tomorrow—little purple reminders that'll make you smile when you see them in the mirror. you can feel the way his whole body trembles with the effort of holding back, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck. "not the coalition," he continues, voice dropping to something dark and possessive, "not some viltrumite bitch they'd try to breed me with—" his grip tightens almost painfully, "—no one."

you turn in his arms with a feral grin, your fingers tangling in his hair and yanking just hard enough to make his breath hitch. the sound goes straight to your groin, heat pooling low in your stomach as he lets you manhandle him, his pupils blown wide with something between pain and worship. "no one's ever gonna try," you murmur, lips brushing his in a teasing almost-kiss. you can taste the blood still clinging to his teeth from earlier, coppery and warm, and you lick into his mouth with a hunger that borders on violent. when you pull back, his lips are kiss-swollen and slick with your saliva, his chest heaving. "not after today," you finish, voice dripping with dark amusement.

because they'd seen it, hadn't they? the way you'd laughed as buildings collapsed around you both. the way you'd pressed bloody fingerprints into mark's cheeks like war paint when he'd returned to you, heart still pounding from the kill. the way you'd kissed him amidst the wreckage with tongues and teeth and no regard for who might be watching.

mark's hands slide up your back, fingers tracing each vertebra like he's trying to memorize you. "you're just as fucked up as i am," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer, like the best compliment he's ever given you. his eyes search yours, looking for any hint of hesitation, any flicker of doubt—but all he finds is your matching madness staring back, just as hungry, just as gone.

you nip at his lower lip, smiling when he groans. "takes one to know one, baby."

his laughter is dark and sweet as he crashes his mouth back to yours, and you think—not for the first time—that you'd burn the whole universe down if it meant keeping this, keeping him. and judging by the way his hands clutch at you, desperate and claiming, he'd help you strike the match.

mark’s smile is a dark, beautiful thing, all sharp canines and devotion. his hand slides under your shirt, palm splaying across the small of your back—claiming, possessive, like he’s trying to memorize the way you fit against him. "good," he breathes, and when he kisses you again, it’s slow, sweet, at odds with the blood drying on both your skin. "because i’d burn every planet in this fucking universe before i let them try."

(and you believe him. you always have.)

4.3k words full of more of the sinister couple! +1 to the kissing/making out in front of a dying/dead person counter.

[ekybrini]

you're the right one | Will Smith

Request: Hi! I have a request if you are up to writing it. Can I please request a Will Smith fic where he and reader are out on a date, and people keep coming up to ask for pictures and autographs, and she happily takes pictures if asked, but for the most part the fans ignore her or make snide remarks. And she starts feeling bad because she feels that she can’t keep up with his world and doesn’t belong with him. And so Will invites her over and he makes her dinner and gets her flowers, does everything. And he basically praises her and thanks her for staying with him and supporting him through his rookie year.

— ⟡ summary | After a rough night out leaves y/n feeling out of place, Will comforts her with flowers, dinner, and gentle reminders that she means everything to him.

— ⟡ warnings | None (that I know of)

— ⟡ word count | 2.3k

— ⟡ gabs note | hiiii !!!! I finally finished this after like almost a month of it being in my drafts lol. Who knew the last two months of school were actually going to be a living hell. THANKFULLY I graduate in exactly a month so I'll be able to start being more active on here which means more post!! if anyone would like to request something don't hesitate !! I won't get to them right away but I will end up writing it sometimes when I have time.

You tell yourself it didn't bother you at first.

The stares. The whispers. Or how your name gets left out of every “Can I get a picture with you, will?” request.

That is just part of dating him. 

You try to focus on the warmth in his eyes. The way his knee brushes against yours under the table. The way he said “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” when he picked you up tonight after the two long roadies.

And he meant that.

The first fan comes by after your appetizers hit the table. Young guy, maybe in high school, nervous, polite, asking to sign a sharks jersey. Will grins, he takes a picture and signs the jersey. He is sweet about it, he always is. You simile and even offer to take the picture. You’ve gotten used to this by now. You’ve known what it meant to be with him since the beginning of your relationship. 

You just didn’t expect the stream of fans to keep coming. 

Another one stops mid conversation. Then another. And another. You take a couple more pictures. Will never says no. He apologies each time with a sheepish smile and squeezes your hand each time, but you can feel the distance building up with every polite interruption. 

Your food arrives. You push it around your plate, your appetite fading like the candle in front of you guys. 

And of course it happens again.

You're mid laugh at something Will said, something genuinely funny, something that made you forget about how you two can’t seem to have a private moment when a group of girls passes by your table. They slow down pretending to glance at their menu, but their eyes are on Will.

“He’s even cuter in person,” one whispers.

Another snorts softly. “No kidding. And he’s with her?”

“He could definitely do better if he tried.” The girl replied back. 

Will stiffens next to you like he heard it too.

But you don’t wait to see if he’ll say something. You excuse yourself with a bright smile and make your way to the bathroom before your voice cracks.

You stare at yourself in the mirror feeling your chest get tight, fingers gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles ache.

You knew it could be like this. You’ve seen the comments online, the subtle glances, the disbelief in people’s faces when they realize you're together. You always thought you could handle it. You thought if you loved him enough, if he loved you enough it wouldn’t matter.

But tonight, it feels like you’re trying to breathe underwater.

You fix your makeup, though it doesn’t fix anything. You smooth down your dress, though it still doesn’t feel like it fits right. You stare at yourself until the flush in your cheeks fades enough to pass as normal, then go back out there and pretend you weren’t just unraveling in a public restroom.

Will’s sitting up straighter when you return. There’s a shared dessert waiting at your seat, your favorite, a small cookie pie with vanilla ice cream on top. 

His smile is small, searching. “Thought we could end the night on a sweet note.”

You sit down feeling your heart twisting.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “That’s really sweet of you.”

He watches you for a moment longer than usual. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

It’s not a lie. You’ve had a long day, but it's not the reason for you shutting down. 

He doesn’t push. He never does when you shut down like this. Instead, he forks a bite of cookie and offers it to you across the table.

You take it.

You make it through dessert. You make it through the ride home. He tells you he’ll text you when he makes it home. kisses your temple like he always does, lingering just long enough for you to feel guilty for pulling away.

You go inside and lean against the door, blinking against the burn behind your eyes.

Will hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s the hardest part.

He’s just being himself, kind, open, unaware of every careless comment, every ignored glance, every fan who acts like you’re invisible. He doesn’t know how small you felt tonight. How you keep wondering if people see you and think he settled.

You crawl into bed fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling, your mind looping that one cruel comment over and over again.

And he’s with her? 

You close your eyes and try not to cry.

The next morning you wake to the soft buzz of your phone on the nightstand. It will.  It’s still dark out, the sky a dull gray that matches the fog in your chest.

“Good morning, pretty girl. Hope you slept okay.”

Your chest tightens. You stare at the message for a while then type back slowly.

“Morning. Slept alright. Hope practice isn’t too rough today.”

You press send before you can second guess yourself. It’s casual. Normal. Exactly the kind of message he’s used to from you. But it feels like a lie, even if the words are technically true.

You’re not ignoring him. You just can’t bring yourself to say what’s really on your mind.

The way the girl at the restaurant looked you up and down like you were some sort of joke. The way you felt more like a shadow than someone’s date. The way Will didn’t seem to notice.

You know it’s not fair to hold that against him. He wasn’t the one who made you feel small, but he also didn’t notice that you were shrinking.

Later, you respond to another one of his texts, something simple about what you’re watching on TV, what you’re having for lunch. You even throw in a little joke. You’re trying. You really are.

And Will is sweet like always.

“Can’t believe you’re watching that without me. Rude.” Will send the message after telling him you’re watching glee.

“You were the one who fell asleep halfway through the last episode. I’m taking initiative.”

He replies with a string of laughing emojis and a gif that makes you smile, just a little.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. At least that's what you’re telling yourself.

Because every time your phone lights up with his name you feel that familiar twist in your stomach. Like there’s something caught in your throat, something heavy sitting on your chest. Like you’re pretending everything is normal when inside you’re spinning.

You want to tell him. But you don’t want him to think it’s stupid about you being upset over a comment. You know it shouldn’t have hurt you the way it did. 

So you keep replying. Keep smiling through texts. Keep laughing at the right moments. Because silence would make him worry and you don’t want him to worry.

“Come over tonight?”

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You hesitate not because you don’t want to see him, but because you’re scared he’ll see right through you. 

Still, you reply.

“Sure. What time?”

His response is nearly instant.

“Whenever you want. I’ll cook. Something fancy and probably half burnt, but made with love”

That makes your lips twitch, just a little.

By the time you knock on his door, your stomach is in knots. You try to smooth out your expression when he answers, wearing a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp, the smell of garlic and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

Will leans in and presses a kiss to your temple before pulling you inside. “Hey, you,” he says. “I missed you.”

You nod, setting your bag down. You don’t trust your voice to work yet.

“I went all out,” he says as he leads you to the kitchen. “Like, full Pinterest boyfriend levels. There are candles. I obviously couldn't get wine but if you wanted the full experience i got grape juice if not i got sodas. And I even tried to fold the napkins into those little triangle things. Don’t look too closely.”

Sure enough there’s a small dinner spread waiting on the table. It’s simple pasta, salad, garlic bread slightly burnt around the edges but it’s warm, thoughtful, and made by him. 

And sitting right in the middle of the table is a small bouquet of flowers. Tulips with a mix of wildflowers, your favorite.

You blink. “Will”

He shrugs, suddenly shy. “I know you’ve had a weird couple of days. Thought maybe this would help.”

You open your mouth to respond, but your throat tightens too fast.

He misreads the silence, smile dimming a little. “I didn’t mean to overdo it. I just I guess I wanted you to know I don’t take you for granted. Not ever.”

Your breath stutters. The lump in your throat threatens to spill over.

You reach for a flower stem with trembling fingers. “They’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He nods, watching you carefully. “So are you.”

Will pulls out your chair and sits beside you instead of across, his thigh pressed lightly to yours.

“I don’t know what’s been bothering you,” he says, voice softer now. “But whatever it is, you don’t have to hide it from me.”

You want to tell him everything. The whispers. The way you felt like you didn’t belong. The way his world sometimes feels too loud, too polished, too far from yours.

But for now, you lean your head on his shoulder and he lets you stay quiet.

After a while of silence you pick at your pasta more than you eat it, but the warmth of the food and the soft music Will put on in the background helps ease the ache that’s been sitting in your chest. Will doesn’t push. He just chats about his last practice, about how one of the guys slipped during warmups, how the locker room smelled like actual death because Macklin left a protein shake in his bag over the weekend. You smile weakly at the stories, letting them wrap around you like a blanket.

But eventually, the words stop. He glances over at you, eyes searching and says gently, “You’ve been quiet lately. I mean, more than usual.”

You stare down at your plate. Your fork scrapes against ceramic, and your voice is barely audible when you say, “Yeah. Im sorry”

Will doesn't rush you. He just waits.

Eventually, you set your fork down and take a breath, fingers curling into your lap.

"It was at the restaurant," you say, voice barely more than a whisper.

Will looks up, confusion flickering across his face. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.

"Our date," you add, still not looking at him. “When those fans kept coming over.”

His expression softens, and you can tell he thinks you’re about to say you were overwhelmed by the attention, maybe annoyed. But that’s not it.

“Some of their remarks are incredibly hurtful sometimes. I overheard someone ask if I was your assistance when I was walking to the bathroom. And then there were ones whose whispers were just too loud.”

You pause, swallowing hard.

“They said you could do better and I know,” you add quickly, “I know people say stupid things all the time. I know it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you still felt like shit,” he finishes for you, voice low.

You nod. “I smiled through it. I laughed. Took the photos. And then I went home and felt like maybe they were right.”

“I wish you had told me,” he murmurs. “I wish I’d noticed.”

“I didn’t want to ruin the night. You looked happy.”

“I was happy. Because I was with you.”

His thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Listen to me. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I thought about what they were saying. I don’t care what some strangers at a restaurant think. You think I could survive this year, this pressure, this schedule, this whole new world without you?”

“You’re the best part of all of it,” he says. “You’re the one who keeps me grounded. Who reminds me who I am. That night, I was proud to have you next to me. I just hate that anyone made you feel like you weren’t enough. Because you are. You’re more than enough.”

Your throat tightens as you finally look at him.

“And I made you your favorite dessert,” he adds, almost sheepish. “It’s in the kitchen. I was gonna wait, but”

You laugh wetly, tears spilling as you cover your face with your hands. “You’re such a sap.”

“I know.” He grins, brushing your hands away gently. “But only for you.”

And when he kisses your lips, soft and unhurried, you let yourself believe it that maybe you do belong here with him after all. 

Later that night, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, the soft hum of a movie playing in the background. You’re not really watching it, not with Will sitting beside you, one arm around your shoulders, his fingers brushing over your arm in slow, calming strokes.

Will shifts slightly, glancing down at you. “You okay?”

You nod, leaning your head against his chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I will be.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. And if anyone ever makes you feel like that again, I’ll personally throw their soup across the restaurant.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching in your throat. “Please don’t start a food fight because of me.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

The warmth in his voice melts something in your chest, and for the first time in a few days, the ache feels like it’s fading.

You trace gentle shapes on the inside of his hoodie sleeve. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t ask what for. He just pulls you closer, holds you tighter. And as your eyes begin to drift shut the rhythm of his heartbeat steady in your ear all you can feel is safe and loved.

The world may never stop whispering, but tonight wrapped in Will’s arms you makes you feel as if you don't have anything to worry about.

[pankowcrumbs]

You never called me back X Sebastian stan

MasterList

Marvel MasterList

Words: 9.3K

Plot: You and Seb have a fight and break things off but you find out you're pregnant but Sebastian already blocked you… years later it all comes to light and he wants to be involved.

I don’t remember what the fight was about. Not really.

Funny, isn’t it? How something that ripped through me like a bomb tore everything down, burned every bridge could blur so quickly into fragments. I remember shouting. His face flushed with frustration. My voice breaking. The way we kept cutting each other off, like listening had suddenly become a luxury we couldn’t afford.

But I don’t remember what started it. Not the words. Just the hurt.

It had been two years since that night, and still, sometimes I’d wake up gasping for air, my chest tight with the weight of words I never got to say properly. Maybe that’s why I kept that last voicemail. Or maybe because it was the only proof I had that I’d tried.

That he chose not to.

We were never supposed to get close.

That’s what we told each other from the beginning laid out all the ground rules, like that would somehow protect us. No sleepovers. No public outings. No feelings. It was a laugh, really. As if two people could keep sharing their bodies without ever sharing anything else.

But he was Sebastian. And I was me. And things never really stayed simple for long.

We met through mutual friends in London, during one of his longer stays. He was working on a film, I was freelancing photography mostly, though I dipped in and out of projects like a magpie. One night turned into two. Then three. Then a casual kind of routine: his place, mine, wherever. It wasn’t romantic, we insisted. Just easy. Convenient. Fun.

Until it wasn’t.

Until he started cooking me breakfast.

Until I started waiting for his texts like a schoolgirl.

Until he looked at me, once, with something in his eyes that felt like everything and nothing all at once.

And then, just like that, it all collapsed.

The fight was brutal. Raw. We’d been skirting the edge of something heavier for weeks, pretending we weren’t. He slept with someone else casually, as we were allowed but then lied about it. Said he hadn’t seen anyone in ages. I only found out because someone else let it slip, and when I asked him about it, he brushed it off like I was being dramatic.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said.

And that, I think, was the final crack.

Because it did matter. To me.

I remember standing in his hotel room, half-dressed, mascara smudged from crying and wiping too hard, while he stood there with that maddening calm of his, arms crossed like I was the problem.

“You said no strings,” he reminded me. “You can’t flip the rules just because you changed your mind.”

“I didn’t flip anything,” I snapped. “I just expected you not to lie. There’s a difference.”

He scoffed. “We’re not dating, Y/N.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Thank God, right? Because if this is how you treat someone you don’t care about, I’d hate to see how you screw up with someone you do.”

He flinched barely but it was enough.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore,” he said coldly.

I nodded, trying not to let the tremble in my chin show. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

I left. Slammed the door behind me. Walked home barefoot because I couldn’t be arsed to put my heels back on. And when I got home, I cried until my pillow was soaked.

The nausea started two weeks later.

I brushed it off at first. Blamed it on stress, or a dodgy meal, or maybe the hangover from the wine I drank alone three nights in a row while watching terrible romcoms and pretending I was fine.

But when I missed my period, everything came into sharp, unbearable focus.

I bought the test in a daze didn’t even make eye contact with the woman at the till. Took it home. Stared at the little plastic stick on the bathroom sink like it might morph into something else if I just blinked hard enough.

But no. Two lines. Bold. Unmistakable.

I sank to the floor.

Pregnant.

Pregnant with Sebastian Stan’s child.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, curled against the cold tile, hands shaking. The fear wasn’t loud it was quiet. Hollow. Like standing in a tunnel after a bomb’s gone off and waiting for the dust to settle.

After a while, I called him.

Straight to voicemail.

I tried again.

Same thing.

I texted first a simple “Hey, can we talk?” Then, “It’s important.” Then, “Please, Seb.”

Nothing. Just greyed-out ticks and silence.

I told myself he was busy. Maybe out of the country. Maybe his phone was off.

But I knew. Deep down, I knew.

Still, I tried every day for a week. Then two. Then three. I even emailed. No reply. No bounce back. Just a void.

I spiralled. Anger and fear twisted together into something sharp and unrelenting. And eventually, I caved. Left the voicemail. The one that still haunts me.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, heart in my throat, voice shaking so badly I had to stop halfway through.

“Seb… I know you’re ignoring me. I don’t know why, I don’t know what I did that was so unforgivable, but”

I swallowed hard. Took a breath.

“ I don’t want anything from you. I just am just begging you to call me back it's really important ”

A pause.

Another breath. Shaky. Shattered.

“Please. Just call me back.”

I hung up.

He never did.

Time passed like a slow drip. Each day a little heavier than the last. At some point, I stopped hoping for a reply. Stopped checking my phone every five minutes. Stopped replaying the voicemail to hear how desperate I’d sounded.

I changed my number. Moved flats. Started seeing a midwife. Told my parents in a tearful phone call. It wasn’t easy God, it wasn’t even close but eventually, I stopped waking up with that ache in my chest. The one shaped like him.

I focused on the baby. On the little life growing inside me. And slowly, I let go of the version of the future that had him in it.

I never told anyone his name. Never gave details. Just said he wasn’t around. People filled in the blanks themselves. Assumed it was a one-night stand or a fling. No one ever imagined it was Sebastian Stan. Not the movie star. Not the charming, funny man I’d once shared takeaways and late-night confessions with. Not the man who once kissed my forehead and whispered he liked the way I laughed when I was half-asleep.

No. That version of him existed only in memories now.

Or dreams.

And even those, I tried not to indulge in.

Now, two years later, my daughter is asleep upstairs.

She has his eyes.

That’s the part that guts me most. Every time she looks at me with that stormy blue gaze, every time she frowns in concentration or bursts into unexpected laughter, it’s like he’s right there etched into her face in ways I could never erase.

I love her more than I ever thought possible. Fiercely. Protectively. She’s my whole world. And she’ll never know she was unwanted.

Not by me.

I tuck her in every night. I hold her when she cries. I make her pancakes in the shape of animals and let her draw all over the walls of the spare room because she says it makes her brain happy. I show up, even when I’m tired, even when I’m scared.

I’m the one who stayed.

And if he ever comes back if he ever dares to walk through the door and ask for a second chance he’ll have to answer for the silence first.

Because I begged.

And he never called.

It was meant to be a quiet lunch. Just a few old friends, a couple of glasses of wine, and hopefully some adult conversation that didn’t involve Bluey or Paw Patrol.

I hadn’t expected to bring Isla with me, but my babysitter rang last minute, her voice hoarse and apologetic. Flu. Couldn’t be helped. And I didn’t want to cancel not again. So I packed a little bag with crayons, her favourite snacks, and the sticker book she was currently obsessed with, and brought her along.

She was happy enough in her little booster seat, colouring away and chatting softly to her unicorn plush while I slipped back into conversations I used to be part of more often. It felt… nice. Like brushing off a coat I hadn’t worn in ages and realising it still fit.

Until he walked in.

Sebastian.

I spotted him the moment he stepped into the restaurant tall, broad-shouldered, that same damn leather jacket he always used to wear like it was armour. My breath caught in my throat before I could even process it. For a moment, everything around me went still. Like the clink of cutlery and low murmur of conversation had faded into the background, and all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.

I didn’t know whether to run or throw up.

He saw me almost instantly. His eyes flicked across the table, scanning faces and then landed on mine. A beat passed. Then another. And I swear something flickered behind his expression. Recognition? Surprise? Confusion?

Then his eyes shifted to Isla.

And he stared.

She was chewing on a grape and humming under her breath, completely unaware of the earthquake that had just walked through the door. Her curls were pulled into two puffy bunches, a tiny daisy clip stuck haphazardly in one side. And those eyes his eyes turned briefly towards him, wide and unbothered.

He blinked. Said nothing.

I cleared my throat and stood up halfway, pasting on a polite smile. “Hi.”

His gaze snapped back to mine. “Hi,” he said softly.

I didn’t hug him. Didn’t offer a seat. I was too stunned, too careful. My friends were already shifting to make room for him at the end of the table, greeting him with easy smiles and enthusiastic hellos. No one noticed how my hands trembled slightly as I reached for Isla’s juice box.

“Didn’t know you were back in London,” said Alice, scooting over. “How long are you here?”

“Just a couple of weeks,” he said, sliding into the chair. “Got in this morning.”

“Ah,” Liam grinned. “Makes sense. You texted me, what, two hours ago? Said it might be nice to catch up. Figured I’d surprise everyone.”

Everyone. Everyone.

My stomach dropped. So he hadn’t come for this lunch. Not deliberately. Not to see me.

He didn’t know.

Not really.

And from the way he kept glancing at Isla subtly, but not subtly enough it was clear something was churning behind those eyes of his. He hadn’t asked anything yet, but I could feel the question dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“This is Isla,” I said quietly, almost before I realised I was speaking. My voice sounded thinner than usual stretched. “My daughter.”

His head turned slowly, fully facing her for the first time. He looked at her like someone trying to solve a riddle they already knew the answer to.

“She’s beautiful,” he said eventually.

I nodded. “Thanks.”

Isla, oblivious, offered him a sticker a shiny butterfly. He smiled and took it without hesitation, sticking it to the back of his hand. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

And my heart twisted.

He used to say that to me.

The rest of the lunch was a blur. I tried to focus on the conversation on the stories, the jokes, the shared laughter that should’ve anchored me but my mind kept floating. Kept returning to the fact that Sebastian was sitting just two seats down, watching Isla with that cautious intensity like he was reading a page from a book he thought he’d already finished.

He barely touched his food. I barely touched mine.

Every now and then, I caught him looking not at Isla, but at me. Like he was trying to piece something together. Like the cogs in his head were turning, slow and deliberate, trying to unearth something he wasn’t ready for.

He still hadn’t said a word about it.

And no one else knew. Not a soul at that table knew that Sebastian Stan was Isla’s father. Not even Alice, who I used to tell everything. I’d never wanted to risk it. Too many questions, too much mess.

But now, sitting across from him, I felt like I was holding a grenade in my lap, just waiting for the pin to fall out.

At one point, Liam leaned towards me with a grin. “Did you know Seb was in town?”

I shook my head. “Not a clue.”

“Yeah,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on a chip. “Texted me this morning out of nowhere. Said he missed us. Thought it’d be nice to invite him. Hope that’s alright.”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “Just… a surprise, that’s all.”

“A good one though?” he asked, eyes twinkling.

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

Across the table, Sebastian’s gaze caught mine again. Held. My breath hitched just slightly before I looked away and wiped Isla’s mouth with a napkin.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

When we all finally rose from the table and paid, the spring air outside felt too cold too sharp for the sun that was supposed to be shining.

The others began saying their goodbyes with hugs and promises to do it again soon. One by one, they peeled off down the high street until only Sebastian and I were left standing awkwardly in the dappled sunlight.

Isla was crouched by the wall, examining a trail of ants with the kind of intensity only a toddler could manage.

I could feel Sebastian beside me, tense and restless. Then...

“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” he said, voice low.

I turned to look at him.

He wasn’t meeting my eyes. His jaw was tight, the muscle ticking.

A beat passed.

Then he looked up.

“Is she mine?”

I didn’t speak right away. Just nodded, slowly.

He blinked like the world had just shifted sideways.

A crack formed in his expression something raw and almost unbearable flickered through his eyes. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to speak but didn’t know where to start.

Then came the quiet, controlled anger. Not loud enough to draw Isla’s attention, but sharp enough to sting.

“You didn’t tell me.”

I stared at him.

“I tried,” I said.

He frowned. “No. I never... You never”

“I called you,” I cut in, my voice firmer now. “I texted. I left voicemails. Long ones. I told you I needed to talk to you. I begged you to call me back.”

He was shaking his head, almost in disbelief.

“I didn’t get any of that”

“Because you blocked me.”

His breath caught. A flash of guilt washed over his face.

“I left you one last message,” I went on, quietly now. “I told you it was important. I didn’t say the words, but I hoped you’d hear it in my voice. And then… I promised myself that if you didn’t have the decency to call me back to even ask what was so urgent then you didn’t deserve to know about our child.”

Sebastian looked like I’d slapped him.

He turned slightly, raking a hand through his hair, pacing one small, frustrated step.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.”

He looked over at Isla again still crouched, still happy, still blissfully unaware.

“She looks like me,” he said under his breath. “I noticed it straight away.”

I didn’t answer.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he exhaled, barely holding his voice steady. “I’ve missed everything. Her first steps. Her first words. The first time she got sick. I’ve missed all of it.”

“You weren’t there,” I said, more softly this time. “That wasn't my fault”

His eyes snapped back to mine, something close to panic surfacing.

“Can I…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Can I see her again? Another time? Properly?”

I hesitated. The wind caught Isla’s curls just then, and she looked up at us, smiling, waving one sticky hand in the air.

I waved back before answering.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I need to think.”

“I understand.”

“I just… I can’t let you dip in and out,” I added quickly, voice trembling now. “She’s not a surprise cameo. She’s a person. A whole person.”

“I’m not going to disappear again.”

“You did once.”

He flinched. Said nothing.

I took Isla’s hand gently, feeling the tiny warmth of her fingers against mine.

“We should go.”

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

As I turned, I heard him whisper so quiet it was almost carried away by the breeze:

“I’m sorry.”

I didn’t look back.

I didn’t sleep much the night after that lunch.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sebastian’s face. The flicker of disbelief. The pain behind his eyes. The way his voice broke when he said he’d missed everything.

And he had.

Isla’s first laugh. Her first wobbly steps across our tiny flat. The first time she said “mummy,” and the second time when she tried to say “banana” but called it “ba-an-ah.”

He wasn’t there for any of it.

And yet, something inside me some maddening, gentle part couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d looked at her. Not with pity or fear. But awe. Like she was the most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

The very next day, he messaged.

Hi. I don’t expect a reply straight away. But I just wanted to say thank you for introducing me to Isla. I would like to see her again, if and when you’re ready. I want to do right by her. And by you. –Seb.

It took me hours to reply. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I had to force myself to believe he meant it.

I finally wrote back:

If you want to be in her life, it has to be consistent. No dipping in and out. No disappearing. If you say you’re coming, you come. Also, I’m there. Always. You don’t get to take her anywhere yet. We meet in a public place. Sunday. 11am. The park by my flat Hampstead Heath. Bring snacks. She likes grapes and cheesy crackers.

He replied almost instantly.

I’ll be there. Thank you.

Sunday came faster than I expected.

I dressed Isla in her little denim dungarees and tied her curls into two tiny buns on top of her head. She giggled as I wiped toast crumbs from her cheeks.

“Mummy, Sparkle?” she asked, holding up her unicorn plush with one floppy, sparkly leg.

“Of course, baby.”

I didn’t tell her who we were meeting. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to confuse her until I was sure.

When we arrived, he was already there sitting on a bench near the swings, clutching a bag and looking like he’d been waiting for years, not minutes.

He stood as soon as he saw us.

“Hi,” he said, awkward and gentle all at once.

“Hi,” I replied, tightening my grip on Isla’s hand.

She looked up at him curiously. “You’re tall,” she declared.

Sebastian let out a breath of laughter. “I am, yeah. I should warn you, I might bump my head on tree branches sometimes.”

She giggled, and I watched him melt a little right there.

“I brought snacks,” he said, holding up the bag like it was a peace offering. “Grapes and those little bear-shaped biscuits?”

“Approved,” I said.

We settled on a picnic blanket under the shade of a tree. Isla flopped onto her stomach, unpacking her unicorn and immediately appointing Sebastian as a guest in her imaginary tea party.

He played along like a pro.

“Would Sparkle like one lump of sugar or two?” he asked with great seriousness.

“Three,” Isla whispered conspiratorially. “She’s sweet.”

He nodded solemnly. “I should’ve known.”

I couldn’t help it I smiled. And for a moment, the tension between us eased, just a little.

The visit only lasted an hour. I kept my boundaries clear when Isla grew tired, I stood and said it was time to go. He didn’t argue.

“Can I see her again next weekend?” he asked as I packed up our things.

I hesitated. Then nodded. “Same place. Same time.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath since I first messaged him.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

I didn’t say anything. I just picked Isla up and walked away.

But I let her wave.

He waved back.

It became a pattern.

Every Sunday, 11am.

He showed up every time. On time. With snacks. With stories. With toys. With questions about her favourite songs or how she liked her sandwiches cut.

He never overstepped. Never pressured me. Never tried to rush anything.

He just showed up.

One Sunday, Isla crawled into his lap without asking, holding a book she wanted him to read. He blinked hard, caught off guard, then wrapped an arm around her and read every page with the same dramatic flair she’d come to expect from me.

I didn’t realise I was crying until I felt the tears hit my lips.

one month in, we started having coffees after the park. Just the two of us. Isla would nap in her buggy and we’d sit at the little café on the corner, sipping flat whites and talking really talking for the first time in years.

“I blocked you,” he admitted one afternoon, his voice heavy with shame. “After that fight… I couldn’t handle seeing your name. It made me feel sick.”

I nodded slowly. “I figured.”

“I didn’t expect to feel so much,” he said. “Back then. When you told me it was over. That you didn’t want whatever we were doing anymore.”

“We were toxic,” I said. “It wasn’t healthy. For either of us.”

“But it wasn’t nothing.”

“No,” I agreed. “It wasn’t nothing.”

He looked at me then. Really looked. And I saw it the weight of everything we could’ve been if we’d only known how to love each other properly.

“We can’t rewrite it,” I said, softer now. “But we can give her something steady. Something whole.”

He nodded. “I want that. More than anything.”

The first time he came to my flat, Isla squealed like it was Christmas.

“You can sit here!” she said, dragging him to the couch like a prize. “Mummy makes hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows if you ask really nicely.”

“I shall beg,” he said seriously, making her cackle with delight.

I brought them mugs and stood in the kitchen for a moment, watching them.

He was holding her plush unicorn on his shoulder like a baby. She was giggling so hard she snorted.

My heart hurt.

In a good way.

In a terrifying way.

Later that night, after Isla had fallen asleep and the flat had gone quiet, he lingered in the doorway.

“Thanks for letting me come today,” he said. “For trusting me.”

I nodded. “She loves you, you know.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“She doesn’t even know what that means yet,” I added. “But it’s in her bones already.”

He swallowed hard. “I love her, too.”

And then he looked at me. Really looked.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

My breath caught.

“We can’t” I began.

“I know,” he interrupted. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… I needed you to hear it. I should’ve said it years ago.”

I didn’t say it back.

But I didn’t close the door, either.

I could hear them from the kitchen.

Isla’s delighted giggle. The thump of toy blocks tumbling. Sebastian’s overly dramatic “oh noooo!” as he pretended to be defeated by her tiny rubber dinosaur.

I stirred the pasta absentmindedly, letting the warm sound of their play fill the flat like music. It had only been a few weeks since I’d started letting him come by more regularly, and already, it was becoming second nature the coat dropped on the hook by the door, his trainers neatly beside mine, the sound of his laugh joining ours.

I peeked into the living room. Isla was balanced on his knee, proudly showing him a sticker book while he listened like she was reading him Shakespeare. Her curls bounced as she babbled on, and he nodded along as though every word made perfect sense.

“Seb?” I called gently.

He looked up.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Course.”

He followed me back into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard like it was his place. Like he’d always known where things were.

I hesitated, wiping my hands on a tea towel. “What… what are you going to do? I mean about living in New York. Projects. Work. Everything.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the counter.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” he said. “I’m not expecting things to be easy or perfect. I’d never ask you to uproot your whole life, or hers, just to make things easier for me.”

He looked out toward the living room, where Isla was now humming to herself.

“I know you’ve built a life here. You’ve got your work, your friends. Her routines. I’d never take that away from her.”

I softened, listening closely.

“I’ll work around you,” he said firmly. “Around her. I’ve already told my agent I only want to take jobs that keep me free to fly back and forth. If I’m not on set, I’m here. Every chance I get. Whatever your schedule is, I’ll match it. I just… I want to be in her life, and yours, in whatever way you’ll let me.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

“That sounds… fair,” I said after a beat. “I think we can figure it out, as it happens.”

He smiled, relieved. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the quiet filled with the distant sound of Isla talking to herself about grapes and teddy bears.

“There’s one more thing,” I said, glancing at him.

He straightened.

“I was wondering… if you’d want to tell her.”

“Tell her?” he asked, confused.

“That you’re her dad.”

His face changed slowly the emotion building behind his eyes, guarded but rising. He glanced again toward Isla, who was now crawling under the coffee table, murmuring nonsense to her unicorn.

“She’s only one and a half,” I added gently. “She doesn’t fully understand anything yet. Not really. But she knows who’s kind. Who loves her. Who shows up.”

He looked back at me, eyes glossy.

“I think… I think if you wanted to tell her, you could.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I do want to. God, yeah, I want to.”

“Okay,” I said softly. “Then let’s tell her together.”

After dinner, we all sat in the living room. Isla nestled in my lap, still holding her unicorn, while Sebastian knelt beside us on the rug, nervously fiddling with the zip on her little cardigan.

She looked between us, cheeks rosy, babbling in toddler-speak about some imaginary friend who lived in the kitchen cupboard.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I said gently, brushing a curl from her face. “Can Mummy and Sebby tell you something?”

She blinked up at us, mouth sticky with leftover banana.

Sebastian smiled nervously. “Hi, Isla.”

She pointed at his nose. “Boop.”

He chuckled softly. “Boop,” he repeated.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing, then composed myself.

“You know how you love Sebby?” I asked.

She nodded. “Sebby fun.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “Sebby’s a very special person. He’s not just Mummy’s friend. He’s something even more special to you.”

Her little brows furrowed in confusion.

Sebastian swallowed thickly and moved in a little closer. “I’m your daddy, Isla.”

She blinked.

I watched her tiny mouth work around the word. “Da…dee?”

He smiled, eyes watering. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m your daddy.”

She looked at me for confirmation. “Mummy?”

“Yes, my love,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “He’s your daddy.”

There was a long beat.

Then Isla broke into the sunniest grin and launched forward into his arms.

“Daddy!” she squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck in a way only toddlers could all elbows and love.

Sebastian held her like she was spun glass, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped protectively around her back. His shoulders shook slightly, and I realised he was crying.

“Isla,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

She patted his cheek like she was comforting him now. “Daddy sad?”

He laughed wetly. “No, baby. Daddy’s happy.”

She pulled back slightly and, in her most serious tone, said, “No cry. I gots blankie.”

And then she stood, waddled off, and returned moments later with her favourite duck-print blanket, throwing it over his lap like a royal gift.

He laughed again, wiping his cheeks.

“Thank you, my love.”

He looked up at me, and I saw it all in his eyes the joy, the pain, the love, the regret.

I nodded, smiling through my own tears.

“She’s got your eyes,” I said softly.

He took a deep breath, clutching the blanket to his chest.

“And your fire,” he added, gazing back at her. “I don’t deserve either of you.”

“No,” I said honestly. “But you’re here. And that’s a start.”

That night, after he’d gone and Isla was tucked into bed, I sat alone on the sofa, sipping tea and staring at the quiet living room.

The sticker book still sat open. The little pink socks she’d kicked off were on the rug. Her unicorn was slumped over like it, too, had had a long day.

And something about it all made my chest ache with happiness, with hope, with the tiniest flicker of fear.

The first time Sebastian took Isla out on his own, I nearly called him three times in the span of twenty minutes.

I didn’t, of course. But I hovered near my phone like it might cry out for help on its own. I’d kissed Isla’s curls, watched her waddle off toward him with her tiny backpack on, and smiled as she shouted “Bye Mummy!” from the doorway.

And now the flat was still. Too still.

I tried to focus washed the dishes, made the bed, even started replying to some work emails but everything reminded me she wasn’t here. Her sippy cup left near the telly. A sticker of a giraffe stuck to my laptop screen. The scent of her baby shampoo lingering faintly in the hallway.

They were only gone for a few hours.

I still jumped when I heard the key in the lock.

“Mummy!” Isla’s voice rang out like a song.

I met them at the door. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her curls a little frizzier than they’d been when she left. She looked delighted.

“We saw ducks!” she said, waving a half-eaten rice cake. “And Daddy buy juice. He say don’t tell Mummy it has sugar.”

I raised an eyebrow at Sebastian, who held his hands up in mock surrender.

“It was organic. Ish.”

I smirked despite myself. “And how did it go?”

“She’s… perfect,” he said, lowering himself to unbuckle her shoes. “I mean, she’s got energy like a caffeine-fuelled squirrel, but she’s amazing. She made a friend at the café. Shared a biscuit. Talked to a pigeon for ten minutes.”

I laughed.

“She’s got your charm,” he added, glancing up at me. “Everyone in that park was wrapped around her little finger. Including me.”

I softened, brushing Isla’s hair back from her forehead. “She had a good time?”

“I think so,” he said.

“Best day!” Isla chirped, confirming it.

My heart melted.

And just like that we had our first solo day out under our belts.

It became routine, slowly. Some weekends, Sebastian would come by with plans: the zoo, a soft play centre, a toddler art class that ended in a very colourful disaster. Other times, we’d spend time together the three of us curled on the floor with picture books, Sebastian dutifully voicing animals while Isla cackled and corrected him.

I’d never imagined this kind of dynamic with him. A year ago, I couldn’t even look at photos of him without feeling that old, deep hurt.

Now, he was in our lives. Tangibly. Steadily. Bit by bit.

And not just when it was convenient.

One afternoon, a month later, we were sat in the garden while Isla napped the baby monitor beside us, my tea half-drunk on the table.

Sebastian was scrolling through his phone with a pinched look on his face.

“What’s up?” I asked, wiping suncream from my wrist.

He hesitated.

“I got papped yesterday,” he said. “Coming out of your building.”

My stomach tightened. “What?”

He turned the phone to show me. A grainy photo clearly taken from across the street. Him holding Isla in one arm, pushing the door open with the other. Her face was angled slightly away, but not enough to be hidden.

“Oh god,” I whispered. “Her face is in it.”

“I know,” he said, jaw tight.

“Was it posted?”

“Not officially. Not by a real outlet. Yet. A few fan accounts have it already though. I’ve already messaged my team. Asked them to make sure no one runs it. But I wanted to be honest. I didn’t see the camera.”

I sat back, heart hammering.

“She’s just a baby,” I muttered.

“I know,” he repeated, more softly this time. “I’m sorry.”

I swallowed hard. “This was always going to be the hardest part.”

He nodded. “I don’t want her dragged into anything. Not without your say. And hers, when she’s old enough to make that decision.”

I looked at him, properly.

“I never wanted to keep her from you,” I said. “But I did want to keep her safe. From this.”

“You’re right to,” he said. “I get it now. More than ever.”

We sat in silence a beat.

“I’ll be more careful,” he said. “Always. I’ll wear the stupid hat. I’ll do what it takes.”

I smiled faintly. “You in a stupid hat is its own public risk.”

He chuckled, the tension breaking slightly.

“She’s priority,” he said. “Always.”

I nodded, finally allowing myself to believe it.

A few days later, I found a locked folder in my inbox.

Private photos for Y/N and Isla only.

Inside: professional-grade images of Sebastian with Isla. Ones I hadn’t taken.

One of them sitting on a park bench, her tiny fingers tangled in his hair. Another of him kneeling beside her in front of a fountain, both their faces lit up in pure laughter. They weren’t for press. Just for us.

He’d hired someone discreet. Kind. Someone who wouldn’t sell them.

I opened the last one a quiet shot of the two of them under a tree, her asleep on his chest, his head resting lightly against hers.

Tears welled in my eyes before I could stop them.

Not because it hurt.

But because it was healing.

“Can I keep one in my wallet?” he asked the next day. “Or is that… too much?”

“Of course you can,” I said, handing him a small print.

He held it like it was made of gold.

That weekend, he took Isla for an overnight. My first night without her since she’d been born.

I won’t lie I paced the house like a restless cat. But Sebastian texted updates without me having to ask.

-She made me sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ six times before bed. Slightly off-key. She was not impressed.

-Porridge everywhere. Literally. Everywhere. Might burn this hoodie.

-She named a duck “Simon Sebastian Stan” today. Not sure whether to be honoured or worried.

I laughed through my tears.

The next morning, they returned both wearing matching duck-print pyjamas from the gift shop.

“She insisted,” he said, half apologising.

“I love it,” I said truthfully.

She flung herself into my arms like she’d been gone a year. “Mummy I miss you!”

I held her tightly. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

Sebastian watched us, his eyes warm.

“I can’t believe how much she changes week to week,” he said. “Every new word. Every new thing she does. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

“You won’t,” I said softly. “Not anymore.”

We weren’t perfect. There were disagreements. Moments where we both got defensive, or overwhelmed. But every time, we circled back to what mattered. To her.

We never called ourselves anything. Not co-parents. Not friends. Not… more. We were still figuring that out.

But we were present. We were kind. And Isla, clever little sponge that she was, knew she was safe. She was loved.

One night, as I tucked her into bed, she pulled me close and whispered, “I love Mummy. I love Daddy. We all together.”

I kissed her forehead, my throat tight.

“Yes, baby. We’re all together.”

The morning Sebastian left for New York, Isla was still asleep.

He stood in the doorway to her room, his hand resting lightly on the frame, watching her chest rise and fall in steady rhythm. A stuffed dinosaur was tucked beneath her chin. Her curls were everywhere, as usual.

“Want to wake her?” I whispered.

He shook his head slowly. “She looks too peaceful. I’ll FaceTime her when I land.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.

It wasn’t like this was permanent. He was only going for two weeks. Filming some last-minute reshoots, meetings, events. All the usual chaos that had once seemed so far removed from my quiet life.

But now it was tangled up in ours.

“You packed her drawings?” I asked, handing him the rolled-up bundle Isla had insisted he take.

He smiled, tucking them carefully into the front of his carry-on. “Front and centre.”

Then he looked at me that soft look he wore lately when he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Thanks,” he said. “For trusting me with all of this. For letting me be in it. Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

I didn’t say anything. Just hugged him tightly and let go a second later than I meant to.

That evening, the FaceTime came right on time.

“ISLA!” he shouted playfully from his hotel room, his face filling the screen. “Hi, monkey!”

“Daddy!” she shrieked, practically launching herself at the phone in my hand. I steadied it with both hands as she clambered into my lap, eyes wide.

“You there?” he asked, tilting the phone to show her a small plushie she’d given him. “Look who came with me.”

“That’s Duck!” she giggled. “Duck go New York!”

“He says he misses you.”

“Where’s New York?” she asked, frowning.

Sebastian chuckled. “Very, very far away.”

“Far like Nanny’s house?”

“Even farther than Nanny’s.”

She blinked. “But why you go?”

My heart squeezed.

He smiled gently. “I had to do some work, baby. But just for a little while.”

She studied his face seriously, then looked at me. “He come back?”

I nodded. “He always comes back, love.”

Sebastian leaned in closer to the screen. “I’ll be back before you know it. And I’ll bring you something special.”

She gasped. “A horse?”

“Maybe not a real horse.”

“A big horse?”

“A… toy horse,” he offered.

She considered that. “Okay. But pink.”

He laughed. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Each night after that, the calls became routine. She'd hold up her latest drawing, or babble about what she ate for lunch. He’d ask questions. Listen. Pull faces to make her laugh.

On the fourth night, she was quieter. Sleepier.

She leaned against me, cheek resting on my shoulder while the phone sat propped in front of us.

“Long day?” Sebastian asked.

“She ran the entire length of the park three times,” I said, adjusting the camera so he could see her properly.

“She’s training for a toddler marathon,” he joked. “I respect the hustle.”

“Mmm,” she murmured.

“Hi baby,” he said gently. “You tired?”

She nodded without lifting her head. “You come back soon?”

“Very soon.”

“Okay,” she whispered, already half-gone.

And then slowly, right there in my lap, she drifted off.

One chubby hand curled around my sleeve. The other still loosely clutching a toy she hadn't let go of all day.

I didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Sebastian watched her from the screen, his face soft, quiet.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered.

“I know,” I murmured, brushing a curl from her eyes.

We sat like that the three of us in our own little stillness for a long moment.

“I hate being away,” he said eventually. His voice cracked just slightly. “Even when I’m doing something I love. It feels like I’m missing real life.”

“She misses you,” I said. “She asks where you are every time she sees your shoes in the hall.”

His expression faltered, and for a second, he didn’t say anything.

“I miss her too. And you.”

I glanced at the screen.

He looked tired. Jet-lagged, sure, but also… something more. That specific ache of absence you only feel for the people who’ve rooted themselves in you.

“She’ll be here when you get back,” I said softly. “So will I.”

He swallowed. “Can I call tomorrow morning too? I want to say good morning before I go to set.”

“Of course.”

We both lingered, neither of us ready to hang up just yet.

Isla snored gently against my shoulder.

“Sleep well, monkey,” he whispered.

I smiled. “Night, Seb.”

“Night,” he said. “Give her an extra cuddle from me.”

“I will.”

The screen went dark.

But the space he’d made for himself in our routines, in Isla’s heart, and maybe in mine too was still very much there.

The flight tracker said he landed at 8:06 a.m.

By 9:00, Isla was in her favourite dress the one with tiny strawberries all over it pacing the hallway with Duck the plushie gripped tight in her arms.

“When Daddy home?” she asked for the fifth time.

“Soon, baby. He’s in a car on the way.”

She looked at the door with suspicion, like she didn’t quite believe me.

Then the knock.

She shrieked. “DADDY!”

I barely managed to unlock the door before she was pulling it open herself.

And there he was. Jet-lagged. Bag slung over his shoulder. A plastic bag in his hand that I could already tell contained something pink and equestrian-themed.

“Horse!” Isla gasped.

“I told you I’d bring one,” he grinned.

She leapt into his arms, and he caught her effortlessly, burying his face in her hair.

I stepped back, letting them have that moment the kind that made my chest ache and swell at the same time.

It wasn’t until later, after breakfast and playgrounds and a nap that ended with Isla drooling on his chest on the couch, that I noticed the quiet between us.

The kind that wasn’t strained. Just... full.

Full of everything we hadn’t said yet.

That night, the flat was calm.

Isla had gone down easier than usual, her little body worn out by the day’s excitement. Duck was tucked under her chin, and Sebastian had read her two bedtime stories in a voice softened by exhaustion and something deeper.

Now we sat in the lounge, two mugs of tea cooling on the coffee table, a film playing quietly in the background that neither of us was really watching.

I was curled into the corner of the sofa. Sebastian sat on the floor, his back against the opposite end, head tilted back, eyes half-closed.

“You alright?” I asked gently.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just coming back to earth a bit.”

“Busy trip?”

“Busy brain.”

I hummed. “Understandable.”

He looked over at me then. Really looked.

“You’re good with her,” he said softly. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“She’s easy to love,” I replied.

A pause. Then...

“I think about it a lot,” he said.

“What?”

“What it would’ve been like if I’d called you back.”

I swallowed, heat creeping up the back of my neck. “Sebastian”

“No, I know. I’m not asking you to make it easier. I was a coward. I shut everything out. I can’t explain it without sounding pathetic.”

He looked down at his hands. “But every time I see her every time she says my name or shows me something she’s proud of I wonder what I missed. I wonder how I could’ve been so stupid.”

“You’re here now,” I said. “That’s what matters.”

“Is it?”

I looked at him. His expression was open, raw. Like he wasn’t asking for forgiveness, just understanding.

“She doesn’t know any different,” I said. “And she loves you. She’s never once questioned whether you belong. Kids are funny that way.”

He nodded, quiet again.

The film ended. The flat fell into silence but for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of traffic outside.

I stretched, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

“You don’t have to stay on the floor, you know,” I said, tilting my head toward the space beside me.

He hesitated, then climbed up beside me, cautious, like he wasn’t sure of the rules.

We sat close not touching, but near enough that the air felt different.

“I missed this,” he said. “Not just Isla. You.”

I looked at him carefully. “Seb...”

“I know. I’m not asking for anything,” he said quickly. “I just needed you to know.”

I nodded, heart thudding, unsure what to say.

He shifted, lying back across the sofa, head resting lightly on my thigh.

I froze.

“Okay?” he asked.

I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.

His breathing evened out slowly, the weight of him warm and real.

I ran my fingers gently through his hair a motion so instinctive it scared me a little.

“Sebastian?”

He hummed sleepily.

“You’re not the only one who thinks about it,” I said quietly.

He didn’t reply. Maybe he was already asleep.

But his hand found mine and held it just tightly enough to answer me.

I woke up to the sound of Isla’s giggles bright, squeaky ones that tumbled through the hallway like a soundtrack to joy itself.

I rubbed my eyes, the warmth of the morning sun pouring across the duvet. My legs were tangled in the sheets, hair sticking up in every direction. But none of that mattered because her laugh that laugh was the kind that made everything feel okay.

Then I heard his voice.

Low. Sleep-rough. Warm in a way that made my chest ache.

“Easy now, chef. We don’t want eggshells in the batter.”

“Eggie shell funny!” Isla squealed.

I sat up and blinked blearily toward the door. My flat felt different with him in it. Lighter somehow. Full.

I padded into the kitchen quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

Sebastian was standing at the counter his hair still messy from sleep. Isla sat on the counter in her little lemon pyjamas, gripping a whisk with both hands, entirely focused on the bowl in front of her.

“Morning,” I said softly.

Two heads turned.

“Mummy!” Isla chirped, bouncing slightly on the counter.

“Morning,” Sebastian echoed, smile crooking as he held up a wooden spoon. “We’re making pancakes. Or attempting to.”

“Only a few casualties so far,” I said, nodding at the flour all over the counter.

“And her,” he grinned, nodding at Isla’s cheeks, which were dusted white.

“I a pancake,” she giggled, beaming.

“You’re a beautiful pancake,” I murmured, crossing the kitchen and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Sebastian handed me a mug of tea black and strong, just how I liked it without needing to ask.

“Thank you,” I said, surprised by the small detail.

“Always.”

Our eyes met for a beat too long.

Then Isla sneezed flour all over his shirt, and we both burst into laughter.

Breakfast was messy and chaotic.

Pancakes were too brown on one side, syrup was everywhere, and Isla somehow got butter in her hair.

But I couldn’t stop smiling.

Once Isla was down for her midday nap, the flat fell quiet again.

I was rinsing dishes at the sink when Sebastian came up beside me, towel in hand.

“Let me help,” he said, nudging my shoulder gently.

We worked in silence for a moment not heavy silence, but thoughtful.

Then he said, “Last night… was nice.”

I glanced at him. “Yeah. It was.”

“And this morning?”

I smiled. “Even nicer.”

He looked down at the dish in his hands. “You know, when I’m with her and you it feels easy. Like I can breathe.”

I dried my hands on the towel slowly. “It is easy,” I said. “When we’re not overthinking everything.”

“I’m trying not to,” he admitted. “But I keep wondering… is there a version of this where we figure it out? Not just co-parenting. I mean us.”

The air felt still for a moment, like the flat was listening too.

I met his eyes, steady and honest. “Seb, I don’t have the answers yet. We’re still healing. Still learning how to be… this.”

“I know. I’m not rushing it,” he said quickly. “I just want you to know I’m here. For both of you. For real.”

I nodded, heart beating in my throat.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He reached out, his pinkie brushing mine lightly. Not a grab. Just a touch.

It was enough.

Later, while Isla napped curled up like a tiny comma in her cot, I found Sebastian in the lounge, flipping through one of her picture books, eyes distant.

I sat down beside him, close but not touching.

“You okay?” I asked.

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just thinking about how much time I missed.”

“You’re making up for it now.”

He looked at me then really looked. “I don’t want to miss anything else.”

“You won’t,” I said. “As long as you keep showing up.”

“I will,” he said.

When Sebastian first mentioned going out for the day properly out, not just the local park or walking Isla in the pram before sunrise I didn’t say no.

But I didn’t say yes either.

It was a quiet evening, the three of us curled on the sofa, Isla half-asleep on my lap with her bunny clutched tightly to her chest, her curls stuck to her forehead. I watched him watching her eyes soft, protective, still amazed by her.

That look always got to me.

He reached over, gently adjusted her sock so it wouldn’t slip off, then glanced up at me.

“I was thinking,” he said, cautious. “It might be nice to take her out somewhere. Maybe Covent Garden. The street performers, bubble guys she’d love it.”

I felt my stomach twist. “You mean, in public? Like… properly public?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know it’s a risk, but I’ve spoken to my publicist.”

Of course he had.

“She’s already drafted a statement,” he continued, voice low. “Said we can pre-empt the press interest. Make it clear we’re not hiding anything but also set a hard line.”

“And that line is?” I asked, not unkindly.

“No publishing Isla’s face. Full stop. Anyone who does gets hit with legal.”

I swallowed. “Will that actually work?”

“It’s been done before. She said if we post something ourselves a photo that shows we’re a family, without exposing too much most of the reputable outlets will follow suit. Anyone who doesn’t… well, that’s where the lawyers step in.”

I didn’t answer right away. I looked down at Isla. At her tiny hand curled around my hoodie string. She looked so peaceful, so safe.

“We can keep it lowkey,” he said gently. “We’ll take the buggy. Stay in busy areas. No big gestures, no hand-holding if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I said quietly. “I just… I never wanted her in this world.”

“I know,” he said. “But she’s my world. And I don’t want to hide that.”

I looked up at him, and for once, I didn’t see the actor. I didn’t see the tabloid fixture, the Marvel star. I saw him the man who read bedtime stories in funny voices and cried when Isla called him Daddy for the first time.

“Okay,” I said. “But we do it our way. On our terms.”

He nodded, eyes filled with something heavy and grateful. “Always.”

The next morning, the post went up.

A candid black-and-white photo of Sebastian’s hand in mine, and Isla’s tiny hand in both of ours just our fingers, nothing more. His caption read:

Family means everything to me. Please respect the privacy of our daughter. She’s not part of this industry, and she deserves to grow up without flashbulbs in her face. Thank you for your kindness and understanding.

It was short. It was heartfelt. And it worked mostly.

His publicist followed up with media contacts, reinforcing the boundaries. Within hours, our names were trending. The comments were a chaotic mix of shock, support, and inevitable speculation. But no one knew her name. No one had a clear image of her face.

And for now, that was enough.

We stepped out just before noon.

Isla was bouncing in her buggy, chattering to her toy bunny as I clipped her hat beneath her chin. Sebastian wore a hoodie pulled low and sunglasses, and I had a cap on, hair tucked behind my ears.

It wasn’t exactly a disguise. But it helped.

As soon as we reached the heart of Covent Garden, the world buzzed around us music, smells from food stalls, children laughing, buskers drawing crowds.

Sebastian wheeled the buggy while I held Isla’s snack pouch, and for a brief stretch of time, it felt normal. Ordinary.

Until I heard it the faint click of a shutter.

Then another.

He caught my eye.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… don’t leave my side.”

“Never,” he said without hesitation.

We sat at a little outdoor café, tucked behind a flower stall. Sebastian ordered coffee, I got tea and a fruit salad to share. Isla sat on his lap, pointing at pigeons and mimicking their noises, which made us both laugh more than we should’ve.

I saw a phone aimed at us from across the square. Not a pap, just someone who recognised him.

“Here it starts,” I murmured.

Sebastian didn’t flinch. He just leaned in, kissed Isla’s forehead, and whispered something to make her giggle.

“I can’t pretend this won’t happen,” he said quietly. “But I promise you I’ll handle it. You and Isla, you come first.”

I looked at him, at the little crinkle by his eyes, the way he held her like it was instinct.

“You already are,” I said, barely louder than the wind.

Later that afternoon, we wandered through the quieter side streets, stopping by a toy shop where Isla picked out a fabric book with animals and squeaky buttons. The clerk gave us a knowing smile but said nothing.

Just as we were heading home, I felt Isla tug on my wrist.

“More Daddy time?” she asked sleepily, blinking up at him from the buggy.

His expression melted.

“I’ll be around a lot more, sweet pea,” he promised. “As much as I can.”

She reached for him, and he scooped her up without hesitation.

I watched them, hand over my heart, unsure when this became our life.

By the time we got back home, Isla was already nodding off in her car seat, her little bunny clutched tight to her chest like it had been through battle with her.

Sebastian carried her up the stairs without a word, holding her with a gentleness that never failed to gut me a little. I trailed behind, carrying her bag and the folded buggy, trying to breathe out the tension I hadn’t realised I’d been holding all day.

The moment the front door shut behind us, the outside world slipped away like fog clearing from glass.

Seb gently laid Isla down in her cot, brushing her curls back with the edge of his finger. She stirred, mumbled something about “bubble man”, and rolled over, thumb making its way to her mouth.

I watched from the doorway, my arms crossed, still trying to settle the thrum beneath my ribs.

He looked up at me. “She’s okay.”

“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant to. “She’s more than okay.”

He followed me back into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa with a sigh and scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Well,” he muttered, “we survived.”

I chuckled despite myself. “Barely.”

There was a moment of quiet. Not awkward just… full. Charged.

I sat next to him, close enough to share a cushion but not quite touching. He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling.

“How are you doing?” he asked, voice gentle.

I hesitated. “I think I expected it to be worse. More invasive. But it wasn’t.”

“That’s the bar now?” he asked with a wry smile. “Not completely soul-crushing?”

I gave him a look. “It’s better than her face on a tabloid tomorrow morning.”

He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

A beat.

“I meant what I said,” he added, quieter now. “About putting you two first. This wasn’t just a PR decision. I want her to grow up feeling normal, even if nothing about this setup is.”

I bit my bottom lip, chewing on it a little. “You’re doing a good job so far. She adores you.”

His eyes warmed at that, softened in a way that made my chest ache.

“She’s… she’s everything,” he murmured.

And then he turned to me.

“And so are you, you know. I know we’ve not really talked about… whatever this is. But I notice the way you look out for her. The way you still look out for me. Even after everything.”

I swallowed, feeling the tension rise again not the anxious kind, but something else. A quiet, invisible tether tightening.

“It’s not easy,” I admitted. “Letting you back in.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared,” I said, almost in a whisper. “Not just of the press. Of us. Of opening the door again when I spent so long forcing myself to close it.”

His face fell a little, but he nodded slowly. “I get that.”

“I’m not saying never,” I added, hurriedly. “Just… not yet.”

He turned fully to face me, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers laced together.

“Then I’ll wait,” he said simply. “Whatever pace you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

The sincerity in his voice made my eyes sting.

I blinked, then cleared my throat. “Come on. Let’s have something to eat. We didn’t finish lunch, thanks to the pigeon incident.”

He laughed, that real laugh, low and breathy. “She tried to share her breadstick with it. That was pretty generous.”

I stood, walking to the kitchen, and called over my shoulder, “She gets that from me.”

Dinner was leftovers reheated pasta, garlic bread, and some roasted veg that had seen better days. But we ate at the kitchen island, still in our coats, talking about nothing and everything.

He told me about a script he was reading. I told him about Isla’s obsession with the alphabet song. We laughed when he tried to mimic her little voice and failed miserably.

And after we put the dishes in the sink and dimmed the lights, we just sat there, side by side, listening to the rain tap against the windows.

“Do you think she’ll remember today?” he asked after a while.

“Maybe not the details,” I said, resting my chin in my hand. “But she’ll remember the feeling. Of being loved. Of being safe.”

He nodded, eyes distant but full.

“I’m glad it was with you,” he murmured.

I didn’t respond not with words. But I reached out, resting my hand gently on top of his.

He looked down at the touch, then up at me, and smiled. Not the movie star smile. The real one. Quiet, a little sad, a little hopeful.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER FIVE

WARNINGS — a lot of angst!!!! rafe is a jerk and doesn’t defend the reader.

You’d been so excited.

Rafe had invited you to dinner at the country club—his world—and for once, it felt like he wasn’t keeping you hidden away. Like maybe you were important enough to be seen by the people who mattered to him.

So you spent hours getting ready, slipping into a delicate dress that made you feel elegant, dabbing perfume onto your wrists, even picking out a pair of heels that made your feet ache just standing in them. You wanted to fit in. You wanted to be good enough.

But from the moment you stepped inside, you realized how wrong you’d been.

The same group of men from before were already seated, laughing over drinks, their conversations dipping into easy arrogance. And when their eyes landed on you, their smirks turned sharp.

"Didn’t think we’d be seeing this one again," one of them mused, swirling his whiskey. "Guess she made the cut."

"For now," another chuckled, his gaze trailing over you in a way that made your stomach turn. "Can’t imagine she’s much for conversation, though. How’s she holding up, Rafe?"

Rafe barely reacted, just pulled out your chair like he hadn’t just heard them pick you apart.

"She’s fine," he said smoothly, placing a firm hand on your back as you sat down.

You forced a small smile, trying not to shrink under their scrutiny. But it only got worse.

"So, what’s she drinking tonight?" one of the men asked, flipping the menu lazily. "Let me guess—something pink and fruity?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but Rafe didn’t even give you the chance.

"She’ll have a glass of chardonnay," he said, not even glancing at you.

You hesitated. Chardonnay? You didn’t like chardonnay. But when you looked at Rafe, he just rested his hand on your thigh under the table, squeezing lightly.

A silent play along.

So you did.

"And for dinner?" the waiter asked.

You scanned the menu, searching for something safe—something you knew you’d like—but before you could say anything, Rafe spoke up again.

"She’ll have the filet, medium-rare," he said, sipping his drink.

You blinked.

You didn’t mind steak, but—medium-rare? You always ordered it well-done.

The waiter nodded, scribbling it down.

And Rafe?

Rafe didn’t even notice the way your fingers curled in your lap, the way you swallowed down your unease.

Because this was what he did, wasn’t it? This was the kind of control that used to make you feel safe. Like he knew what was best for you. Like he took care of you.

But tonight?

Tonight, it just felt wrong.

And then the teasing started.

"You know," one of them mused, "I was telling my wife about your girl the other day. Said she reminded me of my niece—collects those little dolls, what are they called?"

"Sonny Angels?" someone else supplied, smirking.

Your stomach twisted.

"That’s it," the first man laughed, shaking his head. "And those—what are they? Little animal things?"

"Calico Critters," another chuckled. "Real cute. Bet she’s got a pink princess bedroom too, huh?"

Rafe laughed.

Not a full laugh, not outright agreement—but a chuckle. A small, quiet one, like he thought it was funny too.

Your face burned.

"I mean, Jesus, Rafe," another one teased, nudging his glass toward you. "Where’d you even find this one? Babysitting gig?"

Rafe smirked. "Something like that."

Your stomach dropped.

He was joking. Just playing along. That’s what you told yourself, but—God, did it sting.

And then, as if you weren’t even there, they kept going.

"You got her drinking real cocktails yet, or is she still on the Shirley Temples?"

"Give her some credit," Rafe drawled, lifting his bourbon to his lips. "She’s learning."

Your throat felt tight.

Rafe had always teased you about your little collections, your girlish habits—but it had never felt like this. Never in front of them.

You barely tasted your drink. Barely touched your food.

And when you excused yourself to the bathroom, your hands were shaking.

You just needed a minute. A moment to breathe, to compose yourself. But as you reached the powder room, your steps halted.

The voices inside were sharp.

"God, did you see her?" one of the women scoffed. "She looks very young."

"It’s embarrassing," another said, her tone clipped. "Rafe used to have taste. Now he’s parading around some little girl with doll collections and—what did my husband say? Calico Critters?"

Laughter. Cruel, dismissive.

"I give it a month. She’ll be gone by summer."

Your vision blurred.

Heat rushed up your throat, hot and suffocating, but you forced yourself to breathe.

They didn’t matter. They didn’t know you.

But Rafe—Rafe had let this happen.

He had laughed.

The night was ruined.

And when Rafe drove you home, his hand resting lazily on the gear shift, he didn’t even notice how quiet you were.

Didn’t notice how stiffly you sat, how you avoided his touch, how your lip was caught between your teeth to keep from trembling.

"Something wrong?" he asked at one point, but it was offhanded, distracted. Like he already assumed the answer was no.

And you?

You just shook your head.

Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from crying.

—

It wasn’t until later, curled up in bed, your phone pressed to your ear, that the dam finally broke.

"He just let them say those things about me," you whispered, voice raw, hands clutching your blanket. "They were making fun of me, and he just—" Your breath hitched. "He laughed."

Your best friend didn’t even hesitate. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"And then—then I went to the bathroom, and these women—these wives of his friends—they were talking about me like I was some stupid little girl who wasn’t going to last, and—"

"Babe," your friend cut in, voice sharp with anger.

"He’s a dick. An absolute dick. He’s never deserved you, but this? No. He doesn’t get to treat you like this."

And so, without even meaning to, you started pulling away.

And Rafe?

Rafe noticed.

[goodkushnalchohol]

SAME DAMN TIME ‧₊˚ੈ mickey barnes x fem!reader. fluff / slight suggestive stuff / mickey 17 x reader / you’re an expendable / touchstarved mickey / mentions of violence / not proofread / lowercase intended

part 2..?

kenneth marshall was the biggest piece of bullshit she had ever seen in her life. it honestly made her laugh each time he’d walk into the lunch room and make the crowd erupt into cheers, who were happy to see their leader. he lost both the elections he had ran for and yet he still had so many followers that adored him - shocking really.

the only interest she had with him was the expendable program he set up on his new planet far away from earth. surprisingly enough, she signed up to be part of this program - partly because she was interested in it and partly because her office job was dragging the last of her happiness from her body.

the paperwork was long and heavy, and it took almost a week to finish reading fully, but she decided to take the leap and apply to be an expendable. handing in the application was the easy part of it, but earning the attention of all those around you in the middle of an airport was a daunting feeling.

having your body being copied for future printing was a bit of an odd feeling, but it didn’t matter anymore. and it really didn’t matter when she was planted with a gun against her head and had to shoot herself.

she did it of course, nothing really mattered to her anymore.

once their time on the ship got longer, people soon realised that she really didn’t care about what she did, and that she really was fucking reckless and careless - but that only made her more fun. her big personality on this sad ship made many people’s day, and she grew a secret admirer who wasn’t that secretive after all.

mickey watched her laugh and cry with her friends, her friend group at their regular lunch table were real funny, always laughing about something. sometimes he even found himself chuckling alongside them after overhearing a joke.

and he found himself becoming restless in his sleep the day after jennifer was crushed by that ice. he could hear her muffled sobs through the walls as she tried to sleep, and the empty seat in the lunchroom felt like an empty space in his heart.

y/n wished it was her instead of jennifer.

he could tell by the look on her face each time he saw her, it should’ve been either of them. they could be prinited out once again, but this was jennifer gone.

mickey soon found himself caring for her just a little bit more. on each mission they were sent on he made sure he was just a few steps ahead, and watched your every move with a bit more worry. he was glad he managed to get closer with her, but in this moment right now, he really wished she just ignored him like everybody else.

‘bu - but how did - why did you come back?’

her jaw was hung open and she was a blubbering mess, yet both mickeys had a slight smirk at the sight of her being so overwhelmed. mickey 18 had been printed out just this afternoon, and she wanted to pay him a small visit to see how he was doing. she really did not expect two of him.

the one of her rights seemed a lot more worried than the mickey of her left, so she payed more attention to the scared one. his hands were flailing all over the place and he kept stuttering over his every word - which made the other mickey scoff.

‘y/n i promise you, this - this was not intentional! but you cannot, you really can’t tell anyone about it!’

his hands were placed on her shoulders, holding her in place so she couldn’t run away if she tried. her brows were furrowed and she was gnawing on her bottom lip, something he really liked seeing her do. she shook free of his grip and backed up into the wall behind her, shaking her head at the two men infront of her.

‘so.. you’re mickey 17 -’ she questioned, pointing to the man directly infront of her, who nodded his head vigorously. ‘and - and you’re mickey 18?’ the second man only smirked, and dipped his head in assurance.

she covered her eyes and slid down the wall, sighing loudly at the situation at hand.

‘what are we going to do?’

mickey 18 approached her slyly, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘we could always -’ she swatted his hand away, glaring at him. ‘don’t you dare finish that sentence.’

she thought about it for a minute, listing the pros and cons of actually doing what he was insinuating. she glanced up at the two men, one stood with his hands crossed over his chest and the other leaning against the wall with a hand covering his mouth. it was simple, one was sweet, soft and caring, and the other was rough, mean and hard.

maybe it couldn’t be so bad?

[bu3ck3r]

wrapped in you

paige bueckers x reader

summary: you’re having a bad day and paige is the sweetest and cheers you up

You weren’t sure when the heaviness settled in your chest, but it had been there all day—pressing down, making everything feel dull and overwhelming. It wasn’t one specific thing, but a mix of small disappointments, stress, and exhaustion stacking up until it felt like you were sinking.

And no matter how much you tried to hide it, Paige noticed.

She always did.

It started in the morning when she caught you staring off into space at breakfast, your spoon lazily stirring your cereal until it went soggy. Then at lunch, when you barely touched your food, only offering a half-hearted smile when she asked if you were okay.

By the time you were curled up on the couch in the afternoon, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, she had seen enough.

Paige plopped down next to you, resting her chin on your shoulder. “Alright, what’s up?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Paige poked your side gently. “You’ve been in a funk all day. Talk to me.”

You sighed, shrugging. “It’s nothing.”

Paige wasn’t buying it. “Baby, you can’t fool me.”

You chewed your lip, debating whether to just brush it off again. But the way Paige was looking at you—soft but serious, like she wasn’t going to let this go—made it hard to keep up the act.

“I just feel… off,” you admitted finally. “Like everything is too much, and I don’t even know why.”

Paige was quiet for a moment before shifting closer, putting your legs on her thighs. She reached for your hand, running her thumb over your knuckles in slow, comforting strokes.

“That’s okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to explain it if you don’t know how. But you don’t have to deal with it alone either.”

Something in your chest loosened slightly. Paige always had a way of making you feel understood, even when you didn’t understand yourself.

But the heaviness was still there, lingering like a storm cloud.

Paige studied you for a beat before standing up abruptly.

“Okay, we’re fixing this,” she declared.

You frowned, confused. “Fixing what?”

“Your mood,” she said matter-of-factly. “Stay right there. I have a plan.”

Before you could protest, she disappeared into the bedroom, leaving you sitting there, bewildered. A few minutes later, she returned, her arms full—blankets, her hoodie, a bag of your favorite snacks, and even her laptop balanced precariously on top.

You couldn’t help but smile a little. “What are you doing?”

“I want to cheer up my favorite person ,” she announced proudly. She draped the hoodie over your lap first. “Put this on.”

You rolled your eyes but slipped the oversized hoodie over your head anyway. It smelled like her—like fresh laundry and vanilla, warm and familiar.

Paige grinned when she saw you relax slightly. She threw a blanket over both of you, pulling you close so you were practically in her lap. “No escaping. You’re officially trapped.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously good at making you feel better? Yeah, I know,” she said smugly.

You rolled your eyes, but Paige caught the way your lips twitched into the tiniest smile.

She handed you a bag of your favorite chips before opening her laptop. “We can watch a movie, or I can show you funny TikToks, or we can talk about something completely random. Your choice.”

You hesitated before murmuring, “Can we just stay like this for a bit?”

Paige’s expression softened. “Of course.”

She wrapped her arms around you, holding you close as you rested your head against her shoulder. She didn’t try to force you to talk or pretend everything was fine. She just stayed there, warm and steady, letting you take whatever comfort you needed.

After a few minutes, she started absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair. “You know,” she mused, “whenever I have a bad day—like when my shots aren’t falling, or I feel like I’m not doing enough—I try to remind myself of the good things. The little things that make everything worth it.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious. “Like what?”

Paige smiled, her fingers still tracing soothing patterns in your hair. “Like how my dad always texts me before every game. Or how the team hypes each other up even on our worst days. Or…” She paused, her smile turning softer. “Or how you always wait up for me, even when you’re tired. And how you steal my hoodies but somehow make them look better than I do.”

You let out a quiet laugh, your chest feeling just a little lighter.

Paige nudged you playfully. “See? Smiling already. My plan is working.”

“You’re something else i swear” you murmured.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot,” she said dramatically. Then, in a softer voice, “But seriously… I love you. And I’m always gonna be here, even when you’re feeling off.”

Your throat tightened—not with sadness this time, but with gratitude. Paige didn’t need grand gestures or fancy words to make you feel loved. She just knew you. Understood you. And that was enough.

You squeezed her hand. “I love you too.”

Paige grinned. “I know.”

You groaned, nudging her. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before turning her laptop screen toward you. “Alright, since you didn’t pick a distraction, I’m putting on a rom-com, and you have to deal with it.”

You shook your head but didn’t protest. Paige hit play, and soon enough, the movie was filling the room with cheesy dialogue and over-the-top romance.

But your focus wasn’t on the screen. It was on Paige—the way she absentmindedly played with your fingers, the way she laughed at all the dumb jokes, the way she kept sneaking glances at you like she was making sure you were okay.

And somehow, without you even realizing it, the heaviness that had weighed you down all day didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

It didn’t fix everything. But sitting there, wrapped up in Paige’s warmth, her heartbeat steady against your ear, you realized something important.

Even on the hardest days, you weren’t alone.

And that was enough.

@melpthatsme hope u like it!

[mononijikayu]

good old–fashioned lover boy — fushiguro megumi.

“Hey, Megumi?” you asked suddenly, your tone unusually serious. He sighed, bracing himself. “What?” “I like you.” His brain short-circuited. His hand jerked, and his ice cream wobbled dangerously on its cone. "Huh?"

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of feminine pronouns, post-shinjuku showdown, post-hidden inventory arc, aged up fushiguro megumi, fluff, friends to lovers, romance, romantic relationship, pet names (babe, megs, kiddo, cactus, etc), humor, teasing, light-hearted, healthy relationship, being in love, slice of life, domestic life, living together, friendship, family, anxiety, self-doubt, encouragement, depictions of anxiety, depiction of healthy relationship, depiction of self-doubt, sorcerer! megumi, gojo! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7k words

NOTE: this went through so much adding, removing and editing cause i kept adding so much and i didn't want this to be something that was too long, considering i want people to not be impatient with me too,,,,,in any case, megumi beat his dad in the last poll season for valentines special which is funny but no worries, toji will appear in the 2.5k follower special!!! in any case, i hope you enjoy this, even a little bit. i love you all so much!!! <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

buono san valentino, 2025;

══════════════════

HE NEVER THOUGHT HE WOULD EVER GET TO THIS POINT. Even when he was young, he wondered what love really looked like. At least of what he could remember of it, he knows. He wasn’t an expert on love, per se.

But he had seen and experienced so many versions of it, each one different from the last, all passing through his rather short life one after the other. 

Some of it was truly a memory that would be worth forgetting, too messy and too complicated, tangled up in unspoken words and distance, yet still undeniably present. Others felt like they belonged to live forever, with its genuine warmth and its eager simplicity, yet always just out of reach. 

When he thinks about both of them, it feels like sunlight slipping through his fingers, like a home he could see but never fully step into. It was hard to express these feelings sometimes, because at times he doesn’t know if any words can encapsulate such overabundance and its extremes. He thinks about it often, how love can take on so many forms. 

How it can be obnoxiously proud and boisterously loud,like Gojo Satoru’s laughter echoing through any room when they’re together, or dazzlingly silent and resiliently tender, like the way his sister Tsumiki used to squeeze his hand just to let him know she was there when his father left.

Love can look a lot like sacrifice, like choosing someone else over yourself. It was just that way to him when you love someone. It can be fleeting, burning bright and disappearing before you ever get the chance to hold onto it.

And just as much, love has many colors, many words, many textures. It can be the rough scrape of bandages being wrapped around bruised knuckles, or the soft hush of a whispered be careful. 

It can be the weight of someone's winter coat draped over his shoulders when he didn’t even realize he was cold. It can be the exhaustion in someone’s voice when they say I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me—even when they clearly aren’t, even when they want to say it out loud.

For a long time, Fushiguro Megumi thought love was something you had to earn. He always thought that it was something you had to be worthy of in order to gain. That if you weren’t good enough, strong enough, or needed enough, it would slip away, leaving nothing but empty space where it once existed.

For as long as he could remember, Megumi carried a gnawing doubt within him. He couldn’t help it. There was a certainty in his soul that love was something distant, always out of reach.

No matter how much he was reminded he mattered, that doubt lingered like a shadow at the edges of his heart. He didn’t know where it came from exactly, only that it had burrowed deep inside, whispering that he was undeserving.

At times, he wondered if love was something some people were simply never born to have. Maybe it was a gift reserved for those with a past worth cherishing or a future worth hoping for.

He had neither. He didn’t even know how he had come into this world or who he was meant to be. How could someone who didn’t know themselves be worthy of love?

But then in his doubt, came the truth and that was named you.

You who was like the meteorite that crashed on his Earth.

You who was the universe he found himself alive for the first time.

And suddenly, the thought of love, the very word, feels like something else entirely. The word somehow finally made sense. Something he doesn’t have to chase or fight for.

Something that stays. Something that holds his hand and meets him where he is, rather than waiting for him to catch up. And more than ever, his heart felt full of warmth in the spring of love.

Fushiguro Megumi never expected to find love’s truth, not like this. And certainly not with someone like you. The two of you were just too different, especially when you were children. He didn’t understand why Gojo Satoru thought that it would be a good idea for you both to meet. 

He was all quiet brooding and thoughtful stares, while you were a storm of energy and laughter, moving through life like gravity itself. Megumi could easily remember the first time Gojo Satoru introduced you both when you were children.

You were Gojo’s little niece, his only one and since he and Tsumiki were the only kids around your age, he thought it would be wise for you to meet them, especially Megumi.

But what was premonition on Gojo Satoru’s part was that the two were destined to be best friends. Though back then, he looked at him with a weird look that could only be akin to a cat’s soured frown.

What was Gojo about? Megumi couldn’t help thinking. And why does he keep talking about it with a grin on his face? I don’t even know the kid.

"You'll love her, Megumi!" Gojo grinned, ruffling his dark hair with an obnoxiously affectionate hand. "She's just like me—minus the blindingly handsome part."

Megumi scowled, swatting Gojo's hand away. "That sounds like a nightmare."

Gojo gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "A nightmare? Me? You wound me, kid."

"Good." Megumi muttered.

Gojo chuckled, unfazed. "Seriously though, she's great. Full of energy, adventurous, charming—"

"Loud." Megumi deadpanned.

"You're not wrong, kid." Gojo admitted with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "But that just means she’ll bring some excitement into your broody little life. Trust me, it'll be fun!"

"Your definition of fun is questionable." Megumi muttered.

Before he could come up with a decent excuse to escape this impending chaos, Gojo Satoru stops at one of the massive wooden buildings around the gardens. Fushiguro Megumi could not mentally prepare as you came barreling around the corner, waving enthusiastically towards the,.

"Uncle Satoru!" you shouted gleefully, sprinting toward them.

"There's my favorite niece!" Gojo grinned, catching you in a playful spin before setting you down. 

You giggled. “But I’m your only niece!”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite, sweets.” He ruffles your hair too, eliciting another giggle from you. "Hey, sweets, I came with a visitor. This is Megumi. He's about your age, and I'm officially declaring you two best friends starting now."

"Best friends?" you tilted your head, scrutinizing Megumi like he was some science experiment. "He looks grumpy, uncle Satoru."

Megumi crossed his arms, his expression flat. "And you look annoying."

Your face scrunched into an exaggerated pout. "And you look like a cactus."

Gojo, who had been sipping from a juice box like some oversized child, promptly choked and burst into uncontrollable laughter. "Oh, I love this already. Besties immediately!" he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "You two are gonna be perfect together."

Megumi's brows furrowed. "What does that even mean?"

"Cactus vibes." you said confidently, tapping your chin. "Tall, spiky, and grumpy."

"I am not grumpy." he protested, though his tone only made your point stronger.

"And yet here we are, cactus!" you quipped with a cheeky grin.

Gojo cackled, slinging an arm around Megumi's shoulders. "You are kinda cactus-y, kid. But hey, she’s got the sunshine to balance you out. You might even grow a flower or something."

Megumi sighed in defeat. "I don’t need metaphors from you of all people."

"Don’t worry, cactus boy." you grinned, poking his arm. "I like a challenge."

"Great." Megumi muttered under his breath. "Now I’m stuck with a loud weirdo and a lunatic white haired old guy."

Gojo clapped his hands together triumphantly. "See? This is friendship in the making."

Megumi glared at both of you, but Gojo’s laughter and your bright smile made it hard to hold on to the scowl. Maybe Gojo wasn’t entirely wrong—though he wasn’t about to admit that anytime soon. Not just yet. He wasn’t one to give in just because there was space for it. 

Megumi sighed, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Disaster?" you grinned wickedly. "Sounds fun!"

Gojo clapped his hands together, beaming. "See? Told ya you'd love her."

Megumi grimaced. "I'm already doubting that."

From the start of you two starting to play together, you easily grated his nerves. He hated how loud you were, hated how you always seemed to find trouble at every turn, and somehow, at every sudden thought you had, you easily managed to drag him into it too.

And that was perhaps the most infuriating part: he hated how effortlessly you pulled him into your orbit. But the truth was, he never really hated you at all. He liked you, genuinely and deeply, in a way that bewildered him. He just didn’t understand it back then.

"Come on, Megumi! Don’t be boring!" you'd whine, tugging insistently on his arm as a mischievous glint sparked in your eyes. "Help me put these fart pillows on their chairs!"

Megumi stared at you, deadpan. "You're going to get us both in trouble."

You waved off his concern like it was a pesky fly. "Trouble? Nah. It'll be hilarious. Just picture it with a very vivid imagination. The Gojo elders, all serious and proper, sitting down to a pfft! symphony. Priceless!"

"I like being boring." he grumbled, firmly rooted in place even as his feet betrayed him by inching forward.

"No, you pretend to like being boring, Megs." you shot back confidently, dragging him along despite his weak protests. "Deep down, you’re just waiting for me to show you how fun life can be."

Megumi sighed heavily. "You have an overactive imagination."

"And you have underdeveloped prank skills." you retorted with a grin, tossing him one of the cushions. "Come on, you're already in this. May as well go all in."

He stared at the cushion in his hand, weighing the likelihood of Gojo elders delivering a stern lecture versus the small, treacherous part of him that was curious about their reactions.

"Fine." he muttered, resigning himself to chaos. "But if we get caught, this was your idea."

"Deal!" you grinned triumphantly. "Now, put that under the grumpiest elder's seat. It'll be poetic."

Megumi couldn't suppress the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he followed your lead. Chaos was inevitable, but with you, it was never boring—and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind that so much.

“You’re always scowling, do you notice?” you teased, nudging his shoulder. “But I’m pretty sure you don’t actually hate me, y'know.”

Megumi rolled his green-blue eyes. “That’s debatable.”

“Oh please, you’re basically glued to me at this point.”

“You glue yourself to me.” he countered, lips twitching despite himself.

“Admit it, Megs!" you grinned. "You like me.”

He sighed, long and exaggerated, like he was being asked to move a mountain rather than admit his feelings. "Maybe." he muttered under his breath, the word barely audible.

But it was enough for you. Your entire face lit up, your grin brighter than Gojo's sunglasses on a summer day. "Is that a maybe from Megumi? I'll take it!"

He groaned inwardly, already regretting his choice of words. 

But the warmth spreading through his chest betrayed him. 

Perhaps, the truth is that there was no maybe about it.

And over time, as the days blurred into years and you remained firmly by his side, continuing to drag him into your schemes when he came around the Gojo manor, making him laugh when he least expected it, and somehow softening his rough edges. He would have figured it out. There were more words for you than just like.

It hit him one afternoon during a clan gathering. The elders were droning on about something he wasn't paying attention to, but his green-blue orbs were somehow trained on you, standing across the garden path, animated as always. 

Then he showed up.

That stupid clan boy with a perfectly styled ponytail and a smug look that Megumi immediately decided he hated.

Megumi's eyes harshly narrowed as the boy leaned in, all charming confidence, and reached for your delicate hand. He watched as your fingers slid easily into the boy's, and something inside him snapped. Something he never expected to be inside him whatsoever.

"Nope." Megumi muttered under his breath, already stalking across the garden before he could think better of it.

You blinked in surprise as Fushiguro Megumi suddenly appeared beside you, his strong hand suddenly and possessively wrapping around your own hand, pulling it free from his new enemy, the Ponytail Boy's grip. 

"Hey, I was talking to her, you punk." Ponytail Boy protested.

"She's busy." Megumi said flatly, not even sparing the guy a glance.

"I am?" you blinked up at him, amused.

"Yeah. With me."

You bit back a laugh, warmth blooming in your chest as you squeezed his hand. "Well, when you put it like that..."

As Ponytail Boy slunk away, clearly outmatched by Megumi's sheer intensity, you grinned up at him. "Jealous much?"

"No." he said far too quickly, his ears turning an undeniable shade of pink.

You beamed. "Adorable."

"You're imagining things." he grumbled, but his grip on your hand remained firm.

And in that moment, without needing to say a word, you both knew: there was never a maybe. Not for him, not when it came to you.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day, 2017.

This was a day that was already testing Fushiguro Megumi’s patience with all the pink balloons, heart-shaped everything, and couples everywhere. It was hard enough that he felt these possibly one–sided feelings for you. But now he had to be confronted with the idea of love once again. And he hated it. He hated it too much.

The only reason he’s bearing with all of it was that you had urged him to meet up because you wanted ice–cream. And for the first time in a long time, you were allowed to leave the confines of Gojo Manor, to visit your uncle in Tokyo. And by extension, hang out with him.

The two of you sat on a park bench, quietly enjoying your cones under the peak of the beam of the persistent sun. Well, he was trying to enjoy his, but you kept sneaking bites from him despite having your own. And he could not for the life of him stop taking glances at you with these eyes of his.

“Hey, Megumi?” you asked suddenly, your tone unusually serious.

He sighed, bracing himself. “What?”

“I like you.”

His brain short-circuited. His hand jerked, and his ice cream wobbled dangerously on its cone. "Huh?"

“I said.” you grinned, clearly enjoying his reaction, “I like you. Like like-like you.”

Megumi blinked, as though processing your words required advanced calculus. “Is this... is this because it’s Valentine’s Day? Like some weird theme confession? Is this some stupid prank from you?”

You laughed. “No, dummy. I just thought today was as good a day as any to tell you."

He stared at you, his heart doing some chaotic drum solo against his ribs. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you teased, leaning closer. “That’s it? Just oh?”

Megumi huffed, looking away as if the pigeons nearby were suddenly fascinating. “I... I guess I like you too.”

You gasped dramatically. “Oh my gosh, was that a confession? Did Megumi Fushiguro just confess his feelings, romantically?”

“Stop making it weird, you dummy.” he grumbled, ears turning bright red.

“Too late!” you beamed, nudging his arm. “We’re totally counting that as your confession. Mark it in the history books: Valentine’s Day, 2017, Megumi Fushiguro admitted he likes me!”

He groaned. “I should’ve dropped my ice cream and run when I had the chance.”

“But you didn’t.” you teased, bumping his shoulder.

“No." he muttered, hiding a small, reluctant smile. "I didn’t."

And so began Fushiguro Megumi’s unexpected, often confusing, and undeniably heartfelt adventure to understand love.

Love, as it turned out, wasn’t some abstract ideal or distant fairy tale — it was you, standing right in front of him, messy and beautiful in all your chaotic brilliance. Love was shaped by you, and to him, that made it the most perfect thing he could ever hope for.

But he had to be honest: it wasn’t easy. And it will never be easy.

He struggled with it more than he cared to admit. Love wasn’t just about keeping you safe, though his protective instincts always flared when you tripped into trouble. It wasn’t just quiet affection either, where he'd stand in the background making sure you had space to shine. Love wasn’t just comfort found in familiar silences, though he cherished those too.

No, love was new.

Love was terrifying.

Love demanded vulnerability and bravery in ways that battles never did. Because of this love, his heart would stutter when you smiled at him, catching him off guard like a punch he never saw coming.

It made his chest ache in a strange, bittersweet way when you were upset — as though he carried your burdens alongside his own. It made him want to try, even when his instincts told him to retreat into silence.It made him want to be someone worthy of that love, someone who would stay, despite the part of him that feared he never could.

It’s in the little things, the moments that are easy to overlook if you’re not paying close attention. But when you do, when you really see him, it’s impossible to miss the depth of his love. And you tell him each time, you adore it. Everything about it was perfect.

It’s the way he loves you in the quietest and yet loudest way all at once so beautifully. It’s in the way he waits for you after class, leaning casually against a wall, trying to look indifferent, but you know—you always know—he’s been there for much longer than he lets on. 

It’s the way he keeps track of your favorite snacks, the ones you forget to buy when you’re too busy with school, work, or whatever else life throws at you. And when you’re rushing out the door, he slips them into your bag with a quiet, almost invisible smile. No words, just a simple gesture of care that makes you feel like the most important person in the world.

It’s in the way he insists on walking on the side of the road closest to the street, always positioning himself between you and the traffic like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brushes against yours, ever so lightly, but there’s a promise there—a silent vow of protection, of never letting anything bad happen to you if he can help it.

It’s in the way he takes off his uniform coat on a chilly evening when he visits you and presses it against your own body, his eternal warmth enveloping you like a shield against the winter cold. The way his hands linger just a little longer than necessary, his fingers grazing your skin in a way that speaks volumes about how much he cares.

And it’s not just in the little things. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet way he listens when you talk about everything that’s on your mind, even the things you think are too insignificant to mention.

You could ramble on for minutes, spilling out thoughts, worries, and stories, and he’ll just stand there, eyes blossoming with affection, his attention never wavering. 

He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer unsolicited advice. He just listens to you. Just truly listens to you, as though he truly wants to understand you, to carry your thoughts for you if he can. To make sure that he holds your thoughts as closely as you do his.

It’s in the rare moments when he’s vulnerable, those quiet admissions that sneak out when he thinks you’re not paying attention. The way his gaze softens when he talks about his past, about how he’s learned to trust you.

It’s in the way his hand finds yours when you least expect it. Sometimes just a brush of fingers, other times a firm grip that says I’m here, no questions asked.

And there’s the way he tries to make you smile when he knows you’ve had a bad day. He doesn’t have to try hard, because you know the secret behind his subtle humor, his dry wit. Just a look from him can turn the world back to normal, like the simple fact that you’re together is enough to make everything right again.

And in those little moments, your heart beats faster—over and over again.

Somehow, each moment, each time was louder with love than the last.

It was easy to see how much he loved you and only you.

Of course, Fushiguro Megumi isn’t great with words, you know that much. He’s told you from the very beginning. But he’s never needed to say much, because he always shows you. Actions meant more to you.

So, he makes sure, without fail, to let you feel his devotion, every single time. Even when his words falter or he stumbles on his feelings, that doesn’t matter much to you. 

The way he loves you is almost a quiet rebellion against everything he's known about himself, about what he knows love, that was enough to turn the world upside down. Fushiguro Megumi’s never been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve and even with you, it causes him a lot of grief. 

Fushiguro Megumi adores you, much more than he could ever hope. And just as much, he feels like he fails at it. At least that’s how he feels about it. He thinks he just can’t help it.

He can’t help but feel like his actions are not enough, that his sleeve isn’t wearing your heart close to him. It’s like he’s falling short of being someone worthy of you, when you do so much for him.

Sometimes, it feels like no matter what he does, it isn’t enough. It frustrates him, gnaws at him late at night when he stares at the ceiling, wondering if he loves you enough, if he shows it enough.

Because you make it look so easy. You laugh when you’re happy, you say I love you so freely, and you never hesitate to pull him into a hug, or press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He wants to be more proactive, just like you. He wants to be as good as you when it comes to love. But he’s stiff. Awkward. Someone who is a little too rough around the edges, perhaps even more than that.

It’s not that he doesn’t love you, he does, so much it terrifies him. Yet he struggles with what words to use or would those words be enough.It had been years. 

"You know…." he grumbled, leaning against a wall and watching you laugh at something Maki said. "I wish I could just... I don’t know, tell her I love her. Like a normal person."

Nobara raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips. "Normal? Megumi, you are literally the least normal person I know, and that’s saying something."

"Hey!" Yuuji protested, nudging her. "You can’t say that about our bro. He’s a classic kind of weird."

Nobara ignored him. "So what’s the problem? You’ve been dating her for years now. I’m pretty sure you’re closer to marriage now. How have you not told her you love her yet?"

Megumi squirmed, tapping his foot awkwardly. "I don’t know. It’s just... I can’t make it sound right. I’m not... loud enough, you know?"

Yuuji snorted. "Bro, are you telling me you can't even shout ‘I love you’ in her face like a normal person?"

"Yuuji!" Nobara scolded, glaring at him. "This is Megumi we’re talking about. He’s more of a ‘grumble in the corner’ kind of guy. Or you know, ‘act it out like a mime if I can’t say it out loud’ sort of guy."

Megumi just groaned. "Exactly! I can’t just scream it! That’s...weird, right?"

Nobara crossed her arms. "You’re seriously telling me you can’t even try? I mean, look at her!" She pointed at you as you walked over, still in your own world. "She’s practically begging for you to shout it out loud!"

Megumi shot her a side-eye. "She is not begging for anything."

"I mean, I’m just saying, Megumi." Yuuji shrugged. "The guy who practically glows around his girlfriend could definitely manage a 'Hey, I love you!' without coming off as weird."

"I don’t glow." Megumi muttered, but he was starting to feel the heat creeping up his neck.

Nobara clapped him on the back. "Okay, look, here’s what you do: You. Take a deep breath. And then—" She paused, putting her hands together in a mock prayer. "You say it loud and proud: 'I love you! You're my sunshine! You’re the ketchup to my fries! The soy sauce to my sushi!' You get it?"

"That’s not what I’m trying to say at all." Megumi protested, now totally flustered.

"Come on, just let it out!" Yuuji grinned, his energy bouncing off the walls. "You love her, right? Then scream it from the top of your lungs!" He pulled out a random megaphone from his bag. "I’ll even provide the sound effects!"

"Yuuji, I swear to—"

"Just... just say it however you feel comfortable." Nobara interrupted with a knowing look. "But maybe—maybe—try something that doesn’t sound like you're reading from a self-help book, yeah?"

Megumi took a deep breath, hands still sweaty. "I don't even know if I can—"

"You totally can, I know you can!" Yuuji encouraged, giving him a thumbs-up. "Just say it, man! Use songs, do whatever. Just tell her out loud! Think about it like it's a movie moment! Gotta go big!”

Megumi had their words in his head all day and now it was simmering too long. He couldn’t help but look at you for a moment. You’re sitting beside him on the couch, leaning into his side as you scroll through your phone, checking what to buy for your mom’s birthday.

The sound of the television hums in the background, playing a show neither of you are really watching. The warmth of your presence should be comforting, but it only makes his heart heavier with the weight of everything he wants to say.

He steals a glance at you. The way your lips are slightly parted in concentration, the soft glow of the screen illuminating your features. And god, he loves you. He just does, too much, too overwhelmingly. But the words get stuck in his throat, trapped behind the walls he hasn’t quite learned how to break down.

Still, he tries.

You know he does.

That’s why you love him.

Your good–old fashioned lover boy.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I—uh, you know I—”

You blink up at him, amused. “Are you having a stroke, babe?”

“No.” he grumbles, ears already turning red. “I’m trying to say something.”

“Oh?” You set your phone down, tilting your head. “Then say it.”

Megumi swallows, his body somehow tense. He can feel the words clogging his throat, his mind screaming at him to just get it over with. Megumi looks at you, nervously, his face red from it all. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You can see the way he shifts his weight like he’s debating whether this was a terrible idea. (It probably is, he thinks. Overwhelmingly, to be sure).

But still, for some reason—maybe insanity, maybe the way you’re looking at him so expectantly. Yet, he decides to go through with it anyway. If he bombs, you’ll laugh and that would be worth it too.

Clearing his throat, he mutters. “I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things.”

You blink at him, your head tilting slightly. “Huh?”

He’s already regretting it, but at this point, he can’t just stop. His voice is a little lower now, more hesitant, but he continues, “We can do the tango just for two.”

Now you’re really confused. Your brows furrow, and he can see the gears turning in your head, trying to piece together what exactly he’s saying. But he keeps going, voice a little stiffer, a little more awkward than before. Almost instantly, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.

“I can serenade and gently play on your heartstrings.”

And then finally—it clicks for you.

Your lips part slightly before curling into a slow, amused smile.

“Ah.” you hum, crossing your arms. “So Queen’s lyrics are your idea of romance poetry, babe?”

Megumi tenses like he’s been caught doing something unspeakably embarrassing, his entire face burning. “It’s not—” he starts, before cutting himself off with a frustrated sigh. “You know what, never mind.” 

He shakes his head, looking utterly done with himself, already gearing up to escape this moment entirely. But before he can retreat into his usual brooding silence, you reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. He freezes at the warmth of your touch, and when he looks back at you, you’re grinning, eyes twinkling with delight.

“No, no. I love it, babe.” you say, squeezing his hand. And then, with that playful glint in your eye, like when you were kids. It was the one that made his heart do something stupid. You continue. “I mean, I can also be your Valentino just for you.”

Megumi stares at you, utterly dumbfounded. For a second, he looks like he’s buffering, as if his brain is refusing to process what just happened. And then, finally, he groans, dragging a hand down his scarlet colored face. “I hate you.”

You burst into laughter, tugging him a little closer. “No, you don’t.”

And the worst part? You’re right. 

Because despite the sheer, soul-crushing embarrassment consuming him, despite everything in his being telling him he should never have attempted this in the first place, he doesn’t let go of your hand. No matter what, he had to hold your hand, even if he was using his other one to hide his red face.

Fushiguro Megumi exhales sharply, his fingers twitching in your grasp as if debating whether to pull away or hold on tighter. He settles for something in between—keeping his hand in yours but looking anywhere but at you, like that might save him from further humiliation. 

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” he mutters, his voice flat but laced with unmistakable exasperation.

You grin, squeezing his hand. “Oh, absolutely.”

Megumi groans, dropping his head back against the couch dramatically, like he’s hoping the universe will take pity on him and make this all go away. But the universe, as it often does when it comes to you, seems to have other plans.

Not only are you still holding onto him, your fingers intertwined so snugly. But you’re also swaying your linked hands gently, like you’re encouraging him to dance. He sighs deeply, a mixture of annoyance and amusement in his voice.

“You’re seriously not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope, never.” you answer, grinning, your voice light and teasing. “Was the idea from Yuuji? Or was it Nobara?”

“How did you—”

You giggled. “Who else is going to make you do something like this and thinks it would work?”

He groans at you, shaking his head. “Look, I was desperate. And it just….”

“It did work, you know.” You say to him, flicking his hand with your fingers. A big smile on your face. “Your message was well received.”

“......Was it really?” He could feel his heart pounding hard against his chest.

You nodded happily. “It did. Though, I have to say…..I thought we were doing the tango just for two. Are you backing out now, Mr. Lover Boy?”

Megumi’s eyes snap open at your words, and he immediately narrows them at you, clearly ready to refuse. “We are not—”

But it’s too late.

In a swift motion, you’re already standing, tugging him up with you, not giving him a chance to protest. You can’t help but laugh at the way he stumbles slightly, thrown off balance for just a second before he catches himself, his eyes wide in a mix of surprise and disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” he mutters, a scowl pulling at his lips as he steadies himself, trying to hold onto what little pride he has left. His shoulders are tense, like he’s trying to act annoyed, but you can see the corner of his lips twitching as if he’s fighting back a reluctant smile.

You tilt your head, still grinning. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta drag you out of your shell every now and then, right?”

Megumi huffs, looking at you like he’s been cornered, but there’s no real anger in his eyes. He’s already giving in, whether he likes it or not. His hands hover at his sides for a moment before one of them moves to hold yours more firmly, as if to say he’s not completely defeated yet.

“Fine, fine.” he grumbles, finally giving in, his voice soft but with a hint of warmth creeping through. “But don’t expect me to make this look good.”

You give him an exaggerated pout. “Aww, I have high hopes for you, babe. I think you’ll be a natural.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable softness in his gaze now. The usually guarded Fushiguro Megumi is slipping away, replaced by the version of him that’s willing to indulge you, even if it means he’ll probably trip over his own feet a few times.

“Yeah, right.” he mutters, but his hand tightens around yours, and just for a second, he lets go of his usual serious demeanor.

“And you’re blushing.” you point out smugly.

He immediately looks away, ears burning. “No, I’m not.”

You chuckle, stepping a little closer, resting your free hand lightly against his shoulder. “You are. But that’s okay.” you say, voice softening just enough to make his heart stutter. “It’s cute.”

Megumi grumbles something incoherent under his breath, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip on your hand tightens. For a moment, there’s just the two of you, just eager to be standing close to one another.

Your bodies sway slightly, wrapped up in something that feels light and easy and warm. It’s embarrassing, but somehow, it’s also nice. All too nice.

After a beat of silence, you tilt your head, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes. “So… does this mean you’re more of a Somebody to Love kind of guy? Or just a Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy?” You pause for effect, smirking. “Are you gonna take me to a club, or to the Ritz?”

Megumi freezes for a second, caught off guard by your incessant teasing. The edges of his prominent cheeks quickly go a little pink to cherry red, and he looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how to answer without sounding completely ridiculous.

“I—I’m not, uh…” He stammers, waving his hand dismissively, clearly flustered. “I’m not a Queen fan, okay? I just—” He trails off, suddenly aware that he’s over-explaining. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

You snicker, leaning in just a little closer, your voice teasing but warm. “You sure about that, Megumi?”

“My name is babe.” His eyes dart around, like he’s hoping for an escape, but then his gaze flicks to you, and he slumps in defeat. “Also…. I don’t really know. You’re a Queen fan. But I’m not a Queen fan, alright?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him, pretending to analyze him like he’s some kind of puzzle. “Okay, then. So tell me, what about Weezer?”

He blinks, a confused frown pulling at his lips. “What? What does Weezer have to do with this?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” you tease. “Except the fact that you’re practically obsessed with their music. You do listen to Buddy Holly and Say It Ain’t So on repeat, right? I mean just Island in the Sun alone, babe…..”

Megumi’s face flushes an even deeper shade of red, and he clears his throat uncomfortably. “I—I like their music. That doesn’t mean…”

You’re grinning now, enjoying his discomfort. “That doesn’t mean what? That you don’t like romantic stuff?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but the words don’t come out. Instead, he just huffs, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of his cool demeanor. “Weezer’s not romantic.”

You raise your hand in mock surrender, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “Oh, sure, just a bunch of songs about heartbreak, longing, and that old-school, angsty vibe. Totally not romantic.”

“Shut up.” he mutters, looking away and crossing his arms in his typical brooding fashion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I do, I do, Mr. Fushiguro Megumi.”

He looks at you again, frowning. “Why are you calling me by my name? Aren’t I babe?”

You can’t help but laugh, a light sound that makes him glance back at you, half-exasperated and half-amused. “I’m just saying, babe.” you continue, poking his chest with a finger. “If you love Weezer, you’re basically guaranteed to love romantic stuff too. You might not admit it, but it’s in there, just waiting to come out.”

He groans, dropping his face into his hands, embarrassed and defeated. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re cute when you get all defensive.” you tease, giving him a gentle nudge. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna force you to do some big romantic gesture… yet. But I can see it, babe. Deep down, I know you’ve got it in you.”

He sighs, not bothering to fight it anymore. “Whatever.”

You can’t help but grin, your heart light and warm from the back-and-forth. The teasing, the playfulness. This was just on brand. It feels like an easy rhythm between you two, like a dance he didn’t expect to enjoy but now can’t help but follow. You’ve gotten under his skin in the best way possible, and the connection is undeniable.

“No, seriously.” you say, your voice softening, letting the playfulness slip away just enough to let something deeper surface. “It’s okay, babe. Don’t worry about it. You’re just what you are. And I love that. You don’t have to hide that from me.”

Your boyfriend doesn’t say anything. For a moment, the world around you seems to still. The playful air between you two quiets for just a beat, and in that space, Megumi shifts slightly, as if he’s considering something deeper than just the teasing.

His gaze softens, and for the first time, there’s no defensiveness in it. It’s genuine. It’s a look that tells you he’s letting his guard down, just a little.

And then, for once, he doesn’t try to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. It’s subtle, almost shy, but it’s there. The kind of smile that says he’s not perfect, but he’s trying. And that, in itself, makes your heart swell. Your grin can’t help but grow wider. You’re winning.

“Besides, babe….” you add, your voice teasing but affectionate. “You’re romantic. You’re my lover boy, aren’t you?”

Megumi freezes, and the light in his blue-green orbs slowly shifts. There was a mix of disbelief and amusement, like he’s trying to process the words you just threw at him. His face flushes, and he rubs the back of his neck, clearly caught off guard.

“Fine.” He sighs, the word heavy with resignation. “Maybe… maybe I’m not totally immune to it. Being…being your lover boy.”

You raise your eyebrows, giving him a teasing glance. “Oh? So it’s true?”

“Only…” His voice drops slightly, like he’s about to admit something that feels too vulnerable for him. He shifts again, looking away from you, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Hm?” You nudge him, your voice light, but there’s a warmth in it now, something that makes his heart stumble a little.

“Only because I really like—”

You raise a hand quickly, cutting him off with a playful wag of your finger. “Uh, uh. It’s the other word.”

Megumi’s eyes widen as the weight of what you mean hits him. He swallows hard, visibly embarrassed now. “Yeah, yeah. I… I love you.”

The words hang between you two for a moment, and your grin spreads wider, your heart fluttering with an almost childlike joy. “Much better, lover boy.” you say, your voice soft but full of satisfaction, like you’ve finally heard the thing you’ve been waiting to hear for so long. 

Megumi huffs, his face still pink, but his posture loosens just a bit. You can feel the tension in him fading, the part of him that has always held back just a little, a part that he didn’t know how to let go of, finally giving in to what he truly feels.

You chuckle, stepping closer and giving his hand a playful squeeze. “I knew it. Deep down, I knew you were a softie all along. A softie I love.”

Megumi grumbles, rolling his eyes dramatically, but there’s no real heat behind it. His cheeks are still a little flushed, and his lips twitch like he’s trying to hide a smile. His voice drops to something quieter, almost tender, as he mutters. “Shut up.”

You grin even wider, brushing your shoulder lightly against his. “Aww, look at that. I made you all shy.”

He groans, but there’s no force in it. He gives your hand a little squeeze back, his touch almost gentle, like he’s trying to hide just how much he’s enjoying this. You can see the corner of his mouth twitch upward, even if he’s pretending not to care.

“You’re impossible.” he mutters, but it sounds more like an affectionate confession than anything else.

You lean up, brushing a soft kiss to his cheek, your voice teasing. “Impossible, huh? I think you just like having me around.”

Megumi’s eyes widen for a second, and he quickly looks away, though you can see the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Shut up.”

But the way his hand stays in yours says everything you need to know. You laugh, a soft, melodic sound that seems to melt the last of his resistance. There’s something about him, in this moment, that feels right. Like everything he’s been trying to hide is coming to the surface, and you’re the only one who gets to see it.

His bright eyes flicker to yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you two. No more barriers, no more hesitation. Just you and him. And you realize, as you watch him trying so hard not to smile, that despite his grumbling, despite the layers of defensiveness he wraps himself in, maybe Megumi really is a romantic at heart. He loves you, after all.

══════════════════

epilogue 

The evening had settled in, soft golden light filtering through the windows, casting a warm glow over the kitchen. Fushiguro Megumi was standing over the stove.

There was a half-smile tugging at his lips as he stirred something in a pan, pretending to be nonchalant. You’d been chatting and laughing with him, but now you were distracted by the phone buzzing on the counter next to you.

“Hey, check my phone, will you? I think I missed a call while I was cooking dinner. Might be Maki–senpai.” he called, not even looking over his shoulder. His tone was casual, but you could sense a hint of something beneath the surface. Something that made you curious.

You reached for his phone, raising an eyebrow at the way he’d phrased it. Missed a call, huh? When you opened it, you found that the call had already disappeared, as if it was never even there. Strange, you thought, but didn’t give it too much thought—until a new notification popped up on his screen.

A notification from Spotify.

You clicked it without thinking, the app opening automatically. You froze, blinking at the screen in surprise. The very first thing that caught your eye was a playlist titled My GF’s Favorite Tunes.

Your heart skipped a beat as you scrolled through, realizing the entire playlist was a mix of Queen songs, Weezer hits, Taylor Swift, and a whole lot of other random songs that somehow seemed to perfectly fit your taste. You blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh.

“What is this…?” You murmured, flipping through more of the tracks, utterly charmed by the odd yet thoughtful combination of songs. Some of the tracks were ones you had casually mentioned liking, others you never thought he'd remember.

You could feel Megumi standing behind you now, his footsteps quiet on the floor. “What’s up?” His voice had an almost imperceptible shift in it, but you didn’t look back at him right away.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” you said, your grin spreading wider as you glanced over the playlist one more time, now thoroughly amused. “Just, you know… a little surprise.”

You gently set his phone down on the counter and turned toward him, your grin widening as you closed the distance. Megumi looked at you, confusion and a hint of nervousness flickering in his eyes. “What? What’s so funny?”

Without another word, you wrapped your arms around him in a sudden, tight embrace. Megumi froze, his body stiff in surprise. He stood there for a second, the silence between you two stretching, before he gently placed his hands on your back, his voice a little rough with a quiet, unexpected warmth. 

“What’s this for, hm?”

You pulled back just enough to smile up at him, your heart still beating with fondness. “For being the cutest, loving, prettiest, person I’ve ever met. And for making me a playlist that proves you’re secretly the most romantic person alive.”

Megumi blinked, his usual cool exterior cracking for a second as he flushed a little under the weight of your words. He looked away, muttering under his breath. “It’s… it’s just some songs. Nothing big at all—”

You laughed softly, pulling him closer again. “Well, you sure know how to make me smile, don’t you?”

His beautiful lips pressed into a tender smile reserved just for you. And for once, there was no argument. Just the quiet, comfortable warmth of being together, in each other’s arms. Nothing was more perfect than this moment right here, you were sure.

[writeriguess]

GUURL What a joy to have you here again. I am very happy to know that you are back to doing something you like and that you do it perfectly anyway. you are amazing, i missed you ╰⁠(⁠*⁠´⁠︶⁠`⁠*⁠)⁠╯

I wanted to request a Bakugou x Reader where he's the bodyguard. maybe something smutty or suggestive with the situation, do what you want with it. (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

author's note: Thank you so much! <3 This scenario is so incredibly hot—I couldn't help but make the smut longer. Katsuki as the reader's bodyguard is just irresistible!

Duty and Desire

The rhythmic clicking of your heels against the marble floors echoed through the grand hallway, each step a reminder of the gilded cage you called life. Tonight’s charity gala was no different from the others—endless forced smiles, hollow conversations, and the subtle undercurrent of danger you’d grown used to.

Trailing behind you was Bakugou Katsuki, his sharp crimson eyes scanning every corner with the intensity of a predator on the hunt. Dressed in a tailored black suit that hugged his broad shoulders and powerful frame, he looked more like someone who belonged at the event than a hired bodyguard. But his scowl—perpetual and deadly—made it clear he wasn’t here to schmooze.

“Will you stop glaring at the walls like they personally offended you?” you teased, glancing back at him with a playful smile.

“Tch. You think this is funny?” he grunted, hands shoved into his pockets. “You’re the one with a damn target on your back. Maybe take it seriously for once.”

You rolled your eyes, but his words carried weight. The threats against you had started small—anonymous emails, cryptic messages slipped under your door—but they’d escalated. Enough for your family to hire Bakugou, a pro-hero known for his explosive temper and unyielding determination, as your personal bodyguard.

Except he didn’t just feel like a bodyguard anymore.

It was in the way his broad shoulders stiffened whenever someone got too close, the way his gaze lingered on you for just a second too long when he thought you weren’t looking. And it was in the way your skin burned whenever his hand brushed yours—brief, accidental, but searing nonetheless.

“Stay close,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff as he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the small of your back.

The touch was fleeting but deliberate, and it sent a shiver down your spine. You hated how much of an effect he had on you.

“I’m not going to wander off into danger, Katsuki,” you said, turning your head to glance at him.

He arched a brow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen the way you get when you’re bored. Don’t make my job harder than it already is.”

The night dragged on, the room filled with the kind of people who thought money equaled worth. You navigated the crowd with practiced ease, playing your part as the dutiful representative of your family. But no matter how many times you smiled or shook hands, you were always aware of Bakugou’s presence—his crimson gaze never leaving you.

Every time someone stepped too close, his hand would brush your arm, your back, your waist, guiding you away with a touch that was equal parts protective and possessive.

“You’re hovering,” you said at one point, turning to face him.

“Yeah, that’s kinda the job, princess,” he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The nickname sent a jolt through you, as it always did. It wasn’t affectionate—not really—but there was something about the way he said it that made your stomach flip.

The tension between you simmered beneath the surface, growing harder to ignore with every passing moment. By the time the event wound down, you were desperate for some fresh air.

You slipped away to a secluded balcony, the cool night breeze a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. The distant hum of traffic filled the silence as you leaned against the railing, staring out at the city lights.

But, of course, you weren’t alone for long.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” Bakugou said, his voice cutting through the quiet as he stepped onto the balcony. He shut the door behind him, effectively sealing you both off from the rest of the world.

You turned to face him, leaning back against the railing with a faint smile. “You’re off-duty now, aren’t you?”

“Not until you’re home and locked up safe,” he replied, his hands shoved into his pockets as he approached.

His presence was magnetic, his broad frame and piercing gaze drawing you in despite the simmering annoyance in his tone.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you said, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

Bakugou scoffed, his lips curving into a smirk. “Yeah? Tell that to the psychos sending you threats.”

The tension between you crackled like static electricity, the unspoken attraction growing harder to ignore. You didn’t know if it was the moonlight catching in his ash-blond hair, the way his suit hugged his muscular frame, or the fact that he was the only person who ever made you feel truly safe—but you couldn’t deny the pull anymore.

“You’re always so serious,” you murmured, your voice dipping into something softer, more intimate.

“And you’re always so damn reckless,” he shot back, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between you.

The heat radiating off him was intoxicating, his scent—smoke and spice—clouding your senses. You tilted your head up, your heart pounding in your chest as his crimson eyes bore into yours.

“Maybe I like testing your limits,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bakugou’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared down at you. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Don’t I?” you challenged, leaning up just enough to close the remaining distance between you.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his breath mingling with yours as he hovered just out of reach. Then, with a growl of frustration—or maybe surrender—he grabbed your waist and pulled you flush against him, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was everything you’d imagined: fierce, demanding, and all-consuming. His hands gripped your hips with enough force to leave bruises, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips, his kiss turning rougher, more desperate.

“Knew you’d be trouble,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice rough and low as he pressed you back against the railing.

“And yet, here you are,” you shot back, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tugged him closer.

Bakugou growled, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the railing as he stepped between your legs. The cool metal pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his hands as they roamed over your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he admitted, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

“Good,” you breathed, your head falling back as you clung to him. “Because you’re the only one I trust to catch me when I fall.”

His grip tightened, his gaze blazing as he pulled back just enough to look at you. “Damn right I will. But don’t think this changes anything. You’re still a pain in my ass.”

You laughed, leaning forward to press a softer, lingering kiss to his lips. “And you’re still my favorite pain in mine.”

Bakugou’s lips were relentless against your skin, trailing heat down your neck as his hands gripped your thighs firmly, keeping you steady on the edge of the balcony railing. The cool night air did little to temper the fire burning between the two of you, and with every graze of his teeth, every rough kiss, the world outside the balcony seemed to fade further away.

Your hands roamed over his chest, your fingers gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as if anchoring yourself to him. His body felt solid beneath your touch, every muscle tense and coiled with barely restrained energy.

“Katsuki,” you breathed, your voice breaking as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your jaw.

He growled low in his throat at the sound of his name spilling from your lips, the vibration of it sending a shiver through you. His hands slid higher, brushing the fabric of your dress aside to squeeze your hips. The pressure of his grip made your head spin, but it was the sudden shift of his body against yours that truly sent your pulse skyrocketing.

You gasped as your thighs brushed against his hips, feeling the unmistakable hardness pressing against you through the thin fabric of your dress.

“Fuck,” you whispered, your eyes widening slightly as you looked up at him.

Bakugou froze for a moment, his crimson eyes locking onto yours as if daring you to say something. His lips curled into a smirk—cocky, almost predatory—as he leaned in closer, his voice a low growl in your ear.

“You feel that, princess?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s what you do to me.”

The roughness in his voice made your stomach flip, your hands tightening their grip on his jacket as your thighs instinctively pressed together. But he wasn’t about to let you retreat. His hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every inch of his arousal pressing against you.

“Shit,” you breathed, your cheeks flushing as a wave of heat pooled low in your belly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. “That’s what I thought. You’ve been teasing me all night, haven’t you?”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing as he pressed his hips against you again, his movements deliberate and slow. The friction was maddening, and the smirk on his face told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though your voice came out shakier than you intended.

Bakugou chuckled darkly, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of your thighs. “Flatter myself? Tch, you’re the one squirming.”

“I’m not—” you started, but your words cut off in a gasp as he rolled his hips against yours, the hardness of him pressing perfectly between your legs.

“Not what? Huh?” he taunted, his tone rough and teasing as his lips found yours again, cutting off whatever weak protest you were about to make.

The kiss was dizzying, his tongue sliding against yours with a mix of dominance and desperation. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body arching into him as the heat between you became unbearable.

“Admit it,” he muttered against your lips, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You like this. You like driving me crazy.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your lips curving into a smirk of your own as you leaned in to nip at his bottom lip. “Maybe I do.”

Bakugou growled, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises as he pulled you even closer. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“And you love it,” you countered, your breath hitching as he pressed himself against you again, the hardness of him making you dizzy with want.

“Maybe I do,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as his lips trailed down your neck.

Bakugou's lips were back on yours, searing and demanding, as his hands slid down to grip the backs of your thighs. He pulled you closer to the edge of the railing, locking you in place as his hips pressed firmly against yours. The hardness straining against his pants was impossible to ignore, especially as he shifted his hips deliberately, dragging against you in slow, maddening strokes.

“Katsuki,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the friction sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

He didn’t respond with words—he didn’t need to. Instead, he growled low in his throat, his hands sliding to the underside of your thighs and hoisting you up higher so you were completely at his mercy. The cool night air hit your legs as the fabric of your dress bunched up around your hips, but the heat of his body pressed against you made you forget the chill.

“Fucking soaked already,” he muttered, his voice rough as his crimson eyes dropped to where your bodies met.

You flushed at his words, your breath hitching as you felt his hips press against you again, harder this time. The thin fabric of your panties did nothing to stop the steady, delicious pressure of him rubbing against you, and you bit your lip to stifle the whimper threatening to escape.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asked, his tone dripping with arrogance as he rocked his hips against yours, slow and deliberate. The hardness of him pressed perfectly against your damp center, and the friction had your head spinning.

You clung to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his suit jacket as your body moved instinctively to meet his. “Shut up,” you whispered, though the way your thighs tightened around him betrayed you.

Bakugou smirked, leaning in to nip at your ear. “Don’t tell me to shut up when you’re grinding on me like this,” he growled, his voice rough and teasing as he thrust against you again, dragging a gasp from your lips.

The movement sent a wave of pleasure through you, the friction just enough to make you ache for more. Your panties were soaked, clinging to your skin as he continued to press against you, his pace growing rougher, more desperate.

“Katsuki,” you whimpered, your head falling back as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Say my name like that again,” he muttered, his breath hot against your skin.

You obliged, your voice breaking on his name as he ground his hips against yours, the rhythm almost punishing now. Every movement sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your body arching into his as the heat pooled low in your belly.

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he admitted, his grip on your thighs tightening as he held you steady, his movements growing more erratic.

“You’re the one who started it,” you shot back, though your voice was shaky, barely a whisper as your nails raked down his back.

Bakugou chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing your neck as he thrust against you again, harder this time. “Yeah, but you’re the one who’s gonna finish it.”

The tension between you was unbearable, the heat and friction building to a crescendo as his movements grew rougher, more desperate. You could feel every inch of him through his pants, the hard length of him dragging perfectly against your damp panties, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body trembling as you stared up at him. “I—”

“Say it,” he growled, his hips pressing firmly against yours, dragging another gasp from your lips.

“I want it,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking as the words tumbled out.

Bakugou’s eyes darkened, a triumphant smirk curling across his lips as he leaned in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss. “Good,” he muttered against your lips, his movements growing even rougher as he ground against you with enough force to make your legs shake.

The world around you disappeared entirely, leaving only the two of you tangled in a haze of heat and desire, the line between duty and desire long since obliterated.

Bakugou’s movements stilled for a moment, and you felt him pull back just slightly, his forehead pressed against yours. His breath was hot and ragged as his hands slid down to grip your thighs again, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edge of your panties.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he glanced down at where your bodies were pressed together.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his fingers hooked around the damp fabric of your panties, tugging it to the side with a deliberate slowness that made your pulse race.

“Katsuki—” you started, but your words dissolved into a sharp gasp as his fingers brushed against your bare skin, grazing your slick folds.

“Shut up,” he growled, his eyes dark with hunger as he leaned in to capture your lips in another bruising kiss.

His free hand moved to his belt, and the sound of the buckle clicking open sent a shiver down your spine. You felt the warmth of his hand as he freed himself, the hard length of him brushing against your thigh.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice dripping with arrogance as he shifted his hips, the tip of his cock teasing your entrance. “Already soaked, begging for it. You really are a tease.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you tried to steady yourself. “If I’m such a tease, then what does that make you?” you shot back, though your voice was shaky, breathless.

Bakugou smirked, his lips brushing against yours as he pushed forward just enough for you to feel the pressure of him pressing against you, not quite entering yet. “A guy who’s about to give you exactly what you’ve been asking for.”

The heat between you was unbearable, the tension snapping as he finally rolled his hips forward, pushing into you slowly, inch by inch. Your breath hitched, your head falling back as he filled you, the stretch of him making your thighs tremble.

“Fuck,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening as he buried himself fully inside you. “So fucking tight.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a low groan from him as you arched into him. “Katsuki,” you whimpered, your voice breaking on his name as he pulled back slightly before thrusting into you again, harder this time.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough as his movements grew more deliberate, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

“Katsuki,” you repeated, your voice trembling as your body moved in rhythm with his.

“That’s right,” he muttered, his lips finding your neck as he bit down gently, his teeth grazing your skin. “You’re mine tonight.”

The world around you faded away entirely, leaving only the heat of his body against yours, the sound of your ragged breaths mingling in the cool night air. Every thrust, every whispered growl of your name, pushed you closer to the edge, and you clung to him as if he were the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as his movements became more erratic, more desperate. “I’m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that.”

You gasped, your nails raking down his back as the pressure built inside you, your body trembling with the force of it. “I—I’m close,” you managed to whisper, your voice breaking as his thrusts grew harder, faster.

“Then come for me,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening as he held you steady, driving into you with a relentless pace.

It was all you needed. The tension snapped, and a wave of pleasure crashed over you, your body arching into his as you cried out his name. He wasn’t far behind, his movements growing erratic as he groaned low in his throat, his grip on you almost bruising as he found his own release.

For a moment, the two of you stayed like that, tangled together on the edge of the balcony, your breaths mingling as the cool night air wrapped around you.

“Fuck,” Bakugou muttered, his voice rough as he finally pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “You really are trouble.”

You laughed softly, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you leaned in to kiss him, softer this time. “And you love it.”

His lips curved into a smirk, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement—and something deeper. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low. “Maybe I do.”

Feel free to request <3