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speaknowgirl3184 · 2 days ago

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What The Stars Forgot To Save

Rhysand x female reader (Post-war, after ACOWAR)

Rhys discovers a truth you've hidden, that you've slowly been dying since the war. You didn’t tell him to spare him the pain. Instead, he finds out when it’s already too late to stop it.

Warnings: ANGST, major character dealth, illness, grief. (Let me know if I forgot anything).

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

There were some things even starlight couldn’t fix. Not even the High Lord of the Night Court, mighty and terrible and beautiful as he was, could touch them. Could reach inside and pull the rot from your veins, could save what the war had already claimed.

You knew that the moment the Cauldron went still. The moment its pulse faded from the earth, from your bones, and left behind silence and ash.

The skies over Velaris had bled gold and fire. The city had held its breath, a trembling heartbeat waiting for word, had you survived? Had he?

You had. But just barely.

You stumbled from the wreckage of the battlefield with lungs burning like smoke-choked chimneys, with blood crusted in your hair, with magic hanging around you in tatters. You had used everything, everything, to shield a line of young Illyrian soldiers when that blast hit, too fast and too strong to redirect. You remembered the pain, then the numbness. Then nothing.

And when you woke in the healer’s tent, surrounded by murmurs and antiseptic magic, the only thing you felt was cold. A deep, marrow-soaking cold that no warmth ever fully chased away.

The Healers didn’t meet your eyes at first.

They were careful. Gentle. Their hands were warm, their voices softer than starlight.

But nothing could soften the truth.

That magic had carved through your insides like a blade dipped in poison. That your body was still here, still breathing, but it had begun unraveling from the inside out. Slow. Irreversible. Inevitable.

You had fought like a god. And the war had claimed its toll.

You had, maybe… a year. Two, if the Mother was feeling cruel.

They asked if they should summon Rhys.

You said no.

Because the very thought of telling him, of watching that beautiful, beloved face crumple beneath the weight of a grief he couldn’t stop, was more terrifying than death itself.

You remembered what it had done to him before. When Feyre died. When Cassian was almost lost. When Velaris was nearly torn from the map. You had seen Rhysand at his lowest. Shattered. Gutted. Hollow-eyed and haunted.

And you couldn’t… gods, you couldn’t do that to him again.

So that night, when he found you wrapped in blankets and sitting in your favorite chair in the House of Wind, pale, trembling, but smiling, you looked up, and said, “I’m okay.”

You let him gather you in his arms. Let him press his lips to your temple and whisper, “I was so scared.”

You lied.

Because that was easier than breaking his heart. Easier than watching him try to rearrange the universe for you, to drain the stars of their power, to strike bargains with the Cauldron long dead if it meant keeping you alive.

You didn’t want your last days to be spent watching him bleed for something he couldn’t save.

So you smiled. And kissed him like nothing had changed.

And you lied.

From that night on, your entire life became a performance, a delicate, devastating waltz between truth and love.

Rhysand, with all his power, all his centuries of knowing people and dissecting lies, didn’t see it. Because he didn’t want to. Because he saw the woman he loved still smiling at him, and he believed that was enough.

And you let him believe it.

Because he had finally found peace again. He had you.

And if you had to burn from the inside out to keep that peace for him a little longer, so be it.

You laughed through the nights, even as your lungs rattled like broken glass. You kissed him like you weren’t counting every heartbeat. Like you weren’t memorizing the feel of his hands, the rhythm of his laugh, the way he whispered your name like a prayer.

He’d pull you into his lap on the balcony overlooking the Sidra, warm wings curled around you, and you would press your ear to his chest, listening to the life you couldn’t hold on to, couldn’t share forever.

And when he asked, “Do you ever think about the future?” You smiled and said, “All the time.” You just didn’t tell him your version of it ended far sooner than his.

-----------

Rhysand noticed, of course.

How could he not?

He was the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history. He could command the skies to open, bend shadows to his will, feel the tremor of a heartbeat across an entire continent. He could read a court full of scheming monarchs with a single glance.

But when it came to you, his mate, his beloved, Rhys saw only what he wanted to see.

Still, the cracks had begun to show.

First, it was the mornings. You used to rise before him, brush your fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings as the sun gilded the curtains. Now, you slept long after he stirred, curled on your side, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed with pain even in dreams.

“Rough night?” he’d murmur, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You’d yawn, stretch, wince, but only for a moment, and smile. “Just tired,” you’d say. “My body’s still catching up from the war.”

At first, he accepted that. Cauldron, how could he not? The war had cost everyone something. And he knew how hard you’d fought. He’d seen the bruises, the blood. You were allowed to be tired.

But then came the flinches.

The way you subtly tensed when his hand brushed your ribs. The quick, barely-there hitch in your breath when he pressed too close. The way you shifted in his arms like you were trying to shield him, not from an enemy, but from the truth of your body’s betrayal.

He asked you, one night, after catching the flash of pain in your eyes as you shrugged off your dress. His voice low. Gentle.

“Are you alright, darling?”

Your eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Of course,” you whispered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

But there was something wrong in your voice, like the edges had been worn thin. Like you were holding the words together with sheer force of will.

His gaze searched your face, full of stars and suspicion, and something else, something raw, something afraid.

“…Are you sure?”

And you, Cauldron, you were so good at lying, leaned in, pressed your lips to his, and murmured against his mouth, “Just tired. That’s all.”

That damned phrase became your shield. Your mantra. Your mask.

Just tired.When your hands shook holding a teacup. When you nearly collapsed on the balcony stairs. When you refused to join training with the Valkyries, not once, not ever, though you used to love the rush of it, the laughter, the power.

You avoided the Healers like they were ghosts. Refused to step into the training fields, even on your good days. You said the wind hurt your lungs, too sharp, too cold, but you never explained why. Never said what it reminded you of.

He chalked it up to trauma. To war wounds. He didn’t push.

Because deep down… some part of him knew.

And some part of him couldn’t bear it.

But he believed you. Because he wanted to believe you.

Because he had to.

After everything, the pain, the loss, the impossible resurrections, Rhys needed one truth to be simple.

He needed you to be okay.

He needed to believe that the happiness he’d found in your arms wasn’t built on a fault line. That the joy that bloomed between you in those rare, quiet moments, tangled limbs, whispered jokes, sleepy kisses, wasn’t just a beautiful illusion doomed to crumble.

He couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t. Not until he had no choice.

And Cauldron, Cauldron, if that didn’t make it worse.

Because every time he let it go, every time he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Rest, my love,” and walked away without pressing further…

He was unknowingly letting you slip through his fingers.

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The night you collapsed in the foyer of the House of Wind was the night everything, every lie, every whispered half-truth, every smile you wore like armor, unraveled.

It was a quiet evening. The kind you once lived for.

The wind was gentle through the open archways. Moonlight painted soft silver on the floor. You’d lit the candles yourself, humming softly through trembling lips as you arranged the plates, knowing Rhys would return within the hour.

A diplomatic visit to the Day Court, only a couple hours. You could hold out two more hours.

You’d kissed him goodbye at the winnowing circle, fingers clenched tight in his hair as if your body already sensed it was your last goodbye. He’d teased you for being so dramatic, eyes twinkling, brushing a kiss over your brow and saying, “It’s only a few hours, my love. I’ll be home before the moon is full.”

You had smiled.

And prayed the mask wouldn’t slip.

Because your hands were shaking, not from nerves, not from some innocent flurry of anticipation, but from the storm clawing its way through your insides. The pain had worsened. You could feel it now, pulsing beneath your skin, dragging your heartbeat out of sync, thinning the thread that tethered you to this world.

You only needed to last a little longer. Just a few more weeks. Maybe days. Enough time to write the letters you’d been putting off. To memorize Rhys’s scent in your pillow one last time. To make your peace.

But death did not care for your timing. For your dignity.

It came swiftly. Cruelly.

You were halfway across the foyer, holding a tray of wine and figs, you’d wanted to surprise him, greet him with softness and sweetness, with the illusion of normalcy, when your knees buckled.

There was no time to cry out. No warning. Just the sensation of your legs vanishing beneath you and the sound of glass shattering as your body crumpled to the floor.

And then, darkness.

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When Rhys returned an hour later, smiling from the adrenaline of flight, a gift in his pocket, your name on his tongue, he didn’t expect to find the House silent. He didn’t expect the wine to be spilled across the marble like blood. He didn’t expect you, his mate, his light, his world, sprawled on the cold floor, lips pale, skin clammy, your chest barely rising.

He didn’t remember screaming. But the walls remembered. Velaris remembered.

And when the Healers came, when Azriel arrived white-faced and shaking, when Cassian knelt and whispered, “Please, please don’t let this be happening,” Rhys just stood there.

Frozen.

Like if he didn’t move, this moment wouldn’t be real.

Like he could stop time and change the outcome with sheer will alone.

He fell to his knees beside you as they lifted your body from the floor. His hands hovered over yours, but he didn’t touch you.

Couldn’t.

As if afraid that even a single touch might break what was left of you.

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You awoke three days later in a healer’s tent, the world muted and too bright all at once. Your body felt like lead. Breathing was a chore. Your veins were fire.

And beside you, sitting like stone, unmoving, unmoved, was Rhysand.

His face was bone white. The shadows under his eyes were cavernous, like something had been hollowed out from within him. His hands rested on his knees, clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned a sickly blue.

And his eyes…

Gods, his eyes.

They weren’t full of rage. Not even heartbreak. Not yet.

They were full of silence. Of knowing.

You tried to speak, but only a broken breath escaped.

And still, he didn’t touch you.

Not your hand. Not your cheek. Not the bond that pulsed faintly between you.

Because he knew.

Because everything he was, everything he believed in, was you, and you had lied to him.

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“You knew,” he said at last. Not a question. A quiet, lethal statement. His voice was low, too low. Velvet and ice. The kind of tone that came right before storms.

You’d heard him speak to kings like that. Enemies. But never you. Never you.

You tried to sit up, gods, it hurt, tried to reach for his hand, for the bond that still pulsed faintly between your ribs, a final tether.

“Rhys…” you rasped. “Please…”

He stepped back.

The rejection was a blade. It cut cleaner than any battlefield wound.

“How long?” he asked.

You hesitated. He saw it. His jaw clenched.

“…Since the war,” you whispered. “Since that blast. The Healers—”

“Since the war.” He repeated it, hollow. Like the words had punched the breath from his lungs.

And then silence fell.

The kind of silence that stretches and stretches, until it screams.

You saw it all on his face, the unraveling. The horror, the disbelief, the betrayal.

For all his power, all his cunning, he’d never seen this coming. He hadn’t even known there was something to look for. And now, all that was left was the wreckage.

“You were dying,” he said finally, eyes burning with something ruined, “this whole time, and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

Tears broke past your lashes before you could stop them. You reached for him again, shaking, fingers trembling with weakness. “I didn’t want to hurt you…”

His laugh was nothing like the one you loved. No warmth. No joy. Just bitter, broken frost.

“Don’t you get it?” he snapped. “You did hurt me. Everyday. Every godsdamned day you smiled like nothing was wrong, while you were dying right in front of me.”

You looked away, the shame catching in your throat. “I didn’t want to make you carry that weight,” you whispered. “Not after Feyre. Not after the war. I just wanted… peace. For you. Even if it meant—”

“Lying to me?” he cut in. The words hissed from his lips like venom.

And then. “If you loved me…” His voice cracked. “…you wouldn’t have lied.”

The room seemed to go still. Even the candles stilled, their flames pulling inward.

You flinched.

He saw it.

And for one fragile, flickering moment, he looked like he might break. Like the weight of those words had finally reached him. Like he wanted to take them back.

But the damage had been done.

The lie, the one you’d carried like a crown of thorns, had shattered everything between you.

And now, your body was already fading.

Your magic waned with every breath. Your bones ached with goodbye. Your heart, the one that had always beaten for him, was winding down like the last hour of a dying star.

And he couldn’t stop it.

All the power in the world, and he couldn’t save you. Couldn’t go back. Couldn’t undo the secret that had cost you both everything.

-----------

He stayed with you, in the end.

Even when you told him not to. Even when the pain took your voice, your strength, your dignity. Even after everything, the lie, the silence, the breaking, he stayed.

He sat at your bedside as the days dwindled. As your skin grew paler, your breaths shorter. As the light behind your eyes, the spark he’d fallen in love with, dimmed with each setting sun.

He didn’t speak much. Not at first.

What words could he offer that wouldn’t turn to ash on his tongue?

Sometimes, he just watched you, like if he memorized every detail again, he could etch you into time. The way your lips curved when you smiled, even weakly. The shape of your hands in his. The sound of your heartbeat, flickering through the bond like a dying candle.

He held you through the worst of the pain. Let you bury your face in his chest when the spells wore off. Pressed kisses to your brow while your body shook from the agony.

You still apologized.

Still whispered, “I’m sorry I lied.”

And Rhys, your Rhys, your mate, your moon and stars, broke every time.

Because he wasn’t angry anymore.

He was grieving you while you were still breathing.

“I dreamed of a future with you,” he whispered, voice cracking as he threaded his fingers through your hair.

You were curled against him, barely strong enough to lift your head.

“I saw us,” he continued. “In the townhouse, old and ridiculous. You scolding me for tracking shadows into the kitchen. You holding our child for the first time. I saw the years, all of them. I thought we had time…”

A tear slipped from his cheek and landed on your skin.

You brushed it away with a trembling finger. “You did. You had me… for a while.”

“I wanted forever.”

“I know,” you breathed. “So did I.”

And you meant it. Gods, you meant it.

But some stories weren’t meant for happy endings. Some hearts didn’t get the luxury of growing old together.

Some were destined to break, beautifully, tragically, like stars burning out before their time.

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The morning you stopped breathing, the skies over Velaris broke.

Not softly. Not gently. But with fury, with a kind of rage that only grief could conjure.

Clouds rolled in from the sea, black and churning. Winds howled like mourning spirits through the Sidra’s valley. The river surged past its banks, flooding the lower cliffs with salt and sorrow.

The sky wept, and somewhere in the heart of the storm, the world itself shuddered.

Rhys was holding you when it happened.

He’d barely slept in days. Hadn’t left your side. He’d clung to hope longer than even the gods might deem merciful. Every breath you took, every twitch of your fingers, he watched with the desperate reverence of a man begging the stars not to abandon him.

That morning, your skin was cold. Too cold.

Your lips parted once, as if to say his name, or maybe just breathe, but no sound came.

And then… You were still.

Your chest stopped rising.

Your body, already fragile, already fading, finally let go.

But Rhys didn’t.

He pressed his forehead to yours, arms tightening around you as if his hold could anchor you back to him.

His magic flared, uncontrollable, wild shadows and threads of starlight lashing the air. He called your name. Not aloud, but through the bond. Over and over again.

He poured everything into you. His power. His soul. His heart.

He tried to restart what had already stopped.

Tried to breathe for you.

Tried to will your spirit to stay.

But even High Lords couldn’t command the dead to return.

When he realized you were gone he didn’t scream.

There was no roaring. No thunder of wings.

Just silence.

A silence so sharp, it carved into the seams of the House itself.

The bond between you, once full of light and love and laughter, went quiet. Not like a flame blown out.

Like a star collapsing in on itself.

Like the end of a song that would never be played again.

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Velaris remembers you in flowers.

Not statues. Not songs. But in petals that bloom in the cracks you left behind.

They grow in the gardens you once tended, vines curling around stone archways like your laughter still lingers there, like the soil itself remembers the shape of your hands.

They grow along the Sidra, where you used to sit with a book in your lap and sunlight in your hair, where the city still leaves offerings without realizing they do. A cup of tea left on the bench. A folded blanket. Petals, always petals.

And on certain days, when the wind is soft and the stars are shy, the scent of ink and starlight drifts through the streets, the scent he wears now like mourning, like memory.

Rhys never took another lover.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he already gave away every piece of his soul, and when you left, you took the best parts with you.

He still speaks to you. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes aloud, in that quiet voice he reserves only for ghosts and prayers.

He keeps your favorite book by his bed, worn and marked with the little notes you used to scribble in the margins. He’s read it so many times, he’s memorized the words… but he still turns the pages, just to feel like you’re near.

He hasn’t touched your side of the bed.

No one goes in your study.

Your mug still sits by the sink, your coat still on its hook.

And every night, without fail, he climbs the rooftops of the House of Wind, alone, wings tucked in, heart bare, and gazes up at the stars as if they might answer him.

He doesn’t cry anymore.

There are no tears left to give.

Just silence. And the bond, now hollow, echoing with all the things he never got to say.

And every year, on the day the world lost you, Rhys returns to the river.

He comes at dawn, before the sun has the nerve to shine. Dressed in black. Alone. Unseen.

He kneels at the water’s edge where the Sidra runs quiet, and lays down a single white lily.

It’s always a lily. Because you once told him they meant “returning to innocence.”Because he couldn’t save you. But maybe… maybe he can keep your memory untouched by the tragedy.

And then, he whispers the same words he’s whispered every year since you left:

“If love could’ve saved you, you would have lived forever.”

The lily floats downstream.

And he watches until it disappears.

Until there is only the river and the wind.

And the ghost of you still etched into every star.

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a/n: I hope you guys are crying like I am rn. Anyways If you guys have any recs for fic ideas plzzzz let me know I cause I am runnings out!!

#angst #masterlist #fluff #rhysand acotar #acotar masterlist #acotar angst #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x you #rhys x reader #a court of wings and ruin #rhysand angst #rhysand fluff #rhysand fanfic

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tttt06 · 12 hours ago

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Bad Fight

Black Reader x Enhypen

Requests are open! I reply quickly. Masterlist here

Synopsis~ Enhypen getting into bad fights with S/O

Part 2 tmrw has smut!!!

Warning~ No smut, angst, arguments, stress, depression, yelling

Word Count~ 2.5k

Heeseung

Fights with Heeseung were often. He has a habit of getting busy and never talking to you about it. He likes to bottle things up.

It was a day you had been practicing all day. Being the leader of your own group was taking a toll on you. Heeseung was coming home late, and you knew that, but you really needed him.

You weren't surprised that he was gone until 1 AM. You were already asleep in your bed by the time he came home. You had a schedule at 4 AM tomorrow. Filming your next comeback MV.

You felt your bed dip, and you stirred awake. The rush of rapid thoughts came flying to your head. You pushed them aside, "Hi, baby."

Heeseung grunted and cuddled you close. Your body relaxed in his embrace. You tried to talk to him. "Today was hard."

Heeseung mumbled, "Yeah?"

"Mhm. The girls got into an argument, and it made practice so much harder."

Heeseung softly hummed. You could tell he wasn't listening. "Hey, you listening?"

There was silence and a long sigh from his nose. "No, not really, Y/N. I'm tired." You asked, "Do you wanna rant about it?"

Heeseung turned his back to you and said, "Maybe another time."

You sat there, feeling shut out. "Hee?"

He didn't answer.

You huffed while getting out of bed. You were gonna sleep on Sunoo's floor. You didn't want to sleep next to Heeseung. As he watched you grab your things, Heeseung asked, "Where are you going?"

You sharply said, "I'm going to Sunoo's room. At least he'd actually listen to me."

Heeseung was at his feet in a second, "What? No, you're not."

You nodded in a matter-of-fact tone. "Uh, yes. I am."

Heeseung grabbed your wrist, "You're not sleeping with another guy. I'm right here."

You laughed, "Heeseung. I don't know if you've noticed, but you've been ignoring my texts and me, not coming over, and blowing off my problems. You treat me like shit. When I'm stressed, I don't do that shit to you."

Heeseung said with a rough tone, "I'm busy."

You smiled with disbelief, "Too busy for me?"

When he didn't answer, you were about to storm out. Heeseung reached, "Wait."

You shook your head, "I think we should break up."

Heeseung stuttered, his eyes widening. "What?" You nodded, "You heard me. I don't have time for this shit. I'm going home."

Heeseung ran to the door and locked it. He said, "Let's talk this out." You laughed, "Now you wanna fucking talk? I talked to you earlier, and you blew me off!"

Heeseung said, "You need space to think, and we can talk when we're both relaxed."

You shouted, "WE'RE OVER!"

You slammed his apartment door.

Jay

Jay was probably the biggest crashout you've ever met. His patience for people is at zero.

As much as he's confrontational and argumentative, you two seem to have slipped past your problems.

One significant problem was that you felt lonely in the relationship. Jay was nurturing and careful in the beginning, but now he treats you like you're not there.

It led to a fight at his guitar practice.

He was in the music room for practice, and you were stopping by to drop Jungwon's dance shoes off. He said he'd forgotten them at the dorm and asked if you could bring them on your way to work.

You wanted to see what your boyfriend was doing on the way.

You opened the door to see him strumming a four-chord. "Jay bear?"

He looked up to see your cute face, "Oh. Hi, honey."

He sounded so... far. Like he was mentally checked out when he saw you. NO excitement, no, 'HEY! I MISSED YOU!'

Nothing.

You sat down, and Jay asked, "What're you doing here?"

The tension was thick. You said, "I wanted to see you. It's been a couple days."

Jay said, "A couple days? You getting clingy now?"

You furrowed your eyebrows.

"What?"

Jay laughed, "I was kidding." You stared at him for over a minute. Jay asked, "Why are you looking at me like I just hurt you."

You took a deep breath, "You are hurting me. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you avoiding me?"

Jay just stares at you like you're crazy. "What the hell? Y/N? You interrupt my time and start coming at me. I don't really wanna talk to you right now."

You huffed and threw the bag at him. "Fucking fine. Don't come over, don't call me, don't text me, I don't wanna see your face."

You stormed out of the room, half expecting Jay to chase you. He didn't.

Jake

Ou, Jake had some explaining to do. He was on tour, and you were at home missing him. Only to see a viral edit of him kissing a fan.

Not even a peck. Full make out.

Your heart was pounding as you dialed his number.

The call went through on the second ring. "Hey, baby."

His raspy Australian voice came through the phone. It only heightened your anger. "Why are you making out with fans?"

His side went silent. You said, "Answer me?! I get you have to act single, but to this extent? How do I know you didn't have sex with someone to 'seem single.' At this rate, I should be getting checked for anything. I can't trust you."

Jake said, "Baby."

You shook your head, "No. Don't baby me. I'm seriously pissed off. I don't want to be with you anymore. This is the shit you pulled on me. It's disgusting."

Jake whimpered, "Let me explain."

You said, "I don't really wanna hear how your tongue ended up down her throat."

You were about to hang up, but Jake yelled, "So what?! You're just gonna break up with me?! Over some video, you won't let me explain?! This is why it fucking sucks to be with you. You're cold-hearted."

You said, "Cold hearted?! YOU KISSED ANOTHER GIRL! THERE'S NO FORGIVING FOR THAT."

Jake said, "Just drop it. I don't give a shit anymore."

You laughed as tears streamed down your face, "You don't care about us? Not surprising. Obviously, you didn't care about us when you kissed her."

Jake took a deep breath, "Y/N, I'll talk to you when we get home. I do agree we shouldn't talk for a few days."

You yelled, "Why? So you can cheat some more. I'd rather let you be free to..."

You couldn't even let the words out. You were sobbing now. Jake was your first everything. It felt like a different kind of betrayal.

"How could you think I'd have sex with anyone else."

You said, "You were kissing her!"

Jake said, "I wasn't!"

You hung up on him.

If he was going to cheat, at least be honest about it.

Sunghoon

He's the worst. When it comes to what he says, he has no filter.

He embarrassed you in front of your co-workers. He told them you weren't fit to be his wife. Everyone stared at you for something to say.

You had nothing to say.

You were in so much shock. How could Sunghoon ever say that about you?

After the DEAD quiet drive home, you walked straight into the shower. You wanted to avoid Hoon at all costs. You locked the bathroom door and showered in peace.

You started crying because you think this is your last straw.

He wasn't thinking about marrying you? Then what was he here for? Was he taking your relationship seriously? You don't even know anymore.

You opened the door, eyes red and puffy. Your shower cap was over your eyebrows.

You said, "Sunghoon, I really hated what you said today."

He looked at you, confused about why you were crying and why you weren't wearing your shower cap properly.

When it fell over your eyes, you threw it on the ground. Hoon's lip twitched as he asked, "What did I say?"

You said, "How could you not know!? Am I not fit for marriage? What? You never planning on marrying me?"

Sunghoon was stern, "Seriously? You're crying over that? Geez, sometimes I really hate how sensitive you are."

You froze. That actually hit a nerve. You've expressed in the past that you are insecure about how often you show your emotions. You told Sunghoon to never judge you for it.

He's saying shit without thinking.

"Sunghoon. Get out."

He stood up instantly. He's never heard you talk like that before.

He was walking out when he realized that he might've pissed you off for real.

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head, "No. Just go away."

You slammed the door after him.

Sunoo

You've had a stressful work week. Sunoo knew it was because when he'd come over, you were sleeping. He woke you up when the door opened. You had a pile of work documents surrounding you.

"Hi, baby." You said while rubbing your eyes. He smiled, "Have you eaten? Showered? relaxed?"

You scooted on the couch to check the coffee table full of more documents. Sunoo sat next to you and rubbed your back. You said, "Not right now."

You reached for a page and started reading. Sunoo said, "I love you, but you really need to take care of yourself."

You shook your head, "I don't have time. I'm the team leader, and they're relying on me."

Sunoo furrowed his eyebrows, "You can't always think of your team. You need to put yourself first sometimes."

You cut him off, "I am taking care of myself. Doing my job leads to my bills paying for another month."

Sunoo said, "You know I'm always open to helping with your bills if it's that serious."

You furrowed your eyebrows and shot up, "No, Sunoo."

You caught yourself about to start yelling, but you rubbed your nose bridge. Sunoo grabbed the back of your thighs and pulled you closer, "I'll run you a shower, and we're gonna have a serious talk."

That's what you did. Sunoo showered with you. You two sat on the bed, and Sunoo took a deep breath.

"I think we need a break from each other."

You furrowed your eyebrows, "What?"

Sunoo smiled, "Just a week or so. You're stressed out right now, and every time I talk to you, I seem to piss you off. I don't really wanna be around you anymore."

You started to tear up. Sunoo words cut through your heart.

"You don't wanna be around me?" Your voice cracked, and Sunoo gently pressed his hand to your cheek.

Your face was hot.

"Don't cry, please. It's only a week. You need to figure yourself out."

You said, "What if we have the break, and it doesn't work."

Sunoo said sadly, "We'd have to break up. I-... If I don't crash out on you when I get stressed, I expect the same back."

And with that, Sunoo stood up. "I'm sorry to drop this on you like this. I wanted to avoid this conversation, but after today, I don't think we can stay like this. You're not even taking care of yourself."

You cried, "Because I'm stressed! I can't just give up. This job is my livelihood!"

Sunoo looked at you as you got riled up, "So is mine, and I handle it peacefully."

Jungwon

What could an argument possibly be about? Commitment issues. It wasn't on Jungwon's end. It was yours. You weren't cheating, HELL NO. It was his patterns.

Jungwon was loyal, kept his promises, and treated you like a queen.

That was the problem. You weren't used to that. You were in unhealthy relationships. It was better to detach and not really commit because you always knew they wouldn't change.

If you told Jungwon something you didn't like about him, he'd change it.

It was a problem.

It was a date. You were eating at this expensive restaurant. The steak was huge, and you both shared it. Jungwon was joking around, "My girl-best friend is pregnant already. It's crazy to think I'll be an uncle."

You smiled as you played with your food. You knew what was coming, and you tried to brace yourself. After three attempts to change the subject, you were still talking about pregnancy.

Jungwon asked the bomb, "When we have kids, how many do you want?"

You looked up at him, and the world froze.

"Huh?"

Jungwon asked again, "How many kids do you want?"

You avoided, "I'd never thought that far." Jungwon tilted his head, "You want kids, right?"

The silence was loud, "A kid sounds scary."

He quirked his eyebrow and asked, "Okay, what about marriage?"

You laughed, "Let's not talk about all of this now."

Jungwon said, "I think we should talk about this. We're clearly not on the same page."

You said, "Wonnie, I don't wanna talk about this."

Jungwon said, "You don't wanna get married to me...? Is that it?"

Your eyes widened, "I don't wanna get married in general... it's too much to think about."

Jungwon looked at you like you were stupid, "When were you planning on telling me that?"

You said, "I'd figure we wouldn't be together by now."

Jungwon froze. He nodded slowly as he turned to the waiter and asked for the check.

Jungwon drove you home, and he didn't text you back.

Something about him leaving you hurt more than usual. You cried that night. You're not usually the type to cry over a guy. Jungwon felt like someone special.

Ni-ki

Another day of wanting your boyfriend, another day of him playing video games.

Ni-ki was yelling, "You suck literal ASS! God, I hope you drown!"

He was usually the type to say crazy shit like that in the game. The problem was his girlfriend was sitting on his bed, without panties on, and watching YouTube on his phone.

He didn't bat an eye.

Ni-ki was too busy shooting people.

He didn't stop, either. He'd play until 4 AM. He was crazy like that.

You huffed and stomped over to him. He turned around and said, "Lemme finish this battle."

You said, "Yeah, fine. Go ahead."

He heard your tone. The sarcasm and anger. He said in the mic, "I'll catch you guys later. I've got trouble with the wife."

He exited the game and asked, "What did I do wrong? Did I forget to take the trash out?"

You stepped back, "Look at me."

He started at your plush brown thighs. His eyes trailed to your face, and he asked, "What's the matter."

You said, "I've been sitting on your bed with no underwear on for the past 2 hours! Here, you are playing the game. Do you think the game is sexy?! That game ain't giving you kids and oral!"

Ni-ki's eyes widened, "Baby, be quiet."

You started grabbing your things in a huff, "Don't tell me to be quiet! I'm going home!"

You pulled on his pants and grabbed your purse. You stomped out of his room, and Ni-ki followed closely. "Fuck you, Ni-ki."

You stormed out as Ni-ki was left with himself, and Heeseung walked out of his dorm room. "Kids and oral? Ni-ki?"

Ni-ki turned around, and his eyes were red, "What the hell, hyung?!"

Heeseung reluctantly hugged him.

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moodient · 23 hours ago

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sev week: angst 1/7

tags: implied cheating, angst, tw// starvation(?), malnourished, tons of crying

a//n: so sorry, but i need the angst in my life right now- but the next one will be fluff or smut, who knows.

Out of Love

you and sevika's relationship was like a rubber band, its rough but stretchy texture held you two together but at any moment, it could snap quickly. one day it's an argument about seeing her hang out with another woman. another, it's work taking up all of her life and you're just about done with her.

don't get me wrong, you absolutely adore her but she never makes time for you.. never devoted herself to you.. never made time for you. you couldn't remember the last time she kissed your lips, the last time she held you in her arms, protecting you from the world, not even the last time you've heard her say i love you.

this has went on for months and months on end, and she has completely forgotten about you. your birthday, her birthday, your anniversary, all the big and small things that she used to remember is all gone. you can't even remember the last date you've both been on.

but today was the absolute worst, today was your 5th year anniversary, you even try to put yourself and planned a reservation to her favorite restaurant.

you looked at yourself in the mirror, you got your eyes suffered from too many nights of crying yourself to sleep, your body whimpers and groans, screaming at you for nourishment but you ignored it every time. you frown at yourself.. sad, disgusted.. disappointed in yourself but you've decided you want to do better for yourself with or without her. you went into the kitchen to make something that your stomach could take, maybe some fruit? You grab an apple and bite into the apple and the crunchy texture and sweet taste sends you over the moon, eating it almost animalistic. the juices all over your mouth and bits of apple on your cheeks. you even grabbed some water and downed it like it was a shot.

The bedroom door opened quickly and shut hard.. every day without fail, she kisses your head and completely walks past you, not even noticing your crumbled state. She walks towards the door opening it swiftly but before she leaves, you grab her sleeve.

"where.. are you going?" your voice silent but you're trying to at least say something. anything to make her speak to you.

"... work." she says, before yanking you off her sleeve and looking back at you but all she can see is your face being covered by your hair.

"don't.. forget today, i've made a reservation for us." you said, keeping your head down. she nods and slams the door shut.

you were going all out tonight especially for her, you set a hair appointment, bought a brand new dress and a pair of shoes and even, bought a lingerie set that she would love. at this time, it's around 6pm and the reservation is at 8pm, which gives you some time to do make-up or comfortably get ready.

you took a shower, put on your lingerie and dress, did your makeup and you took a final look in the mirror and you absolutely loved how you looked. checking the time one more time, 7:25pm.. perfect. you took your car to the restaurant and make it there before 8pm and now you wait..

and wait..

waiters came to you asking, if you wanted something small to eat or at least but you insisted that she'll be here soon. you called her and messaged her and absolutely no answer.

the restaurant is now completely empty besides the waiters and chefs and you. it's now 10pm and the restaurant was soon to close so instead of making it their problem, you left a tip and left out. your heart ached with pain and if you didn't run to your car, you would've broke down at the restaurant.

your makeup ran down your face, head aching from all of the crying and you couldn't take it anymore. you laid back in your car seat and just sat there.. your mental was fucked, you were physically exhausted and your lover couldn't even give a fuck to show up.

you drove home, completely silent.. no radio, no one on the phone.. just you, yourself.. and your thoughts. you didn't really know what to think, or really how to think, were you really shocked that she didn't come or did you just let your delusions fuel you? whatever the case may be, you believed her and she left you down completely.

...

"sevika?"

"sevika, are you home?"

you opened your bedroom door to see the lights dimmed, her sleeping body rising and falling, but there's something beside her, is that.. your eyes widened and your tears fell.. you couldn't make a sound and quickly packed a bag with tears and soft whimpers coming from your mouth, you left a note, and ran out the house completely crying.

you spent the night at a hotel room and try to think of excuses for her.. maybe that's a friend, or a family member.. but she was topless, and so was her "friend".. fuck, what did you do to deserve this? how could she do this to you.. if this was a sick twisted dream, you wanted... needed to wake up.. please, wake up.. but it was real.

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika angst #sevika x you #sevika x female reader #moodie 💫#i'm sorry

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kaoriartss-blog · 3 days ago

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Starburst

Chapter 13: "Lights, Camera... Chaos"

Previous Chapter Masterlist Next Chapter

Pairing: Poly Skz OT8 x Reader idol

Genre: Romance, angst, female Oc

Warning: Use of Oc, romance, angst, swearing, Idol x Idol, 18+ progressive, use of swear words, use of translator.

Series: Starbursts

Summary: The story centers on Lia, a newly debuted solo idol struggling to find her place in the K-pop industry. Despite her talent, she feels like she's missing something, a special connection that helps her shine. The members of Stray Kids, who are at the height of their careers, are drawn to Lia's unique energy when she's invited to collaborate with them on a new album. As they work together, the connection between Lia and the boys intensifies. With pressure from the media and fan expectations, they must find a balance between their careers and personal lives.

Comment: First of all, I want to clarify that English is not my first language. I speak Spanish, but I didn't want to deprive you of this story. I'll be using a translator, so it's possible that some phrases might get lost or be incomprehensible. Second, I thank you in advance for taking the time to read. I'll also be uploading the chapters to Wattpad in Spanish and to Ao3 in English.

Updates on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. I also remind you that English is not my first language.

The soft lights of the practice studio were barely on. The polished floor reflected the first rays of morning slipping through the small skylight in the hallway. Silence, except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint sound of bare footsteps.

Lia stood alone in the center of the room, dressed in dark joggers and a loose white t-shirt knotted at the side. Her hair, now platinum blonde, was tied up in a messy bun. She breathed rhythmically, marking the choreography counts in front of the mirror while the instrumental version of Connections played from her phone.

She spun, landed softly on her knees, extended her arm... and stopped. She gasped lightly. Frustrated, she stood up and paused the music.

"Count was off again," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck.

"I didn’t notice. It looked great from the door."

Lia turned, startled. Leaning against the doorway in a light blue hoodie and baggy pants was Felix, holding a water bottle in hand and wearing that calm, radiant smile of his.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to admire you," he said, stepping inside. "And to see you've been pushing yourself since early morning."

Lia let out a tired chuckle and dropped to the wooden floor, sitting down.

"Couldn't sleep. I want it to turn out right... you know, the video, the choreo, everything."

Felix sat beside her, crossing his legs. For a few seconds, they just shared the silence, breathing together, watching their reflections in the mirror.

"Can I say something without it sounding over the top?" he asked, still looking ahead.

"You always can."

"You’ve been... glowing lately. Not just because of the new look," he said, glancing at her profile. "It’s like you’ve found a part of yourself that was waiting to come out. And I’m really happy to see it."

Lia looked at him, feeling that familiar warmth in her chest.

"With you, I always feel a little braver."

Felix looked away with a shy smile, slightly blushing.

"Well... you make me feel at peace. Like I don’t have to do anything but be here."

A comfortable silence settled. Nothing urgent needed to be said. Just the quiet language of two people who understood each other.

Felix extended his hand, palm up. Lia hesitated for a second... then took it. Their fingers fit naturally.

"Thanks for being here," she said softly.

"I always will be, Lia. As long as you let me."

Before they could say anything more, rushed footsteps echoed from the hallway.

"Hyunjin, I told you it wasn’t at nine! It was at eight-thirty!"

"Then why didn’t anyone wake me?!"

They both let go of each other’s hands, laughing, and Felix stood up, offering his hand to help her up.

"Let’s get back to work before Han scolds us for being 'late' to a place we were already in," she joked.

Felix nodded, but just before they started again, he whispered:

"Hey… in the choreo during the second verse, there’s a moment when I’m supposed to place my hand on your waist, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can I confess I practiced that more times than necessary?"

Lia burst out laughing and gave him a gentle shove, just as the door opened and the rest of the group started to shuffle in, yawning, holding water bottles, and half-asleep laughter.

Practice was about to begin, but the energy already felt different. Through steps and glances, Connections was starting to take shape — not just as a song, but as what it truly was: a reflection of all the bonds that united them.

---

Group practice had ended a few minutes ago. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, their shirts clung to their bodies, and the room smelled of effort and music. Some had already gone upstairs to shower or drink something cold. The portable speaker was still on, playing Connections instrumental on repeat.

Lia remained seated on the floor in front of the mirror, head down, palms resting between her knees. She wasn’t physically exhausted, but something was nagging at her inside.

"That again?" Minho said, still with a towel around his neck, watching her from the corner.

"That what?" she asked, lifting her head.

"That look. The ‘I’m staying here until my feet bleed or I pass out’ one."

"It’s not that bad. It’s just... this part still isn’t coming out right," Lia said, pointing to a section of the choreography that involved a quick spin-to-fall transition.

Hyunjin, who was drinking water by the entrance, turned around when he heard her.

"Want us to help?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aren’t you guys tired?"

"Of course, but we’re more worried about you hurting yourself," Minho replied, dropping the towel and stretching his arms with exaggerated resignation.

Lia smiled in relief. She appreciated those small gestures of support more than she could express.

"Alright. Let’s go from that part, yeah?"

Hyunjin stood to her left, Minho to her right — just like in the section of the choreo where they surrounded her.

"You need a bit more bounce before the turn," Minho said, showing her the step in slow motion. "It’s not strength, it’s momentum. Use your left leg to get lift."

"And in the fall, don’t just drop," Hyunjin added, stepping in to correct her posture. "Support yourself with your hand. Feel the rhythm before sliding."

They practiced three times. Then five. Then eight.

"That’s it! That was it!" Hyunjin said as he watched her finally glide fluidly with the beat.

Lia gasped and dropped to her knees, laughing with a hint of tears in her voice.

"Finally!"

Minho crouched beside her with an open water bottle.

"Told you — you just needed bounce and patience."

"And a couple of unpaid coaches?" she teased, taking a sip.

Hyunjin flopped down on the floor, legs stretched out.

"We’re not unpaid. We accept payment in ramen and ice cream. Preferably today."

"Deal," Lia replied, still catching her breath.

For a moment, the three of them lay on the wooden floor, staring at the white ceiling.

"You know?" Minho said in a softer tone. "I admire that you don’t give up. There’s something inspiring about seeing you like this — fighting yourself, not giving in."

Lia turned her face toward him, eyes a little more vulnerable.

"I’m scared of letting you down. You guys. Myself. This whole project."

Hyunjin leaned in, looking at her gently.

"You’re not going to fail, Lia. Not even if you tried. Because everything you do, you do with your heart. And it shows."

"And if you ever feel like you’re falling, we’ll be here. To catch you or fall with you," Minho added, his tone calm and sincere.

Lia closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply.

"Thank you. Both of you."

"Now get up, dramatic blondie. Let’s go get that ramen," Minho joked, standing and offering her his hand.

Lia took it and got up, followed by Hyunjin. Together they left the practice room, laughing, drenched in sweat… but content.

That night, they would sleep with sore bodies — but peaceful hearts.

---

The black van pulled up in front of the MBC building. It was just past 9:30 a.m. the next day, and although the sun barely peeked through the spring clouds, the air was charged with excitement. Stray Kids and Lia had been invited to Weekly Idol — one of their first official appearances as a unit since the collaborative project began.

"I can’t believe we’re going to be on the same show again. This time as a unit!" Changbin exclaimed as they climbed out of the van.

"I just hope they don’t play those embarrassing debut clips," Hyunjin groaned, rubbing his face.

"Too late. I saw the writers scrolling through our old TikToks," Han laughed.

Lia walked in the middle of the group, her platinum blonde hair perfectly styled, wearing a white corset-style blouse and a flared black skirt — with shorts underneath, just in case. Her makeup was light but flawless, and though she tried to stay calm, butterflies were flapping wildly in her stomach.

"Nervous?" Seungmin asked quietly as he walked beside her.

"A little. I’ve never been on Weekly Idol... with eight boys at once," she replied with a nervous smile.

"Just be yourself. Though if you start dancing weird like Han, we might get canceled," he joked, making her burst out laughing.

As they stepped onto the set, the hosts — Kwang Hee and Eunhyuk, guest MCs that week — greeted them with enthusiasm.

"Stray Kids and Lia, welcome! Today we have a very special episode!" Kwang Hee announced.

"We’ve seen previews of your project and we’re excited to talk about the title track Connections," added Eunhyuk. "But first… let’s do a round of introductions with a fun twist!"

Each member had to introduce themselves with a creative phrase. Some were funnier than others.

"I'm Lee Know, the hyung who looks serious but dances like fire," said Minho, winking, which drew screams from the staff.

"I'm Han, the encyclopedia of bad jokes… but with good rhythm," he added, beatboxing.

Lia was the last one.

"I'm Lia, and even though I'm the only girl, I’ve got eight bodyguards and a song that’s going to break hearts!" she said confidently, raising her arms. The set erupted in applause.

Segment 1: Project Trivia

The MCs tested them with questions about the collaboration.

"Who was the first to suggest the name Connections?" asked Eunhyuk.

"Bang Chan!" they all shouted almost in unison.

Chan raised his hands in victory.

"Correct! Although I think Felix was the first to understand what the song was really about," he joked.

"Because I'm sensitive!" said Felix, dramatically touching his chest.

Segment 2: Games and Chaos

Next came a round of games: random play dance, speed karaoke, and an aegyo battle. Lia won the aegyo round effortlessly, causing Changbin to hide behind Seungmin from the cuteness attack.

"I can’t watch!! I’m going to faint!" he shouted, laughing.

But the most chaotic moment came when they all tried to dance the Connections choreography… at double speed. Stumbles, screams, laughter, and falls. Lia ended up on the floor with Han and Felix, all laughing so hard they couldn’t get up.

"If that makes it into the teaser, we’re going to be a meme," said Hyunjin, half-defeated.

Segment 3: Heartfelt Words

Near the end, the MCs asked them to say one sentence that described what this project meant to them.

"Learning to connect with others is also a way of getting to know yourself," said Seungmin in a calm tone.

"We’re creating something bigger than a song. We’re creating memories," added Felix.

Lia was the last to speak.

"I never imagined this project would change the way I see things so much. I didn’t just make music with them… I made a family."

Her words made several staff members fall silent for a moment, and the atmosphere turned warm, almost nostalgic.

"Wow! That deserves a round of applause!" said Eunhyuk, clapping.

The program ended with a group selfie, promises to return when the album was released, and many grateful hugs.

Off-camera, as they walked toward the van, Chan approached Lia.

"You did really well today. You felt confident, didn’t you?"

"Yeah… I think I’m finally starting to enjoy all of this, without fear," she said, smiling sincerely.

"Then you’re exactly where you’re meant to be," he replied, giving her a pat on the back.

As they got into the van, the sun began to set and the sky turned pink.

And in the air, something felt more certain than ever: they were ready to show the world their connection.

#bang chan x reader #changbin x reader #felix x reader #hyunjin x reader #seungmin x reader #stray kids x reader #han jisung x reader #in x reader #jeongin x reader #kim seungmin x reader #lee know x reader #stray kids ot8 #stray kids fanfic #skz ot8 x reader #skz poly x reader #poly skz x reader #skz x reader

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thewinter-eden · 1 day ago

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Blood Sugar Virus (46)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Genre: Horror, zombies, strangers to lovers, angst, suspense, slow burn Pairing: Kang Yeosang x female!reader Warnings: based on the Wanteez Zombie episode, only a couple more chapters! I can't believe how long this has gotten

Story Summary: You (stage name Sugar) are the co-captain of a horror acting group. You and your guys are the ones the companies hire when they want to stage a zombie, ghost, or any vaguely horrific and dystopian episode. So when you get hired by Ateez to develop a zombie program, it's just another routine that you've done a million times. Everything's going exactly according to script--until suddenly it isn't, and it starts getting a little too real.

🏆 Esteemed Moot: @ramadiiiisme

⭐️ Reader Spotlight: @mrsminseochoi

< last chapter | masterlist

“Babysitting again. Great.” One of the soldiers complains, watching the group of you get up and find your balance again.

You’re no longer concerned about noise, the crackling of the building fire and the loud chatter of the officers covering your shifting and scraping through the dirt.

“What’s your name?” Woosung moves towards them, his rifle comfortably pinned to his chest. Even in the shadows of the fire and the lights flashing haphazardly through the yard, he looks like an unwavering force.

The soldier straightens immediately. “Lee, sir.”

At Woosung’s prompting looks to the others, they hurry to offer their own names.

“Kim.”

“Yoon.”

“Cho.”

“Listen carefully. You are to escort and protect these people until they are safe. Your only purpose in life is to ensure that they make it back to their families. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.” Lee gives a hurried nod.

“If you do anything to cause unnecessary noise or attract attention to them, my man will send you back here, and I will put you at the front of this shit, and your job will become being my meat shield. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

“And understand this: if I finish up here and find that they’ve been caught and you guys are still standing, I will assume that you’ve given them up. Do I need to tell you how that will go for you?”

“No sir.”

Woosung turns away from them, satisfied. He lifts his radio, glancing out over the line of men who are vigilantly watching the yard. “Tae. You’re going with the civilians to the service station.”

A minute later, Taegyeom appears through the trees, jogging easily towards you. Woosung pulls him aside to explain the plan, and leaves your group to prepare to leave.

You’re focused on righting yourself. Arranging your weight to settle as comfortably as possible on your bad hip. The stiffness in your thigh still aches softly from where Namjoon kicked you, but you can’t bring yourself to begrudge the pain.

If he had been here to hear you, you would have chewed him out all over again for it, but in his absence, all you feel is a sharp sorrow every time the bruise throbs under your weight.

“How do we do this?” Yunho asks, pulling himself to his feet and helping Mingi up with him.

You don’t realize he’s talking to you until Hongjoong turns towards you and waits for your answer. Surprised, you blink back at him. “Me?” You hadn’t been planning on assuming leadership, not since you made it out of the school and Namjoon fell.

You expected to be following, to let the role fall to Hongjoong. Most of your remaining friends are Ateez, and they trust him more than they trust you. He’s the obvious choice for leadership at this point.

Without your co-captain, you’re only half of a leader.

You can’t pretend you have any authority to stand on, not after you lost almost your entire family.

Yeosang’s arm is around your back again, stabilizing you as you falter on your bad hip.

“What do you think?” Hongjoong asks you. “What’s the best way to arrange ourselves?”

Your confidence in decision making has gone clean out of you. “I think you’ve got this, Captain. Your call. I can take the rear.”

He frowns at you. “We’re asking for your input. You’ve gotten us this far.”

You snort. “My entire team has been killed, or nearly mortally wounded. You guys should handle this.” You can’t lead without Namjoon. He trusted you. He carried you where you fell down, he took on half of every burden.

And now he’s gone, and you’re the one who sent him down to the basement when he was debilitated by Rosé’s death.

Your pretense at authority has failed.

“That’s not your fault.” Yeosang argues. “You couldn’t have controlled that.”

“Sugar,” Wooyoung is behind you. “You still want me on Jimin?”

You don’t answer him, still watching Hongjoong. “They’re your family.” You say softly. “I can’t make the decisions for you.”

He steps closer, expression somber. “Help me organize this. You have a good head for utilizing our resources and optimizing our strengths. Help me get them home.”

He’s preying on your sense of duty, weaponizing your protective instincts against you. “Hongjoong—”

“Please, Sugar. You’re a leader. A good one. No one has compartmentalized this hell and continued to be able to make calls based on the bigger picture like you have. Help me.”

A second passes, overwhelming waves of guilt warring with the strategies already rolling through your head. “You tell me if you think I’m making a bad call.”

He gives a single nod. “I will.”

You turn back to Wooyoung. “I want you to take a break. Jongho, you take Jimin. Pay attention to when he needs to rest, and tell us when we need to stop. When you get tired, Wooyoung can trade places with you.”

The youngest goes to Jimin’s side instantly, setting himself firmly against the weaker man’s body.

“And I think Hwa should take over with Mingi to give Yunho a rest too.” You glance to Hongjoong, who has no argument.

Seonghwa positions himself under Mingi’s arm, leaving Yunho to stand alone, stretching out the soreness in his back.

“San, stay up front with me.” Hongjoong says. “If you need to rest, we’ll stop. How’s your chest?”

“Hurts like a bitch, but I’m okay.” San responds, shuffling to the front of your group to stand with the captain.

“Yeosang, are you good?”

Yeosang doesn’t budge from beside you. “I’m good, hyung. We’ll take the rear.”

Finally, Hongjoong faces you again. “Are you alright? Can you walk? If one of us needs to help you take some weight off, we’ve got Yunho and Wooyoung as floaters.”

You’re already reassuring him that you’re good to go when Yeosang’s hand closes around your good hip. “I’ve got her.” He says flatly. “Yunho and Wooyoung need to stay available for Mingi and Jimin.”

Nobody argues.

“If anybody needs to rest, we stop.” Hongjoong announces, loudly enough that Taegyeom and the four soldiers can hear him. “We’re ready.”

Taegyeom reaches you then, finished conferring with Woosung, and takes his position at the head of the group. He sends the four soldiers into places surrounding you, issuing orders to be aware and prepared for any potential surprises, and then with a single gesture, begins leading you through the woods.

“You’re shaking.” Yeosang murmurs, feeling the way you’re limping beside him.

Your body is close to exhaustion. Sitting in the dirt for so long and letting most of the adrenaline seep out of your system has left you weary and sore, all of your various wounds now screaming at you for attention. Where you had once been able to ignore the fiery sting of your hip, you’re now feeling it at the forefront of your attention.

Every step feels like a mallet swung against your leg, staggering agony shooting up your back from the torn muscles in your bite.

“Will you still like me if I have to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life?” You whisper back, fighting a wince as your foot lands awkwardly on a root.

He chuckles softly. “They could amputate your entire leg and I would still like you.”

That strikes you as ridiculous, especially considering they’d have to sever the entire lower half of your body to cut away a wound so high on your hip, and you huff with amusement. “Jimin will be so relieved. I’m not sure he’ll get to keep his.”

“Gosh, thanks Sugar, that’s what I wanted to hear right now.” Jimin’s weak voice travels back to you from somewhere in the middle of your group.

“Sorry, Chim. You’re one leg closer to being the Terminator.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Alright, Master Storyteller, what’s the cover we’re going with? Have you come up with anything better than cannibalistic forest people or a botched cultish sacrifice?” Wooyoung asks, slowing his pace to walk next to you.

You reach out and push him forward, keeping him ever so slightly in front of you. “I can’t watch your damn back if I can’t see it, Woo. Stay up there.”

His gait turns jaunty, swinging his hips in exaggerated motions. “Get a good look, then. Make sure it stays pristine, alright? A lot rides on it in my career.”

“You sound like a fucking stripper.” Yeosang shoves at his shoulder. “Stop throwing your ass around, none of us want to see that.”

“She asked.” Wooyoung shoots back defensively. “I’m just trying to offer some entertainment in these trying times.”

“Save your energy.” You snort. “You’re gonna throw your back out.”

With a low snicker, he corrects his gait and grows serious. “I’m really asking, though, what do we tell people?”

“I know the guy was being facetious and everything, but I liked the cannibal cult thing. What do you think, Sugar? Couldn’t we make a totally dope horror program out of that?” Jimin calls back to you quietly.

Your group is moving in a close enough huddle that you can speak and be heard without making too much noise, so none of the soldiers try to silence you.

“You want to go from being nearly eaten alive to acting it out for the rest of your career?” You ask in disbelief, staring at the shadowy form of his back as though he can see the disturbed expression on your face.

“I can find inspiration anywhere.” He responds cheekily. “We might as well get paid for this traumatizing storyline.”

“Your zombie programs are gonna be fucking terrifying after this.” Yunho mutters.

You’re not sure you’ll ever be putting on programs after this. Your company was a unique one, the likes of which you’re not sure you can find again in another country. In all honesty, you’re more likely to find a crappy job with one of those companies that hosts murder mystery dinners, unable to offer any creative insight to the storylines.

“What do you guys think? It’s your fans we have to convince. What are they gonna believe?” You ask instead of humoring Jimin’s ideas.

“They know we were filming a zombie episode. We put out a promo a couple weeks ago.” Hongjoong supplies. “But Yeosang and San have actual bite wounds. Any doctor is gonna look at them and see human teeth marks.”

“Doctors won’t be allowed to share their findings with the public though.” You say.

“But if any of the press get wind of it—and you know they have sources everywhere—it will be all over the internet in a matter of hours. We have to come up with something close enough to the truth.”

Your mind is racing through the options. Even thinking is exhausting. “We can throw my company under the bus,” the words cross your lips with an ache of betrayal. “All of the offending parties are gone, it won’t hurt them to take the blame. If you want to say that my team went crazy and attacked you, you’d be well within your rights to do so.”

Jimin makes an indignant sound of protest.

Yeosang shakes his head immediately. “It will hurt their reputations and their families. And it’s not like they actually did anything wrong—they were the victims. They don’t deserve that. They should be remembered well.”

You didn’t think he could make your heart beat any faster, but there he goes again, shooting warmth from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

“No, we’ll come up with something else.” Hongjoong agrees firmly. “And they won’t be found in the remains of the fire, not after the military covers it up. We’ll have to come up with an entirely different story for their families and your company to explain what happened to them. We won’t disgrace them like that, don’t worry.”

A rush of relief floods through you. You can’t think of a good way to explain their inexplicable disappearance off the face of the earth, especially one that their families will buy, but at least you don’t have to sacrifice their reputations so gracelessly.

You hadn’t even expected Ateez to take you up on the idea, but the part of you that still feels like an outsider felt compelled to allow responsibility to fall on your own shoulders.

“We can’t say we all went camping. We can’t point to a campsite or gear to back up our stories. None of us are dressed for camping, either.” You muse, shuffling through dozens of ideas. It would be easier to come up with a good explanation if your head wasn’t pounding.

“There are KQ vans back in that parking lot.” Seonghwa says. “And we’re recognizable to most people as Ateez. Even these guys knew who we were.” He gestures to your soldier escort.

If you come up with a good enough story, the military will likely support your story by either getting rid of the vans or abandoning them somewhere in a discreet location. “They’re going to take DNA samples from us. If we tell them we’ve been attacked by people, they’re going to be looking for whoever allegedly did it.”

“That’s assuming we’re being seen in-country.” Yeosang muses. “None of your team’s DNA is in a criminal database, is it?”

“Not that I know of, but I don’t want to risk somebody having been arrested before I knew them. If they match any of it to one of them, our story will fall apart.”

You hope you won’t be seen by anyone in the country who will run forensic testing, hoping you’ll be on a plane to somewhere else before anybody puts you in a hospital, but you can’t just assume that will happen.

But your bodies are littered with bite marks. You have to come up with something.

“But if we’re not approaching this like we want to press charges, would they conduct an investigation? We would have to consent to a medical examination like that, right? Since we’re victims? They couldn’t do anything but treat us without our permission.” Seonghwa says, glancing around for confirmation.

You don’t know.

You can’t be sure of the laws that would protect or offend your autonomy like that.

You know that in some places that’s the case, and it was true when you and the rest of your girls went in for examinations after the blacklisted client assaulted you, but how can you be sure that physical assault falls under the same rules?

“We came out here to film our horror program in the woods. Your managers dropped you off and took the vans somewhere to park them—you don’t know where, just that they’re supposed to come back and pick you up in a few hours. We’ll say Jimin and I rode with you.”

“But we don’t have cameras. And most of our mic packs are gone. We don’t have gear for that either.” Wooyoung reminds you.

“We’ll say we came out here for a rehearsal. Maybe we got lost in the dark. We can say Mingi fell and punctured his ankle on a root. He doesn’t have any bites.”

Mingi huffs a short laugh. “That’s believable. Seems like something I would do.”

“How rabid are your fans? Can we say we got attacked by people who recognized you and they just went batshit with lust?” You’re joking, but San gives an offended grunt.

“No way, we can’t go public by blaming our fans. That’s horrible. It would start a war. We can’t do that to them, it would be a huge, violent, hateful ordeal.”

“She was kidding,” Yeosang reassures him. “It was a joke.”

“I was kidding, San, I’m sorry.” You agree quickly. “I can imagine the consequences of that.” Fans of other groups would ostracize Atiny, they’d vilify them as a whole, they’d crowd outside KQ and call for veritable executions, cyber sleuths would do just enough foolhardy investigating to accuse innocent people of the crime, and actual lives would be potentially ruined.

Poking that bear would be almost more dangerous than just admitting the whole truth.

“We have to say someone attacked us. We’re too fucked up to claim anything else. Anyone can see human nail marks and teeth on us. We say we were attacked by crazies in the woods, and we don’t consent to an investigation. We just want things to go back to normal, we want to forget about it, we want to go home. We’re scared, we’re hurt, we’re too traumatized to speak. The less we say and the more emotion we put into it, the more we’re gonna get away with. If any of you want to go catatonic or nonverbal, feel free to do so. They can’t compare stories if we can’t even bring ourselves to get all the details out.”

“Any preliminary interviews are going to want solid timelines. We have to be able to account for just about every minute with perfect consistency.” Jimin says.

You spend nearly an hour creating the timeline and bouncing it back and forth between you until it seems just as true as what really happened. By the time you fall into almost satisfied silence, every one of you has it down pat.

They’re still quizzing each other on details when you let yourself sink into the background. Your body screams with near unbearable pain, every step now sending your brain into waves of dizzying darkness.

Pretty soon you won’t have to worry about reciting a rote script, you’ll be in some kind of traumatic coma.

You can’t figure out why all of a sudden you’re feeling such superficial wounds so strongly, except that maybe your body is finally tapping out from the physical shock and adrenaline that you’ve been powering through for most of the night without significant reprieve.

And if you’re feeling this faint, this immobilized by it, you can only imagine how San and Yeosang feel.

“Wooyoung,” your voice comes out in a breathless gasp, and he immediately turns to you. You’ve been walking for over an hour, and a bleary glance at the gps screen tells you that your group has only managed to hobble about a mile. “How’s your arm?”

He lifts the appendage to show you the bloody bandage that covers the spot where Taehyung bit him. In the dim light of dawn, fractured by the tree cover, you can see that the once white cloth is a ruddy brown color. “I’m okay, Noona,” he tells you. “It stings like hell but it’s okay.”

For a second, you can’t remember what you asked him, or why he’s showing you his arm. You blink, and your brain comes back into focus. “Good. Tell me if you need anything, okay? I have painkillers in my purse.”

“You’re not wearing a purse, Noona.” He slows, frowning at you.

You’re not. You haven’t worn a purse since earlier today, when you met a producer for lunch.

Yeosang taps your good hip. “Are you okay?”

“No, I know. I meant my duffel. No, wait, I don’t have it anymore. I’m sorry, Wooyoung, I dropped it.”

He glances between you and Yeosang. “It’s okay. I’m good.”

You focus on walking. Breathing in, breathing out. Letting your vision swim and reminding yourself that you’re going to land on solid ground. It’s muscle memory.

Knee up, foot down.

“San?” You can’t see him. Your eyes flash around the figures you can only see from behind. “Where’s San? Is he with us?”

Wooyoung comes to a full stop. “He’s with Joong. He’s okay. He’s here. Noona, are you okay?”

You shake yourself.

Of course he’s with Hongjoong.

Your damn brain just keeps sending you half packets of information, taking way too long to catch you up on things you should know without even thinking. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

Yeosang moves to your other side so he can set your uninjured hip against his, lifting your weight off your bad leg. “You’re scaring me a little.” He winds your arm over his shoulders and proceeds forward with half of your weight draped over him.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, gasping. “I’m okay, I swear.”

You are okay.

You’re fine.

You’re just slow. Your brain is slow. Your body is slow. You’ve been through a lot and your head is pounding with deferred pain—you should be allowed to blank out a little.

You’re fine.

One step after another.

Ignore the fire in your shredded muscle, it’s easier with Yeosang helping you.

Don’t think about the open wound in your neck that feels like a knife jabbing into your throat.

You’ve been working through it all night, you can work through it now.

A grunt of frustration passes your lips. Why is your body rebelling now? Now, of all times? Why couldn’t it wait until you fall into a plush bed and be pitiful when you don’t have to think about your own survival?

“I just need Namjoon,” you murmur.

“I know, Sugar.” Yeosang’s voice is tight, trembling.

“Can you grab him? I need him to take over for a minute.”

Your legs stop moving.

No, Yeosang stops moving.

Your chest is warm and thick. He’s pulled you against him, his arm strong around your back. He’s warm. He’s solid, like a wall. So solid you can just lean against him and rest for a second.

“Woah, woah, stop—”

Your knees have buckled. They’re numb under you, wobbling like jelly, but you don’t hit the ground. Your head swims.

Where did the ground go?

Why aren’t your feet on the ground?

Something’s got you. Something has you in a vice. You can’t get away.

Someone’s pulling you. “No, no! Let me go—”

“Is she okay?” You hear Jimin. “What’s happening? What’s going on? Is she okay? Sugar?”

“Jimin! Jimin, where’s Jimin?” Your own voice sounds warbled in your ears.

“It’s me!” Someone says in your ear, low and soft. “It’s me. It’s me. It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s me.”

Yeosang.

Of course it’s Yeosang.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

The sky stops spinning.

Your feet land on the ground, a shock of pain snapping up your spine.

You’re in his arms. “Yeosang.”

He’s all around you. Arms around your waist. Chest against yours. Face in your hair. Breath on your skin. “It’s me. It’s me. You’re okay.”

Namjoon is gone.

You’d asked for him.

You’d asked for him, and scared Yeosang, and he’s gone.

“Oh my god.” You let out a humiliated laugh. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m okay. I think I blacked out. I’m so sorry.”

You have to stand by yourself. You have to get yourself stable, to find your own strength, to lead them to safety. You can’t fall. You can’t be useless. You can’t be dead weight.

“I’m okay now. I’m so sorry. You can let me go.” You’re pushing against his chest, but he doesn’t relax his hold on you.

“Is she good?” One of the soldiers near you, Cho, asks. “What just happened? Is she infected? Is she turning?”

“She’s fine.” Wooyoung snaps. “She’s not a fucking zombie, she’s injured.”

Yeosang’s hand cups your face, pushing hair behind your ears. “Talk to me, what’s going on? Do you know where you are?”

Your lungs shudder like they can’t hold air.

“Say my name, Sugar.”

You can’t tell if it’s his palm or embarrassment heating your skin. “We’re in the woods. We’re going to the service station. I’m alright, Yeosang, I’m so sorry. I just got dizzy.”

Your head is throbbing.

You want to lie down.

You never should have rested back there, letting all the energy just drain out of you.

“Is she okay?” Yunho.

“We can stop for a minute.” Hongjoong.

“Someone tell me what’s happening, I can’t see her.” Jimin.

“Noona, we can carry you.” Wooyoung.

“No!” You still have work to do. They’re still counting on you. They’re your clients. You have to keep them safe. “No, Wooyoung-ssi, I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

“Wooyoung-ssi?” He repeats with traces of disgust. “Hyung, I think she needs to rest.”

You wrench yourself out of Yeosang’s grasp and your leg spasms. Staggering to stabilize yourself, you plunge forward to get the group moving again. “No. We have to go. We don’t have time for this.”

They can’t wait for you.

You’ll make them go on without you before you let them waste time on you.

They have to be safe.

“Let’s go. Everybody keep moving.”

Your friends continue walking, slowly.

Yeosang is under your arm again before you can even process his presence.

There’s no pain.

Just walking.

No pain.

Just walking.

God, your head hurts.

“Can I carry you?” Yeosang asks softly. “You’re scaring me.”

A response flies out of you before you even think about it. “No, love, save your strength. You’re hurt. I need you to worry about yourself.”

He lifts more of your weight against him, even if you won’t let him just pick you up. You have a mile left to walk. He can’t carry you the whole way. Not with his neck and shoulders chewed up. Not even perfectly healthy.

“Someone distract me.” You whisper. “My hip hurts like hell, I need someone to talk.”

Wooyoung positions himself at your other side, taking your other arm. His grasp pulls at the torn muscles in your neck, but it’s such a relief to be lifted off your leg that you let out a shaky breath and ignore the throbbing in your shoulders.

“Does she call everyone love or am I just special?” Yeosang teases, letting his voice travel through the group.

Delirium is tugging at the seams of your sanity. “Baby, you’re specialer than you know.”

“Oh my god.” Yeosang snorts against your ear, soft chuckles rolling against your side.

“What the fuck, is she okay?” Wooyoung.

“She must be dying, I’ve never heard her call someone baby unscripted in my entire life.” Jimin. “She almost got married and she called that man ‘bro’ for their entire relationship.”

“And we were surprised when it ended badly?” Mingi mutters.

“Did she say specialer?” Hongjoong.

“That’s how she texts, dude, I swear to god.” Jimin.

“Cho, be ready to grab her if she goes down.” Taegyeom.

“Yes sir.”

“I’ve got her.” Yeosang says abruptly. “We’ve got her. She’s fine.”

You blink, waves of dizziness making you feel nauseous. “Please someone start talking.”

Called to duty, Wooyoung immediately starts gabbing, making sure to drag you into the depths of his senseless diatribe so you have no choice but to stay engaged. “So, now that the two of you are all lovey-dovey and gross, we’re gonna have to come up with a meet cute for you, and a soft launch for the fans.”

You frown, effectively distracted. “Soft launch? I don’t understand.”

“Well, fans can be very protective of us, and sometimes dating rumors and reveals don’t go over very well. But if we handle it carefully and ease them into it, usually they’re all over it and so supportive.” He pauses to lift you over a root before you can plant your foot on it.

You glance at Yeosang. “Wait, I don’t expect—I mean, I know today has been weird and wired, so I don’t expect any kind of—like, you don’t have to do any of that. I understand this just being what it is and moving on with our lives. It’s okay. I’m not stupid. It’s not like trauma bonding is gonna lead to anything when the danger passes.” Your face feels hot.

You feel like you should give him an out, even though your brain is blanking between every word.

Are you drunk?

Did someone give you alcohol?

Where did your ability to concentrate go?

“She’s in shock,” Taegyeom murmurs to Hongjoong. “Keep an eye on her, she’s likely to crash. How are the rest of you doing?”

“We’re good. Well keep moving until we need to stop.” The captain responds. “They’ve got her, they’ll take care of it.”

Yeosang is still laughing at your continued evidence of a nonexistent brain to mouth filter, his gentle voice like honey in your ears. “Baby,” he fires right back at you, pointedly. “Considering I was thinking about a soft launch a week ago, I really don’t think you need to be worrying about trauma bonding. If anything, this has been a therapeutic exercise in conflict resolution.”

“Way to make the fucking understatement of the century, dumb ass.” Wooyoung quips. “Your romantic dialogue needs work. I can give you some pointers. But anyway, about the fans—”

“You wanted to get coffee with me and announce a dating relationship from that?” You interrupt the younger man.

“I was hoping we’d have more than one coffee date.” Yeosang returns easily. “And thank you, by the way, for reminding me of that humiliating moment.”

“It’s only fair considering how often I’ve humiliated myself tonight.” You say. “Just give me this, jesus.”

He plants a fond kiss to your cheek. “It’s not humiliating, it’s cute. I rarely have to wonder what you think of me—”

“If you don’t shut up I will puke on your shoes for real.”

“Again, the crappy romantic dialogue—”

But Yeosang just slows you down. “Are you okay? Are you feeling sick?”

“Don’t stop.” You say quickly. “We can’t stop. If we stop, I’ll pass out or throw up or something. Don’t stop.”

He listens, and he and Wooyoung readjust their holds on you so they can take more of your weight.

“I’m fine, I can walk.”

“Like a drunk woman, maybe.” Wooyoung mutters. “And as much as I’m waiting for you to confess your love for him or tell us you’re daydreaming about licking his biceps, I kinda feel like that would be taking advantage of you, so please just shut up and let us help you.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up.”

“Sorry, Noona.”

“I don’t day dream about—”

“That’s enough, Sugar, don’t talk to him.” Yeosang says suddenly, fingers tickling your sides as he tightens his grip.

“Half a mile out.” Taegyeom announces.

“So I’m thinking you guys go on some nice dates, take some subtle pictures, like where it’s two coffee cups or you can see someone’s hand, or it’s just a nice view with some sappy caption, and then after a few months we just throw you to the wolves.” Wooyoung says thoughtfully.

“God, that sounds delightful. Can we not?”

“Wooyoung, stop, why would you say that? She’s never gonna go out with me.” Yeosang grumbles.

“She’s drooling on you, hyung, stop wringing your hands. You’re fine. It will work perfectly. By the time you make an official announcement, they’ll already have figured it out.”

Your mind reels with panic, your neck craning to wipe your face on your own shoulder. “Am I? I’m not drooling, am I? Yeosang? I’m so sorry—”

“You’re not, stop listening to him. Wooyoung.” His voice is a warning.

“I can’t even see her face like this, why would she believe me?”

“She can barely speak in a straight line, why would you play with her head?”

“I’m still here.” You mutter. “And my head is fine.”

Debatable.

But at the very least, you are processing words again and following the current events better than you were, so it’s unfair to be treated like you’ve gone slack-jawed.

Taegyeom utters a sharp hiss. “Everybody stop.”

The group comes to an abrupt halt, and past the whispering of the breeze through the leaves above you, you hear faint voices just past the tree cover.

Taegyeom edges Hongjoong and San backwards. “Those are officers.”

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tag list : @mysterysold @threevracha @igotajuicyass @velvetmoonlght @ramadiiiisme @mrsminseochoi @nightshadeblooming @furfoxsake22 @marvolos @lunaryoongie @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @noukstmblr

#ateez #kang yeosang #yeosang #ateez x reader #kang yeosang x reader #yeosang x reader #zombies #zombie au #horror #horror au

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artficlly · 15 days ago

Text

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things.

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil.

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him.

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves.

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass.

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next.

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely.

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food.

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster.

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today.

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was.

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express.

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it.

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up.

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.”

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.”

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word.

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing.

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting.

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him.

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving.

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice.

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own.

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour.

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop.

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path.

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise.

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash.

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him.

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen.

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief.

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his.

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—”

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.”

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece.

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm.

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have.

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.”

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret.

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile.

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps.

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not.

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath.

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher.

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright.

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put.

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.”

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static.

“Come here.”

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away.

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

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madamechrissy · 6 days ago

Text

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- Toxic attraction, jealousy, arguments, very emotional, fighting and break ups, reader being depressed and emotional, Jenna being protective, Nanami giving no fucks, Satoru being contemplative and slightly less stupid, fingering, sexual tension, light choking, public play, squirting, reader is better at feelings finally, and A LOT more angst WC this chap- 11k

A/N- Taglist closed- this chap is ANGSTY you've been warned, please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Four - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Six>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Five

“Nanami, you didn’t have to…” Nanami Kento is at your front door with two coffees in hand, smiling that handsome smile, eyes behind his dark green glasses.

“No worries, love. I was passing by and remembered bringing you home, I realized it’s right here.”

“Thank you!” You lean forward and press a kiss on his cheek, the guilt eating at you slowly.

What if he knew you did a fucking porn shoot the other day?

He knows your situation, but what would he think of that, in fact what do you think of that? Of yourself, as Jenna said, changing for Satoru? He’s never pushed you into anything, and these things were all brought on by your own self interest - of wanting to be just everything for him so that he would not stray. It was selfish of you, knowing his career.

You knew he wasn’t interested in more, but let yourself live in the delusion, the thoughts that you could be enough to fill all of the voids there, when in fact he has made his own thoughts clear. He loves spending time with you, he loves fucking you, the two of you make excellent money - triple last time actually - so for Satoru, it’s clearly a convenient situation.

Nothing more.

Not having seen Satoru for a couple days, he texted you several times through- out the day, he called you before bed, it all felt too good, too natural, too perfect for his perceived friendship, the one that you were honestly ruining with how you are. You wish you could be normal about it all, that you could just enjoy whatever this was, but her words keep ringing in your mind.

Losing yourself.

Are you?

“This is my favorite,” you say as you take a sip, gesturing your head for him to come in then. “I just stress baked some muffins, want some?”

“Stress baked?” He asks, amused now, and you giggle a bit, sighing.

“Mmm, yes I do that.” He eyes the kitchen counter, with about thirty six muffins already on it, of different flavors. “Take some actually.”

“What do you do with all of these?” He grabs one and sets his coffee down on your counter then.

“I bring them to all of the neighbors, they love me.” He chuckles, the sound throaty and inviting, biting into one and moaning, shutting his eyes.

“They’re so good,” he’s licking a bit off his lower lip, and you smile, grabbing one and nibbling yourself. “You look like that, work hard and bake?”

“You’re giving me too much credit.” He bites again, raising a brow.

“Seems like quite a woman to me.”

“Nanami!” You playfully shove his chest a little, and he takes your hand, it feels so warm and good, swallowing your much smaller hand in his. You enjoy it, you just wish you felt something like you did with the elusive pornstar you’re hopeless for.

“Would you like to-” the doorbell rings, you smile as you drop your hand.

“Let me grab that,” he nods, sipping his coffee, when you open the door, and see Satoru leaning in the doorway, coffees in his hands. “Oh!”

“Got your favorite, sweets.” He steps in, leaning his tall self down to kiss your cheek, when he catches sight of Nanami in your kitchen.

Shit.

“You got company?” His tone is strained, and you wonder why - he clearly had been a little irritated about your date, but it’s not like he’s made a step for you all to go further. And you’re too fucking scared to bring it up and lose this.

“He stopped by to bring me coffee. Looks like I’ll be well caffeinated." You smile, but Satoru’s blue eyes are darting across your shoulder at the buff man leaning against your counter.

“Muffin?” Nanami’s words make Satoru unreasonably furious, how comfortable and at ease he looks in your kitchen.

“I’d love one.” He steps past you, you’re closing the door, the tension as Satoru steps in is far too palpable, it seems to amuse Nanami more.

Nanami hands Satoru one, and he yanks it from his hand, biting it and setting down his cup, moaning and shutting his eyes then. “Aren’t they yummy?”

“Fuck,” he moans again, looking at you now. “You bake this good?”

“Stress baking, that's all.” You smile a little, standing between the two men that just tower over you, Satoru is taller by a few inches, his head isn’t far from your ceiling actually, spiked up white hair precariously close to brushing against the textured white paint above you. “Nanami was in the neighborhood.”

“Was he?” He nibbles one again, smirking over at Nanami, who casually takes a bite.

“I thought I’d see her, ask her on another date.” Satoru’s jaw tenses, and you wonder if this is the moment he’ll finally say something.

“Oh, another date? Second date, huh?” His tone is feigning ease, but it’s so clearly not at ease at all.

“Mmhmm, maybe this weekend?” He brushes a lock of your hair back from your bare shoulder, and you smile. “Lunch?”

“I can have lunch.” It’s not like Satoru is gonna-

“I’m taking her to lunch tomorrow.”

“You are?” He glares at you.

“Yes, I was coming to ask you to come to lunch with me, actually.”

“Were you… well, what about Sunday?” Nanami asks, and you smile brightly up at him.

“Sunday works for me.”

“Perfect. I’ll leave you to hang with your friend,” his tone hints he knows exactly what type of friend Satoru is, but he’s clearly unbothered, kissing your cheek and leaning down. “Text you later?”

“Absolutely.” You walk him out then, feeling vivid blue eyes glaring fucking daggers in your back. You pause, locking the door, hearing the silence in your home, aside from the whirring of the old air conditioner cooling the home the best it can in the heat, and Satoru’s sigh.

“He’s awfully friendly.” He mumbles, and you turn to him now, hands behind your back as you walk slowly, feet padding along your tile.

“He’s very nice, yes. But it was also nice of you to bring me this. Thank you, Satoru.” You say softly, smiling up now, a hand on his arm, just for him to tug you against his chest. You gasp at it.

“He’s too comfortable here, don’t you think?” His whisper is low, as he leans down, an arm on either side pressing you into the counter now, as his hard thigh slips between your softer ones.

“You’ve only been here once, and you’re comfortable too,” his brows lower, you gasp as your heat presses on his hard thigh now, he senses how good it feels to you, clearly, one hand slipping up your spine. “Satoru…”

“God I want you so bad, don’t you know?” He murmurs, kissing you then, it’s a harsher kiss than you’re used to, the hand slipping under your thin silk top, making you shiver while you soak his thigh, your hands slipping up his chest. “Look so fucking beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?” You ask softly, pulling back now to look up at him, feeling how tense he is.

“I need a reason? Did he?”

“Of course you don’t need a reason, but what’s he got to do with anything? Who I go out with, what’s it matter?”

“What’s it matter!?” He can hardly believe your words, in no world did Satoru Gojo see anyone else, so fucking blinded by you. Was it not the same?

“We’re not together, are we?” You’re silently begging for him to say something, but instead he pulls back, heart racing under the palm that drops now.

“I don’t want to see anyone but you, to fuck anyone but you, isn’t this… isn’t this something you want? Just with me?” He’s cupping your face, kissing you again, hungry, desperate, making your lips swell with his kisses. “Me fucking your pretty pussy till you pass out?”

You whine out, how can you not do so when he’s slipping a hand down, over your breast, making your nipple taut against his warm, hard palm, that’s gripping and squishing your breast. “Mnh but…”

“Don’t you want me to bury my face against that perfect cunt?” He’s touching you there, you can hardly breathe, it’s all Satoru, making you dizzy.

“I didn’t say I… mnh!”

“So wet, for me? All me?” He’s making your panties soaking wet with his long fingers, pulling back with glossy lips to watch your pretty eyes roll back. “Is that all for me?”

“You’re acting…” he’s got you trembling, soaking the cotton panties now, pressing your thighs together. “Satoru stop.”

He does immediately, pulling back in confusion. “What’s wrong? Did I kiss too rough? I'm sorry I…”

“No, just,” you cross your arms, hugging yourself, looking away. “Does it always have to be sexual?”

Satoru stands there, his own vermillion lips swollen from kissing you, his breaths coming hectic as he stares down at you. “What do you mean, always sexual?”

“That's all we do. Did you come here to fuck me?”

He laughs harshly, a sound you haven’t heard from him then. “I came to see you, just like the last time, you’re the one who said ‘let’s fuck’.” His words smack you with reality.

You had.

To try to save your fucking feelings, but all you did was fall deeper, deeper into him, the abyss that’s Satoru Gojo, the man you want all the time, but not just sexually. You want him near you, next to you, waking up in the morning and making him breakfast, and not just for him to leave to his penthouse after.

You want way too much.

“I did say that, but then we did have sex. So was I wrong?” His jaw tenses, he slips two fingers under your chin then, forcing your gaze on him.

“Do you want to be with him?” You glare at his ridiculous words now.

“I never said that, but would it matter? We are just ‘friends’ hmm?” Your words are harsh, way too harsh for the sweet girl he knows, and he feels it, the anger rising inside of him, making him so furious at the thought of someone with you.

“So, you’re gonna what, go fuck him?”

“Is that who you think I am!?” He gives a nasty little smirk, it’s a cruel one, something you’ve never seen on his face.

“You had no problem sleeping with me, not knowing me.” You step back, and the moment it spills from his lips, he knows he’s wrong, but he’s so fucking furious, he’s blinded to any good fucking reason. The hurt written on your pretty face is enough to make him feel like getting swallowed whole.

“I trusted you, I felt comfortable with you, the connection I…” you trail off, not wanting to make a bigger fool of yourself. “It wasn’t just random. You really think that’s what it was? A random hot guy I said - huh, let me call him and fuck him?” He tilts his head now, brows lowering.

“Isn’t that what it was, you saw my stream and wanted me? Now you think I’m making it all sexual?” You gasp, teeth clenched, almost unable to breathe you’re so fucking furious.

“You’re trying to fuck me because you’re jealous, so yes, that is making it all sexual. Surprised your phone’s not filming.” You shove at his chest and he grips your wrists, leaning low.

“So what, you got all the expertise you needed? Gonna go apply it to someone now?” Satoru’s words are so hurtful you can’t take it, you feel your heart pounding in your ears as you look at blue eyes gone cold.

“Excuse me, you think I used you for experience!?” He raises a brow then, while your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you drag them from his grip.

“You asked me for experience, remember? Weren’t you the one who started all of this, made it sexual? Asked me to show you things?”

His words resonate through your head until it spins, you have to sit down you feel so fucking sick then. Was he never even interested in you? Was this all you who caused it, who pushed it, when he never wanted it? The thoughts swirl through your mind quicker and quicker, nauseating, you shake your head and blink back tears then, looking up at him.

“I should never have pushed myself on you,” he blinks snowy lashes then, lips parting. “No, I shouldn’t have, you’re right.”

“I didn’t mean it that-”

“I am sorry I did, I’m sorry I asked for that. I was so pathetic.” You barely hold back a cry, and Satoru’s frozen, you have it so wrong, don’t you know his dick literally doesn’t work for anyone!? Don’t you know you’re all he can fucking think of, constantly, every waking moment?

“You never pushed yourself, ever,” he leans down, arms on either side of your chair. “Look at me.”

You do just that, and your tears break him. “What?”

“I didn’t mean it like I didn’t want you, I did. I just meant you crossed the line to make it sexual, that’s not to say I didn’t want to, but you were a good girl.”

“Were. Being the key word. Now I’m what, some pornstar fucking booty call?” You’re shaking your head, swiping at your cheeks, thinking of Jenna’s words. “And it’s all my own doing.”

You’ve lost yourself.

“Baby you’re still a good girl, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re right, you never would have hit me up for it, would you have?” Satoru pauses then, hands gripping the arms of your chair so tightly his knuckles whiten.

“I never said that!”

“Why would you, it’s Hollywood, you can have anyone, I just inconvenienced you, I should have never tried to join your world.” You’re standing now, brushing past him, he grips your wrist, his own emotions rising - especially one - panic.

He can’t lose you.

“It’s not what I meant,” he brushes his hand across your cheek, sticky already with your tears, feeling your body tremble as he holds you closer. “I shouldn’t have said it that way, I was just upset.”

“It’s true, don’t take it back now.”

“You think I don’t want you!?” He’s gripping your upper arms, shaking you gently, you’re sniffling, shaking your head as he stares at you in disbelief. “How can you think I don’t?”

“Maybe you felt sorry for me.” Satoru laughs then, before fucking glaring down at you.

“That’s the last thing I fucking feel,” he leans down until his lips are just a breath away from yours. “I want you so badly, constantly, why do you think I just showed up to your work, asked you out, begged to come over?”

“To film things.” He blinks like he’s been slapped.

“You think that’s it?”

“Some fun maybe, I think I am the one who took this seriously, when I started it from the beginning.”

It all hits - you are the one who asked him for more, and now you’re upset it’s just sexual, when you knew. You always knew. You knew your feelings, you knew you couldn’t handle this, but it was all you could have of him, and you were selfish, so selfish. And so in love.

“I wanted you that moment I met you, did you forget our kiss?” He whispers softly, fingers brushing your hair back, making you tremble.

“It’s only sex?” You ask hoarsely, he falters then.

“I enjoy you much more than that.”

“As a friend?” Satoru can’t speak then, he just stands there, staring down at you, swiping more of those tears from your cheeks, your lip is trembling. “Satoru, I feel like I don’t know myself anymore.”

“What do you mean? You’re so uniquely yourself. Nerdy, cute, adorable,” he’s smiling with those plump lips, as if that would cheer you up, avoiding the blatant question you gave him. “You are like no one I know.”

“I’m trying so hard to please you, that I’m forgetting.” He blinks again, so clearly confused, not seeing the numerous ways you have been bending yourself, molding yourself to fit him. Maybe he doesn’t see the change, maybe he just doesn’t know, but Jenna was so right, she was absolutely correct.

You don’t remember who you are, trying to be everything for Satoru, and he can’t even tell you if it’s more than a friendship.

The hurt tears its way into your chest, it’s unfair of you to ask him, to demand anything more of him, it’s not fair. You did all this, caused all this, you can’t be mad at him for being him, a pornstar. You’ve let your fear of not being enough make you do things you never would, and it’s all starting to sink in, everything you’ve done with him, like it’s not even you anymore.

You let being so selfish for him change you.

You’re sobbing now, and Satoru’s unsure of what to do, he doesn’t know your inner turmoil, but he does know seeing you cry makes him deeply emotional, it breaks his heart to see you hurt. He hugs you closely, as you cry against his suit jacket, sniffling and shaking, while he rubs a hand up and down your back.

“What is it? Is it what I said? I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry… I just…” You shake your head, sniffling and leaning back, looking up at a face you’ve fallen so deeply in love with.

“I’m losing myself.” You’re breaking down again, this time leaning back. “What you said was right.”

“It wasn’t, it was mean and… I’m sorry, please.” He feels his own emotions choking him, throat closing up as he struggles to take a breath, feeling the suffocation of his own mistake.

“I’ve acted that way.” He shakes his head, blinking back his own tears as you cover your face, breaking down right in front of him. “The fuck have I been doing, I called you.”

“I’m glad you called me-”

“I asked you.”

“I wanted you too. I was so fucking-”

“I fell in love like a fucking idiot, when you were honest from the beginning who you are.” Satoru pauses then, heart hammering as you turn away, but not before he glimpses how puffy your cheeks have gotten from your tears.

“You what?” He whispers, and you shake your head, swiping at your tears, shoulders shaking with the wracking sobs.

“I shouldn’t have tried to join your world, and then I was so dumb I got jealous,” he touches your shoulder feeling you tense.

“Jealous, you?” You laugh through your tears, truly fucking losing it, as you nod, looking back at him, and he sees the reddened eyes, the sticky drying tears, you bit your lip so hard it’s tearing the skin.

“Yes, very. I’m selfish and so dumb. It’s your career. I promised never to judge it either, and for what, you to judge me.” The anger sets back in, throwing his hand off and turning now. “You need to go.”

“I need to go!?” You nod, sniffling as you bite down harder, the motion jerky when he pulls you against him. “No, I am not leaving you like this.”

“I won’t be your pornstar anymore,” your words strike their chord, they hit him right in the stomach, as he barely processes your earlier words in the haze you have him in. “That’s all you want.”

“It’s not! You wanted that!”

“No, I just wanted to be enough.” At your last broken word, you can hardly face him, he tugs you against him and you’re stiff, unmoving.

“You’re more than enough for anyone,” his soft words end you, the sweet Satoru you met that night is there, but he’s hurt you so badly now, the sinking realization that you confessed your love and he hasn’t even acknowledged it. He’s stroking your back gently, letting you cry against him. “We never have to shoot, I told you that.”

“But you’ll fuck other women?” Your words are harsher than he’s used to from your sweet lips, he buries his face in your neck, swallowing.

“I don’t want anyone else, haven’t I made it clear?” He’s hoarse, his own tears falling along your neck.

“But you’ll go back to it, you’ll have to.” You grip the shirt he’s wearing, crumbling the expensive material. He swallows, sighing then.

“I won’t want them.”

“But you’ll have to.”

“It’s my career,” he pulls back, sighing as he watches your broken face. “You seemed to enjoy it, what’s changed so much?”

“I didn’t enjoy it, I enjoyed you. Now I don’t know what I think of myself.” You’re blinking the rapid tears, shaking your head again, as if to make them stop.

He never loved you, did he?

“Maybe you should be an actor, you made me believe there was more,” Satoru scowls at you now, tugging you against his chest, cupping your face with his other hand tightly. “Stop.”

“I do care so much, god you’re all I want. I literally can’t even fuck anyone else.”

“So your dick cares for me?”

“That’s not what I said! You wanted all of this, how are you going to be mad at me for giving it to you!?” You laugh again, the sound so hollow, as Satoru feels his heart breaking.

“I can’t just fuck you. Clearly. And I knew it, I knew I needed feelings, I knew I’d fall - I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You’re not!”

“I am. Satoru, I can never do this again, it’s breaking me apart,” you hold your stomach, as his blue eyes drip with tears, and you want nothing more than to be in his arms. “I can’t just have sex with you.”

“I don’t want anyone else, how fucking clear can I make it!?” You smack the hands that try to brush your tears, earning his glare, blue eyes a storming blue, so vivid it’s painful to look at. “I want you, I didn’t mean what I said. You’re just done with this because of some words?”

“I’m done because I can’t take this pain anymore.”

“Pain?” You take several breaths, hands shaking as you try and fail to stop the onslaught of tears. “What pain? I’ve done nothing but make you cum, like no one ever fucking will.”

“It’s sexual, see? Is that all shit is to you!? I’m not just a body.”

“It’s not just your body-”

“It seems that way. No, I won’t fuck Nanami, okay? If that’s your very weird fucking concern, considering after I swallowed your spit you did a gang bang, and after we fucked you fingered a girl on cam.” Satoru scowls deeper at you, as you finally let it all out, everything you’ve acted fine with.

“That’s my job! You fucking knew that!”

“I thought I meant something.” He pulls you by your wrists again, you jerk them out of his hold, hyperventilating.

“Calm down, fuck I didn’t mean it.”

“Your smirk… the way you… no, you meant it. You think that’s who I am? Then you never fucking knew me!”

“I don’t know you!?”

“You know my body, that’s not enough.” He’s kissing you again, and for a moment you falter, as he’s overtaking your lips.

“I want more than your body,” his words fall flat, you can’t believe him anymore, not after what he accused you of. “I want more. I enjoy you, fuck why can’t I keep enjoying you? Why are you overthinking everything!”

��Mmm, no.” You pull back again, shoving at his chest, he’s crying right with you, and you want to stop this, let him do anything he wants, but it hurts too fucking much, nothing should hurt this much. “I can’t have pieces of you.”

“I’m right here, use me, all of me.” He’s trying again to kiss you, but you’re pulling back, making him glare. “Now you’re done with whatever experiment you were fucking doing?”

You gasp. “I should ask you that!” You smack at his hand, making him grip your wrist again, both of your chests heaving. “Turning the nerdy good girl into a pornstar? That some twisted 90s rom com!?”

“The fuck, I didn’t make you do shit, it’s been your choice!”

“I regret it.”

The words are enough to make him step back, his eyes going cold. “What?”

“I regret filming it.” You do, and you hate that you do. You see him swallow, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his own hands shaking. “I don’t regret you, I don’t regret the moments, aside from me pushing myself on you, for that I am sorry, but I do feel horrible about myself now.”

“I gave you the choice, you hit share.”

“To please you. To make you need me, want me, to keep you. Selfish, stupid,” you shake your head again, chest tight as you rub it, blood pressure through the fucking roof as it all comes out, everything you kept inside. “I don’t blame you, you always asked permission, consent, all of it. This is on me.”

“So we never do it again, I don’t need it to fuck you, I don’t care if you film it again-”

“It’s your career.”

“I want you.” The words should feel good, the way he cups your face and looks at you, it should mean more, but you’re far too deep in your feelings to be okay with him just wanting you.

You forgot who you were.

“This isn’t me,” you say softly, cupping his face then. He shuts his eyes, snowy lashes dripping with tears. “I can’t be this anymore, it’s not me.”

“People change, why regret what you enjoy? Why regret doing something that made you-”

“I feel awful that I did it.”

“Shit…” He takes a breath, feeling responsible for your broken words, as you stroke his cheek, trembling in front of him.

“You didn’t do it, it’s not your fault. I’m disappointed in myself, I should have known I couldn’t handle it all. You with other women,” you look down, hand falling. “It was selfish.”

Satoru doesn’t know what to say, what to do besides kiss your forehead, holding you close to him. “I feel like you’re fucking ending things.”

“I am.” He freezes now.

“We don’t have to film!?”

“I can’t. I can’t do this. It’s not fair to either of us,” he says your name, quietly, earning you looking at him as you step back. “I will never regret what we did, I just regret trying to make myself something I wasn’t.”

“Don’t do this, don’t end a good thing? For what?” He’s shaking your shoulders, as if trying to drag some sense into you.

“I caused it all.”

“You didn’t, I’m sorry I-”

“I need to be alone.”

Your next words break him, he stares at you with wide eyes. “What?”

“I need to be alone. I’m sorry.” You walk to the door, he is behind you then, hand on yours over that knob, hard body behind you, his other arm wrapping around your waist now. “Satoru…”

“Don’t kick me out of your life,” he’s pleading, he feels so pathetic then, standing behind you and resting his head on the cool door over your head, taking a breath. “I don’t want this to stop, to end. I wanted you from the moment I saw you at that damn party.”

“But now I’m not that girl,” you’re shaking, as his hand tightens over yours. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re still her, what do you mean!?”

He doesn’t understand.

“I am glad I met you, Satoru Gojo. I have never met anyone like you, and I probably never will.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Thank you for being so thoughtful, so caring,” you’re choking on your sobs, looking behind your shoulder up at him as he cups your face. “Thank you for being so many of my firsts.”

“Don’t thank me,” his words are harsh, as he kisses you again, and you fall into them so sweetly, whining into his lips. “Don’t push me away.”

“I have to find myself again, and I can’t like this.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“I know.” It’s quiet, as he kisses you again, letting you go and shaking his head. “I’m sorry for all of this.”

He says nothing else, letting you turn the knob, rushing out without another word, as you turn and rest your back against the door, sliding down and collapsing on the fucking floor, devastated. It’s like your heart is ripped into pieces, sending the man you love away, when he fucking begged to stay.

You feel horrible, his crying eyes and the way he asked you not to, but how the fuck can you keep going like this!? Even then, he didn’t bring up being more, he didn’t say ‘I love you too’ as if wanting you physically was enough. But for him, that’s what this was, it was what you brought up, so enamored by your feelings, you thought you could have him sexually and it would be enough.

It would never be enough for you.

Curled into a ball on the floor, you don't move for hours, the sun setting through the blinds and casting its shadows across the floor as you hold your stomach and just sob. It's late when you finally pull yourself up, seeing the numerous calls from him, over and over, but you don't call him back, you can't anymore. Instead, you call your friend who's also called you a good five times.

“Jenna?”

“Baby what's wrong!?”

“Can you come over?”

*****

Jenna holds you that night as you keep apologizing, you were an awful fucking friend, damn near kicking her out in some hopes that she was so wrong, for Satoru to prove her right - only worse. Never once did Jenna herself think he would say what you sob to her then, she thought Satoru was a good person, just an industry standard, but never spiteful.

“Shit baby,” she murmurs, as you hiccup, hugging her tightly as you lay on your couch, take out and wine along your living room table. “I wish I wasn’t right.”

“He accused me of… wanting to use him!? I never… Jenna I never…”

“Shh.” She’s trying to calm you down, but you’re so fucking devastated, every time the phone rings and you want to answer it, she holds you tighter. “You can’t just give in and be treated like that.”

“I was slutty, going to him.”

“You were curious about your feelings.”

“I… yes…” You rub tissues on your sore nose, sipping your cheap wine and sighing, looking at your beautiful friend. “I loved him when I met him, Jenna.”

“I know,” she sips her own wine, frowning. “I wish I warned you more.”

“You didn’t know I would fall like this. It’s all my own doing.”

“Is it? He knew you were innocent.” You shake your head, sighing and leaning back against the couch, resting a hand on her thigh now.

“I was a bitch to you.”

“You were just hurt, fucked up on him. I forgive you.” She takes your hand, and tugs you into another hug. “He’s so good I almost fell fucking him.”

“Jenna!” You glare playfully, then laugh, for the first time since you had to send him away. She shrugs.

“It’s his pussy eating skills.”

“Jenna it’s so not that.”

“They gaslight you.” You playfully shove her then, laughing and standing up, grabbing both glasses.

“Will you stay tonight? Have more wine?”

“You know I will.” You smile and lean down, pecking a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t fall in love with another pornstar.”

“I’ve always loved one.” You tease, something feels relieving, despite the love in your fucking heart, to release all those feelings, to speak them out loud. “I’ll make us some popcorn on the stove.”

“I’ll find a movie!” As you walk out to the kitchen, your phone rings, Jenna fuck-you buttons it, glaring at the picture of Satoru.

She cannot stand that he hurt her best friend like that, and she’s not gonna be very fucking nice if she sees him again.

It keeps ringing, over and over, when she finally picks it up, walking out to your balcony. “Stop calling her,” Jenna’s voice is on the phone, Satoru laughs harshly, after being so excited to speak to you, it’s your protector. “I’m serious.”

“She’s a grown woman, not a little girl.” He says, and she scoffs.

“She sure is, but guess what? She was innocent, Satoru, innocent before you got her into this fucking world.”

“It was her decision!”

“Because she’s in love with you, fucking idiot!”

“She’s…” He trails off, he could swear at this point he imagined that confession in the middle of the argument, the ‘break up’. Where you broke his fucking heart in ways he didn’t know it could be.

“She did it to please you, she said she’d lose herself to be anything for you.” Jenna’s furious, quiet words break Satoru down. “You’re the experienced one, she was damn near a virgin.”

“She chose-”

“You shouldn’t have offered. You shouldn’t have changed her, she was perfect the way she was! Now she hates herself.”

“Jenna, I…”

She takes a breath, sighing. “I’m being too harsh, I’m sorry, okay? But as someone in this industry, why would you get a sweet, innocent girl into it? If you cared, you’d protect her, like I do.”

Satoru lets it all hit, slowly, her furious yet emotional words, a girl that clearly loves you, cares for you, and she was right. She was so right.

“Fuck…” Is all he can manage, as his mind whirls to a time when he was not too different from you.

He’d been a nerdy boy, even though his looks carried him far, he wasn’t very experienced, not until he fell in love with a girl in her early thirties, while he was in college. He’d pursued her, he’d begged for her, when he found she was a pornstar? He lost his virginity on set. It had been by far the most popular video there even had been at the time, it went viral.

That’s when they became the power couple.

But every time he saw her with anyone, it broke his fucking heart, he couldn’t stand seeing her on shoots, even when she’d coo at him that he was her favorite, even when he lived with her. He wondered if she liked other men better, he made sure to become perfect, the best there was, and soon she told him she didn’t recognize him any longer.

He says soon, but it was a four year relationship. One where they fought and fucked all the time, one where she was tired of the lifestyle and he was young and brand new. He let the fame get to his head, and she ultimately broke down and apologized for bringing him into this world, but he laughed, brushing it off.

He was happy she did, so happy.

His life was perfect, full of money and beautiful women.

Right?

“I told her you were a good person,” Jenna’s words over the phone bring his attention to the present, as he sinks into self loathing. “I feel I was wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, okay? I didn’t… I didn’t realize.” She sighs again, a long pause as he sits there, feeling the emotions catch in his throat.

“You’re not good for her, Gojo.”

Her words should make him fucking furious, but he’s not, he’s just so very sad now. She was right about it all, he was horrible for you, he made you not recognize yourself, regret your actions. Satoru never grew to regret his actions with his first, even though he was so enamored with the lifestyle at the time, perhaps he’s never fully digested it all.

He thought you’d love it, the attention, the money, that you’d feel so sexy and confident, that the two of you could be that couple. That he could have the best of both his worlds, keep his career and have the girl he desires more than anything right by his side through it all.

He was fucking selfish.

The girl that was in that damn party, nervous and giggling, fiddling with her long sleeves and blushing as he teased her? The girl who took a shotgun from him and got high from that, nervous as she kissed him? The girl who trusted him to show her things, who allowed him to do filthy fucking things without question, eager and open to anything he suggested.

The girl you were, who he changed unintentionally, would have never filmed any shoots of herself, wouldn’t have shown her body, no she just wasn’t that girl, and that was what drew him to you. His hands tighten on the phone as her words ring too fucking true, as they read him inside out.

“I didn’t mean to, Jenna. I really didn’t mean to.” His words seem to resonate with her.

“You saw it as some fun, I get it okay, but she’s not the girl you ‘have fun with’ she’s the one baking you cookies and taking care of you when you’re sick. She’s the shy one, who you have to drag to a damn party, the sweet one who makes sure you get home safe when you’re shitfaced. She’s a good girl, and now she’s devastated and stuck in her bed, feeling horrible.”

“Then let me talk to her-”

“She can’t get over this if you keep on.”

“Get over me?”

“She’s broken-hearted. I’ve never seen her in love like this, even with her ex it wasn’t even close, whatever you did, I need her to snap out of it, before she can’t get past this.”

“Jenna, I didn’t know she felt that way.”

“You don’t know a lot of things. Just stop calling her, I will help her.”

“Jenna-” She hangs up, and his next calls are sent immediately to voicemail, until he curses, throwing his fucking phone, then sobbing into his pillow that night, at the ultimate realization of what he’s done.

He changed you, the parts he fell for, so selfish he didn’t even notice a single sign that you did it all for him. And now he was supposed to just let you go?

How can he even move on without you?

*****

“Shut the blinds, ugh.” You cover your face with a comforter three weeks later, as Jenna is annoyingly there again, she comes over every day as you’ve taken two weeks off work as of the other day to rot in your bed.

“This is your vacation!? The fuck, get up.” She’s yanking the covers as you scowl at her, covered in sticky tears and hair all matted up. “You look like shit.”

“Who is there to look good for now? Let me wallow.” You yank the covers back until Jenna has dragged your ass off the bed, you hit the carpet and wince. “Jenna!”

“No, you’re taking a fucking shower. You are not letting him destroy you like this. Now.” She’s picking you up, you sigh then, just hugging her. “You stink.”

“Sorry,” you’re crying, it’s all you do. Cry and cry and cry over him. Over the man you love that you sent away, you could at least have him in your fucking bed, but no, this is all you have. “Why do you deal with me?”

“Because we’ve been through it all, you’ve dealt with how many of my manic fucking episodes?” You sigh, smiling through your tears.

“Don’t deserve you.”

“You do, and you deserve to move the fuck on. This shit happens, okay? We get up, get looking hot, and go out.”

“I can’t go out, I can’t have fun, I feel no joy without him.” The words are hard to get out of your throat, they’re the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to admit.

Without Satoru it was like there was no light in your life, sure Jenna was amazing, and sure you had people in your life you cared for, but Satoru haunts your every fucking though, dream, waking moment. If it was just sex, if it was just a fling, why are the dreams not just that? For every wet dream there were five of just holding his hand on a fucking beach somewhere.

You woke up with one of him holding you yesterday, only to be smacked with the realization that he will never again, touching the cold pillow and wrinkled sheets from your tossing and turning. You slept over and over, dreaming of him again, when he’s a phone call away, it was pure torture, a cruel fucking joke, that you fell in love with Satoru Gojo.

So close yet so impossibly far.

“What about the hottie from work? He keeps asking you out, and he’s fine as hell. Why not try?” You shake your head, sitting on your bed and sighing as she starts rummaging through your wardrobe. “Satoru isn’t the only man, baby.”

“He is the only one for me. Fuck was I too harsh to him-”

“No, he was a dick. You stood up for yourself like a good girl.”

“Don’t hit my praise kink, Jenna, I have a thing for pornstars,” she sticks out her tongue at you, grinning as you finally laugh a little, sniffling. “Nanami is sweet, and handsome, but I think he may want something serious. I don’t think I could give it to him.”

“You could if you tried to let this go. I know you fell, but he’s not going to change, so what good is any of it? Do you have anything slutty?”

“No, not really.” You stand up, going to the mirror and wincing. “I look like shit.”

“You really do.”

“Jenna!”

“Sorry,” she’s so not sorry, frowning as she digs up a lacy ass top, which is just lingerie. “Ooh this!”

“That’s not clothing, Jenna.”

“Sure is, bitch. I know you have some cute skirts…”

“Jenna I’m not gonna be any fucking fun. I’m too depressed.” You start brushing the rats' nest on your head, wincing as the memory hits.

Satoru brushing your hair, after the first time you’d come over, so sweet and caring as he ran it through, as he pulled you against him and smiled. The brush wavers in your hand, the ache in your chest growing again until you almost couldn’t breathe. You wonder if he feels anything close, if he ever did, or were you just something new for him to try?

His mean words melt with his sweet ones.

Done with your experiment?

Baby you are a star, already.

Gonna use it on someone else?

Best I’ve ever had.

You hate him for it, not for the accusations but for the fact that it showed he never knew you, and you thought Satoru truly just got you. But maybe the two of you never got to know each other, maybe it was something physical, some intense chemistry that you confused…

How can that be?

How can that be when what you miss most isn’t his body, isn’t the orgasms or pleasure, but the touches, the cuddles, the sweet smiles, the quiet moments in between where it felt perfect? No, you can’t explain it away, as easy as it would make it, this mix of love, longing, and hatred, is eating you alive, palpable and real as the physical manifestation of Satoru himself.

You’d always love him. But do you love you anymore?

“There’s a DJ I know at the EDM club… let’s go out and party babe, let’s let go and get free drinks and dance!” She’s yanking out a skirt that’s too tight on your waist and rides up your ass now. “This one!”

“An EDM club?” You sigh, shaking your head, but she’s got her mind set on it, shoving you to the bathroom now.

“Go shower, and scrub that hair twice, dear god.”

“Jenna…”

“No, you’re getting the fuck out tonight. Now.”

“Fine.”

You wish you weren’t just crying in the fucking shower, sitting there and hugging your knees, just missing him.

******

Satoru’s dancing in the middle of the EDM club that night, but it’s more physical, more going through the fucking motions, as the sounds reverberate, and women are giggling, dancing on him. He tries to have fun, to remember who he was before you, it’s been three weeks since your friend begged him not to call, and you’ve not reached out one time since.

He stalked your socials, not a single post, like you’ve ghosted everyone, not that you had much anyway, just a few pictures of your baking or cooking and those few blurry selfies. The selfies that make him ache, that make him miss you as he looks at them over and over.

Satoru took down both of your videos, he doesn’t feel right keeping them up after you said you regretted them, that made him feel so fucking horrible. You said it wasn’t his fault, but how can he not feel responsible for bringing it up in the first place? How can he not let your friend’s words sink in deep?

You were innocent, and instead of cherishing that, he saw the opportunity to make bank with you, to enjoy the only woman he wanted and keep his career, to just win and win and win. At the cost of you, of your self worth clearly, and your self esteem, all for what. For others to see you, what he wanted for himself, the thoughts made him fucking sick.

What is money, what are hollow comments, what is any of this when your eyes were full of tears, when he has to jerk it to the fucking memory of you, when he can’t make it to a shoot and just stares at your pictures. When he watches the videos of you two and instead of getting excited feels overwhelming guilt? You were a grown woman, but you were innocent, and he corrupted it, unintentional as it was.

He still was responsible.

He wants to fucking apologize, he wants to beg you to come back, he knows he’s horrible for you, he barely knows himself at twenty eight, and you younger than him seem to at least remember who you are. He missed all the signs of you changing to please him, but it all started falling together these past weeks of being alone, of avoiding his job, of avoiding everything.

He can’t avoid it forever, and he shouldn’t. You were gone.

He backs off the girl dancing on him now, tapping her shoulder. “I need a drink, sweets.”

“Sure Gojo!” She grins and dances with the other girl who was grinding on him, as he finds Suguru leaning against the bar, having a drink, along with a few other of the usual stars, including smirking Toji and Sukuna, who he can’t deal with right now.

“Make it a double,” Satoru murmurs to the bartender, who slips him her number with a little wink, he tips her well and smiles.

Did he really enjoy this?

He leans back, freezing then, when he thinks his fucking eyes are playing tricks on him - it can’t be.

You’re feeling the energy pulsing through every inch of your body, hands touching you everywhere, losing yourself in the strobing lights, the sweat dripping as you jump up and down, laughing again for the first time in so long. Jenna’s dancing with you, then other girls and guys, as the beat kicks up, and everyone throws their hands up in the air.

A girl kisses you, then Jenna, making you blush, covering your mouth as Jenna grins at you. “You’re so cute!”

“Hush!” You shove at her playfully as you both shout over the loud noise filling the intense room, internally feeling guilty for enjoying one night without him, without the man that has your whole fucking heart.

But it does feel good, to shut your eyes and feel blissful nothingness, the drinks simmering through your veins until you’re dizzy. You feel a man’s hands on you, gently pushing them off with a smile, thanking god you wore your contacts because you fear for your glasses with the amount of jumping people. You lift your arms up, back to Jenna again, as you two lose yourselves.

Satoru sees you, skin glistening with sweat in the middle of the dancefloor, jumping up and down with a grin on your face as Jenna jumps with you, bodies all surrounding you, making him glare as he sips his drink. He’s going through fucking torture without you, and you look so happy, so free.

Was he truly horrible for you?

Was he selfless enough to stay away?

“Satoru, maybe try to talk to her?” Suguru says in his ear, loudly over the blaring electronic music that has hundreds bouncing together, kissing on each other, touching each other.

Satoru used to eat this up, all the music and energy, kissing women and having them feel all over him, especially when he was a little younger and partook in the party drugs, as many of them were on. But even now, he should enjoy it, the looks women give him, the way they touch his body, how they all dance all over him, he should enjoy the feeling.

He enjoys nothing, now, nothing but the memory of you gives him, what it leaves him with, the feel of you in his arms, against his skin, god the night he danced with you and you were so nervous. Clearly still awkward, Jenna is guiding your moves, when Satoru watches several men touching you, trying to rub and dance on you - it was normal in an EDM club, it’s what you did.

But you back off them, with a little polite smile, back to Jenna in moments, when your eyes finally catch his, and you stop moving like you were, your body slows, your eyes get fucking sad, he can see it clear as day. You walk away, and he curses softly, following you around until he catches sight of you walking in the bathroom, and he follows you right in.

“It’s a girls bathroom, Satoru.” You say then, splashing water on your face, when he comes right behind you, turning you quickly, the water drips down your face as you breasts heave up and down in an outfit so slutty he’s sure it’s not yours. “What do you want?”

“What do I want!? What do I want?” He’s blinking back his emotions now, laughing and shaking his head, cupping your face with his huge hands as the DJ shifts to another song, the bass vibrating your bodies, while your breaths come quicker and quicker.

You can hardly stand it, seeing him again, it’s like nothing even exists but him, but your love for him, a love you know ruins you, changes you for the worst. You rotted away for weeks and for one moment had fun, one moment thought you could let some of the pain go, to realize what this was.

But the moment you see his desperate, hungry eyes, taste the liquor on his breath as he leans down, you’re hopelessly lost. You swallow nervously, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, trying to gather yourself, the shots running through your body along with the headiness from the dancing, all mixing with him. With Satoru Gojo, whose hands feel far too good on your skin.

“I want you back, god I’ll fucking do anything,” he whispers, desperate and needy when you open your eyes again, two tears slipping from their corners. “I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Don’t say that, god…” You take a shaky breath, pulling back, when he presses you against the black and gold counter of the fancy bathroom, his thigh right between yours, feeling your heat. Your hips roll before you can stop yourself, moaning softly as he sighs, his hand slipping down your body slowly.

“Anything to feel you again, please. Fuck I miss you,” you bite your lower lip, shaking your head. “I do, god I do.”

“Satoru…”

“I need you. I need you.” He’s kissing you, messy and desperate, licking the gloss and sweat off your lips with his long tongue, while pressing that thigh up. “Look too good to be out there, dressing this slutty?”

“Fuck you,” he moans, never expecting those words from your sweet lips, but all they do is make him needier, when you yank him by his dress shirt, hand crumpling the material. “I hate you.”

“You hate me, huh?” His whisper infuriates you, you’re crying as you nod, arching your hips up again.

“For making me fall for you, yes. I hate you, Satoru.” You pull back, turning away, only for him to drag you against his chest, making you look at your own reflection, dilated eyes, messy hair, your tits nearly falling out of your bustier.

“I could never hate you, sweetheart,” he grips a breast, yanking it out of your top then, making you whine, as your head falls back. “Look at your pretty fucking face.”

“No.” He grips your chin, forcing you to stare at him towering over you, his arms wrapping your body, one hand trailing down your nipple, tweaking it and making you whine out, rolling your hips. “Hate it.”

“You hate this?” You nod, sniffling back those tears, but your body responds to him violently, your cunt drenched when he brushes you over your panties, moaning as he fingers the slick, sticky cum. “Pretty pussy soaked, isn’t she?”

“From… dancing…” He scowls now, and you smile.

Good.

He changed you, the old you would never fucking say you hate him when you’re in love, the old you wouldn’t smirk at his anger. No, you were so sweet, so needy and pathetic for him, and you can’t let yourself slip again, not when you’re still not sure you’ve found yourself. Because you changed, irrevocably the moment you met Satoru Gojo.

“I know you’re lying, you know I’m the only man to ever make you cum,” you glare, but it’s cut off when he bends low, burying his head against your neck as he bends at the waist, your heels giving just enough height for him to slip your panties to the side. “Hold them.”

“No.”

“Hold. Them. To. The. Side.” His whisper almost ends you, the commanding tone you want to submit to.

“No.”

“Now.” He orders, in the only way he can, and you feel him slipping his fingers up and down an already messy cunt, tit slid out of your top, the other threatening to right in this club fucking bathroom, as his blue eyes look at yours int he mirror. “Now.”

“Fuck it,” you scowl as he smirks, doing just that, as the music reverberates and you bend down, pulling your lacy panties to the side, screaming out unwillingly when two fingers bury themselves. “Fuck!”

“Nasty mouth, bratty attitude, where’s my sweet, submissive girl huh?” He smirks as he slips those fingers deeper, pressing your spot with wicked precision, pressing that spongy spot as his other hand grips your breast rough in his huge grip. “Wanna squirt for me again, just me?”

“No, no I - mnh! There, shit, there,” your eyes roll back as his other hand wraps your throat, his desperate whines loud in your ear mixing with the loud squelching of your hungry cunt as he fucks you with his fingers. “Hate you.”

“Yeah, I know baby,” he’s so ready to watch you again, watch you fall apart, as he curls that spot you need, over and over, feels your gummy walls gripping and pulsing his finger with the beat of the goddamn music, watching your glittery skin and lips and eyes in the fucking mirror. “I’ll never hate you.”

“Shh,” you can’t take it, his fingers, his glistening eyes, those pouty lips parted while he moves his hand up and down inside your cunt until you’re about to cum, so intense again. “Stop, too much I’m gonna-”

“I feel it, let go, make a mess f’me, just me huh?” You can’t stop it then, his fingers fucking you just so, you feel all that pressure deep in your tummy, about to explode, making you scream out into his lips as he captures them, hand squeezing your throat as all the pressure builds.

He moans against your lips, messy kisses, saliva just dripping as he hits that spot that makes all the pressure release, and you feel yourself squirting all down his fingers, down your thighs, down the bathroom fucking tile. You scream out at it, as he makes more come out, torturing you as he pulls back and moans, looking at your face with those fucking eyes of his.

“That’s it, squirt everywhere, slutty pussy only does it f’me, say it,” you shake your head, whining and shaking as the mess gushes all over him, and he’s rock hard and thick against the small of your back, whining. “God I miss you, I need you, wanna drink you.”

“No, you can’t…” You’re drunk off him, lost in him, as he slips his fingers away from the mess you made, shoving them in your mouth, and you eagerly suck them up and down, looking at his reflection in the mirror with dilated eyes.

You’ll always want him.

You’re ready to fuck him then and there, ready to forget anything, to feel his cock stretch you out sure, but also to kiss him, to feel his energy, to feel so beautiful under him, around him. You’re shaking, thighs trembling and sticky when he turns you, lifting you and slipping his hands up your messy, sticky thighs, glistening and drenched all the way to your ankles.

“Look at your mess, sweetheart,” he taunts, bending down and licking a thigh desperately, moaning as he looks up at you, he’s too much, fuck he’s too much. “Missed your taste, can’t get it outta my fucking mind.”

“Satoru, please…” You don’t know what you’re asking, hands in his silvery locks, the texture you missed, as he presses hungry licks of his pink tongue on your skin.

“Didn’t miss me, right? Don’t want me now? Hate me?” He’s glaring, stopping his kisses to cup your face, his chin glistening from the arousal that he got pouring from your cunt, eyes locked with yours. “Do you hate me?”

“No,” you’re crying, chest heaving now. “I love you, and that is enough fucking torture.” He pauses, faltering then, as he brushes tears from your cheeks.

“Did you ever think that I-” the door opens, and the two of you quickly celebrate, you adjust yourself, thanking god the drunk girls don’t notice your undress, when you realize what you’ve done.

Let him have you a literal mess, let everything you’ve tried to get over for weeks get destroyed with his lips, his fingers. You confessed again, so pathetic, you can’t even face him, not when he is waiting for you out of the bathroom, you dart off, gripping your clutch tightly and hearing your name ring in your ears, along with the music and the sounds of cheers filling them.

He wants you, sure, but would he ever love you?

You quickly grab Jenna, desperate to run away, to try to compose yourself, how can you stand strong when all it takes is a look from his eyes and you’re ready to give him anything he wants again? It’s toxic, and you fucking know it, what he does to your body, your brain, your heart.

Has he done shoots?

Will he do them?

Why do you care when you’re not his!?

Will he be inside someone else, and you could have kept him if you went along with it all? The thoughts race as you and Jenna run out of the club, and you feel those blue eyes on you from somewhere in the dark club through the strobe lights making you dizzy. You can fucking feel Satoru, the man responsible for your soaked, sticky panties and thighs.

You could never hate him, but who are you without him anymore? It’s like you can’t recognize yourself, so consumed from his touches, from his empty words - miss you - what did he miss? Was it you, or your body? What did he think of the love confessions you were dumb enough to spill twice now?

“Baby you okay?” Jenna asks, as you two climb in the back of the ride, and you shake your head, bursting into tears.

She holds you, so confused, because you don’t say what happened.

You’ll never be okay without him, will you?

*****

Satoru can still feel it, you squirting and gushing in that fucking room, clinging to the memory he tries a month later to get hard on set, how long could he put it off, it’s been almost two months since that fight now. He hasn’t heard your voice since that night, he finally stopped calling again, realizing you were done with him, realizing the amount of times he fucked this all up.

He never told you how he felt, how could you know?

He doesn’t even know how to describe it, the void in his chest as he thinks of you, as he misses you, knowing you live an hour away, he keeps thinking of just showing up, telling you. That he’s never felt this way, that he’s never felt the need, the hunger, the all consuming desire for you as a human being, your laugh, your kisses, your grin.

Your silly jokes, the innocent way you moved against him, so shy at first, to the wildness of that night out, how you arched against him, how you said you hated him, how you said you loved him. And he almost said it back, he just needed one more moment to fucking say it, the words he hasn’t said since his ex fucked his brain up, made him so cold.

But he feels more for you in a short time than he ever did her.

He fell for you, just like you did, but he was so fucking stupid, all he could do was explain it away, to keep his lifestyle, his career- and what did any of it matter without you? What was anything without you in his life now, a life he thought was beautiful, was just a hollow shell since he met you.

Parties, drugs, women all over him, fame and money, what the fuck was a yacht party with beautiful women, when the girl he loves hates him? What was a trip to some rich fucker’s island, when the girl he loves is back in LA? Were you moved on, did you find a guy to treat you right, better than he had?

One that doesn’t make you cry?

“Ready, Gojo?” His pretty costar smiles at him, and he clears his throat, nodding with a fake smile.

Were all his smiles fake before you?

Was everything just a stage, waiting for you to enter his life, to change everything?

You changed so much for him, but he never changed for you.

Satoru’s flexing for the cameras, it’s what he did. You two were done before you ever became anything, weren’t you? You have not once reached out, why should he feel bad, there’s nothing there. He has to move on, like you apparently have, he has to have his career back, and maybe now he could, if he could just ignore the stabbing, gnawing ache in his soul.

Satoru’s slipping his fingers down her spine, smacking her ass and watching handprints form, while she’s whining and arching up for more, her hair falling back behind her shoulder blades. Satoru tries to remember that he once enjoyed this career, that he enjoys pleasing women. He tries to remember you want nothing to do with him anymore, that you ‘hate him’.

But your hate is sweeter than anything.

He could almost do it.

Her hair is the same as yours, as he pulls it gently, her ass arched up for him so pretty. Satoru could almost pretend it’s you, with that condom on, maybe he could shut his eyes and remember you instead. Maybe he could go through it, you two are done, you’ve made it so clear you want nothing to do with him now, and he couldn’t blame you for it.

He could almost slip his cock into her, he thinks, while he fingers her, feels how wet she is. He could almost imagine you, squirting and gushing and whining as he felt your tight, perfect cunt. He shuts his eyes, snowy lashes casting shadows along his high cheekbones, as she moans, this moan that’s not even close to the sounds you make.

He could almost do this, he’s going to have to move on, right?

“I need a career change.” He says suddenly, fingers inside his costar stilling, the set goes quiet. “Shit… um, sorry.”

He’s walking off, wiping his hands off when his manager comes to him.

“Satoru… what the fuck?”

“I can’t do this anymore.” He murmurs, remembering you in that club bathroom, the way you felt in his arms, the anger you held, your pretty little face, the way your lashes fluttered shut. The way you kissed him, how he’d licked that arousal off your thighs, but moreso your words.

You loved him.

And it all finally sinks in - he has no clue if you’ll ever even fucking talk to him again, he has no clue if you really hate him, but he knows he can’t do this life like this any longer. He can’t be with someone else in a world where you fucking exist - no, It was only you.

“I need a change of career.”

This chapter hurt my fucking feelings, my god they're dumb esp Satoru - BUT promise next chap will be a little less angsty <3

Taglist 1 - @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay @iluvjjkmennn @nutellajade

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bizarrelovetriangel · 3 months ago

Text

n i g h t m a r e s.

angst with comfort. they have a nightmare where they lost you.

sylus

You were in the N109 Zone for hunters business, and he only found out from Mephisto. Sylus got on his bike and rushed over to your location to demand answers. Why are you there? Why are you alone? Why didn't you tell him anything?

Once he saw you in the middle of a battleground surrounded by unconscious bodies and wrapping a bandage around your left arm, Sylus's breath hitched.

"So the kitten got scratched, despite how ferocious she is." He reached out to help you with your bandage, but you took a step back and frowned at him.

"Don't touch me."

"Oh?" He raised a brow at your cold tone. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, sweetie?"

You gritted your teeth and turned away from him.

"Stay away from me, Sylus."

Confusion flashed in his eyes. You didn't look like you're in a joking mood, and the way you looked at him with empty eyes felt like a stab to his chest.

"What's wrong?" he asked carefully, not taking a single step towards you just in case you start running away. "Have I done something to piss you off?"

"Done something?" you laughed bitterly. "What haven't you done?"

No, there wasn't just emptiness in your eyes. There was disgust. Repulsion, directed at him. You haven't looked at him in that way for a long time, and he was reminded of how much he hated it.

"Sweetie, let's talk -"

He made the mistake of reaching out to touch you, so you slapped his hand away and jumped back.

"I said stay away from me! Don't.... don't talk to me anymore, don't follow me, just don't.... just stay out of my life! I don't want to be with a monster like you!"

A monster.

So, that's what it was.

He can't say he was surprised.

He always had a feeling that one day, you'll come to your senses and ask yourself, how could you ever love someone like him?

Looks like you've finally woken up from whatever spell he put on you. Now, you want nothing to do with him.

"Stay away from me." You took even more steps back, your figure was starting to merge with the shadows. "Goodbye, Sylus."

His feet were stuck to the bloodstained ground as he watched you disappear in his life forever.

Suddenly, he became aware of how cold the air is, and how quiet it is around him. His heart twinged, as if he'd been pierced by multiple daggers. His body felt numb and empty.

Standing became difficult, and his eyes felt like anchors that demanded to be shut. He gasped for air as he feels his chest tightening, but he only felt even more drowned.

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't move.

He wanted go run after you, but bloodied hands had sprung out of nowhere and started pulling his feet deeper in the ground.

"Sylus..."

"...."

"Sylus."

His eyes opened and squinted from the setting sun's light that slipped past the curtains of his bedroom windows.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

He sat up and frantically scanned his surroundings. He ran a hand through his hair and felt all the sweat that were on his forehead.

"Sylus?"

His eyes slowly met yours, and they lingered for a long time. It's as if he's waiting and searching for something.

"You had a nightmare, right?" You looked at him with concern. "Are you okay? I'm gonna go get you a glass of water. I'll be back - "

"No, wait."

Sylus caught your hand as you tried to leave. His thumb caressed the back of your hand and observed it for a moment before taking a deep breath.

"Just stay here with me. I just...need you here."

"Okay." You sat still next to him and let him fiddle with your hands, as it seems to be giving him comfort. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Sylus tangled his fingers against yours, keeping his eyes on your joined hands. "You're not...." He paused for a second as he felt his throat drying up nervously. "You're not repulsed by me, are you?"

"What?"

"You know what l've done.... What I do, and who I am. Do you still... Do you still...."

You were quick to understand what he was trying to ask, and what he might have dreamt about.

"I love you." You looked into his eyes that seems to lack its usual life and confidence. "I know what you do and who you are, and I still love you, Sylus. Whatever happened in your dream.... it's not real."

He closed his eyes and let your words sink in deep in his heart, replaying them to forget about the painful words you threw at him in his nightmare.

It wasn't real.

What's real is you, in front of him, holding his hands and you telling him that you love him.

What's real is you caring about him and sticking by his side even when he's feeling vulnerable.

Sylus' silent reply came with a lingering kiss on your forehead. He wrapped one arm around your shoulders and guided you to lie back down. Once your back is flat against the soft mattress, Sylus pulled you close to him.

Even though he didn't say anything, you felt his gratitude with the way he embraced you with such warm, gentle, and secure arms.

As he closed his eyes, he continued to replay the words you told him.

At last, he was gifted with a peaceful dream.

///////

xavier

Surrounded by speck of lights, Xavier spun you around as you and him dance slowly underneath the stars.

You two were on your way home after a dinner date when you heard music blasting from a nearby concert venue. Live music echoes throughout the park with the big water fountain, completely empty since it's already quite late.

Xavier gazed at the way your face lit up as you laugh after suddenly losing balance and almost stepping on his feet.

"You didn't accidentally drink alcohol tonight, did you?" He held your hands tightly to keep you stable.

"Of course not! I just got a little dizzy, that's all."

"Maybe you just need to sleep more." he says half-jokingly as he rested his hands on your waist. "Instead of leaving the bed so early in the morning, you should just wait for me to wake you up. I'll be your alarm clock."

"Pfft. If that's the case, we might be sleeping forever." You cupped his face with your hands as he looks at you with bright eyes.

"That doesn't sound too bad." he whispers, leaning closely to brush his lips against yours. "I don't mind, as long as you're next to me. We have all the time in the world."

Just as he closed the distance between your lips, you suddenly froze and moved back.

"Hmm? What's - "

You let go of him and put a hand on your chest, right over your heart.

"It... it hurts..."

Your face suddenly turned pale.

"I - can't b-breathe..."

Xavier felt his world stop as your legs gave out. His arms stopped your knees from hitting the ground, and his body became numb after feeling how clammy your skin had gotten.

"X-xavier...."

He found himself struggling to take a breathe, too.

He was petrified.

He didn't know what to do.

It was happening again. He was losing you all over again, just like in every life time he had with you. Just when he thought he finally got it right this time, just when he thought he'd get his happy ending...

He couldn't lose you.

Not now. Not again.

He has to do something.

"Xavier..."

His vision suddenly darkened. You vanished completely, and he couldn't feel your body at all. It's like you'd turned into dust.

"No..."

"Xavier..."

"Where are you?" he cried in panic, desperately looking around for you yet not a single light welcomed his eyes. He called out your name repeatedly, but your voice was fading away.

"Where....."

"Xavier!"

And in an instant, a flash of light embraced him. He opened his eyes and the first thing he sees is you, sitting next to him and looking at him with wide, worried eyes.

You were wearing pajamas rather than the fancy dress he last saw you in. There is no fountain, and you were not at a park. You two are in his apartment, in his bedroom.

"You...." His heart was racing as he looked at you for a long time. "You're..... you're...." His throat felt tight and dry.

You took his hands and held them tightly. "I'm right here, Xavier." You pulled him into your arms and rested his face against your chest. "Everything is fine."

He closed his eyes and exhaled as he heard the sound of your stable heartbeat.

You're here and you're okay.

"I thought...." Xavier groans and shakes his head. He'd rather not recall that nightmare. "I'm... I'm glad you're here."

You held him tighter, feeling his body's warmth returning. "I won't go anywhere."

You took the hint that he didn't want to talk about what got him shaking and breathing heavily in his sleep. Sometimes, it's good to talk about nightmares, and sometimes it's better to just let it fade away.

"It's around five in the morning." you told him. "The birds are gonna start chriping soon. Do you wanna step out with me to see them?

"Yeah." he smiled against your chest. "I'd like that."

////////

rafayel

It was his own fault that you ran away from him. He was feeling sick, particularly due to his Lemurian nature, and he blurted out that he needed some time away from you for a while, right when you were trying to take care of him. He was overwhelmed and frustrated, and he told you something he didn't mean.

And now, you're gone.

The house and the beach have never felt so empty and lonely.

He couldn't recall when was the last time he'd seen you and heard your voice.

Rafayel finds himself sitting in front of an unfinished painting of the one he loves. He'd memorized the expression you wear when you'd admire the sunset with him after collecting sea shells. He painted that precious memory just so he can see your face outside of his head.

He wondered what you would think about your portrait once he shows it to you.

He waited and waited.

But you never came back.

Rafayel couldn't remember. Has it been weeks? Months? Years? Did another lifetime pass? Will he have to search for you again?

Of course, he'd do it. He'll wait for you and search for you for as long as he needs. For as long as he can.

But he really thought this lifetime would be it. He thought, maybe, you won't lose each other this time. He had everything he wanted, and yet...

You left him again. You'd given up on him.

If only he could turn back time, he'll find a way to show his true feelings. He'd find a way to keep you close and never let you go.

If only....

"What a mess you are."

"....huh....?"

That was your voice.

His eyes snapped wide open to see you looking down on him. He was sitting down on a chair and his head was down on a table, on top of the unfinished painting of you.

He had fallen asleep with paint all over his face and clothes, though he didn't care about that.

Was it all just a dream?

Was he given another chance?

"You... Are you really here?"

You tilted your head at the sound of his weak voice. "I am. Mostly, I'm here to check up on you because I thought you wouldn't sleep. I'm glad to learn that I was wrong. You were talking in your sleep."

He was saying some things in Lemurian, so you didn't understand. Though, he clearly looked upset, so you contemplated whether to wake him up or not. Nonetheless, his eyes opened at the sound of your voice, no matter how quiet you tried to be.

"You're here....Even though I...." he looks away, feeling his stomach churning with discomfort. "Even though I pushed you away...." He looked down at the portrait he'd been working on. "In my dream, you left and didn't come back. I was waiting for you, but you weren't coming. I thought I wasn't going to see you again, and I was.... I was scared."

You felt your heart drop as his voice quivered. You stepped towards him and pulled him into a hug, catching him by surprise.

"Rafayel..." He buried his face in your stomach. "I'm not going to leave you. Sure, you can be a little dramatic and moody. Sometimes, you overwhelmed and frustrated. Sometimes, you'd want space, and that's perfectly okay."

He wrapped his arms around you tightly.

"I couldn't resist staying away from you for more than five days." you laughed. "That's why I'm here. To see how you are."

"I..." he looks up at you and flashes you a smile. "I'm feeling better now that you're here."

"Good." You caressed his face and wiped a speck of paint that was on his chin. "Now let's get you cleaned up."

"Okay!"

///////

zayne

Zayne exited a patient's room just in time to hear the commotion out in the hallway. He could hear Yvonne giving out orders. She's trying to sound calm, but he could tell that she was shaken by something.

He took five steps right before an unconscious body was brought in a stretcher.

His eyes noticed the hunters' uniform first, torn and covered in blood. Then, there was the gaping wound on your stomach. Lastly, your cold, paling face.

Zayne dropped the clipboard that was in his hand. His feet acted on their own and rushed to your side, shakily calling out your name.

His hands shook and his vision blurred.

"Doctor Zayne!" Yvonne came up next to him. "She's - "

"I'm her primary doctor. I'll -"

He was stopped from entering the room that you was taken into.

Instead, Greyson came running in, but not before giving Zayne a look of sympathy. "I'll do all that I can to save her."

"I'm going in too."

Yvonne put a hand on his shoulder.

"Doctor Zayne... She's going to be okay. We can trust Doctor Greyson."

His breath comes out raggedy as he tries to calm his pounding heart in his tightening chest. "But I'm her physician. I'm the one that should be treating her."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Zayne."

He knows the rules, yet he found them hard to follow at the moment.

Doctors are generally not supposed to operate on anyone that's close to them, such as a family member or a partner, due to several complicated ethical matters.

But still, he should be the one to treat you.

What was the point of him becoming a doctor if he couldn't save your life?

"Let me...."

"We're losing her!" someone exclaims from your room.

Zayne felt his vision spinning. He tried to get to you, but his legs stopped working.

Why couldn't he move?

He needed to see you. To save you.

Move.

Save her.

There's no time.

Move.

Move, or else she's going to....

"Zayne!"

His body felt as if it had been pulled out of a frozen lake. He gasped and shot up from his seat, finding his legs working perfectly. He's inside his home office and he had taken a nap right on his desk.

"Zayne! Are you okay? I heard you screaming so I -" you failed to finish your sentence as you were suddenly pulled in his arms.

Your feet lifted from the ground while you wrapped your arms around his back. Zayne rested his face against your neck and took a deep breath and a slow exhale, tickling your skin.

From where your hands are, you could feel him slightly trembling. He must have had a horrible nightmare.

"I never want to feel that again." he whispered, pressing you tighter against him. "Please, don't go."

You ran your hands up and down his back. "I'm not going anywhere."

Zayne didn't leave your side for the rest of the night.

////////

caleb

After all these years, he couldn't believe he finally got what he wanted. You're by his side, not just as your childhood friend, but as your lover.

Out of all the people, you chose him.

It felt too good to be true.

And maybe that's why you were once again taken from him.

One day, he received a call from your boss. Apparently, you had encountered someone from Ever and got in a dangerous fight. You were taken to a hospital, so Caleb instantly left Skyhaven to see you.

He entered your room with a basket full of apples. "Pip-squeak, you look terrible."

You stared at him with a deadpanned expression.

You had bandages wrapped around the top of your head, since that was where your main injury is. Aside from that, you had minor bruises and scratches on your arms.

"Tough crowd today." He sat on the chair and held your left hand.

You pulled away quickly.

"Huh? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

You blinked at him with confusion. "....Who are you?"

"...." Caleb lets out a chuckle, even though his heart had already dropped. "That's not funny."

The look on your face told him that you weren't in the mood for jokes either.

"You.... you don't remember me?"

You shook your head. "I'm sorry, but I can't remember..."

His entire world felt like it came crashing down.

All the memories he'd desperately tried to preserve. All the moments you'd spent together, from when you were kids that were nothing more than lab rats, to when you both started living with your grandma, to when you reunited after the incident, and to when you started to become lovers. All of it is gone.

You're looking at him with nothing but confusion in your eyes.

You didn't even want to hold his hand.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." Behind his pained smile, he clenched his fists even though he could no longer feel them.

This is all Ever's fault.

He is going to make them pay for hurting you and taking away all of your precious memories, stripping you of your identity.

"While you recover, I'll look after you." he told you while holding an apple towards you. "If you need anything, just let me know."

"Okay."

Despite your reply, you never came to him for help. Even when your injuries got better, you refused his offers to look after you and keep you company.

You never asked about your old memories. You weren't even trying to regain them. It's like you'd turned into a new person, and he had become a stranger to you.

You were his entire world, but he was nothing but a fragment of your past that you no longer know and care for. He was nothing to you.

It should be fine, right?

You're alive. That's the most important part.

You were safe, and he's going to make sure you stay safe, even if he has to stay in the shadows.

So, why does it hurt so much?

Why did getting out of bed feel pointless? Why does he check his phone, knowing he hasn't crossed your mind at all? Why did his shoulders feel heavier and his chest tighter?

He just wanted to see you. He wanted to hear your voice, calling his name to show him something silly so he can laugh with you.

He wouldn't mind if you get angry with him for all the stupid things he'd done. As long as you know he's there, as long as you look at him, that's enough for him.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Caleb almost fell out of bed at the alarm ringing in full blast.

"What....?"

He wasn't in his dark, lonely room in Skyhaven. He's in your bright and colorful apartment, on your warm bed.

And there was someone humming from outside the room.

Caleb slowly got out of bed and followed the source of the humming that had his heart racing and swelling, warming up his body that had been feeling cold and empty just seconds ago.

He enters the kitchen and finds you cooking breakfast.

Suddenly, breathing became ten times easier.

You yelped as you were hugged from behind. "Caleb! Don't scare me like that!"

He smiled against your shoulders. "It's you that scared me to death, pip-squeak."

"Me? What do you mean?!"

"Nothing." He pressed his lips on your right cheek. "So, what's for breakfast?"

It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real, and it's never going to be real. He'll make sure of it. He will never let anything happen to you for as long as he lives.

All he ask for in return is for you to keep looking at him with the same light of love and happiness in your eyes.

5K notes · View notes

hanimanny · 1 month ago

Text

LaDs x non!mc , angst

non!mc idea where in every universe, in every timeline, you’re only there to watch one of the Lis fall in love with MC. you, as their closest companion, stuck by their side since the dawn of time, bare witness of a love story never for you.

and now we’re in the current timeline and you watch it happen all over again.

You've grown to watch silently, in the background. In the shadow of MC. Her beauty, her confidence, her kindness.

You've seen in all before, the way they look at her, love her, yearn for her; sucked into her gravity. And like your love for the Lis, you're pulled into too, forever following, watching, but never experiencing.

You've mastered silent devotion, a writhing, numbing ache that you can never seem to rid. Heavy on the chest, suffocating to the heart. Since you couldn't love them loudly like they do with MC, yearn them in the same way they yearn for her; you sit back and grow hollow, more empty.

Even when tragedy strikes, perhaps a fatal injury by a wanderer, a horrible collision with a car, a terrible drowning, a freak accident; maybe pure exhaustion. You're left to revel in your own patheticness, of loving someone untouchable.

In many ways, you're just like them.

Because, even in your final breath, you think of them, and how much you love them despite all it all.

Maybe the gods pity you, lord knows you've done enough yourself. Now reincarnated to a new world, our world. where Linkon is just some made up place in a game everyone’s been raving about on twitter. where you’re happy; whole; complete.

Where you hold no memory of your past life. No memory of them.

In your new life, as you play Love and Deep Space and design your MC the way you’d think the LIs would love. They’re looking at you. Really look at you, maybe for the first time since the duration of your friendship? relationship?

because after your death, something unspeakable till this day. they’ve finally noticed your absence. the silence.

Unable to fill the hole you left, not with work, not with time, not with love.

so when their phone lights up, months after your death, and they see you. Alive, and look it too. much more alive than they've ever seen you. Your face is so bright, almost glowing. and you bar a smile they have never seen. or at least, they don’t remember.

you’re alive and you’re happy.

Soon, they find the pattern of your appearance, when they’re phone lights up and your beaming face appears. and so they wait, daily, to see you again.

when you talk to ‘them’ through your phone, about your life, your troubles, your joys. they just sit and listen, listen to all you have to say.

Because their version of you isn't here anymore. They can’t hear your voice, see your face, feel your touch.

This time, they'll love you right, like how they should have all along. Pulled into the gravity that is, you. So they cling to you, through their phone.

Close enough to hear you, to see you, but never touch you.

have fun

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grugruel · 7 months ago

Text

Can you do that for me?

Pairings: ruined!Jayce x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: Formerly partners, you've started a new business in Zaun after Jayce's disappearance. One day, after hearing whispers of Victor's apparent evolution, Jayce shows up unannounced.

Wordcount: 4.2 k

Warnings: Some canon stuff (beware spoilers), pinv sex, angst, fluff, fingering, slight handjob, choking, biting, creampie, doggy, missionary, cowgirl (a lot of positions), sub/dom/switch!Jayce, power struggle, fight for dominance, praise (f and m recieving), spanking, overstimulation, "I love you", difficult feelings, hot depraved Jayce.

AN: Not proofread, I intend to make a few changes to it later but wanted to get it out. Might be spelling mistakes. I tried to fit a bit of everything into this. ENJOY GIRLIES🎀

Having pulled the curtains aside, a vigilant man inspects the dark streets below. "He's almost here, ma'am," the man says, eyes following the subject. There's a slight stiffnes to his stance, as if he's readying himself for a fight. "What do you want us to do?"

"Let him in," she smiles at him faintly, attempting to reassure the large man before returning to her paperwork. "Dont give him trouble, there's nothing to fear."

The guard nods slowly and crosses the room to leave, he knows she's right. Yet, he stays in the doorway, shoulders slumped and arms crossed.

Warm light creeps in through the entryway, contrasting the faint light that Zauns streetlights provide for her otherwise gloomy office.

Noticing how the strong wash of light remains, she looks up at her guard to find another question lingering on his lips. "I've know you long enough to tell when something ails you." She leans back in her chair.

He catches her gaze reluctantly, facing away before he speaks. The man clears his throat, he knows he's crossing a line. "He's trouble, if you ask me. The boys and I-"

The woman pulls her glasses of and sighs, done with her work for the evening. "Im a big girl, I can handle myself."

The guard leans against the doorway and shrugs in reluctant recognition. "We're worried for you, ma'am-" but catching himself on his words, his hands gesture to remedy his meaning. "Respectfully, of course," he ads quickly, aversed to insult his employer.

The woman stands slowly, walking around her crammed desk to casually prop herself next to him. "I know," she reassures, placing a soft hand on his chest. "But I'll be fine, send him in."

The large man huffs. "We'll be outside then," he begins, but as the next words begin to form on his tongue, he decides against it, solely out of trust for his employer. If he could, he would've added 'when you need us'.

She doesnt doubt it, nor does she take offence. They're a tight knit family down here, she cares for them as much as they do her. But this would be an interaction no family member should hear. "That won't be necessary, keep to the foyer . . . Now go," she hurries him, careful to keep an understanding smile on her lips lest he changes his mind.

With a heavy breath and one last glance, the guard reluctantly closes the door and heavy footsteps recede.

She sighs, moving to brace her hands against the desktop and preparing herself for whats to come, for what she suspects.

She lights the lantern on her desk and waits. Only a moment later the same warm light creeps into the room. She twitches, unprepared for his arrival inspite of her efforts as the squeaking door slices through the eerily silent space.

In her peripheral, a fallen man stands. He's tired and dirty. Cut up and run down. There's a moment of contemplation between her and the newcomer, she does not move and neither does he. It's been a long time.

Squeak, thump, click . . . Pause. He's locked the door. A heavy thud between metal and wood sounds next, there's a faint sound of coarse skin sliding along fine metal before the familiar vibrations of hextech dies out.

All that exists between them now is heavy breathing in two parts, laboring against their own minds and bodies.

The floorboards begin to creek, irregularly, as if the weight placed upon them has not yet decided it's course of action. She grips the desktop harder, fingernails burrying into fine wood. She can only guess why he has come. "It's Viktor, isn't it?" She breathes, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

She gets no response, the only answer she recieves is the creeking of floorboards as the uncertain weight shifts back and forth. But that is all the answer she needs.

Having seamingly made up his mind, determined footsteps approach her in a sudden haste. Srong arms wrap around her body, pulling her toward a hard chest in a tight, tight embrace. His head collides with her shoulderblade as he burries his face in her scent. Muffled by her body, strained breaths blow welcome warmth onto her skin.

"What's happened?" She whispers, not entirely sure she wants the answer for she can smell him now. Metal and gunpowder. But it's not the type raw metal used for smithing or creating, it's not the metal she's used to. No, this is pungent, corporeal. It's blood. "Jayce, please . . . " She begins, 'talk to me' her lips shape, but no sound comes out. Unable to muster the strength.

"Cant- I cant . . . talk about it. Not now, not yet," he manages, voice rough as if he has fought and damp breath raising goosebumps on her neck. "I just . . . Needed you. I need you."

A strong hand slides higher, knuckles intently brushing the underside of her breast. "Can't think anymore."

And inspite of her better judgement. "Ok," she agrees, whispering, as if her consience wouldnt be able to hear. She's missed him, worried for him. So, her body betrays her.

Laying her hand on top of his, she guides him over the hill of her breast.

His breath hitches while his other hand move downward, tracing her ribs, down her waist, stopping on her thigh and squeezing tenderly. Soft flesh dimpling beneath the force of strong fingers. "I've been lost, " his voice breaks. "Missed you." His hands slide further down to slither under the slit in her dress.

"No feelings right now, Jayce . . . Please, just-"

Two fingers slip inside of her and she gasps. "No feelings," he assures, placing a gentle kiss on her neck.

"Good, good . . . " she moans.

While massaging her breast his thumb finds her clit and tongue her neck, gently nipping and sucking on the crook of her neck. Her body grows to weak to hold itself upright so she puts her weight on her arms. Noticing, he holds her tighter and pushes her weight against the desk. "Already?" He whispers, dragging his teeth along the shell of her ear as his fingers steadily thrusts in and out of her. "You're making it too easy for me."

A breathless chuckle leaves her, crammed between heavy groans. "You work with your hands . . . Mmmh, unfair advantage."

He bites her earlobe, tugging, teasing. "So do you, if I remember correctly." A grin twists her lips as her hand reaches between them and palms his enlarged bulge. He hisses as she begins to stroke it, heat immedietly surfacing as the friction between fabric and skin grows. "Mhhg, that's what I thought," he groans. "Good girl."

He pushes a third finger inside off her, curling them at just the right angle.

"Fuck!" Her free hand curls into a fist, joints having nothing better to do than occupy themselves in anyway they can. He puts more focus on her clit, rubbing dutyful circles into and and finally pushes her over the edge. "Mhh, shit-"

His fingers slow down as she hits her high, gently leading her through it as he supports her weight. "Just breathe, that's right . . . "

Her breathing has become a mixture of moans and wheezes, the pleasure stimulating every nerve in her body. "Did you . . . ?" She asks, suddenly remember her hand on his clothed member.

"No," he whispers and kisses her temple. "Theres time." He tries to turn her around. But fear grips her. "No-" she stops him, gripping the edge of the desk to keep herself in place. Seeing the changes up close would make them real, would make whatever he has come from, real. "I can't look at you . . . not yet." She reaches over her shoulder to cup his jaw, and just like that, their bubble of reminiscence bursts. They arent colleagues anymore and havent been for a long time. Nor is their third party longer there to rationalise with them. A shrap jab strikes her heart. "Give me time, and just," her other hand reaches behind her, grabbing the fabric on his hip to pull him closer, pressing his erection against the curve of her ass. "Like this for now, Jayce. Please . . ."

His head lulls against her back, pushing his forehead firmly into her spine whilst releasing a big, shaky breath. She can feel him bare his teeth, silently working through the consequences of his actions.

He doesn't answer, he only obeys.

It goes silent for a short moment, until the warmth on her hips disappear and the metal clanging of a belt buckle sounds behind her.

Quickly, one hand returns to her thigh to pull her dress over her ass.

"Dont hold back," she says.

There's a pause in his movements. "Are you certain?"

She nods and he wastes no time. Pushing himself against her, his knees spread her legs efficiently, just liked they've practiced many times before. With no further warning, he sinks into her. One hand crossing over her waist as the other grabs her shoulder, then sets a ruthless pace.

Somehow she knows he needs to get this out of him, the pent of fury and need. But she doesnt complain, he always knew what he was doing.

The sound of slapping fills her office, while the lewd squelching from her previous orgasm further spurs them on. He bends over her, changing his grip. Fingers snaking around her throat as his knee and free hand work together to fish one of her legs onto the desk, hitting her deeper, harder. His thrusts are no longer about speed, but of that one special little spot.

He puts pressure on her throat, almost painstakingly so. But it feels heavenly and she wouldn't have it any other way.

With each rut, his members perfectly fills her. His face is next to hers and he kisses had bites around her neck and ear, making sure she knows how good he makes her fell by grunting and moaning right into her ear. It makes that pulsing in her core worse, and he seems to notice.

"Yeah, you like that?" He groans, kissing her soft skin right behind the ear.

"Mmmhmm," she hums, voice vibrating with the bumping of their bodies. Doing her best to keep silent, afraid that one of her guards suddenly decides to check up on her.

"Let me hear you, use your words," he breathes, flexing the fingers around her throat and biting her shoulder.

"Fuck-" her knuckles and nails take turns in destroying her desk, scratching and denting the expensive wood grain. "I like making you, mmh . . . feel good." She manages, words stuttering between thrusts.

He gently pulls on her ear with his teeth. "Good," he whispers, then releases her throat and places his hand on the back of her neck, pushing her against the desktop.

Slap. His hands comes down on her ass, then gripping the plump flesh hard to lessen some of the stinging. A jolt of electricity shoots through her and her insides clench arouns him.

Jayce whimpers from the sudden, godlike pleasure. "Wanna hear you, honey, don't be shy." His hand comes down again, harder this time.

She squeezes around him, nerves on fire as she feels her second climax building up inside her. She moans as tears run down her face, happy pleasurable tears only Jayce has been able to produce.

"That's it . . ." He slaps her ass a third time, and the wall inside her core crumbles. With a whimper, she comes. "You did so good, lovely, im almost there," he assures her. Tears stream down her face as his thrusts grow irregular, but continues to pleasure her body. "Fuck," she cries, squirming from the drawn out orgasm. One hand holds her steady at the hip while the other slides up her back, rubbing her tender body until he brushes away stray hair from her profile.

"Hold on a little longer, just breathe, baby," he comforts her, such a stark contrast to the rough thrusts he's been dealing her body. Her fingers are jittery from the overstimulation, they ached to touch him, pull his hair, anything. But she can not reach, so she presses her palms against the table to keep them occupied.

As he sees her tear streaked face, one last blow lands on her ass and he too, comes. He collapses on top of her, they attempt to regain their strength as their sweaty bodies lie flush against eachother.

After a few moments of breathing heavily together, Jayce wraps an arm around her torso and splays his hand over her rips, pulling her with him as he straightens out.

Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and turns around. Hands finding his face, guiding her lips to his.

"Please look at me, my beautiful girl. Look at me," he pleads, murmuring the words against her lips.

She opens her eyes and his breath hitches. Yellow, brown irises meet her won. They're the exact same ones she knew not too long ago. Except . . . Haunted.

His fingers brush along her cheek, jaw and down her throat. She winces at the soft touch and his brows furrow in confusion.

Capturing her chin, he tilts her head back.

"It's fine, I'm fine," she whispers, assuring him as she sees his expression. Pure shock animates them.

"I don't-" his fingers trace the red marks running around her throat and tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. "Im so sorry." He falls to his knees, hands resting against her chins as he hides his face between them. "I don't know-" he chokes and kisses her legs with remorse. He pecks her delicately, trailing his lips over her knees and up her thighs, hands following behind, tracing the outside of her legs until they reach her waist and encircle her. He hugs her tightly, knees sore against the hard wood. "Im not right," he breathes, head lulling into her lap. She can feel wetness coating her skin, running between her thighs.

She exhales heavily and slides down the desk until the hard wooden floor welcomes her thighs.

They stay like this for a good long while, she's in no rush and neither is he. Over and over again, her fingers comb through his overgrown and unpreened hair while the sensation of his seed drips out of her. Sharp nails gently scratch at the nape of his neck, they trace his bonestructure and play with its halls and valleys. The back of her fingers caress the length of his nose and sharpness of his cheekbone.

All the while Jayce lays wordless, occasionally squeezing her thighs, her hips. Occasionally trailing featherlight touches along her legs, watching with wonder how goosebumps rise and fall.

She chuckles beneath her breath. It's the same expression he used to get when making progress in the lap, just like when they first cracked the hextech runes. "Jayce," she says, attempting to grab his attention.

Crouching beneath her, he looks up from her lap, chin resting on the softness of her flesh. His face glistens and eyes plead. He looks at her with fatigue, wordlessly asking for her forgiveness.

"What happened?" She asks, her voice soft but words demanding. She's not getting dersuled this time, she needs answers.

He shakes his head, reluctantly drawing his lips into a thin line as he breaks away from her gaze.

Her eyebrows twist together. "What have you done?" She asks, anger laces her tone now. But he closes his eyes, the corners of his eyes gleaming again. The fingers burried in his hair curl into a fist and she pulls his head back, forcing him look at her. "What. Have. You. Done?"

His eyes shift between hers, uncertain, unwilling. "He's gone . . . " He begins. "I had to, I had to–the hexcore, it was poisoning him, spreading like a disease." His voice is coarse. "I had to stop him, there was no other choice."

Her eyes grow. Viktor . . . Gone? She could only assume when Jayce suddenly pays her a visit, but never dared believe.

"I never ment to leave you," he says, hand reaching out to grab her waist. "You have to believe me." He rouches the fabric at the waist, white knuckling it out of desperation for an ounce of u derstanding. "Hextech isnt what we thought it was, not anymore. Viktor couldnt see it, he was infecting the undercity, it would've spread to Piltover, the rest of the world if I didn't stop him."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "But he was saving them, freeing them of shimmer."

"No . . . they weren't themselves anymore. I've been away, lost. I've seen–" She waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. "The hexcore mutates them, changes them. I had to stop him. It, the core."

Her eyes drift the Jayce's hammer posted by the door. "Like your hammer?" She studies the now misshapen weapon, once crafted with obsessive precision. Her eyes drift lower along the neck and over its face, blood splatter.

She looks away, closing her eyes to recollect herself. Remembering to strongly the smell of blood Jayce had arrived with.

"Yes," he says. "Like I did." His hand reaches up to loosely cup her face. She notices how the crystal from his old bracelet has fused with his skin. Her fingers run along his arm and slides along the crystal, feeling it, inspecting it. "I didn't chose this," he murmurs. "I didn't chose to leave you . . . I love you." His hand falls back to his side.

She's taken aback. Its not something they've said before, not while still partners, not before all of, this . . . But despite herself, she believes him. They were colleagues for a long time and affection had always kept them together. He wouldn't hurt Viktor without reason.

With hooded eyes and parted lips, he studies her, waiting for her judgement.

"You had to," she nods, seamingly decided.

Relief and disappointment floods his face all at once. He'd expected an 'I love you' back.

She leans in, kissing him for the first time since he disappeared. Finally reunited. "We'll get through this, ok?" her voice is uncertain, what's happened has not been fully processed.

"Ok," he agrees and straightens his back, carefully placing small kisses along her abdomen as he does so, afraid he'll scare her away. "I've missed you so damn much." He levels his head with hers, meeting her gaze head on.

"I've missed you too," she responds. "But I need you now, Jayce. Can you do that for me?" She places a soft kiss on his lips.

"Certainly," he murmurs against them.

She stands, slinding his hand into hers and leads him to the bed. With his back to the bed, she places her hands on his chest and pushes him into sitting at the edge of the bed.

One leg over the other, she straddles him, standing on her knees so he has to look up at her. His she brushes the hair away from his eyes and lowers her lips to ghost over his. Their scared and quivering, needy to be on hers.

His hands slide up her sides and curves around her back, coming to rest in the arch above her ass. Gently, he massages circles into her skin, tickling her intentionaly.

She squirms beneath his touch, luring a satisfied grin from him. "You look good like this." Her fingers run through his beard, tracing his new scars. "Dangerous." Reaching down between them and into his pants, she pulls Jayce's member free and lowers herself just enough to tease his tip.

With a hiss, he locks his thumb over her hipbones and wanting to guide her onto him.

She shakes her head, a smirk playing in the corner of her lips. "My turn," she whispers and pull the straps of her dress down, letting it gather at her hips. Jayce's eyes immeidetly fall as his hands slide up her ribs with a specific destination in mind. "Dont touch," she warns. "Now look at me, Jayce." Her chest is inches from his face, but unallowed to look and unable to touch, his eyes appear like that of a wounded stag.

Her nimble fingers work on the buttons of his shirt and quickly slides it off of his shoulders. "Ive missed this," she purs, dragging a finger down his torso, her nail leaving a white scratched up mark behind it. "But this is new," she refers to the chest hair she's never seen before. "I like that, too." Her lips meet his jaw as she leaves kisses all the way down to his collarbone and shoulder. Her continues down his abdomen and below his v-line, then there's a sharp intake of breath as she stokes his member, circling the leaking pre-cum around his tip.

"Devil woman," he groans, but there's a twisted smile to his lips.

She returns it and takes a step back, letting the dress fall completely as if wanting to prove his point and oh, how she revels in the desperation on his face.

Her gaze fixes on his hands, clenching and unclencing in his lap, knuckles white from the strain. She bites her lip. "You look good like this," she repeats. "All, fallen apart . . . " She steps closer, placing herself between his legs. "Bloody and broken."

Never has he taken his eyes off of hers, and as she lowers herself onto his lap once more, she finds his member and lines him up. And finally, she sinks onto his thick inches. Still, he does not touch her. There is only a desperate whimper leaving his lips at the much needed pressure. Obedient, or respcetful? Either way, he deserves his praise. "Good boy. Now, touch me," she whispers and topple them over.

He twitches inside her at the words, but before she can react he's upon her. Fitting one breast into his mouth and the other in his hand, he licks and spits and squeezes. Sucking the entierty of her tender, plush flesh into his mouth.

"Ooh," she braces herself, strings of pleasure and heavy breaths return to them. "You liked that didn't you, pretty boy?" All she gets in response is humming between the lewd, obscene slurping.

Alright, then. Putting a hand on his chest for support, she begins to move, rocking back and forth just watching his expression of pleased torture.

Moving his hands to her hips, lips tear free from her breast for some much needed air, only to replace them upon her lips and kiss her with fervour.

She sits up, getting a better vantage and he follows not long thereafter. Unable to sit by and let her do the work. Leaning back on one hand and wrapping the other around her back, he helps her rut against him while he can't softly thrust up to meet her. "Fuck me- Jayce . . . " She gasps, hardly able to get enough air to moan.

He grins against her lips, sharing their breaths. "You liked that didn't you, pretty girl?" He mocks her.

She laughs breathlessly and digs her nails into his biceps. "Naughty," she murmurs and bites his lip, drawing blood. Again, she feels his member twitch amidst all the rocking between them. Their eyes meet and share a knowing glance. She cocks an eyebrow, he blushes. "That's what I thought," she smirks. It's her win, for now.

Unable to let it slide, Jayce takes the reigns. Flipping them over, he pins her beneath him without missing a single thrust. Amidst the confusion, he interlocks their fingers and pulls her arms above her head, stretching her out and limiting her movement.

She squirms against his restrains, testing the limits but he's rock solid. With her legs around his waist, he thrust perfectly into her and she cant help but roll her hips. She can feel the knot tightening in her core and she furrows her brows with displeasure. Missionary always did her in, he'll win. "Unfair," she moans, throwing her head back as waves of pleasure wash over her with every movement of his hips.

He moves one pair of their locked hands down so ha can stroke her throat with his thumb, placing soft kisses on the damage he caused.

His tenderness alone could cause her to crumble. "Put your back into it at least," she whines, realising she only had her pettiness left. Being beneath him, in his control feels way better than any win she could earn.

A breathless chuckle leaves him. "Yes, ma'am," he grunts, releases her and pulls out before he hooks her legs over his shoulders and thrusts back in. Hands finally free, she cups his face and pulls him in for a kiss concealing the cries bubbling up in her throat. For as it stands, he moves expertly and he's deeper–better than any man ever has been. "Fuck me-"

He smirks. "Tell me I'm good, again . . . " Shes uncertain if this is his ego talking or- "Please, please tell me im good," he whimpers, kissing her inbetween every word.

Without warning her, athird orgasm washes over her, back arching and nails digging into Jayce's cheeks. "You're so good to me," she sobs. "Such a good boy."

His thrusts falter and then he too, comes. Filling her with his seed, once again.

With shaking limbs he falls to her side, one arm draped over her chest. Both breathing heavily as they regain their senses.

"You win," he admits and kisses her temple.

Yes she does. "I love you, too," she smiles, heart and teeth achingly sweet.

#arcane #arcane smut #jayce smut #jayce talis #jayce talis smut #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x you #arcane x reader #arcane jayce

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rex-rambles · 2 months ago

Text

➤ YOU ARE HERE | OSCAR PIASTRI

pairing: oscar piastri x soulmate!reader

summary: you and oscar discover that you're soulmates when randomly, once a year, you trade places for five minutes. it goes about as well as you expect for an f1 driver.

wc: 6.1 k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! mentions of minor injuries and hospitalization

➤ MASTERLIST - MAX'S SOULMATE STORY

2019

Waiting to figure out how you're going to meet your soulmate can be exhausting.

For some people, it's simple: a red string around their pinky, a timer on their wrist, not seeing colour until you finally lock eyes, but for you? Since you've turned eighteen, there have been no signs at all. No magically appearing footprints, no mystery injuries to match your soulmate.

Nothing.

You had tried to figure out what strange, hidden thing it could possibly be, but nothing made sense. Perhaps your soulmate would be someone else with no symptoms; perhaps you didn't have one at all.

That's why, when you wake up in a strangers bed, your first thought isn't about soulmates. It's the middle of the night, or at least it should be, yet the sun faintly shines through the curtains, an unfamiliar alarm clock blaring on a nightstand, which, rolling over to look at, is not your night stand, and is not your alarm clock, and this most certainly isn't your childhood bedroom.

It takes a moment to realize that you haven't been kidnapped, whipping off the covers and standing in the middle of the rather messy room, and rather, you've been transported...somewhere. The notepad on the bedside table explains that it's a Hilton hotel, and slowly, picking up the few pieces of dirty laundry scattered about, you realize you must have traded places with your soulmate.

Swapping locations wasn’t exactly uncommon, but it was a strange thing to wake up to in the night. You quickly move through the drawers of the tables and desks, trying to find something to write down your personal information with before you return to normal. You're not sure if it was a permanent thing, or a matter of minutes, but you're also a bit too tired to care right now. Instead, you write down your name, begin to write the first digits of your phone number, and in a blink, you're standing before your own bathroom mirror.

Well, at least your soulmate would know your name. Considering the whole swapping thing, your soulmate must have woken up in your room too, luckily much tidier than his hotel room was, but it's still an embarrassing thought, the stuffed animals nearby, the old posters on your walls. Finally recognizing why you're standing in front of your mirror, you realize whoever your soulmate is has tried their best to get a message across, lipstick smeared on your mirror in what you realize are words:

Oscar Pi

Seems he got cut off by the timing the swap, the lipstick now laying open in your sink, but with a growing smile, you find that you don't really care, because your soulmate does exist.

Oscar.

It's a good name, you think.

2020

The second time it happens, Oscar is on vacation, and he's not really prepared for it. He'd biked up a cliffside trail, overlooking the small, coastal Australian town where he and his family were staying. He'd stopped to take a break when suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a grocery store in nothing but his bike gear.

At least, he thinks, you hadn't been standing in the freezer section.

Ever since your first swap, Oscar had tried everything in his power to recreate it, the way he had fallen asleep, everything he had done that same day, but he was starting to think your swapping was a once-a-year type of ordeal, or maybe you were in charge of it. If he could ask, maybe he could know, but it had been difficult trying to figure out how to contact you, considering all he got was a name, and he was travelling so often. At least you'd have a nice view, when you teleport to where he was. If his parents are quick enough up the trail, you might even meet them.

Oscar stares down at the basket in hand, a rather strange mix of mostly junk food, and without thinking, he turns to the nearby fruit stand and places a few oranges and apples in for good measure. Then, as he moves towards a banana, he realizes he should be trying to get his number to you in some way. There's even less nearby for him to possibly write with than your room, and considering the few people staring at him, he can't exactly walk up to someone to relay the message.

Everyone had told him he had time to meet you, to get your number, but knowing you existed after questioning it for so long meant that Oscar wanted forever to start now. Finally, an old woman takes pity and offers him a smile, and with a deep breath, he approaches her. "Excuse me?"

"Riding? In this weather?" The woman says, eyeing him up and down. "You're a brave one, dear."

"I've just swapped places with my soulmate," He manages to get out, "Could you take a message?"

"Oh, how sweet! You know, it took me four years to find my soulmate after I turned eighteen. We shared reflections in mirrors, made it pretty tricky to get ready for the day!" Oscar nods along as happily as he can, trying not to rush the poor woman, but also desperately needing to get his message out. "Sorry, what did you want to say?"

"Tell them I'm from Australia, and my phone number is-" He blinks, and finds himself back on the trail, and he curses so loudly that when his sister rides up to him, she looks rather shocked.

Hattie pauses, lowering her bike as Oscar forces himself to sit on the ground, bringing his knees to his chest. "What, you crash your bike?"

"I traded places with my soulmate, and couldn't tell them my phone number, again." Then, he finds his phone in the grass beside him, and for a joyful moment, he thinks you might have left a message, and finds something only marginally better: a photo. You're pretty in a way that shocks him to his core, that you're his, that you're supposed to be together. You're turned to show the distance in the background, a thumbs up as if to show you approve of his vacation location. Then, in the sand beside the path, he finds your number scrawled, only for it to be blown away in the wind.

When you return to the grocery store, you find yourself in front of an old woman, and far more fruit in your basket than a human should need.

2023

For the next two years, it goes on about the same. You end up outside some racing track in Barcelona, and the workers don't understand what you're drunkenly asking, and Oscar ends up at a bar where everyone's too gone to relay the message. You end up walking dogs in Australia in a snowsuit while Oscar ends up in the middle of a ski hill, wiping out before he can even think of giving out his number.

You've sort of given up hope, at least for now, that you and Oscar could finally coordinate it. You carry sharpies wherever you go, just in case you end up somewhere you can actually write it down. All that preparation doesn't help, however, when it happens again in the middle of the night.

You end up in some orange room with nothing but a massage table, and when you step out into the hall, you find yourself among people dressed in orange who look just as surprised to see you as you are surprised to see them.

"What are you doing back here?" It doesn't help, you realize, that you're just in an oversized t-shirt. "Get out!"

"I'm Oscar's soulmate!" You quickly try to explain, though the few people around don't seem to believe it.

"Sure, you're Oscar Piastri's soulmate, and you're here like that?"

Piastri. You should probably be more worried about what's about to happen, but you can't really focus on that.

You have a last name. "We trade places. That's our thing. You have to give him my number-"

"Can we get security to escort them out? I don't buy it." Someone says, snapping their fingers at a guard. "I've never heard Oscar mention trading places with a soulmate before." A security guard, larger than any human you've ever seen before, tries to corral you backwards as you helplessly explain, over and over, but it's not use.

You're shoved out an emergency door, and with a blink, you're standing in your bedroom.

Oscar Piastri.

Never mentioned trading places with a soulmate. You slowly sink onto the edge of your bed, trying to figure out why he'd never say anything, and all the answers don't seem right. Maybe he was just a private person, but still, trading places with your soulmate, potentially at any time, is the kind of thing you mention to people.

Oscar Piastri. You grab your phone, before realizing that Oscar must have been in your room, must have left something behind, but despite the way you tear your room apart, you find no note, see no number, not even a selfie on your phone.

Never mentioned you, never tried to give you his number.

Maybe all this time, he was avoiding you on purpose, and sinking back into your bed, you finally google his name.

Oscar Piastri, F1 driver.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need a soulmate.

Maybe someone that famous didn't need you.

2025

Oscar's pretty sure, after his security team threw you out in 2023, that you had to hate him. He hadn't been able to leave behind a number yet, hadn't been able to find you on any social media, but you must've been able to search for him by now. That night, when he blinked back to stare at a very confused security guard through tears, he realized he'd sobbed his way through your last swap, unable to do anything but stand there.

It was pretty pathetic, all things considered. 2024 wasn't any better, another hotel room swap as Oscar ended up in the bathroom of some university, surrounded by women who screamed and chased him out and ruined his chance of leaving his number, again. You hadn't left a number or anything on your end, but you had finished folding his laundry, which is the only sign that you might still want to find him.

This year, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be any better. In fact, ever since extending his contract with McLaren, he's had this deep-seated fear that refused to go away. If it was possible to trade places in beds, on bikes, and when skiing, then it would be possible in cars. Not just any cars, either.

In his racing car.

And you might die in a fiery wreck before Oscar even gets the chance to meet you, to give you his number, anything. You'll die hating him, and he'll have to go throughout life soulmate-less.

"You alright, mate?" Lando says quietly beside him from the driver's parade. "You're just...tense."

"I have a bad feeling today," He says, and maybe because he said it, maybe because he always knew, maybe because the universe hates him, it happens. He's just pushing out into a straight when he blinks and finds himself in all his gear at the front of a lecture hall, and the world goes silent for a moment.

You're in his car. For what Oscar can gather about you, you're most certainly not trained, you're not wearing any protective gear, and you are in one of the fastest cars on the planet, hurling toward your death at any second. "Well, I can't say I've seen this before." Someone he assumes to be your professor says, "An adventurous soulmate swap."

Four minutes. He rips off his helmet and the sleeve under it, and trying to calm his breathing, all he can think to say is, "You need to call an ambulance."

"What?" The professor looks at him in shock, and Oscar gestures to himself.

"I'm an F1 driver, a racecar driver." What could he possibly say? That a potentially mangled corpse is about to teleport into this room? "My soulmate...oh god, they've been swapped with me, in my car, without protection. If they can't control the car, they're going to crash and end up back here." Finally, what he's waited for his whole life is before him: a pen and paper. He scribbles his information down quickly, phone number, name, address, social media handles, anything and everything. "I need you to be prepared for it to be bad."

“I need everyone out of the room, now.” Immediately, the students are up and out of their seats, and Oscar pulls his helmet back on and waits.

You’re a student. He has no way of knowing if you can even drive, and he’s just chucked you into an F1 race, broadcast for everyone to see, and he has no idea what to do with himself. How does he possibly apologize for this? For maybe ruining your life? Who wants a soulmate who kills them before their first date? Tears spring to his eyes before he can stop it, and vaguely, he recognizes a phone being shown before his face.

“They seem to be okay?” A student says, extending a phone to him as he watches his own car choppily slow down, but it's not enough. You could hit a barrier, you could hit another car, and you'd be dead.

Instantly.

"What...what university is this?" He says, muffled by the helmet.

"University of Oxford, England. This is a conference, to showcase student work." Oxford.

You must be smart, then.

And he's the reason your brain is going to break.

You knew Oscar was an F1 driver, but it had never occurred to you that you might swap during a race. For a moment, when you open your eyes, you don't really believe it. The steering wheel in hand, feet on the gas, it's like a dream, and then every sense hits you at once that this is not what you're supposed to be doing.

You try to slow down, but the car isn't like a normal car, the force of it pressing you back into the seat as you force your eyes shut, the sound of it deafening, the weight, the car, the movement, it all spirals into a sensation that you can't control. The gas pedal itself is the hardest thing it feels to push, but you grunt your way through it as the car slows, the feeling of the ground underneath it changing, but you still can't bear to open your eyes, can't stand the thought that you're about to die without even meeting the stupid owner of this car, who probably doesn't even want to meet you.

You're not sure how long it takes, but finally, the car stops. The world stops. Your chest heaves, your head rolls, but the car is not moving, and you are alive, albeit unable to move, or hear, or function at all, really. Your eyes blink up to stare at a helmet peering over you, your own reflection staring back from its visor. If the driver is saying something, you can't hear. They take off their helmet, revealing a head of curly hair and a very, very concerned expression.

It's Oscar's teammate.

Lando, you think. He's quick to try and get you up out of the car, arms coming to undo the clasps keeping you in, and your arms very loosely manage to work their way around his neck.

As he tries to get you up, however, the world spins and you think you might be sick. He's saying something, you can tell he must be saying something, but it doesn't register. All you see is the dread on his face as you slip back down, hitting the lecture hall floor before you pass out.

Oscar comes to hugging Lando.

"No no no-" Lando's voice is shrill, obviously scared, and Oscar doesn't want to think of how hurt you must've been for Lando to stop racing and try to pull you out of the car. "Oscar? Your soulmate! Why the fuck wouldn't you tell us you swap places-"

"Are they alive?" Oscar shouts, ripping off his helmet as he manages to get out of the car, and Lando nods. "They didn't...they didn't crash?"

"Mate, they fucking steered the thing eyes closed." Lando and him stand on the grass for a minute, just taking in the moment before Oscar realizes you're back in Oxford, probably collapsed, injured, heaven forbid dying, and it doesn't take him long to get moving.

No one really knows what to do, and Oscar doesn't blame them. He never told anyone, until that fateful day, that he and his soulmate swapped places. It would be a hazard, something that would hold him back from F1. He refused to allow anything to stop him from what he'd dreamt of his whole life, but today, all that advice makes perfect sense. Because of him, because he wanted to go farther, to do more, he put his one true love in harm's way, and if you die, he's not sure how he's going to live with himself.

Passing flashing cameras, he finds that he doesn't care what the headlines say, doesn't care that he just threw the race for McLaren, he needs to be on the first plane to England as soon as possible, because he truly has no way of knowing if you're alive.

He's not waiting another year to find out.

For the past two hours, you'd folded the paper Oscar left you perhaps a hundred times, carefully into a perfect square before unwrapping it again. It was on the back of your script for your presentation, the contents of it now long forgotten for the frantic writing.

It begins with I'm so sorry.

It lists his full name, his phone number, his mother's phone number, a man named 'Mark Webber's phone number, his instagram, his twitter, both of which you'd already found. His address in Melbourne, his address in Monaco. Everything to identify himself with, finally in the palm of your hands, but you had yet to contact him. He was probably still racing, you found yourself arguing. Probably busy. It's all excuses that hold you back, but you wouldn't know what to say if you tried in the first place.

Hi, it's your soulmate you almost killed?

"How's the dizziness, darling?" A nurse asks over you, and you're broken from your intense folding of the paper to look up at her, and the room only spins a tiny bit.

"Better than before, still a little...woozy." She hums, writes something down.

"I think you might take the cake for patients today. Teleported into an F1 car by your soulmate," She muses, "What a world we live in. And your leg?"

"Sore, but survivable." Apparently, F1 cars' braking systems take a ridiculous amount of force to push, and while the adrenaline had let you brake, the aftereffect was that your whole left leg hurt, from hip to the tips of your toes. "Are you sure I'm fine to just leave? I'm not going to collapse on the street?"

The nurse flips through your papers. "You have no concussions, no ear damage from the car, no sprains or tears, I think it was just a mix of exhaustion, adrenaline crashing, and shock that made you pass out. Does anything still feel wrong? Anything out of the ordinary?"

The paper in your hands folds itself into a neat little square as you think. The world just sort of feels slow, or maybe suddenly too fast for things to make sense, that you were in that car, that Oscar had told them to call an ambulance for you, that you survived it all. That you were barely even hurt.

"There's a madman running through the parking lot." The room of patients turns to look at the elderly man in the bed closest to the window. His pain medication had made him quite the entertainment for the two hours you've been in and out of scans and tests, but this time, he seemed adamant. "Someone stop him. Looks like he's set himself on fire."

"What?" The nurse is gone from your side in an instant, before quickly sighing and placing a hand over her heart. "He's just wearing orange, Paul. He's not on fire."

Just wearing orange.

For the first time unaided in two hours, you rise from your bed and join them at the window, dragging your left leg as you walk, and watch Oscar slide between cars like some sort of action star, standing out amongst the grey weather in a neon orange hoodie before he manages to sprint inside, and the paper in hand suddenly feels so overwhelming that you're not really sure what to do.

He's here.

For you.

You don't know where he was racing, but considering he was here in two hours, it couldn't have been that far, or maybe he had a private jet, or maybe the the world was both too slow and too fast for you to keep up. Without thinking, you move out the hall and into the central area with the nurses desk as the elevator dings open, and for the first time, you see Oscar.

He's surprisingly dishevelled, considering you're the one who just got transported into one of the world's fastest cars. His hoodie seems a bit too big on him, and taking him in as he quickly approaches the nurses' desk, so are his pants. If you didn't know better, you wouldn't think they were his, and you're not really sure what to do with that information.

He just grabbed the closest thing to get changed to get to you? "I'm sorry, I can't understand what you're saying." One of the nurses says to him, "You need to slow down."

"Soulmate," He says between gasping breaths, "Not a car accident, but teleported into my car, hurt-"

"Oscar." You say before you can really stop yourself, approaching his side, and he just sort of waves a hand in your direction.

"I don't know if they're alive, or dead, or-"

"Oscar?" You realize he doesn't know the sound of your voice, like you do his. As gently as you can, you reach out and place a hand on the back of his neck, the closest exposed skin to you. The final step of a soulmate connection was touch, and you had heard so much about it: how sparks fly, how you've never felt more in love, how it changes the world, but it was just Oscar.

It was just you. Gently placing a hand on the back of his neck, to comfort him despite all that you had been through today, was just where you were meant to be. It was right, and it was normal, and you gently spread your fingers into the back of his hair as he slowly turned to you, your hand drifting now to hold his cheek. "I'm right here."

"You're here." Oscar breathes out slowly, quickly scanning you for any sign of injury, and without even knowing, his eyes settle on your sore leg, staring at it intently. "You are actually here."

"You're a hard person to track down, you know." Then, without much ceremony, Oscar slumps into you. It's as if all the weight he'd been carrying his entire life had been let go from his shoulders, practically folding over you. He buries his face into the side of your neck as his arms latch around you, pulling you tight to his chest. It's a desperate sort of thing that has you realizing how terrifying it must have been from his end of the swap, of hearing that you were in his car, knowing you would be hurt. You hold him back just as tight, hands gently smoothing against his broad shoulders as if to show that you're here, and you're safe.

"You have no idea." He grumbles softly, and you can feel the heat rise to your cheeks at the feeling of his lips so close to your skin, now pressed into a smile. "Worst soulmate trait ever." He pulls away slowly, and this close, you take in all the details you never could before. He's almost growing stubble, in need of a shave, a soft spattering of freckles across his face and neck. You find yourself stuck on the fact that he's yours, that he's staring at you, that he's real. "I'm so sorry," He tries to say, and you rush to cut him off.

"You didn't have any control over this." That's the sort of thing, with soulmates. It's meant to be, but you have no control over who it is, how far they are, what you have to do to find each other. The most important thing is that you did find each other, and if you get a ridiculous story to tell out of it, then you don't mind the hardships it took to get him here. Despite it all, however, there is one question that remains in your mind. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Doubt comes creeping back in, so ingrained in your mind that even when holding your soulmate, you couldn't quite let go of it. "Seems important for an F1 Driver to mention someone else might swap into his car."

Oscar's eyes don't quite meet yours, returning to stare at your leg. Maybe it's a special soulmate ability to tell when the other is hurt. Maybe he just needs someone else to look at besides your eyes. "I didn't want them to think it was a liability. Not that you are a liability, it's just...you can see why they might not let me race if they knew this would happen." Then, without so much as taking a breath, he begins again. "I'm so sorry-"

"Oscar." His name feels right, on your tongue, and based on the way his eyes light up, it sounds right to him, too. "It's okay." You can understand why he'd do it. Not the smartest thing in the world, but then again, you didn't need some genius for a soulmate, you just needed Oscar. A small, perfect, ridiculous smile finally grows on his face, and you find yourself grinning up at him. You suppose it's your turn to apologize now for whatever damage you did to his car. "I'm sorry for making you lose the race."

"Lose?" Oscar echoes with a soft laugh, the kind of sound that makes you hate all the near misses before ten times over. "You didn't crash, you even got onto the grass safely. Ever considered a future in F1?"

"Well, I’ve considered a future with an f1 driver, does that count?"

Curled up in your hotel bed, Oscar begins trying to sort through the information he'd learned today. You were pursuing your masters, in a subject he can't really put his finger on currently, but he has the rest of his life to figure it out. Whatever it was, it was important enough that you were at Oxford presenting about it when you swapped into his car.

When you swapped back, you passed out, and woke up being brought into the ambulance. It was confusing, they ran a million tests, but you're okay, if just exhausted.

You were okay.

You were alive.

And you were currently taking a shower while Oscar sat on your hotel room bed and tried not to die himself. You had watched his races, kept tabs on him. Now that you weren't just passing by in the night, he had your number, every social media account. He had even introduced you to his mom, who tore a strip off of him over Facetime for not telling McLaren sooner about the soulmate-swapping thing, but that was all over now.

You were alive.

You were here. The shower turns off and Oscar stares intently down at Lando's pants, the closest thing he could find before rushing out, where the McLaren team let him use their private jet to get over to the closest airport in record time. He makes a mental note to thank Lando for his clothes, but that all goes down the drain when the door opens and you're standing in just an oversized t-shirt, haloed by the light of the bathroom, and Oscar rediscovers how attractive you are all over again.

You were staying the night together, seeing as Oscar had time, and the jet had already left back to the race. He wouldn't have tried to leave anyway. You needed someone to be here after everything that happened, and Oscar needed to meet you.

You limp slightly as you approach the bed, the only sign of the day you'd had, and the way the left side of your shirt rides up unevenly with your step makes Oscar blush in a way he didn't know was possible. This must have been what you looked like when you swapped into his hotel room for the first time, his. brain supplements as he forces himself to look back down at his lap. He remembers waking up to your childhood bedroom, the soft twinkling lights, the stuffed animals. It was so sweet, knowing you existed, and then he frantically tried to find a way to contact you, and ended up smearing make-up over your mirror.

Then, it was the grocery store, a bar, a ski hill. Always missing each other to lead to this moment now, and seeing how you're looking at him when you kneel on the bed, Oscar can't even be mad it took so long.

Because you're here.

You're alive. "How do you think they pick?"

"What?"

"How do you think the universe picks soulmates?" You ask, curling up next to him. Despite the fact he basically refused to let go of you when you first met, he's now hesitant to touch. After all, you were still just getting to meet each other. You hadn't even had a date yet. "Like what makes you my soulmate? How does the universe even pull off the swap?"

"No one knows." One of life's great mysteries, unfortunately. Oscar's pretty sure there's a science that goes into it, but right now, it doesn't feel like science: it feels like fate. "I suppose the universe just has a way of tying people together who are meant to be."

You yawn in response, leaning back against the headboard and kicking your legs out, and Oscar's hands rest on the edge of Lando's hoodie. You just sort of nod at him and he pulls it off, not quite able to meet your eye, and you can't seem to do the same, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "I have another sleep shirt, if you want. But you have to promise not to be weird about it."

"Weird about it?" You slip from the bed to root through your suitcase, and Oscar quickly takes off his pants before he can think too much about sitting in front of you in his underwear. You toss something at him, and Oscar catches it midair, unravelling it to reveal one of his own shirt designs for the Austin Grand Prix, and his brain sort of breaks.

You bought one of his shirts.

You sleep in it.

And he hadn't even heard your voice until earlier. "Couldn't afford to go to a race to see you," You say softly, standing awkwardly in the dim light of the hotel room. "Got the next best thing."

"I think," He answers dryly, letting the shirt fall to his lap, "The next best thing is actually right here."

"Wow," You say, a laugh bubbling out of you that makes Oscar thinks that maybe, just maybe the universe really knows what they're doing. "Really?"

"All I'm saying," He says as he pulls the oversized shirt over his head, "Is that who needs an Oscar Piastri shirt when you have Oscar Piastri?"

"That's the last time I spend money on your merch," You answer resolutely. "I get free stuff for the rest of time."

Then, with a soft glint to your eye, you launch yourself onto the bed, falling backward with another laugh, and Oscar looms over you, giddier than he thinks he's ever felt before. You were all his, and you were right here. You weren't going to teleport away, weren't going to disappear. He had your phone number, and he was debating getting it tattooed on his forearm for good measure. "You can have whatever you want after what I've put you through."

"That's a dangerous declaration, Oscar." Your voice saying his name still seems so strange, but it's right. He's just going to have to get you to say it a few more times to get used to it. Your hand gently smooths up his chest, waiting right over his pounding heart, and your eyes flicker up to his at the feeling of how fast it's racing.

It should be weird, really, for two strangers to be suddenly soulmates. There's an adjustment period everyone has to go through, the first dates, the first hundred questions needing to be asked about favourite colours, about life goals, but all of that stress, that awkwardness, slips away with your hand on his chest, your eyes on his, because the chase is finally over. Oscar might be good at racing, but going slow, with you, with the rest of his life, doesn't seem so bad.

"I think," He finally says, "The universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way."

"And what do you need?" Then, as cheesy as it is, as much as he knows the others will groan about it when he tells them every vivid detail, he very gently says,

"You. Here." Then, to be more serious, "Someone to keep me calm. What do you need?"

You don't answer him, but rather lean up to gently press your lips to his, and Oscar tries to thank every individual star, every planet, every galaxy that makes up the universe for putting you here, for him, forever. It's soft and sweet and hesitant, the kind of thing Oscar needed this to be. It's you, here, with him, and it's every mile over the speed limit Oscar's ever driven, and it's slow and it's steady like everything Oscar didn't realize he needed in his life.

2025, Again

It was a very different experience, being on this side of the race.

You had only seen it from screens, and then the grass, but being in the paddock was like its own little world. If you were alone, you're sure you could exist here on your own without anyone noticing, but considering you were walking in beside Oscar, hand in hand, people were starting to pick up on who you were very quickly.

"You know, that's a first in F1 History," Someone with a camera says, pointing at you and Oscar. "A soulmate swap into an F1 car! We're quite happy you turned out okay, but have you considered ever getting into a car again? Maybe following in Oscar's footsteps?"

Oscar looks at you, checking to see if you want to answer, and you smile up at him. "I am happy to never set foot in a race car again, actually. I don't know how you do it, or how anyone does it."

"You didn't do that bad," Oscar says, shaking his head. "You just need the right protection and the right training."

"The closest I am ever going to get to a race car is here," You joke softly, offering a small wave to the camera operator. "I'm happy to enjoy the comforts of the paddock."

"Your loss," Oscar says before pressing a kiss to your temple, and it hasn't gotten any less thrilling since your first kiss. It had been four months since you'd finally met, and it had been a lot of strange negotiations to get you here, date nights spent with Oscar flying out to you to get to know you, and in return, Oscar flying you out to get to know him, and see Monaco, and finally, now, his races.

You were worried it would bring back some sort of traumatic memory, but if anything, it was exciting. You were here with no threat of being shoved in a car or crashing, but rather to watch Oscar in his element. He guides you through the day, stopping into hospitality, meeting people, meeting Lando again. You'd already sort of met, considering he was trying to haul you out of the car, but now you could actually talk and thank him without a racecar in the way.

Oscar suits up eventually, about to start the race, and he corners you just before he goes out. "If it gets too overwhelming, just let someone know, okay?"

"Oscar, I'll be fine. I want to see you race." He presses a quick kiss to your forehead, and you choose to grab the front of his fireproofs, pulling him down to kiss him properly. "Now go win so I can finally hold a trophy."

"That's what you want? A trophy?" He asks with a laugh, putting his helmet on. "Not me getting the points?"

"After my race? I want my participation trophy." Then, because you can't ever truly ignore him, "And obviously I want you to win to do well too. Trophy just comes first." He shakes his head, moving away from you, and thought muffled, you can make out him saying three words neither of you had said yet, something you hadn't known how to. You freeze in the hallway of the paddock, watching him go, and it's a blur as people try to find you a headset and a monitor to look at, but it doesn't last very long.

You were soulmates. You knew that, obviously, but it still felt strange to think about what it really meant, how you really felt, what the future held.

Your mind drifts to those thoughts as easily as Oscar makes his rounds. He's got a second-place start, which is good, but watching the cars goes around and around on the screen isn't what you came here for. You could do that anytime, any place.

So, against all better judgment, you don't stay put with the thoughts of what might be, what to do, what to say. Instead, you make for the stands, and sit and listen to the cars whip by, feel the force and the wind, and it's everything you thought a race would be before you had accidentally partaken in one. It's fast, it's loud, and it's distracting, but it's good, intoxicating as the fans cheer, the cars almost too quick to make out their movements.

At some point, Oscar gets the lead, and you think you and the McLaren fans around you lose your voices as you scream for him, and despite how hard you try, you find yourself wondering why the universe picks soulmates like it does. Why it would in the first place? Love can be so many things, loving sports, loving family, but with Oscar, it's something so wholly new that makes you think the universe was onto something.

Because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way. That's what Oscar had said.

When the race ends, and you're ambling down the stands and back to the paddock, it's the universe guiding you. When you get to where they park the cars, and Oscar is standing on top of his, he keeps looking around, helmet already off as he's squinting at the crowd forming nearby of McLaren workers, because the universe figures out what someone needs in another person, and picks that way.

And Oscar needs to find you, in the crowd, to know you're there, to know it's real.

And you need Oscar, who's rushing to you like a man on a mission, like how he was that day at the hospital, and without thinking, your hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him in for an indentical hug as his face presses into your neck, and the universe congratulates itself for putting two pieces back together again.

"I was watching in the stands," Is what you mean to say to Oscar, and you do, but maybe it's the universe, maybe it's him, maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping, but you find yourself adding something to the end before you can stop yourself. "I love you."

And though you can't hear it, over the sound of the crowd screaming around him, the sound of your own heart, the sound of the fireworks, you feel the way he says the words back to you, and what it really means.

I love you.

You are here.

a/n: returning to my fanfic roots with a soulmate au + my first time writing for oscar!!

#➤ rex works #➤ op81 #➤ soulmate series #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 angst #formula one x reader #f1 imagines #reader insert #soulmates

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norristeria · 19 days ago

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Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

“Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

1K notes · View notes

haologram · 4 months ago

Text

hanging by a moment 🍻 j.ww [m]

synopsis: it's been a few years since you've been home for your birthday, and wonwoo can't wait to see you...right? genre: estranged childhood friends to lovers au. fluff, angst, suggestive themes. pairing: photographer!jeon wonwoo x fem!baker!reader | side pairing: kim mingyu x chou tzuyu word count: 15.8k rating: 18+. minors please do not interact. warnings: swearing, alcohol. food mentions. mentions of jealousy, breakups. wonwoo is a little bitter. pet names (sweetheart, honey, etc.) kissing. what to listen to: here is gone - the goo goo dolls ; over you - daughtry ; broken - lifehouse ; hanging by a moment - lifehouse ; long way home - 5 seconds of summer ; say yes - seventeen author's note: happiest birthday to my baby @wqnwoos ♡ i hope your birthday was full of wonderful memories and you had lots of good food, please continue staying healthy and i love you. [star dividers by @/cafekitsune here on tumblr!]

– LAST YEAR: GOYANGI SWEETS, HARLEM, NEW YORK.

"Since when do you celebrate Valentine's Day, Y/N?" Jeon Wonwoo's voice was staticky on the other end, and you rolled your eyes as you kept swiping icing on the red velvet cupcakes you'd been agonizing over for six days. Trying and dumping mixes, failed taste tests, a few burnt practice rounds all led up to this: you, up at two in the morning on FaceTime with Wonwoo, who was just now starting to finish up his work day.

You hadn't meant to move so far away, truly – or at least, not for this long. Your best friends were all back home, and the drastic time difference did work for some of them – but you rarely managed to catch Wonwoo. He would usually spend his time holed away in his bedroom or out with Kim Mingyu. However, since Mingyu moved in with his fiancée, Chou Tzuyu, three years ago – Wonwoo had the apartment to himself and you were his only company.

"Since when don't you, Jeon? No hot date for Desperation Day?"

"You watch too many movies, there's no such thing. Anyway, shouldn't you be sleeping? You open in, like, two hours." He was right, you did open in two hours.

There was just something comforting about hearing Wonwoo's voice so late in the night. It makes you feel warm, less alone.

And it's not like Wonwoo knew about your recent fight with your boyfriend.

It wasn't anything serious – just you telling him to get a fucking job, and him insisting that his job was rubbing your feet after a long day at work. It annoyed you so bad that you asked him to leave the apartment for the weekend. It's not that Wonwoo doesn't like Euijoo, but he certainly isn't his number one fan. You argue that you can't dislike someone you don't even know, but Wonwoo has made it clear that Euijoo is simply never going to be a part of his life if you're not present to make it happen. It's always been that way with Wonwoo, though. He quietly disapproved of most of the men you dated, even when you were back home – but he never made you feel bad about his perspective. He simply shared when you asked, and he didn't sugar coat it.

Before Euijoo, there was his clubmate, Hansol Chwe. Before Hansol, there was his teammate, Choi Seungcheol. Before Seungcheol, there was Mingyu.

And every single one got a side-eyed glance, even his best friend.

Slowly, you stopped talking to Wonwoo about guys, because he always seemed to be right about you deserving more. To be frank, you weren’t too keen on not doing what you wanted to do, much less who.

You and Wonwoo never breached that friendship line, and while you found solace in his irrevocable appreciation for you as a friend, you found it odd that around the time you began preparing for your relocation across the world, he floated away.

So much so that he hadn't even gone to the airport to say goodbye, or give you a hug. You hadn't seen Wonwoo in the weeks leading up to it after you told him you'd be leaving, and he always had an excuse as to why he couldn't call or hang out. You tried time and time again, only for him to eventually say he just didn't have time.

He did. You knew he did, because you saw him all over Mingyu and Tzuyu's Instagram stories. You saw him playing chess with Yoon Jeonghan. You saw him at the art museum with Xu Minghao.

You saw him soft launch a girl on his Instagram story the moment you boarded your plane. His story had been posted twenty minutes before, while you were getting your heart ripped out. You’d gone to New York with eyes full of tears, and not just because you were leaving behind everything you knew.

Wonwoo was home, and you wouldn’t have him with you.

Nevertheless, Wonwoo was never…directly the reason behind your breakups – at least, to your understanding. You never toed the line of flirting with him and vice versa, you never made your friendship out to be something it wasn't.

You and Mingyu broke up because of school but stayed extremely close. You met his then-girlfriend,Tzuyu, six months into freshman year, and you were the first person Mingyu ever told that he wanted to marry her. You even helped Mingyu build a Pinterest wedding board when he would visit you and Wonwoo.

The others? Seungcheol made the mature decision and broke up with you because of jealousy issues on his part. Hansol broke up with you with an apology and nothing more, and you tried your best to take it in stride. However, taking things in stride is not your forte – which is how you ended up with Euijoo.

Hansol broke up with you at the airport the day you left for New York, the guilt taking over his features as your eyes widened and filled with tears. You had muttered that you understood, that it was fine – but the fourteen-hour flight from Seoul to New York was full of tears and sniffling. You're sure the woman next to you had been wondering if you were okay, but you're also almost positive that the fourteen-hour loop of 5SOS' Close As Strangers through your headphones spoke for itself.

You had met Euijoo at a bar a week after you landed in New York. Your apartment had long been ready and furnished, waiting for your arrival. You sullied it that same night by bringing him home, the aura of the apartment darkening the longer he stayed. And stayed, he did. It's like he had nowhere else to go, and you were far too nice about it, too.

Hence, how he became your 'boyfriend' and how he 'moved in with you.'

Bullshit; he went home to his mother's one-bedroom condo and picked up a dusty Playstation and a pillow he liked – that was his 'moving in.'

As for why Wonwoo doesn't like him, it's obvious – Euijoo is a loser. He has no goals, no sense of urgency, no whimsical nature – nothing like you. At least, that was what Wonwoo told you the first time you called him from New York…which was over six months since you left Seoul.

You wanted to believe there was a twinge of jealousy in Wonwoo’s voice when you told him about Euijoo. His brows furrowed, he sucked his teeth more times than you could count, and he refused to meet him when you offered to have him say hello.

You couldn't lie to yourself, you knew your relationship with Wonwoo was dwindling. Your calls were growing sparse, he didn’t tell you anything about his personal life, and you still hadn’t gone back home. To him, to your friends, to your parents. The two of you had grown up together, just slightly out of each other's circles. There were two or three people who were your 'friends of friends' that connected you, before Mingyu was the first official bridge between the two of you in the seventh grade. You went on to date Mingyu for three years during high school, before you wound up going to a different university than he did – but attended with Wonwoo, instead. You hated to admit it, but you knew that you clung to Wonwoo like gum did a shoe. You hid behind his broadening frame at fraternity parties, you would ask him over to your dorm (and later, your apartment) for game nights. You eventually started baking for him – cookies, cupcakes, the like. And then you met Seungcheol, on your way to Wonwoo's apartment. You slammed into him, painting his white t-shirt and shorts in pink icing – and you remembered stuttering over your words as you watched his brows furrow while he wiped icing off his stomach. He ended up clicking his tongue, nodding his head and shrugging.

"I guess you can call it avant garde, right?"

The two of you exchanged numbers, and you wound up being late to Wonwoo's place – but at that time, it didn't matter. Not when you scored a date with an older boy that had pouty lips and the thickest thighs you'd ever had the pleasure of seeing. Wonwoo had noticed you were giggly that night, but chose to brush it off when he walked behind you and saw you typing away to an unsaved number.

You and Seungcheol ended up dating for about a year, but the jealousy issues began before your relationship even started. He knew Wonwoo, and they were on the same soccer team – but something about the way Wonwoo spoke about you seemed to tick him off. No matter how often your lips were on his, your hands on his body, your body in his bed – Seungcheol's eyes always narrowed at the sight of Wonwoo floating around you for whatever reason, even if you initiated contact.

You cheered at all his games, but Wonwoo was also there even if you wore one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You invited him to your bake sales, yet Wonwoo was always the one taste testing your recipes. You invited Seungcheol to your birthday dinner, and Wonwoo was naturally there.

Wonwoo recounting memories of you as a kid at dinner was what made Seungcheol make the decision to break up with you the following week. He paced around his apartment while you sat on his couch, rattling off all the ways that Wonwoo spoke about you that meant so much more than just a platonic love.

And you didn't comfort Seungcheol, or refute his thoughts.

In fact, you denied them. You said there was no way Wonwoo saw you as anything more than his friend, you insisted that Wonwoo seeing you in the worst moments of your life was enough to make him feel icky about dating you.

It wasn't until Seungcheol crouched in front of you, holding your hands in his that you understood that he wasn't kidding. He told you that part of growing old together and being in love is seeing each other in those situations and still choosing to care and stay. He told you that Wonwoo holding your hair back as you threw up, Wonwoo knowing all your siblings' names and their favorite things, Wonwoo seeing you riddled with the flu and gross stomach bugs…

Wonwoo cared about you far more than he let on.

You left Seungcheol's apartment that night with a heavy heart and holding the stained white shirt from the first day you met him in your hand. It was still soaked in his cologne, and you remember crying yourself to sleep for two weeks straight.

Wonwoo had been there, and when you told him everything Seungcheol had said – he'd apologized.

He didn't deny anything. He didn't refute any of Seungcheol's feelings.

He apologized, for both making Seungcheol feel that way as well as being the straw that broke the camel's back. You hadn't known what to say, so you just offered to let him stay over and bake cookies with you.

He did, and the two of you gorged yourselves on white chocolate chip cookies while watching White Chicks. You cried again while he was there, and he wiped your tears and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. He held you close as you pouted into his shirt, the soft scent of patchouli from his cologne settling into your skin as a blanket of comfort.

You also remember peering up at him through teary eyes, and his lips instinctively pressing to your hairline. His mumbled words never left your mind, either.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”

You didn't date again for a bit after that, and Wonwoo made it a point to introduce you as his friend any time the two of you hung out. It made you feel odd, the way he forced the agenda that you were his friend and nothing more when you had no issue just going with the flow. You understood he didn't want a repeat of your relationship with Seungcheol, but it felt like he was forcing something more than just the label of your friendship.

People often asked if something had happened between the two of you — of which you always denied casually. If they asked Wonwoo, he would scoff, as if he were offended anyone would ever think you were more than just his friend. As if it was gross, or repulsive, to see you as a woman and not just the girl he grew up with. You met Hansol the next school year, a cheeky cinematography freshman that frequented your bake sales. Wonwoo met him there as well, and was the reason you and Hansol met formally. Apparently, Wonwoo and Hansol were both in the AV Club, where Wonwoo also met his first girlfriend: Lee Jaehee.

Lee Jaehee...

She had also been quite the frequenter of your bake sales. She enjoyed your slutty brownies and the strawberry blondies you made, and the two of you had been so close to becoming friends when Wonwoo asked her out. He'd even asked you to bake something for her and you did it happily, free of charge. However, Wonwoo asking her out meant her finding out that you and him went back over two decades, and the same look that settled in Seungcheol's brows, settled in hers. It was painful, to see how she would tense at your presence at Wonwoo's soccer games, ones you'd always attended. It hurt your feelings to see her give you a quick smile before passing by your booths at the bake sales, not bothering to stop by for a nibble or a chat.

It pained you to know that Wonwoo missed your birthday dinner that year to spend the weekend with her, instead. You wound up going over to Seungcheol's apartment that night, and he comforted you as best as he could – by offering a drink and inviting his friends Jeonghan and Joshua over to entertain you. Despite it all, Seungcheol never really held any resentment towards you – but he did have zero problem telling you how blind you were.

You ignored it, too.

You didn’t like the odd feeling you got in your chest thinking about Wonwoo in any way that wasn’t platonic. You weren't stupid – Wonwoo was incredibly profound with a hint of goofy humor. He was smart, and tall…and handsome…God, he was so handsome, it made you want to bite your fist.

So the idea of his hands on you? His lips on yours, his bed being more than just a drunken sanctuary…

It was too much for you to handle.

You started dating Hansol during the first semester of your senior year of college. He'd just become a sophomore, and everyone around him had been incredibly surprised that the senior sweetheart at the bake sales stopped making her incredibly soft peanut butter cookies. The reason? Hansol, and his allergy to peanuts.

No one said shit after that, only cooing at your boyfriend's blushy cheeks from your attention.

Your relationship with Hansol also came as a surprise to Wonwoo, and he found out in the strangest way – by walking into your apartment using his spare key and seeing the two of you getting frisky in the kitchen and covered in flour. You hadn't heard him come in, and didn't seem to sense his presence in the threshold of your kitchen. You don't know it, but Wonwoo has the image of you burned in his mind. The slope of your neck as Hansol kissed down it, the way your shirt was pushed up to reveal flour-covered handprints on your bare chest, the way your thighs were flexing around your boyfriend's waist… The sound of your whimper into Hansol's mouth.

He then made his presence known by coughing exaggeratedly, and you and Hansol almost slipped. Wonwoo rolled his eyes as Hansol yanked your shirt back into place, clearing his throat and greeting Wonwoo.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to know that there is no way eating flour out of each other's mouths is sexy." Wonwoo had come over to tell you that he and Jaehee broke up, and he did tell you – but on his way out of your apartment. You could barely hear him as the door closed, but you were also trying to finish what you and your boyfriend started in the kitchen — so you filed it to the back of your mind as you invited Hansol to join you in the shower.

It wasn't until after graduation that you decided to open a pastry shop. However, you were unsure that your at-home learning was enough to satisfy a gaggle of clientele – and decided to start applying to pastry schools. You’d already obtained a business degree, which made the idea only cement further in your head. Hansol had been incredibly supportive, even going as far as sending you applications and fee waivers while he was in class and you were driving around Seoul with Wonwoo looking for work for the time being.

Then you got a letter back from a pastry school in New York City, and Hansol was ecstatic. He paid for your flight and even took a week off school to go visit it with you. He wound up setting up meetings with realtors so you could get an apartment, and the two of you even went as far as looking at empty lease spaces where you could open a business.

You accepted the offer, and the school covered your flight back to Seoul and then back to New York City. Your parents covered your first year of rent at an apartment in SoHo, after you sent back videos of you spinning in the SeaGlass Carousel and having dinner at Shuka.

However, something changed when you went back to Seoul to pack your things. You also realized you had done all of this without even mentioning it to Wonwoo, who seemed slightly distant when you finally met him for dinner at his place after packing up your apartment. Mingyu and Tzuyu had also been there. Hansol also seemed distant for a few days, not bothering to answer your messages or calls. You showed up at his apartment, only for Seungkwan to answer the door with a knowing look and tell you he wasn't home. You remember scowling, and pushing past Seungkwan to see Hansol asleep in his bedroom, tucked away with a Star Wars blanket you'd bought him for his birthday.

You picked a fight, and Hansol wasn’t having it — said he wasn’t in the right headspace to have this conversation, and asked to rain check it for a better time. You argued there was no better time than the present, and his swollen face (whether from tears or sleep, you were unsure) was enough to make you back off for the time being. He quietly asked you to join him in his bed, and you reluctantly kicked your shoes off and did just that.

He promised he still cared, and promised he still loved you, but it felt different, the way he held you. Like a last hurrah, like a ‘goodbye’ and not a ‘see you later.’ Like things were going to end and there was nothing you could do to change his mind.

You couldn't say you were surprised that Hansol broke up with you a month later, but you were certainly hurt. Wonwoo was also nowhere to be reached at this point, your calls going straight to voicemail and your texts going unread. You assumed he'd finally landed a gig, but it was still unlike him to not respond to you, of all people.

At least, you thought that was what had happened, until you saw his Instagram story.

You stopped wondering where he'd been after that.

It had been four years since then. You hadn't gone back to Seoul once, not even for Christmas or when your parents begged you back. You called for birthdays, you sent gifts out two months in advance. You sent photos of your shop, of your apartment, of you and Euijoo.

Your parents didn't really care about the ones Euijoo was in.

You finally opened your pastry shop in the middle of Harlem – two years after arriving in New York, tweaking your recipes to cater to the local clientele. Your shop was always full of customers and you loved what you did – but most of all, the people loved you. They loved seeing how easily you won people over, how you celebrated your accomplishments by putting even more effort into your business, how your employees cared about you and your shop.

You truly became an essential part of some people's lives – Ms. Julianna who came in every morning for a chocolate éclair; Mr. Cortéz came in every Saturday morning for a box of mixed empanadas and one butterscotch cupcake for his granddaughter, Elisa; Mrs. Stegenga sliding in every Tuesday for a strawberry tart and a cup of unsweetened whipped cream for her dog, Harley.

Euijoo came in everyday as well, but not for a pastry – but to bug you. You'd kicked him out a few times, shoving a warm cinnamon twist into his mouth or an iced matcha with cheese foam into his hand – but he always floated back.

Which was odd, since he didn't have a car and it took thirty minutes to get from your apartment in SoHo to your shop in Harlem. Where he was getting the money for the taxi, or to load his Metrocard was beyond you – the son of a bitch didn't lift a finger.

Now, you're here. You're still at your shop, while Euijoo is likely sprawled out on your king-sized bed, with his outside clothes still on. You're grimacing to yourself as you smooth icing out on one of the cupcakes, your brow furrowed as you hear Wonwoo sigh.

"I miss you." And just as fast as it was said, he moved on.

"Since you're not going to sleep, how was your birthday? I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call, I've been slammed with projects. Tzuyu booked me for engagement photos, isn't that crazy?" Much like your friends missed out on your life, you missed out on theirs. Mingyu and Tzuyu opened a restaurant in the middle of Seoul, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu had their first daughter, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu got engaged, and you missed it. You wouldn't be surprised if you missed their wedding, too.

Wonwoo? He opened a photography studio. He did weddings, all sorts of parties, maternity shoots. He did boudoir shoots for a bit, before handing them over to his business partner, Saerom. She had been introduced to Wonwoo through a few contacts at your old university, and he took her on as an apprentice. She now accompanies him to many shoots and gigs, usually taking the reins if Wonwoo loses his patience or gets too overwhelmed.

You'd seen his photos displayed at a few galleries after you left for New York. Your mother went and took pictures of his exhibits, his shy smile hidden behind flutes of champagne. You congratulated him via text, only to receive a thumbs up in response and nothing more.

"Yeah, that's crazy. Listen, Woo, I'm gonna try and focus on this. I'll call you later, yeah?" You sighed, frustration evident in your voice. You watched as Wonwoo struggled not to roll his eyes as he tongued his cheek, before nodding.

"Sure thing. Get some rest."

He hung up before you could respond, and you looked at the FaceTime log. Eight missed calls from Wonwoo over the last few days, three missed calls from Tzuyu and two from Mingyu.

Your friends missed you, across the world. You were missing every precious moment of theirs.

And instead, you were here. Frosting cupcakes at almost three in the morning, while your do-nothing boyfriend enjoyed the warmth of your apartment. Frosting cupcakes, while your parents begged you to come home for a few days at the very least.

The money here was good. It always had been, and you'd built such a good connection with your clientele and you couldn't imagine abandoning it all because you were homesick.

But you missed home. You missed your mother's hearty soups, you missed your father serving you dinner instead of you serving Euijoo after a long day of doing that for strangers. You missed Tzuyu's light laughter, Mingyu's warm embraces…

Wonwoo. God, you missed Wonwoo.

You remember sending him a photo of your storefront as the sign was finalized, the baby blue calling to the eyes amongst the red brick.

Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] look at it! goyangi sweets is officially in business! (read: 1:09PM)

Msg From: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] goyangi?

Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] what the fuck are you doing awake? it's 3am in seoul [11/09] yeah, goyangi. i miss you (read: 1:10PM)

He hadn't answered after that.

Sighing, you clicked your tongue and leaned against your stainless steel counter. You grabbed a cupcake off the cooling rack, prying the warm dessert in half and smearing a bit of frosting on the inside, shoving it into your mouth. You closed your eyes as you chewed, letting your shoulders sag at the sweet treat that made all the stress worth it.

It was worth it, right? The money and the love from the locals, the feeling of physical success…it was enough. It was worth the lonely nights you yearned for

You wiped your hands, moving to the front of the shop and dragging the metal divider down to block the view of outsiders. You weren't opening the shop today, no. You're going to go home, and kick Euijoo out of your bed and sleep.

That's all you need. Some sleep.

– SOPHOMORE YEAR: SEOUL HAWKS VS YONSEI EAGLES, SEMIFINALS.

"We have No. 08, Choi Seungcheol approaching the goal area for the freekick. Choi is the team captain for the SNU Hawks, and the only PreMed student on the team. He has also scored fifty-six percent of all game-winning goals this season, and we're hoping this kick gets them into the Championship bracket."

You were on the edge of your seat, your frame being swallowed by one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You were alone in the stands for the first time – Mingyu and Tzuyu were stuck at the concessions stand. Unfortunately, you were also the only person on this side of the field wearing an SNU jersey, and trying not to tweak out as you listened to Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin talk about your boyfriend over the PA.

"Oh, oh, looks like Choi is not taking the freekick after all?" Jimin's voice was clear, and the crowd collectively sighed as Seungcheol analyzed the players and shook his head.

You were barely able to sit down as you watched him jog over to his referee, making motions with his hands and arms when you saw Wonwoo crossing the field in a sprint. He slid next to Seungcheol, who pulled him closer into the circle and kept talking. Wonwoo's brows were furrowed as he nodded, breathing heavily before wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. "It seems Choi has nominated No.17, Jeon Wonwoo, to take the freekick instead. Jeon is the second in command, dedicating two years of his college career to this team. He's scored sixteen percent of the game-winning goals this season, opting to stay in the shadows." You didn't like that.

"Alright, alright…it seems we're lining up…Eagles are looking fine this year, aren't they?" "Jeon, that's inappropriate." "What, man? You're going to look at Kim Yugyeom and say I'm wrong?" "Jungkook, they can hear you."

"Hey, shit. Here's your soda." Tzuyu slides in next to you, and you don't unglue your eyes from the field as you reach and fumble for your drink. The straw poked your hand as Mingyu slid past you, making you scowl as you swatted his leg for him to sit down.

"Wonwoo's taking the kick? I thought it was going to be Cheol." Mingyu muttered, taking a bite from his hot dog. You nodded, watching as Wonwoo shook his head while still talking to Seungcheol. His hands were moving rapidly, likely explaining why Wonwoo didn't want to make the kick. Your boyfriend only gave Wonwoo a stern look, and you could make out the words falling from his lips.

"I believe in you. Kick the fucking ball."

You watched as the Eagles made their wall, their goalie shaking his legs out. Kwon Soonyoung, you remembered – you'd met him at a frat party at Yonsei a few weeks back. Seungcheol had gone with you, making friends with the enemy (more like scoping out his competition. Sneaky bitch.) "C'mon, Woo." You mumbled to yourself, grabbing Tzuyu's hand for support as she shoved a nacho into her mouth. You were too amped up to eat, this kick was the one that would settle the score – and it was all on Wonwoo.

You knew Seungcheol wouldn't put anyone he didn't trust on this sort of line. Yeah, he had an issue with how close you and Wonwoo were, but his team was important to him – he'd built this one on his own, handpicked, the best of the best. You trusted Seungcheol knew what he was doing, and that he wouldn't set up Wonwoo for failure…

…And he didn't, as you watched Wonwoo's kick bounce off the goalpost and straight into the net – just barely missing Soonyoung's fingertips.

"THE HAWKS ARE GOING TO THE CHAMPIONSHIPS!"

You cheered happily, the only one besides Mingyu and Tzuyu – and earned the nastiest of glares from Yonsei students as you ran down the steps of the bleachers. Seungcheol was jumping with his arms around Wonwoo and another player, Wen Junhui, when you pushed past them to get to your friend.

"Wonwoo! That was fucking amazing!"

He just shook his head, aiming the water bottle into his mouth as he gestured towards Seungcheol.

"That's all Cheol's idea. Mastermind behind it all." You whipped around to see your grinning boyfriend being shaken by Mingyu, trying to pry himself from your friend's embrace as you felt the cold splash of the water cooler being poured on Wonwoo. It went down your back as well, making you squeal as you jumped out of the way. Seungcheol reached his arm out to you, and you grabbed his hand as his teammates picked a soaked Wonwoo up and onto their shoulders.

"We'll meet you at the parking lot!" Mingyu yelled as he and Tzuyu trailed after them, and Seungcheol only gave a thumbs up. It was customary that the entire team went to dinner together, usually still in their stinky and sweaty jerseys but Seungcheol had long refused to let the team be represented that way. Everyone went home to get themselves together, then he footed the bill.

"Cheol, that was great! You're going to the championships!" Your smile was hurting your cheeks as he nodded, pulling you into his chest. He was sweaty and overwhelmingly warm, but you didn't care as he plucked the fabric of your wet shirt off your back in greeting.

"You know…you could've greeted me first." "Oh, not this again! Seungcheol, Wonwoo is just my friend." "I know he is, Y/N." Seungcheol said pointedly, but you felt scrutinized under his arched brow. You felt your lip jut out into a pout, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"C'mon, you can come over to mine and change." He swept your hair back over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your neck. You frowned, your hands floating to his wrists as he shook his head.

"Tell me you love me, Cheol." "I love you, honey. Come on."

It wasn't a lie. Seungcheol did love you, but it'd slightly become less of a romantic love as the months pressed on. He couldn't get over the odd feeling in his stomach when he saw Wonwoo's soft gestures towards you, the way Wonwoo served your drinks at the parties you went to, the way Wonwoo behind a camera made you smile easily – far easier than necessary for someone that was just your friend.

He hated how you didn't see it, the way Wonwoo was in love with you. He could see it, and he knew it was the truth: Wonwoo would visibly tense at the sound of your name. Seungcheol remembers when Junhui asked him his plans last week, and how Wonwoo grimaced when Seungcheol said he was taking you on a date night.

He didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like feeling like his jealousy was festering in the pit of his stomach while you saw it as nothing more than just friendly banter. Granted – Wonwoo never flirted with you, never touched you inappropriately, he never crossed the line.

But the soft compliments he gave you? The gentle swipe of your hair off your face and the adjustment of your necklaces?

The way he calmly called your name, or sweetheart from across the room…

And you listened.

It wasn't your fault. Seungcheol knew it wasn't, and he felt like a fool to keep feeling so much resentment towards Wonwoo – especially when Wonwoo also made it strictly known that everything he felt was platonic.

It just didn't feel that way.

"I love you, Cheol." "I know, honey. Now…let's get dinner?"

– FIVE YEARS AGO: INCHEON AIRPORT TO LAGUARDIA, NEW YORK.

"I'm sorry."

You were standing in the middle of Incheon Airport, your duffle bag tucked over your shoulder when Hansol dropped the bomb.

"Sorry?" You whispered, your voice shaky as the reality of his words sank in.

It'd been a few days since you packed your last box and dropped it off at your parents' house. Hansol had gone with you, warmly greeting your parents and sitting in your living room, your mother showing him baby photos. You remember feeling your heart race at how Hansol traced your face in the pictures, before glancing up at you.

The wild beating in your chest hadn't been positive, and there was a glint of knowing in Hansol's eyes. The relationship was over, it was just a matter of who pulled the plug, and when. It had been a month or so since you settled everything in New York, and a month since either of you spoke about it. You had gone to his apartment and looked to pick a fight – but the fight never happened. He pulled you into him, and you had snuggled in his bed. You kissed, you watched movies…

But it was a goodbye and you denied it. In your heart, in your mind, you wanted to deny it. It was a good thing, wasn't it? To be in New York and know that Hansol had connections there? His sister lived there. If he wanted…if he wanted, he could come with you. Transfer to a university in New York, and it would be worth it. To study in a place he once called home, to breathe in the inspiration of the city that has been the background of hundreds of films, the breeding ground of insane creativity? And if not…what about you? Were you enough to want to move in with? Did he see a future with you where things were more than just college sweethearts who stayed over at each other's apartments more than four times a week? Did he understand who you were, to the depths – the need to love, because you were overflowing with it?

Did he see a future where you were more than just attached at the hip with Wonwoo?

The truth was, he did. He saw it all with you – the apartment, the marriage, hell, even a kid or two. He saw all of it, a ring and a career alongside you and to see all your hopes and aspirations grow into something tangible. He saw it.

You didn't.

"I know it's shitty of m-me to do this, especially n-now." He held back his tears, but his voice shook with bitten back sobs anyway. "But I can't. I c-can't do long distance."

Somehow, he knew you knew that wasn't the real reason. He knew, from the way the back of your eyes filled with hurt and betrayal, the grip on your duffle making the strap burrow into your hand. The way you bounced on your toes, once, twice – before nodding. A singular tear rolled down your face.

"It's okay. I understand." Your voice had been surprisingly steady as he hesitated, before reaching his arms out. You stepped into them, and somehow felt the weight off your shoulders as he hugged you tightly. "I'll miss you, Sol." "I miss you already, babe. Please call me when you land, okay? I'll be up, I swear."

You had called him when you landed. He'd arranged to have a car pick you up and take you to your new apartment. He finally cried on the phone, and you sobbed with him as you made your bed and settled in.

After six hours of reminiscing and crying on the phone, you hung up for what you thought would be the last time. He wished you good luck, and to call him whenever you wanted. And God, you wanted to.

But just like Wonwoo, you left it alone. Six months, not a single word.

– PRESENT: LAGUARDIA AIRPORT TO JEON WONWOO, HOME.

You looked into the empty space you used to call your second home. Gone were the calming periwinkle walls, the gold-detailed pastry cases. Gone were your cherry wood bar stools, the wicker recliners in the corner, the play areas for children.

Your shop was gone, and you held the keys in your hand one last time.

"End of an era, huh? Where are you going to go now?" Mr. Cortéz was next to you, holding his granddaughter on his hip as you sighed.

"I'm not sure. I'm going to miss Harlem, but I know that…this isn't home." You said sheepishly, running a hand through your hair. He nodded, patting your shoulder with a sympathetic smile.

"We're going to miss you here, mija. You will always have a place in Harlem with us." To say you wanted to cry was an understatement, but you just blinked the tears back as you allowed him and his granddaughter to envelope you into an embrace. "I left my cupcake recipe with your wife, so you can always make them for Elisa. I'm going to miss you."

"Be safe, okay? Don't give up on your dreams." He patted your back softly, and you held back a sniffle as your leasing agent gave you a soft smile. Goodbyes were never something you were good at, but you couldn't say anything more as you handed your keys back to the leasing agent and turned to your packed car. You grimaced at the sight of Euijoo's neck pillow still in your passenger seat, and you reached in through the window to grab it and shoved it in the trash.

You sighed, glancing up at your empty shop once more before slipping into the driver's seat, gripping the glittery wheel cover. You blinked once, twice, before shoving your key in the ignition and pulling out of your parking spot.

You truly had no idea if this was the right decision. In your mind, you weren't sure.

But your heart?

You broke up with Euijoo a few months ago, and kicked him out of your apartment. You slowly started selling everything in the apartment, only packing your essentials and finding a wholesale thrift to take all your furniture from the pastry shop. You closed the shop officially a week ago, and did a mass bake sale to finish all your products.

You went back and forth to Seoul without telling anyone, finding a cozy apartment in Gangnam and meeting with a leasing agent there to open a shop. Your parents long stopped asking you to come home, but you couldn't help and feel giddy as you walked around the city – gorging yourself on hot street food and buying furniture for your new apartment without interference.

Now? You just had to board your plane. You'd sold your car to Euijoo's brother, Hyunjin, and he was waiting at the airport to take it once you left. You had zero plans of telling anyone anything, and you'd be landing in Seoul the day before your birthday. You could catch up on any sleep, and then visit Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant. Maybe get dinner there, maybe catch up with the couple…

Maybe surprise Wonwoo.

Yeah, that sounds like the plan.

"Nice change of scenery, finally took a vacation?" Wonwoo's voice is once more staticky through FaceTime, and you've got him propped up in your new bathroom. You hadn't said anything about leaving New York yet, but you shrugged as you carefully lined your lips.

"Mhm, could say that. Finally get to do shit without Euijoo weighing me down. What are your plans tonight? Going to Gyu's?" You ask nonchalantly, but you can feel your hands trembling as you put down your lipliner. If Wonwoo notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Actually, I'm going to swing by the restaurant in a bit. We always call you for your birthday, you know, so it's funny you called me first." He nods lightly, but you know Wonwoo too well to think he's not even slightly suspicious. "Wanted to beat you to it, I guess. I feel alone here a bit, the resort is super nice but I'm so…ugh, I don't know. I might go out for a beer, see what kind of trouble I can get myself into." You wiggle your brows in the camera, and Wonwoo snorts. He swings his keys in front of him, shaking his head as he speaks.

"Not too much trouble, I hope. Have you talked to your parents yet? I know your mom misses you, you've been even more MIA since you and Euijoo broke up. I commend it, don't get me wrong, but still. Where the hell have you been?" "Healing." You shrug, smushing your cheek with the palm of your hand. Wonwoo doesn't look like he believes you, but you only give him a soft smile. He tries to bite his back, tonguing his cheek as he huffs.

"You look happier. I like that." "I feel happier, Woo." It's not a lie. You feel so much lighter being back in Seoul, knowing that your family and friends are no more than a train ride away.

You pretend to check your watch, sucking your teeth.

"Shit, I'm going to miss my dinner reservation. Will you still call me when you get to the restaurant? I miss you guys." You pout, tucking your hair behind your ears as Wonwoo nods.

"Yeah, no worries. Be safe, and don't get too tipsy. I can't hold your hair when you throw up from all the way over here, you know." He scolds, making you giggle.

"Got it. I'll see you, yeah?" You nod, and he does the same.

"See you, sweetheart." The call goes dead as your heart registers the pet name, but you immediately rustle out of the bathroom to catch a taxi. You're wearing a black crew neck over a nice pair of jeans, paired with your favorite dirty Chucks in forest green. You grab your winter coat off the hook by the door, tugging it on and shoving your phone in your pocket. Checking the coat pockets for your wallet and keys, you find both in the left pocket and practically slam out of your apartment.

Not having been to Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant definitely proved navigating there to be difficult. You got out a block away from the actual spot, tugging a face mask over your face and pulling the hood of your coat over your hair. You take a deep breath, taking a step forward when you see a tall man step out of a taxi, a black coat covering broad shoulders. Thick frames sit on his nose, the lower half of his face covered by a black mask. You squint your eyes to see closer as he hands the driver a wad of cash, and the crinkle of his nose proves it's exactly who you're looking for.

Jeon Wonwoo.

You stay rooted in your spot as he walks coolly into the restaurant, holding the door open for a woman and her daughter to slip out. The daughter's eyes widen as he moves past them, her cheeks flushing as her mother rushes her off the sidewalk. What a funny thing, to see someone else experience the same things you do.

Over the year that you decided to leave New York, you spoke to Hansol and Seungcheol a lot – even after promising 'this is the last call,' you called them again and again. As it turns out, he too felt that Wonwoo was a bigger part of your life than he could ever be, but it didn't hit him until he found out Wonwoo had missed every single AV Club meeting in the two weeks following him finding out that the two of you were dating. Wonwoo didn't speak to Hansol directly for over a month, until Hansol confronted him and got the answers he was looking for.

Wonwoo had long been in love with you, and had gone over to your apartment initially to, yes, tell you he'd broken up with Jaehee; but he also went over there to confess to you. He'd brought over a bouquet of pink camellias, but left them on the porch in case he caught you at a bad time – and Hansol later found out he threw them away on his way out of your apartment complex.

At first, Hansol had nothing to say on the matter. You were his girlfriend — but he couldn’t lie to himself, the guilt of knowing Wonwoo had been in love with you for so long was starting to eat away at him. With a reluctant heart, he ended things; only for Wonwoo’s dumbass to not make a move and let you slip away to New York.

You'd also heard from Seungcheol and Hansol that he hadn't kept a girlfriend around for too long since – nothing to write home about. He didn't introduce any of them to anyone, just soft launched here and there on social media but mostly kept the "situationships" to himself.

The only hope you had in your belly was that your plan would go, well, according to plan. You'd ordered a bouquet of flowers, pink camellias, to be delivered to Wonwoo at the restaurant after you arrived. After that…okay you didn't plan anything after that, but spontaneity is cool, right?

You wipe your palms on your coat, taking a deep breath as you walk towards the door. Yanking it open, you hear the doorbell alert the people inside – only to see a few people scattered around. Mingyu is wiping a glass down behind the bar and Tzuyu is sitting on a barstool next to Wonwoo, her left hand sitting atop her belly.

With a huge rock on her ring finger. "Welcome to Hana's! Have a seat anywhere, we'll be right with you!" Her voice is just as warm as ever, and you find yourself forcing your feet to move, ducking your head as you head towards the back of the restaurant. You see Mingyu lean over to grab a bottle off the wall, and you slide into one of the booths where you're out of sight but they're not.

You can hear them start to talk about you, Mingyu pouring Wonwoo a beer and sliding it across the bar.

"Has Y/N spoken to either of you?" Tzuyu asks, and Wonwoo clicks his tongue.

"Yeah, she called me earlier. It was a little odd, considering we always call her. But it's her birthday, I'm not going to badger her for answers. Plus, she's on vacation for once. Can't complain." He shrugs, and Mingyu laughs softly.

"Vacation? Where? Did she say?" "I didn't ask." Wonwoo replies, and Tzuyu snorts. "You'd be a horrible spy, Jeon. Here, I'm going to call her. She's gotten better at answering." You watch Tzuyu grab her phone off the table, and quickly lower your ringer as far as it will go. She faces the phone towards all of them, and Wonwoo looks unamused as you feel your phone start vibrating in your hand.

You deny the call, quickly texting her that you're driving to dinner and will call her when you get to the restaurant. A lie, and you can see her frown sadly next to Wonwoo. She puts her phone down, sliding off the bar stool – likely on her way to you.

"Gonna take this order, I'll be right back." She grabs the notepad off the bar, but the ringing of the doorbell grabs her attention. A delivery man with a huge bouquet of flowers slips in, holding the baby blue gift card in his hand.

"For Jeon Wonwoo? Is there a Jeon Wonwoo here?" Wonwoo's eyes go wide, before he clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. That's me, thank you. Does it say who they're from?" The delivery man hands him the card, bidding everyone a good night.

"Well?" Mingyu leans over as Wonwoo puts the flowers down on the bar and flips the card open. His eyes dart back and forth as he reads it, before handing it to Mingyu, who reads it out loud while Wonwoo thumbs the petals.

To Wonwoo,

Thank you for always being someone I can count on, even when I'm halfway across the world. Thank you for looking out for me, and for loving me more than you let on.

Always yours, Y/N.

P.S. Don't forget to call me back!

"Huh." Mingyu clicks his tongue, and Tzuyu grabs the card and scans it. She sighs, holding it to her chest.

"Camellias…" Wonwoo pouts, before his eyes narrow. "They're her favorite. It's like she's trying to tell me something." "Okay, mind reader. What could she possibly have to say that isn't already in the card?" Tzuyu waves it around, and you take it as your chance to slide out of the booth, hands in your pockets. You walk towards them quietly as Mingyu and Tzuyu begin to theorize, and neither of them look your way as you slide into the barstool diagonal to Wonwoo's.

"She probably wants to know what a girl's gotta do to get some service around here." You mumble, and Tzuyu flushes, about to apologize when you carefully slip your mask off.

"But I guess you can treat me, since it is my birthday." You shrug, Mingyu's eyes widening before he covers his face and sinks to the ground behind the bar. Tzuyu scoffs out a laugh, her eyes filling with tears as she pulls your hood off your head, her hands smoothing your hair down gently.

"You're home." She whispers, her belly getting in the way as she pulls you into her. You feel your eyes burn with tears as she buries her face in your hair, your hand moving to pat her back. "I am, I missed you guys." You murmur, and Mingyu hops over the bar to also crush you in his embrace. You can barely see out of your teary eyes, but you can see Wonwoo's cheeks flushed almost as pink as the flowers, the shock in his demeanor evident but he just clears his throat and looks away.

"How long are you here for? A week? A month? Please say a month, you have to meet our kids." Mingyu begs into your hair, and you can barely conjure words as Wonwoo stays silent. "Shit, I'll even buy you a new ticket back to New York if you stay for two months." You don't respond, waiting for the couple to pull away. You wiggle lightly, making them both move back as you wipe your eyes. "I'm here for good. I have a new place in Gangnam, and I'm opening a shop a few blocks from here. I'm…I'm sorry I didn't tell any of you guys." You gesture towards Wonwoo as well, who only tongues his cheek before running the tips of his fingers around the rim of his beer. He nods, "Yeah. Welcome home, sweetheart." "You're not even going to hug me? Some friend you are." You try to joke, and Wonwoo scoffs,before reluctantly sliding off his stool. Tzuyu says something about getting you dinner, skirting out of the way. It seems Mingyu also gets the hint, moving away with the promise of a nice beer.

You're overwhelmed by the same patchouli scent on Wonwoo’s clothes, sweetened with notes of peach as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your own wrap around his shoulders, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest as he breathes you in softly. He nestles his head next to yours, and his breath is warm against your ear as he speaks.

"I've missed you so much, Y/N." He mumbles, and you feel his arms tighten slightly, as if you're going to slip away. "We need to have a serious conversation, though, because I am mad at you."

You scoff slightly, trying to hide your tears as you bury your face in his neck. He rubs your back gently, before pulling away and wiping your eyes carefully. "Later." You only nod, watching Tzuyu carefully walk over with a bowl of hot tofu stew, and Mingyu slides a pint glass across the bar for you.

You spend the next three hours consoling an emotional Tzuyu, and telling Mingyu all about the delicious dishes you tried in New York. He jests that the restaurant would love a pastry chef if you're willing to share your recipes, and you only snort and turn him down softly. You tell them all about Euijoo, only earning scoffs and huffs from the couple as Wonwoo nurses his beer silently.

You tell them about your shop in Harlem, and how it was actually a call with Wonwoo last year that made you realize that you were unhappy – which made his cheeks flush, but he remained quiet, only nodding along. Tzuyu squeezes his shoulder, and he just nibbles on his lip as you keep talking about all the regulars you had. You tell them about your SoHo apartment and how you often visited the Seaglass Carousel if you were feeling stressed. You promised to take them there someday, if they ever wanted to see what your life was like when you were gone.

They fill you in about their own lives – planning their wedding, having their second daughter in a few weeks. They talk about their oldest, Eunha, and how she's growing up to be just like Mingyu. You hold back tears as they eagerly talk about their budding family and their beautiful relationship, often sharing looks full of adoration and admiration for one another as they spoke. You listen carefully, and Tzuyu even asks if, since you're back, you'd like to be a bridesmaid.

You agree, when Mingyu finally brings out a thick slice of his infamous chocolate cake – one that actually got you into baking but you'd never admit it. At least, not to him.

"Happy Birthday, Y/N! We're so glad you're home, seriously. It's been so dull without you." Tzuyu cheers, allowing Mingyu to light the pink candle in the middle of the slice. You smile softly, tucking your hair behind your ears as they sing to you softly – Wonwoo mouthing along from his stool.

"Make a wish." Mingyu holds it up to you, and you can't help but realize that he's a father now. Tzuyu is a mother, and they have their whole lives figured out. They're so gentle, loving, passionate…and you're still trying to figure yourself out.

Ah, but comparison is the thief of joy.

You close your eyes, sighing before conjuring your wish in your mind.

You don't notice when Wonwoo takes a quick photo, the flash hidden by Tzuyu's shoulder.

You blow out the candle quietly, opening your eyes to see the couple clapping softly. Tapping the plate, you clear your throat.

"Can I get this in a box? I have some things I need to sort out before the night ends."

Mingyu and Tzuyu share a look, before she glances over her shoulder. You nod as she looks back at you, and she smiles.

"Well, we'll see you more often, right? You have to meet Eunha, and the baby."

"Absolutely." And you mean it. You mean it as Mingyu boxes up your slice of cake, sealing it into a brown paper bag for you. You inch closer and closer to Wonwoo as the goodbyes become extensive, before splaying your hand across his back. He glances over his shoulder, a jump in his brows as if to say, ready to go?

You bid Mingyu and Tzuyu a good night, and you promise them you'll even try to come by in the morning for Mingyu's mother's oxtail soup. Mingyu says he can't promise there will be any up by the time you come by, but you make Tzuyu promise to save you a bowl. She does.

"When did you sell the shop?" Wonwoo asks as the two of you step out into the street, the cold air making his breath visible as he speaks. "And why didn't you tell me?" You look at the flowers in his arms, how he holds them like a baby.

"I was worried you'd be upset that I gave up." You murmur as the two of you begin to walk seemingly with no direction, earning a sigh from Wonwoo.

“I’m upset that you didn’t even think to tell me anything. I’m supposed to be your friend. One of your best friends, if I’m not mistaken. You move across the world and suddenly that doesn’t matter anymore?”

“Wonwoo, it’s not like that. I just…I should know what I want out of life. I should know where my heart calls home, but it’s only been a person. I’m not sure if the place matters.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair as Wonwoo flags down a taxi.

“Your place or mine?” He mutters, opening the door for you to slide in.

“Yours.” You mumble back, giving the driver a quick smile as Wonwoo shuts the door. He rattles off his address — and it’s the same building as yours.

“…I live there, too.” You whisper, and he clicks his tongue.

“Good to know.” He shrugs, before reaching over and tugging your seat belt on. He clicks in place, choosing to stay silent as the taxi weaves through the busy roads. You want to say something, and you attempt to several times — but he just shakes his head, pressing a finger to his lips as if to say wait.

And wait, you did.

You let him pay the taxi driver and help you out of the taxi. You let him lead you into the lobby, the security guard giving the both of you a curt nod as you duck into the elevator.

Wonwoo only lives a few doors down from you.

“Interesting.” You murmur to yourself. It’s like I’ll always find my way back to you.

He unlocked his door, holding it open for you to slip through. You did, silently toeing your shoes off in his foyer before stepping into his living room. Shrugging your coat off, you watch him flick the lights on.

Everything is so him. From stacked consoles on the side of his television, to a bookcase full of acoustic guitar records and a few thick books. A few of his cameras are strewn on his kitchen table, popped open and film exposed. His record player sits in front of his window, the blinds and curtains pushed open and the window slightly ajar to circulate the air. There is a mug on his coffee table, half full of what you assume to be green tea.

It smells like patchouli, peaches, and home.

His hand takes the bag from you, and he walks past you to place the flowers and the cake on his kitchen counter. He closes his eyes as he tugs his coat off, and you avert your eyes from his form-fitting shirt — opting to turn around and hang your coat on the rack by the door.

“Are you actually here for good? Or was that just something you said to appease Mingyu and Tzuyu?” He mutters, thumbing at the petals of the flowers once more. You sigh, crossing your arms as you sidle up next to him. Your hip bumps his as you lean on the counter, and his eyes avoid yours as you look up at him.

His shoulders are tense.

“I’m here for good, Wonwoo. I missed it here, I missed Mingyu and Tzuyu and I missed my parents.”

“What about me? Did you miss me?”

His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear it, and you purposely bump your hip to his to garner his attention.

“Of course I missed you.” You whisper, a smile twitching at your lips as he nibbles on his lip.

“Then why didn’t you visit? Why did it take you six months to call me when you first moved? Why…Why did you date Euijoo?”

You feel your chest ache at his questions, the furrow in his brows making you push off the counter, straightening. Sighing, you rest your head on his bicep, the muscle tensing beneath your cheek.

“Sometimes we do things to fill a void, you know? Sometimes we hide from the things we know could be good for us, and look for something we think could be enough, so we won’t ruin or sully what we have already.” You shrug, and he looks down at you again.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I wish I would’ve realized how you felt about me before I left. I mean, I would’ve still gone but I would’ve visited more. I would’ve come back often, tried to make it work. I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him through your lashes, and he just shakes his head.

“My feelings here don’t matter, I’m talking about you.”

“You are a huge part of me, of my life.” You remind him, your hand ghosting over the small of his back as he huffs.

“So you abandoned your life in New York, your dream, for me?” Wonwoo sounds almost offended, and you scoff.

“I abandoned my life in New York because I missed home. I missed my parents, my friends. I miss talking to my friends when we’re all staying up late, not just when I am and I have to go to bed when the gab gets good. I…I missed walking around in the middle of the night with you, and getting heartburn from eating spicy noodles at two in the morning. Can’t I miss home, Wonwoo?”

He clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I guess you can. But you said home for you is not a place, but a person.”

“I did say that.”

He doesn’t say anything, picking at his nails silently before sighing.

“Did Hansol tell you about the flowers?” He murmurs, and you nod.

“You could’ve talked to me, especially between boyfriends. You had lots of chances, Seungcheol literally aired you out.” You say pointedly, and he rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t believe him, and I wasn’t going to ruin our friendship because I was feeling something you weren't.”

“And how do you know that I wasn’t?” You raise a brow, and he scoffs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, moving out of the kitchen to go sit on his couch. He leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes as you make your way over and perch on the edge of his mahogany coffee table.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday dinner that one year. I thought if I missed one, it’d be easier to start getting used to not seeing you. I was fully committed to getting over you, to moving on, even if I wasn’t happy with…fuck, I forgot her name.”

“Jaehee.”

“With Jaehee.” He ran his hand over his face, and you sigh.

“That was ages ago, Wonwoo. We move on.” You pat his knee, and he lifts his head to face you. His cheeks are slightly flushed as he takes a breath.

“I don’t want to move on, that’s the problem. You think I haven’t tried? Do you know how many relationships I’ve been in since you’ve left?”

“Mmh, I don’t. Do tell.” You nod, inching slightly closer, resting your elbows on your knees and clasping your hands together. He doesn’t look amused, running an exasperated hand through his hair and closing his eyes.

“I look for you everywhere, and I’ve never even had you. I can’t help but compare every single woman I’ve ever been with to you, Y/N. It’s driving me fucking insane, being in love with you.”

He’s hiding his face in his hands, and you feel your chest grow hot as you hum in response. You shift slightly, your knees bumping his and making him sigh.

“I mean, for years it's been like we're in this odd mesh of limerence and denial. You do something that makes me think, oh, maybe she's into me? You'd seek me out for comfort, for help, for whatever, and I was there. I am there, like an idiot, hoping you'll just get it. Then you date people who are in proximity to me – my best friend, my team captain, the secretary of my AV club. Then you leave. You left, Y/N."

"I know." You can't recognize the thickness in the back of your throat, the way you swallow around it as he fiddles with one of his rings. "You didn't even come say goodbye, Wonwoo. Hansol ripped my heart out and handed it to me, because of you, and you weren't even there." "I didn't want to see you cry." He mumbles, and you only shake your head.

"You've seen me cry, you've seen me laugh. You've been the reason behind the tears and the laughter. You've seen me in all these weird spots in my life, you watched me date all these men. You were most of the reason as to why these men broke up with me. Yet, you never once thought that I was looking for you?" "Why would I ever give myself that much importance?" He scoffs, and you shrug. "Maybe because I give you that much importance, Wonwoo."

He sighs shakily, leaning back on the couch cushions and swallowing hard. "Did you know I got a few collections displayed in a museum after you left? Your parents went, did they send you photos?"

"Some. I liked the one of Tzuyu and Mingyu in the flower fields." He got up, skirting around your knees and walking up to the bookcase next to his TV. He scours the leather bound books, before a soft aha! falls from his lips, pulling out a green one. He flips it, and you realize it's a photo album.

He hands it to you, sitting back down on the couch. You open it tentatively, your fingers trembling as the photos come into view. They have that digital camera feel to them, a bit grainy and dated. The first photo was old, you could tell just from the image: it was you and Mingyu, sitting around a bonfire at a waterfall you would hang out at during the warmer months, one that went into a lake lined with boulders. You were dating here, and your nose had melted marshmallow swiped across it while Mingyu grinned in the corner of the photo.

"This is an old photo, Wonwoo." "They're all old, you haven't been around." He retorts, before flipping the page.

Another photo of you smiling as you laid out on the flat boulder by the edge of the lake, another of you on the handlebars of Mingyu's bike – you remember that one, it was Mingyu's seventeenth birthday. Another of you with Tzuyu solving a puzzle during one of Mingyu's visits, you and Hansol sharing a cup of lemonade during a snack run after one of Wonwoo's soccer games, you and Seungcheol swinging on a hammock in the park – where you often bumped into Wonwoo taking photos of birds, flowers, life.

There was photo after photo of you, in every moment of your life. There was a photo of the pink camellias he'd gotten for you, there was a photo of his student apartment packed up but one of your cardigans, bright red, stark against the cardboard boxes. This album, full of memories of you through his eyes – without a singular glimpse of Wonwoo, until the last photo.

It wasn't like the other photos – this was high definition, and you remember this photo being taken. You were wearing a pink t-shirt that had belonged to Wonwoo, and a necklace that Wonwoo had given to you for one of your birthdays. You were sitting on his couch, surrounded by Mingyu and Tzuyu. You had a bag of honey mustard pretzels that Wonwoo bought you in your lap, your smile shy and your fingers holding a napkin.

It was the day you finally told them you'd be leaving, just moments before.

And you remember how quietly he'd put his camera away after that, and your friends had settled uneasily around you. Wonwoo sat on his coffee table, eyes worried but masked with a soft smile – just like you were, now.

The album was empty after that, with only two or three pages left to complete it.

"This was an exhibit I arranged for the museum, but I never submitted it. I called it Hanging By A Moment, because that's what…" He takes a deep breath. "That's what this feels like. I feel like I'm just waiting for the moment to end, and I'm not sure in which direction I would prefer it to happen. Sometimes I would stay awake and wonder why I didn't go visit you, but I knew exactly why." You set the photo album on your lap, giving him a gentle look.

"You didn't want to see something that would break your heart." "I didn't want to see you happy with someone else, somewhere else." His voice is thick, and you move to speak but he shakes his head.

"I didn't want to go somewhere and see you living so well without me, when I'm in shambles without you. I couldn't sleep most nights the first year that you were gone. I found myself still walking towards your apartment with Hansol. Hell, I've even hung out with Seungcheol, routinely, just to feel the influence of you. The essence of what you are, imprinted in the people you've graced with your presence." He's looking down at his hands, a singular tear rolling down his cheek. You feel like you can't breathe around the lump in your throat, as he glances up.

"I don't think I can handle this anymore. I need you to say nothing is ever going to happen between us, that the moment is over. I need you to end this, because if you don't, I never will."

You can't speak, but it doesn't matter – because he keeps going.

"I'd be perfectly content having you within arm's reach for the rest of my life, as long as you're happy. You could be across the world, hell, across the fucking universe and I'd never stop missing you, or yearning for you, or loving you. Befriending you all those years ago has got to be one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made, because I can't imagine a life without you. But loving you, being in love with you? Y/N, that has got to be the biggest grace I've ever been given by whatever God is out there. Nothing has ever been easier than loving you has been, but it is the most painful thing I've ever experienced. So, please. End this, I'm begging you." Your throat hurts from holding back your tears, a soft sob escaping your lips as you turn away. You let the tears run down your cheeks, using your hand to muffle your cries as he just lets his tears drip onto his jeans. You can see, through blurry eyes, the way he wants to reach for you, the way his hands clenched into fists before he shoves them under his thighs.

It's silent for a moment, aside from shaky breathing and a few sniffles from Wonwoo. You wipe your eyes carefully, trembling hands gripping the edges of the album as you slide it onto the coffee table next to you. He grabs it, using it as an excuse to stand up and move around – Wonwoo always needed to do that after talking. Like he felt the need to exert all his feelings physically.

You also stand, his rug soft under your socked feet as he slides the album back in place. He doesn't turn back around, his hand lingering on the spine of the album as you round the coffee table. You're right behind him, seeing the buried tension in his back and shoulders as he feels your presence. You clear your throat as best as you can.

"I don't want the moment to end." He doesn't move, and you find yourself stepping in front of him, between the bookcase and his chest. He doesn't look at you, but allows your hands to find home on his chest. You smooth his shirt cautiously, before patting him gently.

He glances down.

"You're my home, Wonwoo." You say softly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. Your hand moves to his jaw, your thumb gently tracing circles into his cheek. He has a bit of stubble, despite the cool scent of his aftershave. You can't help but let the sacred words slip from your lips as his eyes bore into yours.

"I love you." He looks away, a shaky sob from his lips making your heart ache as you rest your head on his chest. He instinctively wraps his arms around you, so used to your physical affection in years past that it's just muscle memory at this point – despite his own reserved affections. You're surrounded by his scent, his warmth, him.

"I know it won't be easy. I've been gone for five years, and I've missed so much of your life. I know my apologies count for near nothing at this point, but you can't sincerely believe that I haven't yearned for you every step of my journey away." You're slightly muffled, feeling the metal of his necklace under his shirt as he holds you closer, tighter. He doesn't reply, so you keep going.

"I love you, Wonwoo. I'm sorry I didn't allow myself to feel it before, and I'm sorry that I've made you wait so long. I'll wait, as long as you need me to. As long as you want me to wait, even if I die waiting–" "I'd wait an eternity for you." He murmurs into your hair, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

"You shouldn't say that, Wonwoo." "But I did, and I will. I'd die waiting for you, if that's what it takes."

You sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest. "Are you still mad at me?" For the first time in years, you hear him laugh softly. Your arms tighten around his waist reflexively, a pout on your lips as you peer up at him. "I missed your laugh." He huffs, cheeks tinging pink as he avoids your gaze, carding his fingers through your hair. "I'm still mad at you. I bet you paid a shit load of money for a cab from the airport, didn't you? You could've just told me to come pick you up. I would've done it." "I wanted to surprise you." "Well…what about your apartment? I didn't even get to recommend this place, you probably went through some real estate guy–" "You're just grappling at things to be mad about, aren't you?" "No. I am mad." He grumbles, his lip jutted out in a pout as you smile up at him.

"You sure? Can't I change your mind, my good sir?" You wiggle your brows, and he scoffs, but you see the twitch of a smile on the corner of his lips. He tongues his cheek as your hands move to his face, making him look down at you. "I'm sorry, Wonwoo." He rolls his eyes, your hands squishing his cheeks together. "Prove it." You quirk a brow, "Prove…what?" "That you love me. Prove it." He shrugs, moving your hands off his face and letting them go at your sides. You scoff, gesturing to the air.

"I'm here, aren't I? Isn't that enough?" You cross your arms, a defiant look crossing your features as he sighs. His fingers are warm as they tuck a stray curl behind your ear, your skin prickling as he thumbs at your earlobe. "Of course it's enough." He mumbles, "You'll always be enough. More, even. More than enough for me."

You think he mumbles I love you.

Your face grows hot as he scans it, eyes heavy with purpose and love. For the first time, you allow yourself to realize how nervous Wonwoo makes you – your heart racing in your chest as you lean closer to him. He doesn't back away, his hand now gently holding your jaw. His thumb rests on the corner of your lip, the weight so comforting. "Kiss me." You do just that, your lips crashing into his as he steadies your body. Your hands fist his shirt as he kisses you slowly, walking you back into the bookshelf. Your back hits it gently, his hands cupping your face softly as he pulls away. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as your fingers circled his wrists. "I missed you so much, sweetheart." "I missed you too, Wonwoo."

He struggles to bite back his smile, your lips pressing a chaste kiss to his before peppering them all over his face. "You can't stay mad at me forever, you know." You speak through kisses, his nose scrunching as you press your lips to it.

"I can certainly try. You know I can hold a mean grudge." "Mingyu ate your leftovers once, Wonwoo. He literally cooked for you everyday of college, you need to let it go." "You're taking his side? Some friend you are." He scoffs, his hands pushing your hair off your shoulders. You wrap your arms around his waist, your chin in the center of his chest as you pout up at him.

"I flew all this way, I confessed my love…and I'm your friend?" He tongues his cheek, swallowing his laughter as he shakes his head. "Well, no. A friend wouldn't leave me for five years and then suddenly show back up–" "Wonwoo." " –And expect me to just forgive her. You could at least try and get in my good graces." You huff, "So you hate me." "No, no. I'm very much in love with you, actually. However, though love is merciful…I am not as much. You said you'd wait." "Wonwoo–" "Ah, ah. You said you'd wait. So you will." He shrugs, running his hand through your hair. He twirls a piece around his finger, "I know that you know how I feel about you, from other people's minds and mouths. I think it's best if I get to show you, truthfully and openly. Don't you?" You say nothing just yet, choosing to stare up at him with a hint of worry in your eyes. He glances down, the hand in your hair coming to gently hold your jaw. "What if you realize you don't want me?" "Oh, sweetheart. I'd be a fool not to want you. Let the sky fall the day I make that stupid decision."

You sigh, moving to rest your cheek on his chest. He hums, running his fingertips across your scalp.

"It's not everyday you find a muse in someone the moment you meet them. Don't worry about me ever not wanting you, me ever not needing you." You don't reply, feeling your nose burn as your eyes fill with tears. He pats the back of your head, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Come, I need to take your picture. You need to fill the last few pages of that album."

And, you comply. You let him wipe your tears, pressing kisses to your eyelids as he sits you at his kitchen counter. He pulls out a gold candle from his kitchen drawer, sticking it in the cake slice from the restaurant and lighting it carefully. He pushes your hair back, and pulls the pendant of your necklace out to rest in the middle of your chest.

"Smile, sweetheart." He murmurs behind the camera, and you do. You smile, glossed lips swollen from the kisses, eyes full of stars as you stare at Wonwoo behind the flash. "Make a wish, quickly." You lean forward, closing your eyes when you see another flash behind your lids. Smiling to yourself, you blow the candle out, quickly taking it out of the cake slice. He offers a fork, and you lean on your elbows as he takes out a few bottles of soju.

"What'd you wish for?" He asks, unscrewing one of the lids off the bottles. You smirk around a bite of cake, shaking your head as he turns away to rummage for shot glasses.

"I'm not telling you, it won't come true." He scoffs, pulling out a set of shot glasses you'd given him during college. They have Snoopy and Woodstock doodled on the sides – he was always Woodstock, you were Snoopy.

"Oh, come on. Tell me, I'll make it come true." "What are you, a magician? Tell me what else I missed while I was gone." He rolls his eyes, running his tongue over his lower lip as he slides the Snoopy glass over, filled to the brim with fresh soju. You take it carefully, and he raises a brow.

"Tell me your wish, Y/N." You huff, before reaching over to cheers your glass with his. You both knock back the liquor, and you scrunch your nose as you slide it back over to him. He fills it again, and you shift in your chair.

"If I tell you, you'll have to do it." "Stop being so ominous, I hate it when you do that."

He slides the glass back over, only half full as he sidles up next to you. Your hand instinctively wraps around his bicep, and you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

"Promise me you'll make it come true, Wonwoo." "I promise. It's your birthday, sweetheart. I'd bring down the stars if you asked."

– SIX WEEKS LATER: GOYANGI'S HOME, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA.

Wonwoo had done exactly as you asked on your birthday – he kept his word, and tried his best to make your birthday wishes come true. Granted, you underestimated him: he would get both done within the six weeks it took to get your shop open.

After the two of you finished off the thick slice of chocolate cake, Wonwoo asked you to spend the night. You did, and a part of you held back tears as he held you in his arms – mumbling in his sleep. Mumbling about how he loved you, how long he'd waited…

How scared he was you'd slip away, like sand in an hourglass timer.

You'd spent the last month and a half glued at the hip. He took you to visit your parents early in the mornings, who bawled uncontrollably and demanded you'd stay all day. Wonwoo hadn't minded, and he stayed with you for dinner several times – and took many odd photos. He never showed you any of them, but he couldn't let you out of his sight, either.

He accompanied you to all your furniture shopping for the shop, he helped choose the paint, he even went as far as taking your website photos. Which, of course, included photos of you – in the kitchen, in your uniform, making a mess of flour and powdered sugar.

Powdered sugar that he kissed off your lips.

Because neither of you could go more than an hour without seeing each other, you practically moved into his apartment. You were spending almost every night there despite your own bed calling your name like a child does its mother. Wonwoo hadn't been kidding about making you wait, either. He let you kiss him, he told you he loved you, yes – but the dates were casual outings. Dinner, picnics, movies. You had a few game nights, and even went over to Hana's for drinks. You'd decided you were each other's plus ones for Mingyu and Tzuyu's wedding, and submitted such information on your RSVP placards.

You spent time together in copious amounts, something you couldn't ever find a fill of. You made him pastry after pastry, coffee cup after coffee cup, back massage after back massage to ease the tension in his shoulders. He gave you a silver necklace, a small letter W hanging from the center.

You wore it with pride. He didn't ask you to be his girlfriend, and he didn't let you ask any questions about it, either.

Instead, he made your birthday wishes come true – he asked the Museum of Arts if they still needed an exhibit for the season. When they said yes, he submitted his Hanging by a Moment gallery – with a few new additions. You'd loved it, and had proudly gone to the museum at least twice a week to see it.

Now?

You're both standing in your unopened shop, showing your parents everything. The walls are a muted terracotta with a few tangerine accents, to match the feel of the digital photos of your life through Wonwoo's eyes. You asked him to make copies of the photos for you as well, framing them in thick, gold frames.

All but one, that sat in the middle of them all on the wall. "And this is the final installment." He spoke to your parents softly, before gesturing to a photo split in the middle. One half was you, dressed in all black with the silver necklace he'd given you three weeks ago, and holding Wonwoo's digital camera up to your face. Your smile was peeking out from behind your hand, directed right at him.

And the other half was him. The only photo of him in the entire exhibit – of him holding his digital camera vertically against his face, slightly messy hair and a beige t-shirt that was two sizes too big for him but you loved anyway. You'd taken this photo at a street food stand, and he remembers how softly you kissed his cheek right after.

You stood next to him with a soft smile on your face as your father perused the photos, his eyes watery as he looked at the ones of you in college. Your smile, so young and carefree. Your eyes, full of the same shimmer and light you have now – but now, it's brighter. You seem lighter.

Happier.

You seem like you're home.

"What do you think?" You ask gently, wrapping your hand around Wonwoo's arm. He instinctively covers your hand with his, and your father nods.

"I think you're in love." He shrugs, and Wonwoo's cheeks flush almost instantly. You chuckle, squeezing your hand around Wonwoo's arm before patting his chest.

"I've got some new pastries in the oven, shall we? I'm trying a new recipe." You wiggle your brows at your parents, who both smile as you extend your hands to them. They take them gingerly, letting you guide them into the kitchen. You look over your shoulder, sending Wonwoo a quick wink as you slip inside with them.

And, Wonwoo knows.

He knows you love him, as he stands in this shop – named for him, by you. Walls covered in you, by him. He knows you love him as you smile warmly at him, your eyes sparkling in a way he'd only ever seen with him – never with Seungcheol, or Hansol, or Mingyu.

Just him.

So, what does it matter? The moment, why does it matter? Why not hang onto it, as long as he can? Why not take in every ounce of your light so long as you allow it, and reflect it right back to you? Why not be a mirror of your love, a beacon of the same hope you hold, a star in the sky that also tells you there is something to wish upon?

Why waste it, when he can savor it – the way you look at him, the way you kiss him, touch him, the way you make him feel? How he's gone absolutely mad just looking at you in the mornings, slowly waking up by his side, burying your face into his bare chest? Why waste the moment when he can capture it – your smiles, your tears, the way you cover your face shyly when he compliments you.

Why not live in the moment – the feeling of your lips against his, the way you claw his shirt off, the way you whimper beneath him while fully clothed and untouched? Why not live in the moment, where he gets to hear you laugh like no one's listening, watch you dance like there is no tomorrow? Why not, when you ask him to take the long way home and roll the windows down, singing along to his playlist and feeling the air whip your hair around until your face is frosty from the wind.

Why not live in this moment – when you're so irrevocably in love with him, and he doesn't have to ever question it because you don't even need to tell him? Where you've related him to a cat that always finds its way back home, where you're supposedly the home and you are – but you are also the cat that finds her way home all on her own?

Why not? "Wonwoo? Are you listening?" "Huh? Sorry." He rubs his neck sheepishly, before noticing he's sitting at the bar of your shop, a dulce de leche éclair sitting on a plate in front of him. Your parents are in the corner, holding their own pastries and analyzing the photos once more. You're leaning your back on the bar next to him, your elbows holding you up as you reach over and gently carding your fingers through his hair.

"I said, I love you." "Now, why does it sound like you're scheming? Tell me what you really said." "It is, promise." You chuckle, your hand coming to pinch his cheek softly. He frowns, only making you coo up at him as you brush your lips to his. He glances up quickly, seeing your parents still enthralled by the photo of you and Mingyu at the waterfalls all those years ago. He looks back down, seeing you absently scanning his face as your thumb continues to rub circles into his face.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, before your father turns around and clears his throat. You look over your shoulder lazily, and your father has the pastry plates in his hand. "Your mother and I are going to start heading out now, honey. We've got a long drive back, and I'm sure you want to clean up a bit around here before your big opening tomorrow." "You're right, Dad. Thank you for coming, I'm glad you two could be the first to see it." Your voice is so warm, he can feel all the stress from his days just melting right off him as you walk your parents to the front. He follows suit, lingering behind as you and your parents say your goodbyes. He interjects his own, enveloping both of your parents in a hug before pulling away. You both wave as they get into their car, your mother waving back as they pull into the street and all the way down the road, before their car turns out of sight.

You turn around, your arms crossed as you look up.

"Goyangi's Home. What a name, isn't it?" You sigh, before glancing over at Wonwoo. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your giggle is like music to his ears as your hands rest on his chest, your lip tucked beneath your teeth as you look up at him.

"Well, you're home, aren't you?" "Aren't you, Wonwoo?"

"I am. I love you, you know."

He feels his chest ache in the best way possible, his heart beating twice as fast as you wrinkle your nose at him.

"I know. I love you, honey." So it's fine. It's fine, as Wonwoo lets you kiss his lips once, twice, three times before you slip back into the shop. It's fine, as Wonwoo walks in behind you, his fingers locking the front door so no one mistakes the shop as open. It's fine, as you hand him a broom and make him sweep the shop while you roll out the dough in the back, your hands coated in flour when he comes to steal a kiss.

Or two, or three – until you're pushed against the industrial fridge, his hands wrapped around your thighs as yours tangle in his hair. He doesn't care about the flour. He doesn't care that you'll both be here late to roll out the stupid dough, he doesn't care as long as you're with him.

He doesn't care about the time differences anymore. The kilometers of distance, the aches of missing you. He doesn't care, and he'd do it ten times over just to be worthy of you.

He doesn't care about how pathetic he might sound as he kisses down your neck, begging you to be his girlfriend, begging you to never, ever leave him again.

He doesn't care about all the painful moments he used to hang onto, because you are the best moment to ever capture.

He cares when you promise that you'll never leave him again, your lips soft against the shell of his ear. He cares when you say yes, you'll be his girlfriend. You'll be anything he wants, for as long as he wants it. So yeah, he'll live in this moment. He'll keep it, hold it, cherish it forever as more whispers float off your lips to one another. I love you.

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dokyumms · 4 months ago

Text

seventeen's reaction to you overworking yourself (hyung line) !

pairings: hyung line x reader (find maknae ver. here)

genre: fluff, angst

word count: 1.6k

cw: light cursing, overworking, fatigue, fainting

a/n: i had to cut this in half since it was getting too long and i wanted to make sure i posted today! i have NO idea why i made seungcheol's so long lmao. hope you enjoy kings ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ also, i will be closing my requests so i can catch up on them over the weekend, i'll try to get them done by monday! thank you for all the support, it means so much to me ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

seungcheol - seungcheol is livid. you're still at your second part-time job when seungcheol calls you, "send me your location, y/n." you didn't tell seungcheol you had taken on a second job. you've never been comfortable with money, always having to work multiple jobs to stay afloat. that was until you met seungcheol, and since then he's always taken care of your expenses, even offering to pay for part of your tuition, and you decided it was enough. you didn't want for your (millionaire) boyfriend to think you were using him, so you told him you took on some evening classes.

today, you're covering someone else's shift. originally, you weren't going to, but after their promise of sending you a little extra money for it, you accepted.

"cheol, i told you i'm-"

"at class still? don't bullshit me, y/n. you didn't take on any new classes, you left your paper schedule on the counter."

your stomach drops. ah hell, you must be stupid. "y/n, what are you really doing?" he asks, almost pleading. there's absolutely no fighting it at that point, "i'm... at work. shift just ended, i'll send you my location." in defeat, you sit on a barstool at the restaurant and wait for seungcheol.

when he walks in, his eyes are immediately on you, walking over and grabbing your hand. "let's go," is all he says. the car ride is silent with tension; he only asks about it once you two are both home. "why? y/n there's no reason for you to be working another job. i'm right here; if you needed financial help, i could've helped you." he says gently, trying to maintain his frustration, but his brows are furrowed, exposing his true emotions.

"that's just the thing seungcheol, you're always here to help me. i don't want to use you because i can't support myself." you reason, but seungcheol obviously isn't buying it. "y/n, you're not using me, even if you did i wouldn't care. i don't want to watch you struggle when i know i can help." he takes your hand into his own. "don't do this to yourself, please. i love you too much to let this keep going." looks like you're quitting that job.

jeonghan - you and jeonghan are walking home from your date night. it's supposed to be romantic, you two walking hand in hand, but you're feeling the weight of the all nighters you've been pulling all week to finish your project, walking wobbily on the side walk.

"did you drink or something? you're walking a little funny babe." jeonghan teases before giving you a genuine look of concern. you try to laugh it off, "hah, maybe." but then your eyes start to droop ever so slowly. jeonghan notices, "have you been sleeping?" damn. did your concealer wear off or something? you're about to respond, but your legs give out and jeonghan catches you before everything goes dark.

you wake up on the couch, tucked in with a blanket with jeonghan caressing your forehead lovingly. "so i'm guessing the answer to my question is no," jeonghan murmurs, giggiling. "but seriously y/n- don't scare me like that," he adds. "i know i know, sorry-" you say, trying to sit up, but jeonghan interupts. "i don't think so, you need to rest baby," he gently pushes you back down before joining you on the couch. "we'll talk about this seriously later, let's just sleep for now." wrapping his arms around you, leaving you no choice but to comply.

joshua - joshua wants to trust you, knowing that you're fully capable of taking care of yourself, but he can't help but worry when he looks over at you. you've been sitting at your desk for hours now, trying to finish all your assignments before the end of the grading period.

he walks over, putting his hands on your shoulders and massaging them. "you've been working for a bit, love. how about a break?" he suggests. you turn around, giving him a small smile, "i really would shua, but i've got like 2 hours till this is due. just let me finish this and i'll take a break." he frowns, "you promise?" "i promise," he hums in response, giving you a quick peck on the cheek before retreating to whatever he was doing.

2 hours later, joshua is back at your desk, only to find you slumped over your papers. he sighs, shaking his head before taking a look at your laptop. "hm, looks like you made the deadline," he says softly, gently shaking you awake.

"you did it, love. i'm proud of you, but i don't want you doing this often- it makes me worried." he murmurs, "come on, you need to take your well deserved break in a more comfortable space," taking your hand and guiding you to your room.

jun - honestly he gets it, between his singing and acting career, he knows what it's like to always feel like you're on the clock. he still doesn't approve of this though.

you just got home from working over time, it's 11:35- you both should be asleep, but he's waiting for you on the couch. looking at you, his heart breaks, noticing the eyebags, the bad posture, the way you're barely holding onto your bag, all of it. he makes his way over to you.

"oh, y/n," you don't process what's happening, about 30 seconds from fall asleep as he holds you. taking your bag from your hand, he then ushers you toward the couch. he helps you take off your jacket and shoes.

"do you want something to eat? water?" he asks while laying you down. you shake your head, but he still hands you a waterbottle anyway. "i'm always scared when you're like this bǎo bèi," he comments softly. "please take care of yourself, but if you can't, i'll be here." he gives you a kiss before laying your head down, falling asleep almost immediately.

hoshi - hoshi is nothing short of assertive, literally showing up to your job. "soonyoung, what are you-" "do you know what time it is? i'm taking you home." he leaves no room for argument as he drags you out of your work place. you're going to need to explain this to your manager.

"i'm not letting you do this to yourself, y/n. it's late. why are you still trying to work at this hour?" he asks, frustrated. "soonyoung, you know why. i don't have a roommate anymore; i can't pay rent with one income." he sighs, "i know, but you just look so- i don't know- tired now. i can help y/n, just let me."

there's no talking your way out of this, you just let him drag you all the way back to your apartment while rambling about how bad working late could be for your health: what if someone kidnaps you on the way home? what if you faint while you're walking up the stairs because you're so tired? what if you're so sleepy you don't notice someone walking by and you run into them and fall into a storm drain?

wonwoo - he doesn't scold you, but he'll get all nerdy and tell you terrible facts about not taking care of yourself.

you're bent over your laptop, trying to finish a whole group project on your own since you got assigned terrible partners. he sits down besides you, whispering in your ear, "keep sitting like that, and you won't be able to walk properly at 40," you scoff, but adjust your posture anyway, you don't want to test this guy. smiling in victory, he kisses you before walking away, reminding you to take a break.

you don't listen to him though, getting carried away in your work. wonwoo comes back every so often to tell you that your brain will start eating itself because you haven't eaten, you'll get terrible wrinkles because you're dehydrated, all that stuff.

once you're finally done and in bed, he scolds you, of course. "i know you think i'm joking, but i'm not y/n. this isn't good for you, next time you do this, i'm forcing you to stop, okay?" he strokes your hair and gives you a kiss. "i love you a lot, so take good care of yourself, can't have you dying on me."

woozi - out of all the members, he's definitely the one who relates to you the most. he knows you'll drown out the sound of people telling you to take breaks, so he takes things into his own hands.

you're working at your desk when woozi turns your chair around and grabs your hand, dragging you to the couch. you try to argue, you really need to finish this so your group doesn't fall behind on the project, but he doesn't take no for an answer.

"shush y/n, just let me talk." he starts, "i know what it's like, i really do. you feel like everyone is depending on you, and maybe they are, but you don't have to do it all alone," when you try to dismiss him and get back to work, he's actually pinning you to the couch. in any other circumstance, you'd be turned the hell on... but he's serious about this. "listen, stop trying to shut me out y/n. i'm someone you can rely on, and i want you to. don't do this to yourself, i won't let you."

you nod in agreement. "good, now let's just stay here for a second," he lays on top of you, trapping you under him so there's nothing you can do but rest.

#seventeen #svt #seventeen reactions #svt reactions #seventeen x y/n #seventeen x reader #svt x y/n #svt x reader #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen headcanons #svt headcanons #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #seventeen angst #svt angst #dokyumms

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dilf-docs · 5 months ago

Text

It Always Leads To You

dbf!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: it's been a year; now you're back. how can joel be so sure of those old summer feelings in your eyes when there's a new hand holding yours?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, toxic relationship, cheating and infidelity themes, mutual pinning, kinda dark!joel, smut, p. in v., pussy pronouns, oral (f. receiving), fingering, manhandling, lowkey forced creampie, ANGST, the taylor swift evermore (2020) references go wild, happy ending cause y'all weak asses voted for it and i love to keep my citizens happy!

word count: 5,199 words

side note: my joel miller era is alive and breathing after this tlou re-watch i'm doing my brother swears it's for him but it's mostly me and my fic/womanly reasons, yes we love gaslight girlkeep girlbossing in here gotta say, finding inspiration for this amidst my wattpad duties and christmas movie marathon was harder than i thought lol. was it worth the wait? please like, comment and reblog to let me know! it's based on this request (they're still open btw!)

part: I / II

Holidays linger like bad perfume.

Your eyes wander through the streets: the roads you've got to call home, the ones where you grew up. They're familiar, but so foreign, it's hard to believe they're the same ones where you scrapped your knees at ten and kissed Joel just last winter. It's as if both timelines, your life, feels more like two separate lives, miles apart.

"Hey, you okay?" tender, from the driver's seat; you're still getting used to the soft.

There's a reassuring smile your way, his hand finding yours to give it a squeeze. You notice his palm is the same size as yours. It fits perfectly, but there's a ghost of what it feels like to have it all wrapped up, looming over your itchy palm like all the yearning's a joke.

You nod. "Just tired. That's all"

He sighs. "If I wanted you to lie to me, I would've just asked"

"I'm not lying" you defend yourself as his pickup truck parks on the sidewalk.

He makes a funny face, and you laugh.

"I'm serious, Nick" your lips purse, a thing you do when you lie, yet he still hadn't noticed, like Joel. "Don't worry"

He doesn't look that convinced, so you take off your seat belt and grab his hand.

"C'mon. Mom and dad must be waiting for us"

"Hey" Nick calls you out.

"Yeah?"

"Who lives there?" and he's pointing behind you.

It's his. Joel's house.

"A friend of my dad's" you answer, dryly.

It was last december when you stood there in his porch, begging. It feels like time has stopped ever since, and you're still right where he left you.

"So will he be here?" Nick asks. "You know, since he knows your dad"

"Don't think so" you shrug, "he's got better things to do anyway. Bitter old man" comes out, with more venom than intended.

"Oh! Alright, sorry for asking"

You come back to your senses, realizing you've shared more than you should.

"No, I'm sorry. It's not that important; let's just go inside"

Your mom and dad greet you as soon as you cross the door. Last year, you'd basically fled away before New Year's, with a poor excuse and a broken heart. They both greet you as if nothing happened, although you're sure they remember your tear streamed face coming back from Joel's house, where it all ended.

As your mom corners Nick with kisses and embarrassing questions, your dad whispers to you:

"Joel asked what happened" you quirk and eyebrow, "wanted to know why you left"

"Eh, it's not important" you try to dismiss. "Definitely not as important for a guy like Joel to know"

"What is that supposed to mean?" your dad inquires. You often wonder if they knew.

"Nothing" you laugh nervously. "Listen, why don't you go and meet Nick, yeah? Did you know he likes fishing too?"

The distraction works with your dad; the same can't be said about you.

There's conversation flowing, but through the snow covered window, your eyes keep glancing back to his own. The view is dark, and you ponder if he's fled as well, the town plagued with memories too painful to reminisce.

You can still feel his hands roaming your body, the lust filled gaze that hid warmth. Every time he touches you, you have to remind you he isn't there: that the lips that kiss you, don't taste like his, that the hands that hold you, aren't big as his, and that the face that looks at you like they'll never choose another, is one you haven't learned to love yet.

Joel's memory cuts like thorns: they sink their teeth into your heart, that bleeds with that blood-colored sadness you're all too familiar with. He's poisoned you. But-- isn't it his love also the antidote for this disease he's gave you?

You abruptly stand up, plate half eaten.

"I-I need some air"

It's cold outside, but you don't care. All you want to do is sit on the porch, and drop some tears, something you can do inside too, but the fear of your muffled cries being able to be heard stops you.

You walk towards the stairs, to sit there like you do on summer days, yet there's now a difference: the snow. So you end up slipping, falling with your butt on the floor.

You yelp, embarrased although no one can see you.

"Need help?"

That you're wrong, apparently.

You don't even need to raise your view to know who that voice belongs to: you know it like a record, spinning in circles on your head.

He offers his strong hand your way, and although the cold wind hits your face, you're back to spring on the cabin: wet feet, bright sun and beating heart.

"I can get up myself" you reject his help, pushing the hand out. You keep avoiding his gaze, so you don't see how he's reacted, yet you hope he feels bad about it.

You walk up to the front door, and it takes you a while to realize he hasn't left yet. On top of that, it seems like he's following you. Just what you needed.

"What are you doing here?" you question, but your tone sounds like you're offended.

"Your folks invited me over" Joel answers, "Says they got a special guest"

"Yeah" this time, you do look back, finding him to be much closer than you thought he'd be. Yet you stand tall, defiant even. "It's my boyfriend"

You savour the way his expression falters, before the stoic façade takes over again.

"Boyfriend?" Joel scoffs, as if you just told the funniest joke ever.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" you bite back. "What? Think a pretty girl can't get a new man?"

"Never said I'd doubt'it" he clicks his tongue. "Y'a could get any man you'd want, sugar"

Ironically, the only man you want stands before you.

"Right" you chuckle dryly, "I think it's kind of funny of you to say that"

Joel's eyes bore into yours, a clash of emotions circling in his chocolate orbs.

"Y/n-"

"Don't" you stop him. Then sigh, defeated. "Let's just go inside"

As soon as you both arrive on the dinning room, your parents both greet Joel. Then, they introduce him to their guest, just as promised.

"Joel, this is Nick, y/n's boyfriend" your father speaks. "Nick, this is Joel, a dear old friend of mine"

Nick, as the gentleman he is, offers his hand. Joel accepts, but you can see the barely desguised displease behind his eyes.

"Wow, strong grip" Nick comments before joking, "you can let go now, I'm not going anywhere"

The hidden meaning of his words, whether intentional or not, hit Joel in the face. It's obvious by the way he backtracks, letting go of Nick's hand.

As you sit again, Nick leans to your side and whispers.

"Is this the guy who lives in the house across the street?" you nod. "Thought you'd said he had better plans. But, see? I told you: no plan's more important than coming to your house"

He's always making jokes, trying to make you smile, but it's done the opposite now. The food has gone cold long ago, yet you cut through the meat with a violence so palpable, even your mom tells you to slow down.

The nerve of Joel, showing up to your house like it's nothing, talking to you like he's unaware of his spell on you, acting like Nick is some sort of competition when he pulled out of the race himself a winter ago.

"So, Nick. How did you two meet?" your mom adresses him, eager to know details.

"It was at a party, actually, through mutual friends. Not a very spectacular story, that I know. What's funny is, she asked me what hour it was. And what did I say?"

"He didn't answer my question. Instead, he said: For you, I'm available any hour" you answer.

Your parents laugh, but Joel remains quiet. You wonder what he's thinking.

"You know" looking at Nick while cutting the steamed vegetables a little too agressive, "y/n actually hates parties"

"Joel" you warn through gritted teeth.

"Really? I didn't know that!" Nick seems so genuine, Joel can't help but hate him. He looks at you, concerned "You didn't tell me"

You can't believe he would rat you out like that. The appropiate word isn't hate, and you don't know how to describe it, but parties aren't really your environment; if you can, you'd choose to be anywhere else.

He'll pay for that.

"Joel" you seethe, an ugly smile painted in your features, "did you know Nick knows how to fish?"

It's a direct jab at him. He feels stupid for letting you get to him. The inferiority complex towards some random guy he just met, years younger, is actually laughable.

"I like-" Nick wants to add on that.

"Well" Joel interrupts, looking at you. "You never taught me like ya' were s'pposed to"

"You never cared to learn" you reply, acidic.

He sips his drink, trying to hide the smirk that's formed on his lips. You can't shut up, and he loves you've stayed the same.

"That means I've got some classes to take" Joel leans back on his chair, relaxed like he's won this round. "Just tell me when"

The tension cuts like the storm that's just formed outside.

"You should stay over, Joel" your dad offers when he takes a peak at the climate, "it's too dangerous outside"

Joel seems indestructible, like not even a snow blizzard could pierce through the rough old man. But he agrees, much to your dismay.

It's probably midnight already, and all you've done is toss around the bed. Nick peacefully snores next to you, and you envy how easily he falls asleep. You've always find it hard to sleep, the nighttime plagued with too many loud thoughts that fill the silence.

You get up carefully, heading downstairs for some water. You sip with tranquility when a noise jolts you from your sit.

The wooden floor creaks, making you aware you're not alone anymore.

"Can't sleep?"

You don't answer, seeing his sturdy figure emerge from the shadows until the dim moonlight shines over his aging features. Silence settles in. Outside, the wind howls, bumping against the windows with violence, like your heart does now against your chest.

"Not much of a talker, are you?"

"There's nothing to talk" cuts your response through the thick tension, the air suddenly suffocating.

You take another sip, but the tremble of your hand doesn't go unnoticed by Miller.

"Right" Joel sits next to you, on the kitchen island. "Won't even look at me, sugar? You've got eyes" his voice drops, "use 'em"

"What are you doing, Joel?" you ask looking at him, tears threatening to spill, making your bright eyes shimmer with pain.

He gets up abruptly, like he's woken up from a trance. He's seen his own pain on your eyes, and he hates it.

"Joel?" you ask again, demanding but softly.

He can't answer. Instead, he leaves.

"Goodnight, y/n" voice raw, many emotions boiling, hidden on the inside. It hurts.

If you hadn't changed, Joel too stayed the same.

A goddamn coward.

Two days have passed since, and now it's Christmas Eve.

You kneel, putting the presents under the tree. Normally, your parents would have much more people around for the holidays, but thanks to the storm, it's just them, Nick, Joel and you.

"I'm gonna miss Mrs. Stone's cookies" you pout, "I wish she could be here"

"It's a big loss for tonight" your dad sighs. "Next time, yeah? Christmas will come again faster than you think"

You nod, still absent as he walks away.

"Hey" Joel pops up behind, seemingly from nowhere.

"Hey" you reply, voice laced with tiredness just at the sight of him. How will you manage to survive until New Year's? You have no idea, the task harder if he's staying in the same house as you are.

"Put this in there, will ya'?"

He hands you a box, neatly wrapped up. What stands out the most is the silver bow on top. Your stomach drops: it's your favorite color.

"Y-yeah" you stammer. When the present falls in your hands, you notice it looks like Joel did it himself.

"Didn't know you were capable of nice things" you whisper. There's no anger in your voice, only loss.

"I'm trying" is what he says, before leaving you alone. Until then, you realize he had been touching you, the skin where his hand was on your shoulder burning.

Dinner goes by swiftly, conversation flowing easily courtesy of Nick and your father, who both have in common the love for talking. It may be your brain messing with you, but his eyes never leave you, fixated on your every move, savoring when your lips open and take a bite; when you lick them afterwards, salt in your mouth he'd love to take off in a movement of his tongue. The ghost of your lips haunts him, cruelly playing with his yearning now that he's got you across the table. It's a few centimeters, really, but it feels like you're miles away: and it's his fault. You're no longer his, and he's reminded of it every time your boyfriend kisses what he once had.

Now it's time to open the presents, and you excitedly raise your hand to go first.

"Alright, sweetheart. You know I can't deny you anything" your father beams, "go ahead. Choose any present you'd like to open first"

Joel's eyes are on you, and you know he's desperately waiting for you to open his first. Maybe partly in courage, maybe partly in fear, but you choose Nick's first: something safe to start with.

"That's mine!" he chirps, and Joel mockingly imitates his kid-like joy under his breath.

You unwrap the present, finding a small box inside.

"Please, don't be another box" you joke, and he laughs.

"You think that low of me? Please"

You keep unwrapping and find a bag. The bag has a small tag that reads: Gotcha.

"Nick! God, you're so corny" you tease as you open the bag. Inside, there's a velvet box, and by the looks of it, you can tell it's jewelry. You gasp, pulling out a silver charm tied to a silver thin chain: it's a marlin fish. "Nick..."

"I know. Marlin isn't your favorite fish, but that's all I could find" you get up, wrapping him on a tight hug. Aware you've got an audience, he leans and whispers "I knew fishing was special to you, because of your dad and childhood. Maybe now" he takes it from your hands, carefully putting it around your neck, "it can also be our special thing"

Joel sees the scene unfold in front of him, his grip tight on the cloth of his jeans until it's white. His jaw clenches at the affection display; all he sees is red.

"What about that one?" your mom points out Joel's present. A pit of nerves forms in your stomach. "I don't remember seeing it there"

Before you can grab it, your dad moves faster, examining the box on his hands.

"It's Joel's" he makes a pause, "for y/n"

You pretend to be shocked, and you can tell Nick tenses at your side.

"You didn't tell me you were close"

"Used to" you correct quickly, despite the knot on your throat. "Not anymore"

"He still got you a present, though"

You don't get to answer because your dad leaves the box on your lap.

"Open it" it's soft but feels threathing for some reason, "I'm curious"

Joel's resting hands tremble as much as yours while you open the present. You reveal the simple white box under the wrap, opening it up.

Your voice comes out shaky as you call his name. And he can see it: the muffled laughters on the shed, the warmth of the cabin's fire, the fogged up windows of his car, the bruises on your tits and that voice, so vulnerable, he can see you on his porch, saying those three words that terrified him so much, his solution was breaking your heart.

"What is it?" your dad asks.

"It's a scarf" the fabric tickles your fingers that wander through the loose strands.

You remember it all too well.

"Oh, it's vintage!" your mom comments when she sees the worn-out aspect.

But just as your affair with Joel, you keep the secret of it's real owner.

"It's perfect" you mutter, remembering better times: ones where he'd wrap the scarf colored as the leaves on the ground around your neck, covering bruises he'd just made while you joked you'd steal it, and Joel would say he'd just let you, that it looked better on you anyway.

You've forgotten the good, so used to thinking of Joel at your worst, like a punishment to endure and sink your shipwreck even deeper. You felt lost, replaying memories that seemed stuck on a loop. Since last december, all you've known is pain; creeping up through the cracks in your fleeting happiness, one you've tried to find to no avail. One day, past the curses and cries, maybe there'll be happiness. But as for now, that day seems terribly far.

As he sees your teary gaze, Joel often wonders were it went wrong. When did hurt was all you had for him in that gaze of yours he can't bare to look that long, not before he's reliving all those seasons by your side, replaying his footsteps on the snow, grass, water and fallen leaves, trying to find the one where it all went wrong. The torture he now wears like a second skin, his agony painted words addressed to the fire of a house that feels so empty and alone.

"We should continue" your dad speaks over the silence, "there are still many presents left"

The night moves slowly, and the scarf you've chosen to wear is now suffocating around your neck. But you can't take it off. This is the closest you've been to Joel on a year; it still smells like him. As the presents run out, you excuse yourself early to bed, only to wake up again in the middle of the night. You want to pee, so you exit your room and walk to the bathroom, your bare feet against the cold wood sending shivers down your spine that only seem to augment when you walk past his door, next to the bathroom. After being done, you splash some water on your face, as if that would make some sense get to you.

"What are you doing?" you ask yourself in the mirror. Your tired reflection stares back at you, in silence.

You open the door, ready to go back to bed when a hand covers your mouth and shoves you inside.

"Don't scream" your cries go muffled against his hand, the calloused digits pressing against your soft skin, "wanna wake 'em up?"

You shake your head, so he lets your mouth free.

"Joel" you call out, but he's facing the door, his back all you see. No sound can be heard, aside from his uneven breaths.

"I'm sorry" he says, and then you hear the small click of the door's lock.

"What the hell?"

This time, he faces you, but his movements are so quick you don't register his lips on yours until it's too late. He kisses you like a starved man who hasn't had a meal in years, eating you out while your body acts up on it's own, the urgency embarrasing even.

"No" you pull back. Your mind screams in guilt at how much you want this, and that's all you can hear aside from his ragged breaths.

"No?"

"It isn't fair"

"To lover boy out there?" he teases, "I know he ain't treating you right, or ya' wouldn't look me the way ya' do"

"Don't, Joel" your tone is icy, "Nick treats me better than you ever could"

He laughs, darkly. "You know I ain't meant that" he corners you against the sink, the material cold against your bare legs; you don't sleep with nothing but an oversized t-shirt, despite the weather.

"Riddle me this, sugar: if he treats you so well, why are you so fucking wet?"

Your heart beats so fast you fear you'll die. He gets closer, his hot breathe prickling against your ear.

"It takes a man to please a woman" he tucks a loose strand behind your ear, "and I ain't leaving my baby displeased"

His fingers pull down the panties until your clit is exposed.

"Look at 'er" he traces a teasing finger over the puffy skin, coated on your slick "missed me, didn't she? Gonna treat 'er so good, she won't ever feel lonely again"

He softly kisses your neck, the trepidation and regret tying your stomach in knots.

Joel teases your needy core with his finger.

"Tell you somethin', sugar" Joel finds it hard to hide his adoration, "I missed 'er too"

He stares into your eyes while pushing two rough fingers inside your cunt. You bite your lip, holding back your moans.

"Need summ help?" he kisses you roughly, smirking when he feels your shaky breath against his lips. He pushes them in and out faster, making your walls squeeze tightly around his fingers.

"Did he ever have you comin' this fast? I'ont think so" he whispers against your neck. You whisper his name through labored breaths, making a smug smile adorn his features. "Good girl"

He proceeds to kneel down, despite the creak of his bones. You see him leave a trail of kisses down your thighs, your legs opening wider in response. His tongue gives rapid flickers against your sensitive bud, aware of the lack of time. He slurps the pulsing cunt, his head moving back and forth while he sucks, coating his moustache on your juices. Joel goes back to the quick movements, tongue knowing your spots and twisting fingers as aid, causing your back to arch.

"Fuck" you curse as you come, gripping the sink a bit too tight.

Joel then pulls away and places his fingers coated in your arousal in his mouth and licks them. He sees the obscene display in the fogged mirror, satisfied.

"Goodnight, sugar" Joel bids goodbye like it's nothing, kissing your lips that taste like you. "Still as sweet as ever"

It's New Year's Eve.

"You're leaving?" you sound so sad, Joel can't help but scoff. In the end, he'd stayed long after the storm had passed, your father arguing holidays weren't meant to be spent alone. So he stayed.

And now, Nick is leaving.

"I'm sorry" he apologizes for the millionth time, "but granny is sick. I don't know if she'll make it another year, so say the doctors. I would love to stay, really, but I have to be with her"

You understand, having lost your grandad years ago. But that doesn't mean you're okay with it: Nick leaving means a clear path for Joel, who didn't stop with him sleeping next room, and certainly won't now, despite not having interacted with you since he ate you out on the bathroom.

He pulls you into a long hug and a kiss that doesn't feel the same anymore. "Will you be okay?"

"Yeah" you nod, "I'll miss you though"

"Well, I'll be all yours when you get back"

You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes.

"See you, y/n. I love you"

Your lips purse after you utter those three words back.

Later at night, the house is filled with guests. The lively environment is restored, and you feel less confined to Joel's claws, so many faces to speak and distract yourself with, compared to Christmas and the past couple of days. You clutch the marlin charm tightly, mind busy wandering to places it shouldn't. Joel stares at you from across the room, eyes trained on you as he sips his drink calmly, like he's won; you don't know why he's keeping score if he already knows it. You wander off to the kitchen, and Joel follows you.

"You have to stop" you speak as soon as he enters, aware he would follow you.

"I ain't do shit"

You turn around, facing him. "Bullshit, Joel"

"Tell me, what'd I do?" he comes closer, and despite your erratic heart and fear, you stay still; challenging.

"You did this, Joel" his expression falters for a second, the weight of last december's crimes dawning on him. "Don't try to make me feel guilty"

"I ain't. That wasn't your fault" he sighs, breath dragging long like a cigarrette. "But this" he motions with his hands the reduced distance, "this it is"

Your breath hitches.

"We can't keep doing this, Joel. Nick doesn't deserve it"

He pins you against the counter with force, gripping the skin of your wrists until you're sure you'll get a bruise. Joel's eyes darken at the thought of your frail and soft body under his rough figure and belly, his strength and your weakness making the job of putting you under his will, so much easier.

"Don't say his name" he whispers, his breath laced with alcohol, "he ain't here anymore. Ain't nothing to stop me now, right, sugar?" Joel purrs as he steps towards you, taking your face in his hands before starting a heated kiss, making you stumble.

This was so wrong, but it felt so right, the missing pieces falling like dominoes.

He was your pain divine: you needed his hurt to bleed and feel alive again. Maybe the red of the blood and the blue of your sadness could paint your darkest grey skies with a happiness you've craved since you lost him.

"Tell me to stop" Joel whispers, tempting like a devil as he kisses down your neck, littering it with hickeys.

"Don't"

Next thing you know, you're excusing yourself upstairs and then Joel goes missing too, both inside of your bedroom.

Your dress was the first thing to go.

"Wear it for me?" you're about to answer, lips pursing, but he cuts you off, "and don't lie, sugar. Don't get too used to the bad girl schtick"

"I only wore this dress so you could take it off"

He kisses you desperately, legs wrapped around his waist while he carries you to bed, and the memories of your first flood you as he drops you down to your back, watching the way you bounce. He has you just like he wanted: moaning his name while he leaves tender kisses on the soft bare flesh.

"Joel-" you gasp. Despite the chatter downstairs and music, you try to remain low as he wraps his lips around your nipples. He then moves to your breasts, covering them with his kisses and hickeys. He hadn't touched a woman ever since you left, the feeling of the rosy innocent skin on his rough teeth making him loose all common sense, the real thing even better than what he would try to conjure when he fucked himself in the bathroom at the memory of you.

He groans when he feels your hands roaming over his back, nails digging on the scarred skin.

"Someone's eager" he teases, seeing your damp underwear. "Is this 'cause of me?" you don't answer, too busy removing the cloth, only for his strong fingers to grab you and stop you. "Don't be shy, answer baby. We got a whole new year, yeah?"

"I need you Joel" you whine, not laughing at the joke "cut the crap"

He pushes you gently back down to the bed. "So needy sugar, want me to help ya'?"

You eagerly nod, making him laugh. But there's no mock, only love behind the sound.

"Will you let this old man take care of ya', pretty baby? Just use your words, and I'll be all y'rs"

"Do it, Joel. Just do it"

You gasp as your folds begin to be prodded open by the fat head of Joel's cock. You curse, feeling him push in just the tip, the sweet burn of your walls welcoming his size making you grab his arms that stand at the sides of your body, caging you in.

His tummy pushes against your stomach as he adjusts himself, his weight sinking your body on the creaking matress.

"'S just the tip, ready for the whole thing?"

You needed him, all of him.

"Yes, Joel. I want you" You say and he pushes in slowly, feeling his cock fill up every empty space that craved for him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as his hips roll back pulling out about halfway before rocking back in. His sloppy thrusts pick up a familiar pace that makes you moan and beg for more, head falling against the sheets as his pace speds up until he's fucking you senseless.

Joel's brain goes blank at the sight of you creaming on his dick and the obscene sounds leaving your pretty mouth. Did he really give this up? He'd definitely go back in time and slap the fuck out of his past self, because there is simply nothing better than having you under him, screaming his name like that's all you can ever say.

"Does he fuck you like this, huh?" Joel angles his hips, resuming his brutal pace. Your body jolts with each snap. "Is he enough for you?"

"Yes" his stomach drops, dark eyes now hesitant, "but he isn't you"

He pushes himself back in, your eyes fluttering shut almost immediately.

"Tell me you'll leave him, y/n. Look me in the eyes and tell me who ya' really belong to"

Your eyes snap open at the possesiveness clashed with jealousy that drips from his sweat-soaked lips.

The confession falls easily, as meant to be. "Yours, Joel. Always was and will be"

He could cum just at the sight of your loving doe eyes.

Downstairs, the countdown begins, but in your room, all you can hear are his soft groans and your pathetic whimpers, and if the people would stop shouting, you could probably hear the squelch of your dripping cunt sucking in his girth with each thrust.

After a few more erratic thrusts, you feel his warm cum fill you up. Joel was always obsessed with how his cum seeped out of you and around his cock. Without thinking, his rough fingers push deep in you, making you yelp as he makes sure he isn't wasting a drop behind.

The countdown ends, and fireworks erupt outside as your head rests on the crook of his sweat covered neck.

"I love ya', sugar" those words you thought you imagined that one time, now real, so goddamn real his voice quivers and eyes get tearful with grief, "'S okay if ya' don't say it. I just wanted you to hear 'em. 'M just tired of wastin' my time"

He wraps your lips with his with tenderness you had only dreamed of. There is still a lot to talk and heal, but this time, his arms hold you like a promise. And you let yourself believe it.

Y/n's New Years' purposes: 1. Break up with Nick 2. Try to explain this seasonal mess to mom and dad 3. At last, try to be happy

cr: divider by @kodaswrld / gif @tomshiddles

#dilfistwrites #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #tlou #tlou fanfiction

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