#you’d had to be a part of it to understand

[onlypinkslut]

toji fushiguro x slutty pregnant!fem!reader 🍼 NSWF 18+ 🍼

✩ part one ✩ next>>

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cw: emotional neglect, pregnancy struggles, bodily fluids (piss accident), public humiliation, realistic depiction of pregnancy symptoms (swelling, leaking, back pain), visible body changes, body image issues, loneliness, mild degradation, toji gaze, nonverbal tension, soft obsession, breeding themes, toji being a feral man with a quiet fixation.

♥︎40k words

six months ago you didn’t know this was how you’d end up. you didn’t picture yourself waddling in a sundress with swollen ankles and a back that constantly ached. you didn’t imagine waking up in sweats at 3am, leaking through your flimsy bralettes, cheeks hot, thighs slick, stomach bloated and heavy with a baby you were growing alone. you thought he loved you when it happened. you thought he’d change.

but he didn’t.

he kept saying it was an accident.

you told him if he didn’t want to be a father, then he should’ve worn a condom. but that conversation replayed every night now, his words like needles. he barely touched you since. never kissed you goodnight anymore. didn’t care when you cried over your sore nipples, didn’t care when your back gave out in the kitchen and you needed help getting off the floor. you didn’t recognize your own body anymore. your hips had widened into a full slope, your thighs touched now when you walked, jiggled with every step, and your once-small belly button had popped forward like a button on a shirt too tight. even your arms had gotten softer, rounder, heavy from cradling your stomach. you looked in the mirror and didn’t see a woman anymore. you saw a thing that was made to be used, filled, bred.

and worst of all… you were horny.

feral.

pregnancy hormones had made you into something sick. you got wet over ads for formula. you rubbed your thighs together when you felt the baby kick. your nipples were always sore and swollen, so sensitive they ached if your bra rubbed wrong. and your boyfriend didn’t even want to look at you.

toji fushiguro hadn’t touched his fiancée in over seven months and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. it was because she didn’t let him.

the first year of their engagement had been fine. empty, curated, expensive, but fine. hana liked luxury and he didn’t mind buying it. handbags, skincare fridges, matching sets from paris that sat untouched in velvet-lined drawers. she was polite and pristine, a pilates instructor with perfect posture and cold hands. but she had rules.

she slept with her face mask on. she cried over gaining three pounds. she timed her orgasms like they were workouts, breath sharp, core tight, never letting go too much, never messy, never sloppy.

he should’ve seen it coming.

she froze her eggs the same week she bought her new veneers.

when he told her he wanted a baby—really wanted one, not in some theoretical future, not as a borrowed cousin at brunch—she looked at him like he said he wanted to raise a wolf.

she said it would ruin her body.

she said he didn’t understand the trauma of childbirth.

she said adoption exists and we can hire a surrogate and you’re being selfish.

and he tried. fuck, he tried. he nodded through her presentations, even met the poor art student she suggested should carry their child. she looked about seventeen and couldn’t even look him in the eye.

and still, hana asked if he was happy.

he was not.

he was not fucking happy.

he was thirty-eight. his back hurt every time he tied his boots. he was tired of drinking protein sludge and being around women who smelled like almond milk and botox. he wanted to smell skin. milk. birth.

he wanted something real.

and lately, he’d been having the same dream.

someone warm in his lap. soft. heavy. crying. breasts leaking down his arms, stomach big and tight against his chest, thighs sticking to his legs. he’d wake up rock hard, humping the sheets like a dog, teeth clenched.

he never told hana.

instead, he started driving at night.

aimless loops through old streets. past playgrounds, daycares, corner markets that sold diapers and baby wipes and off-brand pacifiers in pastel plastic. he’d park and sit there sometimes, engine running, his hand fisted in his lap, thinking about what it would smell like to press his nose to a breast that had fed a baby.

he couldn’t explain it.

he didn’t want sex. he wanted breeding.

and every time hana spoke now, he felt something crawl up his spine.

she booked a couple’s massage for them that morning. he skipped it.

she texted him a blurry selfie from the spa, legs crossed, glass of lemon water in hand. you’re missing out, she wrote.

he didn’t reply.

he was already in his car.

you had to sit on the edge of the bed just to put your shoes on.

your thighs kept swallowing your panties. your ass had gotten so fat you could barely pull your old underwear over it, and you’d long given up wearing anything with a waistband. your stomach sat like a heavy globe on your lap, skin tight and itchy and patterned now with angry pink lines. your nipples darkened so much they looked bruised and your bras were stained from constant leaks.

you used to cry about it.

used to beg him to tell you you still looked pretty. but he barely touched you anymore. said he was tired. said he didn’t feel attracted to you when you were like this.

you’d scream and ask what like this meant.

he’d say he didn’t mean it like that.

you stopped asking after that.

you weren’t even supposed to be pregnant. he said he was gonna pull out. he said it was an accident. and when you peed on that stick and came out crying, he just stood there. said you should think about options.

but you couldn’t.

you’d felt something the second that second line appeared.

you felt it now too. every kick. every roll. you knew you were doing this alone but you still felt… alive.

horny. god, it was sick. but you were always wet. always aching. even now as you waddled beside your friend in a too-tight sundress, your thighs chafing, your back sweaty, your breasts heavy and bouncing slightly with every step. your belly was pushing the fabric so far forward the dress looked see-through from how taut it was stretched.

you’d only come out to buy pacifiers.

but now you were sweating through your dress and hungry and needed to pee.

you were mid-sentence when it happened.

a loud horn. a screech.

your friend screamed and yanked your arm so hard you almost toppled.

you screamed too, not even thinking, not even breathing—just instinct, arms wrapping your belly, feet locking in place, every nerve in your body snapping shut like a cage.

the car missed you by a hair.

but the fear made you lose control.

a gush of hot piss rushed down your thighs, soaking your dress. you felt it drip into your shoes.

your face burned.

your heart thudded in your ears and your breath caught in your throat as the truck skidded to a stop, tires shrieking.

and then the door opened.

you barely heard your friend swearing beside you, too dazed to focus on anything but the figure that stepped out.

he was huge.

broad in the way that filled doorways. thick thighs wrapped in black canvas, boots heavy enough to crush bones, shoulders stretching a plain t-shirt that looked dark grey but might’ve once been black. sweat clung to the sides of his throat, his sleeves rolled tight over veiny forearms, one thick vein bulging from his neck like a rope as he walked forward.

he had a scar across his lip.

his eyes were green.

they hit you like a truck harder than the one he almost drove into you.

his gaze dropped immediately.

to your soaked thighs.

to the wet fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, the underside of your belly, the hard outline of your nipples through your dress.

he didn’t blink.

and then, for a split second, he breathed in.

like he could smell you.

you felt your knees buckle.

your lips parted.

and in that moment, neither of you said a word.

you couldn’t move.

your soaked shoes squelched when you shifted and the piss had already cooled between your thighs, clinging to the inside of your knees, dripping down to your ankles. your fingers were locked around the underside of your belly, cradling the heavy weight like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth. you were trembling. cheeks flushed. eyes wide and wet.

he stopped right in front of you.

and stared.

your stomach, tight and round and stretching the fabric until it went sheer under the light. your breasts, so full and heavy the seams of your sundress were straining, nipples clearly outlined and puckered. the patch of soaked cotton between your thighs, dark and humiliated.

aecha’s voice cut through the air before you could even catch your breath.

are you crazy?!

her words snapped the silence like a whip.

you were still frozen, heart pounding in your throat, thighs sticky, feet soaked. the heat of your piss had already turned cold, clinging to your skin and dripping down to your ankles, your sandals squelching softly beneath you. you clutched the underside of your belly tighter, like it might slip out of you if you let go.

she spun on him, voice sharper now.

you didn’t even stop at the red light. are you fucking insane?! you almost hit her!

toji’s eyes didn’t leave your body.

he didn’t flinch.

his head turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge her—but his gaze kept dragging back to you, slow and tense like his jaw.

his tongue moved behind his cheek before he exhaled low, steady.

i didn’t see them.

his voice was flat. deep. rough like it hadn’t been used in hours.

you were still gasping, lips parted, your belly rising and falling beneath your dress as you tried to breathe through the shock. you could feel the fabric clinging to the curve of your ass, your thighs, your inner legs slick with piss and sweat. your friend hadn’t noticed yet. she was too busy stepping in front of you, protective, furious.

she’s pregnant, she snapped. look at her! she pissed herself, you asshole! you think this is okay?

toji didn’t move.

he looked down. at your legs. your shoes. the dark patch spread between your thighs. his eyes didn’t jerk away like most men. they stayed there. his lashes heavy, mouth tense.

i didn’t mean to scare her, he said, slower now, quieter.

his shoulders rolled as he breathed again, but the breath was tight. controlled.

you barely heard them. your ears were ringing. all you could do was stand there, trembling, hands gripping your belly like a shield, heart still stuck in your throat. you weren’t crying. not yet. but your eyes had gone blurry, hot, wet.

you blinked once and your vision caught him.

he was massive.

his chest stretched the fabric of his shirt. veins curled over the bend of his arms like rope. a scar dragged the corner of his lip. his hair was damp at the temples like he’d been sweating behind the wheel.

his mouth moved like he was about to speak, but then you shifted your weight and your belly moved again—soft and slow—and his mouth stopped moving.

his jaw locked.

his gaze traced the underside of your belly like he was memorizing it.

sir, what the fuck, her voice hit again, too close this time.

her hand was on your elbow now, tugging you back instinctively. you took a step, one sandal slipping slightly, the sound wet.

she kept yelling, waving an arm toward the truck, toward the red light, but his attention didn’t drift again.

it was glued to you.

and when he spoke, his voice was more clipped now.

i’ll drive you to a hospital.

your friend let out a sharp breath.

oh, so now you’re gonna be helpful? you try to kill us and now you’re suddenly a gentleman? get the fuck out of here. you’re lucky she’s okay.

he exhaled through his nose, slower this time.

he looked like he was about to argue but then you moved again.

your thighs rubbed. your belly shifted. your chest rose—and the outline of your nipples was visible now, two swollen circles pressing through the cotton. your dress clung to the wetness between your legs. your lips were parted. your eyes glossy.

his face twitched.

your voice broke the moment. small, quiet, soft like you’d forgotten how to speak.

s’kay… sir…

it was barely more than a breath.

you hadn’t even meant to say it.

you just wanted the heat to end. the embarrassment. the tension. you weren’t thinking.

but the second it left your mouth, he changed.

his stomach pulled tight under his shirt. his shoulders rose just slightly—his whole body flexed, once, like he was biting something back. he swallowed hard and you watched his throat twitch.

he didn’t say anything.

he just stared.

and in that second, you could feel it.

the shift in the air. the burn behind his eyes. the way he was looking at you—not like a man who made a mistake. not like someone worried.

like someone starving.

you lowered your eyes, breath shallow, and let your arms hug your belly again.

he stepped forward once.

and your friend moved to block him again, furious.

you’re not going near her. we’re calling someone. you’re a fucking pervert.

he didn’t answer.

his eyes dropped one last time to your thighs, your roundness, the soaked patch darkening your dress.

he clenched his jaw.

you were still trembling when you heard her again.

your friend’s voice—loud, breathy, full of panic and disgust—like she was trying to speak enough outrage for the both of you.

you could barely process the words. your pulse was ringing in your ears, blood hot and wet behind your knees, and your thighs were still slick with piss, sticky and clinging under the weight of your sundress. the fabric sucked to your skin now, outlining the full curve of your belly, your swollen breasts, the soft part of your ass that had doubled in size since month four.

he was still standing there. staring.

his body hadn’t moved. broad frame parked right in front of you like a barricade. thick arms loose at his sides, fists flexed once—like his hands were caught between apology and something darker.

she was still yelling, something about suing, about the red light, about how you could’ve fallen. how you could’ve lost the baby.

but the words didn’t feel real.

only the ache in your bladder. the hum in your belly. the burn in your throat.

you blinked. the back of your hand brushed your stomach again, slow and automatic, like your body was trying to shush itself. like maybe if you rubbed enough, the heat would stop climbing.

you looked up at him.

it took effort to speak, voice thin and scratchy from the shock.

he didn’t mean to.

your friend stopped.

turned to you like you’d just betrayed her.

what?

you could barely meet her eyes.

it’s okay. really. just—just calm down.

he didn’t even touch me, you wanted to say. he didn’t hurt me. you couldn’t explain the tremble in your knees, the way your fingers curled tighter under your stomach like you were shielding something sacred.

toji’s voice came low behind you.

not sharp. not defensive. just heavy. irritated.

you need to stop yelling.

he wasn’t looking at your friend.

he was looking at you.

she’s already scared.

the air went quiet for a beat.

your friend scoffed, eyes darting between the two of you like she couldn’t believe what was happening. like she was about to explode.

and still, he didn’t move.

he was so much bigger up close.

you hadn’t realized how much until now.

he was standing in front of you fully, body blocking the sun, taller by at least a foot. his chest rose slow and thick under a worn black tee, his belt sitting snug across a hard waist and broad hips, cargo pants hugging his thighs. the outline of his biceps twitched slightly under rolled sleeves. his neck, veined and flexing with each slow breath, looked like it could snap jaws.

he looked down at you like he was studying something raw.

a creature he’d never seen before.

he glanced once more at your belly—still shifting softly with the baby’s movement—then back to your face.

you barely reached his chest.

you rubbed your bump again, slower this time. you weren’t thinking. your fingers just needed to move.

the silence was thick now. uncomfortable.

and he broke it.

let me take you to a hospital.

his voice was lower now. slower. his throat worked through a swallow as he added—

or at least let me buy you new shoes. new clothes.

his eyes dropped to the puddle near your feet.

your soaked sandals. the piss glistening across the tops of your feet, tracing your ankles, your calves.

you didn’t answer right away. your fingers were still rubbing slow circles at the top of your belly, like a woman hypnotized. your lips felt dry, but your eyes were soft now, too soft, blinking slow like you were calming down—because he was calm.

he was so calm.

and your friend was standing beside you, breathing hard, arms crossed, trying to regain control.

we don’t need your help.

toji didn’t even look at her.

he took one half-step closer. not enough to threaten. just enough that you could smell him.

you tipped your head back to look up at him, lashes fluttering as the shadow of his body covered yours again, heat crawling up your neck like shame.

but he didn’t mock you.

he didn’t pity you.

he just looked at you like he saw everything.

your fattened thighs, your stretched stomach, the leak-stained crotch of your dress, the quiet way you trembled under pressure and still tried to be good.

you didn’t know why your lips moved again.

but they did.

soft. breathy.

okay…

your friend made a noise behind you, somewhere between disbelief and rage.

you didn’t hear her.

you were still staring up at him.

and he—

he hadn’t blinked once.

aecha’s voice came sharp behind you.

tighter this time. pissed. frantic.

no.

you flinched.

no, you don’t know him. you don’t even know him. just because he’s got some fancy car and a belt that costs more than your rent doesn’t mean you can trust him.

her hand wrapped around your wrist without asking, tugging once. hard. like she thought if she pulled fast enough, you’d snap out of whatever spell you were under.

but it wasn’t a spell.

you screamed.

not loud. not theatrical. just a soft, strained, pregnant scream—high and aching, more like a cry than a yell. your sandals squeaked, your balance slipped, and your free hand flew to your belly protectively as your whole body buckled forward.

aecha.

you whined it. breathless.

what’s wrong with you?

tears blinked down your cheeks without warning. hot, fast, shameful. your voice cracked around the edges, too hormonal, too broken, your other hand still pressed over the top of your belly like you were cradling the baby through the shock.

aecha didn’t back off.

she was fuming.

no. i’m not letting you go anywhere with him. i don’t care how he talks or how fucking pretty you think he is. he’s a stranger, and you’re pissing yourself in the street, and you’re six months pregnant—your boyfriend is going to flip out.

you snapped your wrist from her grip before you realized you were moving.

don’t.

you yanked your arm away with a force you didn’t know you had, your breath ragged now, lips trembling.

dae wouldn’t even care.

you didn’t mean to say it. it came out like a gasp.

if dae was here, he’d be embarrassed. he wouldn’t be helping. he’d look at me like i’m disgusting.

you paused, one hand still pressed against your belly, dress soaked and clinging to your thighs.

he wouldn’t have stopped the car.

aecha’s face twisted. something between betrayal and helpless rage.

then fucking go, she hissed. her arms went up, face burning red.

go with your pervert. good luck.

she glanced once over your shoulder at him, then back to you, eyes narrowing.

good luck, slut.

and then she turned.

she didn’t say goodbye.

you stared after her, stunned, lips parted, heart thudding in your throat.

and that’s when you felt it.

warmth behind you. a shadow moving closer. no touch. no breath. just presence. heavy and thick and masculine and impossible to ignore.

you didn’t have to look to know it was him.

he was behind you now.

and towering.

his voice came low. not soft. not mean. just flat with quiet judgment.

looks like you got some issues to work through with your people.

a pause.

let’s go, pretty girl.

you blinked slow.

you turned your head, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder.

you could smell him.

spiced cologne. versace eros. musk and heat and the faint burn of a cigar smoked hours ago. not fresh. just clinging to him like memory. like sin.

you didn’t say anything.

you just started walking.

your steps were slow. sticky. the wet fabric between your thighs chafing. your breath still uneven. your face hot with shame.

he didn’t guide you. didn’t rush.

he walked ahead, a step or two in front of you, broad shoulders stretching his shirt. his back was wide. tapering into that solid waist, thick belt, heavy boots. he opened the passenger door of his black range rover and held it without a word.

you stood there.

staring at the interior. the leather seats. the glossy touchscreen. the quiet hum of luxury. the cleanliness.

your eyes flicked down.

you were soaked.

your legs were dripping again, slowly, and the hem of your dress was stained from where the piss had clung and dried along your thighs.

your voice was so small when it came out you almost didn’t hear it.

do you have… a towel or something i can sit on?

he turned his head toward you.

his brows rose. barely.

and then a quiet snort. not amused. not cruel. just slightly exasperated.

he tilted his head, leaned an elbow on the door, and looked down at you fully now. his pecs flexed under the cotton of his shirt as he breathed, arms heavy and veined, his expression unreadable except for the bare twitch in his jaw.

it’s just piss.

you flinched.

he blinked slow. looked at the seat. looked back at you.

a lil mess.

his eyes dropped once—belly, tits, thighs.

ya think i care?

his voice dropped lower.

i’ll get it cleaned. that’s what car washers are for.

he leaned in just a little.

what you should care about is that you didn’t get your belly crushed by a fuckin truck.

you blinked again, glassy-eyed.

now sit.

you nodded.

slow. obedient.

and you did.

the leather stuck to the backs of your thighs the second you sat.

it was warm. not from the sun, but from the seat itself, like his truck had been running long enough to trap body heat inside, to soak it into the cushions. the piss that had dried into your panties dampened again from the pressure, and you could feel it pressing up, warm and slick between your thighs as your weight sank in. the stretch of your hips forced your knees to spread slightly, and your belly rose high between them, taut and round and full, pushing against the lower curve of your breasts. the seatbelt was too tight. the air smelled like pine and men’s cologne and the lingering ghost of a cigar—smoke and sweetness, burnt sugar and old breath. your breath stuttered. your fingers hovered over the seatbelt, unsure where to start. your hands were trembling. your panties were sticking to your folds. your thighs still burned. and he was standing there. outside. his shadow cutting across your lap through the windshield, frame so wide he filled the driver’s side window before even opening the door. you looked down at yourself and felt so exposed, even in the air-conditioned silence of his car. your nipples were hard again. your stomach shifted. your lower back was starting to ache but you didn’t say anything. you just sat there with your knees sticky and apart and your fingers curled in your lap like a child, body sore, face hot, mouth dry, and the part that scared you most was how safe you felt. how wet you were. how good it felt to be looked at. not with pity. not with disgust. not like dae did. but like you were something to keep. your breath hitched as he finally opened his door and slid in—his presence loud even in silence, engine purring as he shut the door and filled the cabin with nothing but heat and him. toji.

and you couldn’t look at him yet. not yet. not without gasping.

he drove with the kind of ease that only came from a man who was used to being in control. one hand on the wheel, broad palm curved over the leather grip, the other resting low on his thigh, thumb tapping the denim like a rhythm he didn’t notice. he slouched into the seat but still took up all the space—spread knees, wide back, the muscle in his forearm flexing every time the car turned. the cabin was cool but heavy with heat, the kind that lingered after bodies had been inside too long. the faint hum of the engine, the low thud of tires rolling over patched concrete, the quiet pulse of the air vents—it all blurred together as the city smeared past the windows.

you hadn’t said much since getting in.

you were still adjusting to the way the leather clung to your thighs. your stomach sat heavy in your lap, tight and round, straining the fabric of your dress, rising and falling with each uneven breath. the belt stretched uncomfortably across the slope of your belly, biting a little into your side, and your feet had already begun to swell again. you stared out the passenger window, arms curled loosely around yourself, hands smoothing down the same spot over and over—just below your navel, like you were trying to convince the baby inside that everything was fine. that you weren’t trembling. that you hadn’t just been humiliated in the street.

his voice broke through the hum.

how far along?

you didn’t look at him. just blinked slowly, lips parted from the weight of everything.

six months.

he hummed low. not a word. just that sound men made when they were thinking but didn’t want to give too much away.

you like it?

you breathed out through your nose. not a laugh. not an answer. just something tired.

it’s hard.

you could feel his eyes on you even if he didn’t turn his head. just that quiet, crawling weight of being watched. it didn’t feel judgmental. just present. too present.

in his head, he compared you to hana.

hana, who used to stand in front of the mirror pinching her skin between her fingers like it was a threat. hana, who rationed her food in ounces. hana, who said things like my body is my business and i don’t owe anyone a baby and then cried when her period made her bloat. he hadn’t seen her naked in months. hadn’t wanted to. she was delicate, yes. beautiful in the way you admire from far away. but she didn’t feel real. not like this.

you—soft, flushed, visibly struggling to stay upright in the passenger seat, leaking into your soaked panties, cheeks blotched, thighs swollen, belly round and shifting beneath your own hand—you looked like a woman who had been taken. like you’d been filled up and left to carry it, like your body had bloomed in real time from pain and pressure and feral need. you looked like you needed someone to hold you up and drag you through the fire, not give you protein shake recipes.

he shifted in his seat, thumb tapping harder.

the screen lit up.

hana.

incoming call.

you saw it. you didn’t need to stare. the photo—her white teeth, perfect tan, frozen in that fake-candid look. the call pulsing on the glossy black screen, vibrating softly beneath it.

he ignored it.

you said nothing.

it came back. again. same call. same name.

his jaw ticked once. he silenced it with a flick of his finger, then pressed into the touchscreen and disconnected bluetooth completely.

you heard him clear his throat. like it meant nothing.

got any cravings? want me to get you some sushis.

your eyes drifted toward him, half-lidded. your lips curved, lazy. slow.

he was trying.

you’re really gonna offer sushi to a pregnant woman?

you turned your head to the side and looked at him, properly, for the first time.

he didn’t smile, but his lip twitched. the scar across it stretched. he looked back at the road.

look, i don’t know the rules.

his voice was rougher now. the kind of hoarse that came from clenching too long, holding something in.

you rested your cheek against the window for a moment, eyes fluttering shut as you rubbed your belly again.

mmm. just get me something greasy.

he glanced sideways. the kind of glance that scanned too much in too little time. his eyes dipped over your knees, your thighs, the curve of your ass flattened against the seat, the soft roll of your hip pushing against the seatbelt.

anything in particular?

you shrugged.

fast food. something shitty.

he laughed—barely—but it cracked his chest open. a low, grating sound, deep from his stomach. he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and muttered something like okay under his breath, his eyes lingering longer this time. not on your belly.

on your mouth. your thighs. the way you shifted when you said shitty like you wanted to be seen.

you sat there. leaking. swollen. unbothered.

he turned the wheel one-handed again.

and took the next exit.

he didn’t talk too much at first.

his voice had that weight to it—masculine in the quiet way, the kind of voice that stayed low, gravelly, a little dry at the edges like it only got used when necessary. deep but not showy. like he could make your whole name sound filthy just by saying it once in that slow, half-bored tone.

but now that the silence had cracked, he let the words come easier.

you didn’t even know how the conversation started. he said something about how hot it was lately, how the city smelled like pavement and sweat, and how your man should’ve been the one out there with you, carrying your bags, watching the road.

you hummed. didn’t say much. just rubbed your belly and pretended you weren’t throbbing between the legs.

his voice kept going.

sometimes steady, sometimes quiet, always low. god, so low. like his whole chest vibrated with it. and you tried not to react. you crossed your legs and then uncrossed them. you shifted in your seat and every time the tires hit a bump in the road, your swollen breasts bounced under your dress, nipples raw and aching. you knew. you knew he noticed. his hand never left the wheel but his jaw kept flexing tighter.

your thighs rubbed with every movement, sticky with sweat, the soaked fabric of your dress wedging between them like it belonged there. your sundress had ridden up almost to your hip by now and you hadn’t even realized until his eyes dropped for a second too long at a red light and he caught the crease where your thigh met the swell of your ass.

he didn’t say anything.

but he knew you saw him look.

you twirled your hair around your fingers and turned toward the window again, pretending not to care. pretending you weren’t horny out of your mind. pretending your pussy wasn’t hot and wet and swollen, pressed into your ruined panties, clenching every time he spoke low beside you.

he sounded like he could fuck with his voice alone.

the kind of voice that didn’t rush. didn’t ask permission. the kind that told you what to do and made you want to do it, even while your pride made you cross your arms tighter under your sore tits and act like you were listening to the radio instead.

he said something about how nobody gave a fuck anymore. how men these days were soft. too scared to deal with blood or stretch marks or leaking or mess.

you glanced at him out the corner of your eye.

and you couldn’t help it.

you smiled.

a tiny little smirk tugged the corner of your mouth and you let it sit there, quiet, like a secret.

he caught it.

he didn’t say anything at first. just glanced back.

what?

his voice curved a little. not quite teasing. but it had a different texture now. a subtle pull. a hook.

nothing, you said, twisting your hair again.

he didn’t push.

you wished he would.

you were chewing the inside of your cheek now, pressing your thighs together, trying to sit still but you couldn’t. everything ached. your back. your feet. your pussy. you wanted him to say something disgusting. you wanted him to stop acting normal. to reach over and drag your leg over his thigh and press your hand to the bulge you knew had to be there.

but he didn’t.

he just drove like he wasn’t about to lose it.

like he hadn’t been staring at your soaked thighs ten minutes ago like he was starving.

he adjusted the mirror. rubbed the back of his neck again with that big, veiny hand. cleared his throat like it might calm something in him.

you liked the way he drove.

one hand on the wheel. broad fingers tapping sometimes. arm flexed enough to make the veins shift up his skin, thick forearm stretched out under the sun. he leaned back a little more now, like he was getting comfortable.

you peeked at his lap.

quick.

low.

his zipper was bulging slightly. not obscene. just present. enough to make your mouth dry.

he asked if you were always from the city. what you did before. what you were planning to name the baby. he didn’t sound like he cared for small talk—he sounded like he wanted to know. like he’d memorize every word. like he’d store it somewhere.

you gave short answers. didn’t want to talk too much or seem desperate. you weren’t the kind of girl who poured her heart into the first man with a car and muscles and a voice that made her spine buzz.

but you were squeezing your thighs together again.

and he noticed.

you knew he did.

he didn’t speak for a while after that. just breathed.

the window was cracked and his cologne was still thick in the air—versace eros and something else. tobacco. his skin. sweat. something dark.

you hated how much you liked it.

he asked if you needed to stop. if you were hungry again. if there was anything he could get you.

and you couldn’t stop your lips curling again.

you didn’t even look at him when you said it.

i already told you.

his eyes flicked toward you.

fast food. nothing cute.

he huffed a breath out his nose.

half laugh. half groan.

you eat like a guy.

you smiled wider.

you drive like a guy.

he laughed at that. really laughed. voice deeper when it cracked open like that, his grin pulling crooked over his scar.

you like it?

you turned toward the window again.

smiled.

maybe.

and god—he wanted to pull over.

he wanted to stop the car right there and make you say it again but slower. messier. with your lips wrapped around the word.

his hand flexed tighter on the wheel.

and you?

you just kept rubbing your belly.

playing innocent.

and bouncing softly with every bump in the road.

the dress was too small.

he’d handed it to you outside the fitting room like it was just a quick fix. said nothing special, just something soft for now. it wasn’t fancy—just a blush-colored thing, simple cotton, ribbed texture with a soft hem and v-neck that dipped too low—but you didn’t expect it to cling like it did.

it pulled tight under your chest the second you slid it down. the fabric caught the curve of your breasts and pressed there, lifting them up without a bra, the cotton molding around the swollen weight of them like a second skin. you could see the dark outline of your nipples through it immediately. the hem refused to go past your thighs. it stopped high—mid-thigh in the front, rising even more in the back where your ass had filled out from the pregnancy. the side seams looked stretched already. you couldn’t even bend over in it without flashing everything.

but it was soft. and it was his.

and when you stepped out, biting your lip, shifting your weight, mumbling something about how fat you felt—he didn’t laugh. didn’t tease.

he just looked at you.

and nodded once.

perfect.

you didn’t realize how high the heat would climb until after lunch. it was already late—sun starting to slope orange against the sky—and the fast food had settled heavy in your stomach, mixing with the bloat of hormones and heat. you felt stuffed. full. thighs rubbed when you walked. your black panties were too tight now, sticking to the lips of your pussy under the cotton, digging into the crease of your hip. every step you took, you felt them ride higher. cling deeper.

and you liked it.

he helped you back into the car again, hand resting on your hip as you climbed in slow, your belly swaying, the thin dress catching against your ass. he adjusted the door for you, hand brushing lower than it needed to go, steadying you—and the pressure of his palm against your waist made your thighs clench before you could stop it.

you bit your lip.

looked up at him.

he didn’t say anything.

but he was smirking.

and you didn’t even hide your smile when you leaned back in the seat and let the dress ride up higher.

you lounged sideways in the passenger seat now, belly rising in the middle, thighs spread slightly, one hand idly smoothing the front of the dress while the other twisted into your hair. your cleavage was soft and obvious, breasts heavy and pushed up by the tight cut of the neckline, stretch marks faintly visible along the upper curve. you let your legs fall open just enough that the edge of your panties peeked out. black. soaked. tight around your hips.

he didn’t say anything.

but he wasn’t pretending not to look.

the screen buzzed once—another call from hana—and he shut it off with a flick of his thumb. didn’t even flinch.

thank you, you murmured, not meeting his eyes.

for the dress. for the food.

your voice was warm. syrupy. that kind of sweet that made men think they weren’t being manipulated.

and sorry, you added. about my friend. she’s always been like that.

he raised an eyebrow, glancing over at you as he pulled onto the highway.

like what?

bitter.

you smiled, softer this time.

we’ve known each other since high school. she’s… competitive. when we were younger, if i got attention from guys, she’d make this face. like she was offended by it.

his jaw worked as he merged lanes.

so she’s always had that energy.

you nodded.

mhm. the you-think-you’re-special energy. the i’d-look-better-in-that energy. she never liked when men paid attention to someone else.

he nodded slowly.

yeah.

his voice was darker now. not angry. just quiet.

i get it.

you watched him for a second. the way his neck flexed, one hand still loose on the wheel. his chest rising under the soft stretch of his tee. the bulk of him completely taking over the driver’s seat like the car was made around him.

he didn’t ask anything for a while.

then—

your boyfriend.

he said it flat.

he lucky to have someone like you?

your smile curled slowly.

you didn’t answer right away.

just twisted your hair tighter around your finger and dropped your eyes to your lap.

soft giggle.

i think he’s still figuring that out.

toji exhaled through his nose. one of those deep, quiet sounds men make when they want to say a hundred things and swallow them all.

he looked at your thighs again.

your stomach.

the line of your black panties between your legs.

he didn’t hide it this time.

you saw him look.

you didn’t stop him.

you smiled again.

he’s not exactly hype about the whole baby thing, you said lightly, adjusting your tits with one arm as you spoke, pretending it was casual.

he wanted me to end it.

toji didn’t respond.

he was gripping the wheel tighter now. his knuckles pale.

and you?

you shifted again. thighs spread wider. dress riding up.

i wanted it.

he didn’t look away.

you smiled again—slow, slutty, aching from the inside out.

you asked, and he answered.

my girlfriend hana doesn’t want kids too, he said, voice rough now.

you tilted your head.

but you do.

he didn’t answer.

he didn’t need to.

you could feel it.

and the silence sat between you now—thick, hot, alive.

your panties were soaked.

and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

the air had gotten quieter.

not awkward, not stiff—but that kind of silence that starts to gather when two people are sitting too close and pretending they’re not thinking the same thing.

you were still lounging in the seat, belly rising with every breath, thighs parted from the weight of it all, the pink dress riding high enough now to tease the crease between your leg and hip. your panties had long soaked through. you could feel it each time you shifted, the cotton sticking and pulling between your lips. it was obscene, how hot and wet you were just from talking to him.

and he was still pretending to drive like it was nothing.

you didn’t know what made you do it.

maybe it was the way he stared at the road like it had done something to him. maybe it was the clench of his jaw when you mentioned your boyfriend not being excited. maybe it was the vein that curled over his hand as he gripped the steering wheel, that thick forearm flexing with every slight movement.

but when you looked at him again—really looked—something caught in your chest.

you gasped. soft. barely audible. more breath than voice.

he noticed.

you didn’t hide it this time.

he turned his head slightly, still driving, and you saw it—the frustration sitting in his jaw, the way his mouth tightened around it like he was chewing something bitter.

you okay?

you nodded, but your eyes were still on him. still wide.

he sighed.

it’s nothing.

he glanced over at you again.

i just think your man’s an idiot. that’s all.

you blinked slowly.

your hand rubbed over your stomach again, gently, without thinking.

i don’t get it either.

his mouth twitched. like he didn’t want to say what came next but couldn’t stop it.

you show up like this. all soft. glowing. you chose this. carried it. wear it like it’s yours. your back’s hurting and you’re still smiling like it’s worth it.

he ran a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated.

and some guy has that—you—willingly, and he’s too fuckin blind to know what he’s got.

you shifted again. slowly. your thighs spread further, the hem of the dress crawling higher.

you looked out the window to steady yourself.

he kept going.

hana froze her eggs last year. told me she wanted to preserve her options. said pregnancy’s a trauma to the body.

he scoffed once. dry.

called it that word—trauma. like it’s a disease.

your brows knit as you turned back to him.

she can, though. right? she’s able to?

he nodded once.

yeah.

then she’s stupid.

your voice was firm. no giggle. no sugar.

there’s so many women who can’t. who’d kill to carry once. and she can? and won’t?

he didn’t answer right away.

he looked straight ahead, chest rising.

i always wanted it, you know.

you were quiet now.

wanted a team. kids everywhere. house noisy. gym gear all over the floor. sons i could raise hard. teach them not to take shit.

he paused.

and girls i’d spoil so much they’d never need some prick to tell them they’re pretty.

you bit your lip.

your voice came quieter now.

you’d be a good one.

he looked at you.

not with pity.

not like you were some single mom in need of saving.

he looked at you like you were his already.

and you touched him.

you didn’t think. you just let your fingers reach across the console, brushing against the warm skin of his arm, right below the sleeve.

it was harder than you expected.

dense. hot. tight with muscle.

your fingers looked small against it—soft and slow as they moved over the grain of his forearm, up toward the curve of his bicep.

he didn’t move.

but his knuckles whitened on the wheel.

you’re not wrong, he said finally.

his voice was lower now. hoarse like it was dragged up through his chest.

i don’t care about weight. i don’t care if she’s sore or messy or loud or cries for no reason. i’d still take care of her. i’d train harder. go to the gym more. lift more. carry her if i had to.

he paused.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, your hand still resting against his arm, heat from his skin seeping into your palm.

some women don’t know how lucky they are.

he looked at you again.

you think i’m lucky?

you met his gaze, cheeks flushed, breath warm.

you don’t need to ask.

he didn’t smile.

not really.

but his hand shifted.

and yours stayed where it was.

you kept it there, resting gently against the rough swell of his forearm like it had a right to be there, like it belonged. your fingers were soft, too soft—he could feel the difference instantly, how much smaller they were, how different they felt from what he was used to. you weren’t doing anything special. you weren’t stroking or gripping. you were just there. pressing against him like it was natural. like you didn’t need to ask.

you watched the road, but you weren’t looking at it. your eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed on nothing. you were too aware of the heat rising up your thighs again, of the wetness clinging under your panties, of how tight your dress felt now that you’d eaten. your belly was heavier. the pressure made you spread your legs more, the hem riding up again, black panties peeking in the corner of his eye as he turned the wheel.

you glanced at him.

his jaw was still clenched.

he looked straight ahead, his mouth drawn tight, hand gripping the wheel like it owed him something. but he didn’t tell you to move. didn’t shrug you off. didn’t say a word about the way your palm was still pressed to his skin, how your nails had grazed a vein a minute ago and made it twitch under your touch.

you swallowed softly.

he finally spoke again, voice rougher than before, like gravel pressed into asphalt.

i tried to talk to her about it once.

his throat moved as he swallowed, fingers tapping once against the leather of the wheel.

told her it wasn’t about control or forcing her to be something she’s not. it was about what i wanted.

you listened.

not with pity. not to flatter him.

but because he sounded tired.

not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

just a man who’d spent too long wanting the wrong thing from someone who couldn’t give it.

she said i was trying to change her.

he laughed, but it wasn’t a good one. it was hollow, low in his chest.

i said i’d love her no matter what. even if she gained weight. even if she got pregnant by accident and hated it at first. even if she screamed through every month.

he paused, jaw tightening again.

told her i’d be there. i’d train harder. protect her. spoil her if she needed it.

he turned to look at you for just a second.

but she won’t listen.

you nodded slowly, biting your lip.

your hand squeezed his arm—just once, soft, reassuring—but you didn’t pull away.

some women just… don’t get it.

your voice was quiet now.

they want to be wanted, but not needed. they want attention but not weight.

you felt the tears sting at your throat suddenly. not the dramatic kind. just that little ache when someone says something that hits too close.

and you said, almost in a whisper—

i would’ve killed to hear that from my boyfriend.

toji turned his head again.

looked at you.

really looked.

his eyes dropped—slow, unhurried—to the soft curve of your belly, the gentle way your dress clung to the roundness, the stretch of the fabric across your full breasts, the faint peek of your black panties between your thick thighs, the sheen of sweat under your cleavage.

he looked back up.

you’re too good for him.

your heart knocked once against your ribs.

you shouldn’t say that.

but you didn’t mean it.

he didn’t answer.

his hand left the wheel for just a second—long enough to rake through his messy hair again, push it back like he was trying to cool himself down.

he laughed once, quieter this time, more like an exhale through his nose.

you’re bold for a pregnant woman.

you smiled.

pregnancy makes me bold.

you shifted again, crossing your legs in the seat, the fabric stretching tighter across your ass as your stomach jutted higher. your thighs clamped together, sticking from the heat. your dress hiked again, and the waistband of your panties caught just under the curve of your belly.

you didn’t bother to fix it.

he didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t looking.

and when his eyes dragged up from between your thighs to your breasts again, you let them linger.

he said, softer this time—

it’s good.

his voice was low now, like it belonged in a bedroom and not a car.

that women like you exist.

you tilted your head, letting the air settle.

you mean messy? tired? hungry? always needing help standing up?

he chuckled once.

i mean real. not empty.

you smiled again, slower this time.

stretch marks and all?

his answer was immediate.

especially those.

and you laughed. but it broke into a soft sigh, because you believed him. you wanted to. even if it wasn’t your name he’d said over the phone. even if he hadn’t touched you. even if you were still pretending this was just a ride.

he didn’t take his eyes off you at the next red light.

and you didn’t look away either.

you just rested your hand on your belly again.

and kept your legs parted.

you shifted again in the seat.

slow. deliberate.

your thighs parted wider as you leaned back against the cool leather, one hand resting under your belly, the other smoothing up toward the top curve of it, fingers trembling slightly as the pressure shifted. you could feel the kick coming before it happened—the little roll beneath your skin, the low tight push that made your breath catch in your throat.

and then—there. sharp, firm.

you gasped.

not soft this time.

a real sound, laced with something deeper—like a moan that didn’t know where it belonged. it left your mouth open, lips parted wet, and your head tipped back for a second as your thighs shifted again, trying to accommodate the stretch of movement inside you.

mpf fuck.

you whispered it like it was nothing. like it belonged to the air between you.

he gripped the wheel tighter.

you rubbed your bump again, nails dragging lightly over the fabric of your dress, just above the peak. the cotton was so tight now you could see the outline of your belly button, the shape of the kick pulsing against it.

another gasp.

you bit your lip.

his voice broke the silence. strained. low.

you alright?

you nodded slowly, still panting, still rubbing.

yeah.

you turned your head to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth open just enough that your breath hit the window when you exhaled.

he’s kicking again.

toji’s throat moved.

you hummed again, but this one was filthier—lower, breathier, like it was meant for someone. your thighs tensed, parted slightly again as your back arched gently, belly tilting forward.

you can feel it… if you want.

your voice didn’t come out innocent. not anymore.

he turned toward you—just for a second—but that second was enough.

your dress was pulled so tight now across your chest that your nipples were visibly hard beneath the fabric. your breasts were on the verge of spilling out with every bump in the road, cleavage slick and full and heaving with each moan. your thighs, spread open around your belly, let the black band of your panties peek up again, soaked and clinging. your stomach moved once more beneath your palm, the kick pressing out like a signal.

he stared.

you’re gonna make me fuckin insane, you know that?

his voice wasn’t teasing anymore.

you bit your lip again and smoothed your hand lower, pressing gently just above the kick.

he’s strong.

toji let out a breath, slow and tight, adjusting his grip on the wheel like he didn’t trust himself not to swerve off the road.

you still want to feel?

your voice was lower now. nearly a whisper. but not nervous.

you wanted this.

his hand came off the wheel.

and he reached for you.

his hand left the wheel like it was instinct. like his body moved before he gave it permission. fingers flexed once in midair, hesitating, unsure of where to go—her thigh? her belly? the waistband of those soaked black panties peeking between her legs like a secret?

you didn’t look at him at first.

you kept your eyes out the window, lashes low, rubbing slow circles over the roundest part of your stomach, where the baby had shifted again, pushing into your palm from the inside like it knew. like it was putting on a show.

you moaned again. this time softer.

higher in your throat.

a breathy little sound that wasn’t innocent but still tried to wear the costume.

toji’s breath caught. you heard it. low and hot, right before he cleared his throat and spoke again, trying to steady himself.

where?

you turned toward him slowly, like it took effort.

your lips were parted. your cheeks flushed. your thighs still slightly open, dress bunched up at the top of them now, cotton stretched so thin across your breasts it looked translucent in the light.

you lifted your hand and touched a spot—low, near the right side of your belly, just above your waistband.

here.

he moved closer.

his hand hovered now, a few inches from your stomach, broad palm trembling slightly with restraint.

you waited.

bit your lip.

tilted your head like you were thinking about something dangerous.

you don’t have to, you said softly, lashes fluttering.

but your voice betrayed you. that breathy little twist at the end made it sound like you wanted him to. like you wanted him to know you were too polite to beg but your body was aching to be touched.

he didn’t answer with words.

his hand lowered.

and pressed gently over yours.

you both gasped at the same time.

your hand was soft. his was rough—calloused, thick, hot even through the thin cotton of your dress. the weight of it on your stomach made your thighs twitch slightly, made your spine curl forward just a bit, belly pressing into his palm like it wanted to be held.

he didn’t rub. didn’t move. just rested it there.

like he was grounding himself.

the baby kicked again. hard.

your breath caught, lips twitching.

you moaned. sharper this time. almost a whimper.

he felt it.

his fingers tensed slightly, thumb brushing over the fabric where your skin curved up beneath it, tracing the shape of the movement.

his jaw clenched.

he’s strong, huh?

you nodded, biting your lip again, curling your fingers under the hem of your dress like you were fixing it—but you didn’t pull it down.

you let it bunch up more.

your thighs spread a little wider.

he’s active lately, you murmured, shifting your hips just slightly in the seat.

probably feels all my tension.

you glanced at him now. eyes glassy. lips wet.

then maybe you should relax, he said.

you giggled.

you’re sweet.

his hand didn’t move.

your stomach moved again beneath it. your dress was nearly riding up over your hips now.

you looked down at his hand.

big. veiny. flexing slightly every time your body shifted under him.

your fingers brushed his wrist—barely—just as another kick moved under the skin.

you smiled like it tickled.

and then you sighed, slow and breathy, as if the weight of his hand somehow settled your entire body.

mmh. yeah. right there.

you weren’t talking to the baby anymore.

and he knew it.

you didn’t move his hand. not even when he flexed his fingers, broad palm dragging lightly over the curve of your stomach, thumb grazing the rise of your bump like he was memorizing the weight of it. the baby kicked once more—gentler now, like it was settling—and you sighed, leaning further back into the seat, letting your legs relax, your dress riding higher with every breath.

you rubbed over his hand slowly. like it was normal. like this was something people did. your fingers traced the ridges of his knuckles, the callouses across his palm, the edge of his wrist where his veins stood out thick beneath the skin. you let your thighs part just a little more and pressed his hand flatter against the top of your belly, humming quietly like it soothed you.

he was driving slowly now. slower than needed. the streets were mostly empty, just sunset bleeding into dusk and soft city lights flickering on like sighs. the hum of the car, the soft brush of your fingers against his, the heat of your skin—it filled the air between you like smoke.

he spoke again, voice quieter now. lower. almost like he was pretending to ask something innocent, something polite.

how’re your breasts holding up?

you turned your head and looked at him, pout forming before you could stop it. your eyes were glassy again, lashes heavy, mouth open slightly from the heat pooling in your core.

mmph. sore. disgusting. huge.

you shifted in the seat, one arm sliding up to cup the weight of one. your hand barely covered it.

nipples are… dark. fat. i hate them.

toji’s jaw ticked once, fingers flexing again where they rested on your stomach. he made a soft sound. not quite agreement. not disagreement either. just… pressure.

mm. happens.

his hand slid lower, rubbing in slow circles over the tightest part of your belly.

you cupped both breasts now, tugging the dress down slightly—not too far. just enough to let the neckline pull lower, the swell of cleavage more visible, soft skin marked with faint reddish stretch lines that glowed in the warm light. you didn’t hide it. you showed him like you were showing a friend a rash. like it was helpful.

see?

he nodded once.

tight. controlled.

yeah. looks heavy.

you let out a breathy little laugh.

they are. everything’s heavy.

he rubbed lower.

your thighs twitched again.

the ride was quiet for a few more blocks. your eyes fluttered slightly, head resting against the seat. the movement of his hand over your belly had slowed, turning into gentle strokes. your fingers had drifted back to his wrist, tracing him. grounding yourself.

when he turned onto your street, the headlights caught the curve of your apartment building, familiar and dim.

you straightened a little, twisting toward the window.

he’s not here.

your voice was small. hollow.

you stared at the driveway. your boyfriend’s car wasn’t parked.

again.

you tried to sound annoyed.

but you just sounded… tired.

toji’s voice came after a beat, warm and low.

you want me to walk you up?

you hesitated.

then smiled a little.

nah. s’kay. i should walk. sitting too long makes me sore.

you started shifting in your seat, preparing to gather your bag, your limbs heavy and sticky from heat and arousal and all the weight you carried. you adjusted your dress, but didn’t pull it down all the way. you still let it sit high across your thighs.

thanks for today.

you looked at him when you said it, trying to smile fully, but your voice cracked just a bit.

really. i… i’m glad i met you.

he nodded once.

eyes steady.

but he didn’t speak.

he just reached over slowly, his hand sliding down.

at first it was casual. neutral.

his palm moved across your thigh—thick, warm—fingers curling slightly as they met the meat of it, squeezing once.

you gasped softly.

he didn’t flinch.

s’nothing, he muttered.

his hand moved slightly. back and forth. rubbing slowly over the top of your thigh.

man’s supposed to help.

his voice was deeper now. quieter.

especially when women get like this. pregnant. tired.

his hand moved again.

you were frozen.

his palm slid higher, fingers brushing over the seam of your inner thigh now—pressing, then pulling back, then pressing again like he was testing what your body would allow.

he squeezed your thigh again.

and then—lower.

just a little.

the heel of his hand brushed the crease where your pussy met your leg.

you twitched.

he didn’t react. didn’t apologize.

his voice stayed steady.

feels hot.

his palm settled there.

you looked down.

your panties were soaked. you knew they were. drooling, almost. the outline of your pussy pressing against the cotton like it was begging. swollen, puffy from the heat, from the attention, from the sheer frustration of being untouched for so long.

you moaned softly. not loud.

just a breath that came out too thick to hide.

he rubbed once more.

still pretending it was nothing.

still staring forward like he was only helping.

and you sat there. legs open. tits sore. panties wet. eyes wide.

letting him help.

you didn’t even notice how tightly you were squeezing your thighs until he pulled his hand back.

his fingers dragged slow over the seam of your skin, where your panties had already begun to stick from how wet you were. the cotton clung to your pussy, soaked and puffy, every inch of you swollen with heat and pressure and the weight of everything you weren’t getting at home.

his thumb brushed higher—just barely.

enough to graze the edge of your lips beneath the fabric.

you twitched.

gasped softly.

your eyes fluttered.

he didn’t say a word.

just rubbed his hand over your thigh again, slower this time, dragging the wetness upward—until it glistened faintly in the glow of the console light.

then he pulled back.

you watched him.

dazed. throbbing.

he didn’t meet your eyes.

just sniffed once—quiet, subtle—like clearing his nose.

but you saw the way his fingers hovered near his mouth before he wiped them quickly on his jeans.

casual. nothing to see. like he was drying sweat.

but he knew.

you both knew.

his door opened first.

the air changed immediately—the warm thud of summer night sweeping in, thick and heavy, the sound of his boots on the pavement, his keys jangling softly as he turned toward your side.

you sat there. thighs wet. heart racing.

he opened your door slowly.

his scent hit you all at once.

man. not boy.

spiced cologne and soap and something low and smoky, like the back of his neck had held a cigar once and never let it go. the smell of chest hair and heat. of someone who never needed to speak too loud.

his shadow fell across you as he leaned down.

c’mon.

you blinked.

i said i’m good, you muttered, shifting like you were going to step out.

but your knees didn’t follow.

your body was too heavy. too hot.

and he didn’t wait.

he bent down and lifted you—slow, deliberate, one arm slipping under your knees, the other beneath your back.

your ass dropped onto his forearm with a soft thud. skin to skin. hot. bare. the dress had ridden up too high now and you weren’t wearing anything under it but those soaked, thin panties.

you gasped again.

your arm looped around his neck out of instinct, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt.

toji.

mm.

he didn’t look down. didn’t adjust his grip.

just straightened with you in his arms, shifted your weight against him like you didn’t weigh anything at all.

his free hand reached into his pocket and clicked the key fob.

behind you, the car beeped softly, locking with a low whine.

you felt his bicep flex beneath you.

felt the sweat on your back.

felt the way your thighs stayed parted from how wide his arm stretched them.

you turned your head slightly, breath catching.

you didn’t have to—

your voice cracked a little.

he cut you off.

man’s not home, is he?

you swallowed.

no.

then let me do my job.

his voice was flat. clipped. almost annoyed.

he carried you to the stairs like it was nothing.

like you didn’t weigh eight months of softness and craving and water and blood and aching need.

like you weren’t pressed right against his chest, tits full and rising against him with every shallow breath.

he didn’t speak again until your feet touched the ground at the top of the stairs.

you were flushed. gasping a little from being held like that.

you know…

you turned around, one hand on the doorframe, your voice soft.

you can leave now.

his brow twitched.

just slightly.

leave?

he repeated the word like it offended him.

i didn’t carry your ass up here so you could say that.

you blinked.

he looked you up and down—slow, like he was taking inventory.

the way your dress clung to your stomach.

the wet outline between your thighs.

the stretch marks high on your tits, the way your nipples dented the cotton.

your hair twisted, messy. cheeks flushed. pupils wide.

he stepped closer.

i didn’t drive you. feed you. dress you. carry you…

he reached out—touched your belly again.

soft. reverent.

just to get dismissed like a fuckin delivery man.

you swallowed hard.

didn’t say anything.

he looked at you for another second.

and then, softly—

you want me to leave?

you didn’t answer.

your pussy said no before your mouth could.

you didn’t even pretend to argue.

you stood there in the doorway with your hand curled around the edge of your belly and your dress sticking to the curve of your ass and you said it under your breath, lashes low—

m’kay. you can stay.

he didn’t say thank you.

didn’t smirk.

he just nodded once and muttered—

that’s what i thought.

then reached past you to open the door himself, his arm brushing your side, heavy and warm, the keys still in his hand as he turned the knob like it was his house, like he’d done it before.

you stepped in first.

he followed you without hesitation, boots landing slow and deliberate across the threshold. the air inside hit different—cooler, still, softly perfumed from whatever cheap plug-in you’d tucked in the hallway outlet weeks ago. lavender. maybe vanilla. maybe just something warm and clean.

the apartment was quiet, dim but warm from the low amber bulbs you always left on in the evening. not much furniture, but what you had was yours. a small white rug. thrifted couch, overstuffed with throw pillows you never sat on. pale curtains. framed sonogram on the end table. two plastic baby bottles on a folded towel by the kitchen sink.

you turned slightly, face flushed from heat and nerves and unspeakable filth still wet between your legs, and started walking barefoot toward the living room.

your dress clung with every step. you moved slow, almost dragging your feet like you needed him to see the sway in your hips, how the hem rode higher in the back now. the air made your inner thighs prickle, sticky with your own arousal, and when you sank down into the cushions of the couch, you let your knees fall open like it was just comfort—just soreness—nothing more.

but the fabric bunched. the pink cotton stretched.

and the soft swells of your breasts pushed forward, the top of your dress scooped too low to hide the warm brown skin of your areolas. dark now. wide. peeking from the neckline like you hadn’t noticed. your belly sat heavy in your lap, tight and round and twitching now and then from the baby’s soft kicks.

toji lingered at the doorway for a second, his boots still planted on the hardwood, staring around the apartment like he needed to memorize it.

you said something light.

i picked the rug. on sale. and the plants. they’re fake, but…

you smiled to yourself, shrugging.

he looked at you.

at the rug. the table. the bottle warmer.

you wanna take your shoes off? you said, glancing down. i always do when i come in. keeps the floor clean.

he huffed softly, kneeling with one hand on the wall for balance. big hands unlacing heavy boots, sliding them off one at a time. when he stood again, he left them neatly by the door beside your white sandals, his socks thick and dark against the pale carpet.

you were already reclined into the couch. your legs bent slightly now, thighs parted, the dark triangle of your panties barely covered by the dress bunched between your knees. your stomach looked even bigger from this angle. heavy and high. tits full, round, straining the neckline.

toji walked over, slow and solid, and sat beside you without asking.

the cushion dipped under his weight.

his body pressed against yours immediately—his thigh against your thigh, the side of his arm grazing your shoulder, thick and warm and solid like concrete. he threw one arm across the back of the couch, not touching you, but hovering just close enough that you could feel the heat of it behind your neck.

he turned his head slightly.

sniffed once.

not loud. not obvious.

just a quiet inhale through his nose, slow and deep.

you smelled like something soft and edible—cheap body cream, maybe cocoa butter. something with sugar. something sticky.

he exhaled and leaned back further into the couch, eyes scanning the room again.

s’nice.

his voice was low. quieter now.

he let his hand drop lazily to your shoulder for a second, squeezing it with his thumb like it meant nothing.

you sighed, leaning into the couch more, letting your legs open slightly again, belly heavy between them, thighs pressed against his.

your panties were wet enough to leave a mark on the fabric now.

and still, your voice stayed light.

i didn’t think it’d feel this good to sit again.

you smiled.

he looked at your legs.

yeah?

you hummed.

yeah. everything’s swollen. thighs. feet. tits.

he nodded, eyes dropping to the spot where your nipple peeked from the stretch of fabric, the color darker than he imagined. rawer. wider.

he cleared his throat.

you’re… handling it well.

you giggled softly, letting your head tip to the side, toward his shoulder.

you’re handling me well.

he didn’t respond.

but his hand dropped behind your back again. heavier now.

he rubbed once, slow.

and kept breathing you in.

you didn’t move away when his hand dropped behind your back.

he wasn’t even touching you fully, not really. just resting his arm there—casual, possessive in that offhand way men like him were built to be. his forearm grazed your upper back when you shifted, and you knew he could feel it when you shivered. when you exhaled too long. when your thighs pressed tighter and the wet between them warmed into something more dangerous than just heat.

you reached lazily for the remote on the end table, the curve of your breast pressing into your belly as you leaned forward, your neckline dipping just enough that the top swell of your nipple peeked out again. dark. wide. heavy from how full you were.

he watched it.

didn’t blink.

you flicked on the TV, volume low, some late evening news hum in the background.

you adjusted yourself again, resting back into the couch, thighs parting like they needed space to breathe. you felt the wet press of your panties stick and tug at your folds, a slow, warm pulse sitting low in your gut. you didn’t fix your dress. didn’t close your legs. just leaned your head slightly toward him, acting like none of this meant anything.

you glanced up at him, your voice a little lighter now.

you want a drink or something? water? beer?

you stretched your arms a little like it was no big deal, pushing your tits up again under the tight cotton, your belly sitting perfectly round and high between your legs, pressing into the hem of your dress.

he didn’t hesitate.

i don’t need a beer when i got this.

your lips curled into a half-smile before you could stop it.

you rolled your eyes, biting your lip after like it didn’t mean anything, like the heat suddenly building in your chest and dripping down your spine didn’t just flood your panties again.

you’re so full of yourself.

your voice cracked slightly as you said it, but you smiled—flushed and warm and sore, and secretly, aching.

toji didn’t move.

he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you more than he already was.

but he noticed everything.

he saw the way your breathing changed. the way your thighs flexed. the way your dress had hiked so far up now it looked like you were halfway undressed without realizing it.

he turned his head slowly toward you, the side of his nose brushing your temple, voice rough.

and you love it.

you looked up at him.

big eyes. wet mouth. skin hot.

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t need to.

you leaned further into the couch, pretending to get comfortable—but really, you just wanted his arm closer, his thigh touching yours again.

his hand shifted behind you slightly, elbow brushing your shoulder, knuckles grazing the back of your neck in that soft, quiet way that didn’t feel intentional but was.

you reached for the throw pillow in your lap and pulled it down over your thighs, adjusting it like it was for support—but really, it was the only thing stopping you from rocking your hips into the couch.

you didn’t know what you wanted him to say next.

but you knew he knew.

and toji?

he just sat there, breathing you in, letting the tension climb. letting it drag.

the tv played quietly in front of you. meaningless noise. background to a silence so heavy it made your chest throb.

and you couldn’t help the next breath that slipped out of you.

wet. warm.

and just a little too close to a moan.

you shifted the pillow.

slowly. carefully. like you were just trying to get comfortable, just trying to support your sore thighs and aching back. but the second the edge of it pressed between your legs—right against the heat soaked into your panties—you moved again.

softer this time. lower. letting the curve of your pussy drag against the fabric like it wasn’t on purpose.

you sighed.

toji heard it.

he didn’t move. didn’t speak at first.

just watched you from the corner of his eye—your belly rising and falling, thighs tensing slightly under the cotton, your dress now so high up it barely covered the dark triangle where your panties had long been sticking to your folds.

you shifted again. slower now.

his voice came quiet.

rough in the way a man speaks when his mouth is dry but his cock is hard.

what’s it feel like?

you blinked, dazed.

what?

pregnancy.

you looked at him, surprised.

he was watching your stomach now, his hand resting behind you still, his other forearm draped along his thigh. he wasn’t touching you—but his gaze made your skin prickle like he was.

he spoke again, slower.

what’s it feel like. when you pee. when you shit. when you move. you ever feel… trapped in it?

your face flushed instantly.

you swallowed. shifted the pillow again, hips pressing forward just slightly to catch more pressure against your soaked cunt.

it’s weird, you said softly, eyes down.

i used to be normal.

toji’s brow twitched.

you shrugged, pouting slightly, rubbing your hand over the top of your bump like you were grounding yourself.

then i got… soft. everything got big. my belly. my thighs. my tits. nipples went dark. my pussy got darker too.

you laughed once—half embarrassed.

even my pee smells weird now. and i sweat more. it’s like… nothing fits. like i don’t look cute anymore.

he watched you in silence.

then hummed low in his chest.

didn’t say he agreed. didn’t nod.

just let the sound sit there.

and then he leaned back a little further.

s’just tits and pussy.

you blinked. turned toward him.

what?

he looked at you like you were the one being dramatic.

that’s all it is. your body’s doing what it’s supposed to.

he glanced once at your thighs, your dress, the faint outline of your pussy straining against the pillow you were grinding slow and subtle into.

you’re eating for two. sweating for two. feeling for two.

his voice was low now. flat. honest.

so what if your pussy looks different. that’s what it’s for.

your mouth opened slightly.

your hand pressed down harder into the pillow.

your thighs tensed.

he looked at your tits.

you said they got heavier.

you nodded slowly.

he lifted a hand, flexed it once, like remembering.

still light enough for me to carry you earlier.

thank you for reading if you made it this far 🩷 i’m sorry i couldn’t use the usual pink layout this one was just way too long 😭 but i hope the story still hit. love u. part two cmming tmrw filthier and nasty 🎀

onlypinkslut

[sugugori]

I MDNI 18+

Jason prides himself in knowing he managed to snag the heart of the sweetest girl in Gotham. You’re always so soft with him, so kind. When he sneaks into your place early in the morning and wakes you from your sleep, you don’t scold him for it. Instead, you blink away the sandstorm behind your eyes and tend to the new bruise forming alongside his jaw. You ask no questions, you never push him for answers- and you’ll never know how much he appreciates it. Appreciates you.

Before he found you, Jason rarely slept a full night if he could help it. Too anxious, too angry, he rarely woke feeling well rested anyway- so what was the point. But your hands, soft and understanding, handle him in a way that has his eyes fluttering against his will, and sleep finds his easily. You’ve been nothing but patient with him the entirety of your relationship. His sweet girl. So, in his own ways of many, he does what he can to return the favour.

You’ve learned early on that Jason has a scarily accurate way of knowing when you’re upset. Call it sixth sense, call it boyfriend intuition, maybe it’s his really good people-reading skills. You just don’t know how he does it. Some nights when you’re frustrated because you can’t sleep, you lay on your back and weep softly- careful to not disturb him. But it’s no use. When he awakes, he’ll take you in his arms, tuck your head under his chin and rock you gently. Back and forth, quieting your cries until you’re finally lulled to sleep. He just knows his baby. He knows what you need even before you do, he loves quietly like this.

But there are nights when you need to not think. Nights when your thoughts are little mean, telling you not so kind words. And maybe you start to believe them a little bit. So when you push through the front door of your apartment, he’s already there- standing big and strong in your kitchen. Waiting like he knew, because he did. In these moments, he doesn’t have to ask. To anyone else, you look like you just had a long day- but he knows you. He knows his sweet girl. So he takes one look at you and knows exactly what you need.

Which is how you find yourself like this, splayed out beneath this 6 foot brute of a man. Completely surrounded by him. Large hands moving up your hips to gently push you further into the mattress as he lays his full weight on top of you- he’s everywhere. Usually, you’d feel overwhelmed but this is exactly what you needed. And he begins to move, the slow drag of his cock already has you burying your face into the pillow, tears prickling your eyes. It’s so good, so so good. You’re so full and he’s panting in your ear, “yeah baby, I know.. I know- it’s good, huh?”

At some point, it becomes a bit too much. He can’t help it, just wants you feeling good again. He’s fucked you through your third orgasm before you’re reaching a hand back to push at his abdomen, silently pleading “too deep, please”. You need to catch your breath, but as much as he is soft and compliant for you, Jason knows you need this. And a selfish part of him needs you too. So he gets a bit mean when he’s whispering, “I know it’s deep, hun. Let me fuck you, just like that.” And “No, baby. You can take it.” You know it’s no use putting up a fight, once he sets his mind on something- he won’t stop until he’s satisfied. He gets this tunnel like vision in moments like these. All he can see is you, you, you. So instead, you reach back around to play with the soft wisps of hair at the back of his neck.

Fingers lightly scratching at his scalp, he buries his face in your neck and purrs. Cold nose pressed to the underside of your jaw- such a contrast to how he’s fucking you. But it’s all worth it when you turn your head and press a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. His sweet girl.

[no-144444]

kisses- a.albon

꩜summary: you're finally home

꩜pairing: alex albon x fem! reader

꩜a/n: lowkey suggestive btw, but no smut or anything just heavy making out :) (also in a time where there is no Mercedes seat shitstorm like there is rn)

All he wanted was a moment of quiet. All the shit in Williams, all of the expectations, all of the repeated questions, it was all too much. He’d debated heavily, and the offers from the top teams just kept rolling in. If McLaren wanted him, yeah, he’d take that. But they didn’t. They side-stepped the conversation. Mercedes finally wanted him now, hell, everywhere seemed to want him. RedBull was calling again. Aston was offering him a seat. Part of him just wanted to hang up his racing suit and go to WRC or WEC. Maybe try out Le Mans, just not bother with the decision making and stay out. Fuck, he just wanted to drive. 

But he didn’t. He loved it. He loved the speed. He loved the challenge. He loved being the best in the world. 

Training had gone how it always did, tiring, boring, mindless. The Monaco sun belted down on his back as he ran around the harbour, his head down as he tried to quiet his mind. He reached his apartment, stepping into the air conditioning and a smell of freshness he wasn’t exactly used to. 

You were home. A week-long work trip had held you away from him as Silverstone came and went, though your support was felt from the other side of the world. He thought you’d still be gone until Friday. He spotted you in the kitchen, tidying plates and cups away as you silently danced to whatever music was in your headphones. For the first time in a week, he smiled properly, the tension in his shoulders easing with every step he took to get closer to you. 

“You’re home,” he breathed out as he wrapped his arms around you, despite the sweat. You ignored that and just smiled, turning to him and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It always started like that, him coming back from training tired with his mind full. Just needing to wash away those thoughts that didn’t seem to understand his ideal of a healthy work-life balance. Just a small peck was enough to leave him wanting more. Much more. 

“Someone’s needy,” you teased, pulling back, but he just pulled you right back in, his hands squeezing your waist and pulling you closer as he took what he needed from you, though his cheeks heated. His grip only tightened when you opened your mouth against his, welcoming his tongue. “You like this?” you whispered against his lips, sending a shiver down his spine as you wrapped your arms around his neck. If F1 didn’t drive him crazy, certainly you would. He let out one of those tiny whimpers as you climbed up onto the counter, parting your legs so that he could fit between them, his mouth never leaving yours. The noises he was making were so cute you giggled in the kiss, as he hummed against your lips, those thoughts he’d been plagued by for days, finally melting away with just a swipe of your tongue. You pulled back for some air and caught a glimpse of his blown out pupils and glossy eyes, looking so gone for you. Like you were the single thought on his mind, just you, you, you, constantly. You smiled. “You alright?”

He gulped, nodding. “Fine,” he explained. “Just missed you.” He admitted, squeezing your waist again, trying to focus on your eyes as everything in him screamed for him to just kiss you again. You leaned in and pressed a cautious kiss on his neck, waiting for him to let out that classic breath, the one that told you he was completely giving up his fight and just letting you do whatever. It came, and he leaned his head back as you began your attack on his neck. Fuck, he was irresistable. You let one of your hands travel lower, resting against his abs as he tensed under you. He groaned against your lips as you chuckled. 

“Calm down,” you chuckled, pulling back and cupping his face with your other hand. 

“Can’t,” he breathed out before kissing you again.

navigation for my blog :)

williams & merc masterlist

[strawberriesncigars]

fucked my way up to the top (2) | h.s

part 1 is here. pairing: ceo!harry styles x bratty!reader summary: harry is a businessman stuck in a marriage of convenience, and the girlfriend he’s fucking behind closed doors isn’t exactly making things easier for him. word count: 5k

warnings: nsfw, smut, oral (f rec), unprotected sex, marriage of convenience, cheating-adjacent, morally grey dynamics, power play, creampie, semi-public tension, possessiveness.

author's note: hi againn!! this part took me a while to write because i started a few different versions and none of them felt quite right, until i landed on this one and actually liked it. i hope you guys enjoy it too. whatever your thoughts are, i’d love to hear them, anon or not. it means so much especially when you’re new to writing like i am because finding motivation can be tough sometimes. i'm open to requests as well, or we can just chat… i’m here! hope you enjoy reading, and thank you so much for 300 notes on the first part <3

It had been exactly two years since Y/N had come to understand Harry’s tastes. She’d only been 21 when they met, nothing more than an inexperienced, naive girl. He had healed her clumsy little world and handed her a garden just beginning to bloom.

What she had with Harry wasn’t just about creating a life full of luxury, comfort, and indulgence. He was the only person who made her feel truly alive, made the world feel vibrant and thrilling. What they had was too powerful to be simple, too unique to be ordinary, and too uncertain to be called serious.

And she was fine with that. Or at least, she’d gotten really good at convincing herself she was. Y/N and Harry didn’t often sit down to talk about where they stood. She loved him. And she knew he loved her too.

Still, neither of them had ever really been the kind of people who dealt with things like love, commitment, promises, or responsibilities in any serious way.

They’d spent a long time together, and Y/N, simply put, knew Harry better than anyone else. She knew what he wanted and when he wanted it, what he hated, what he secretly craved and most importantly, how to handle him.

So the moment she stepped into her single-level suite, she tossed her keys aside and ran straight to the bathroom for a hot shower. Judging by her guess, it would take Harry at least half an hour to wrap up that damned dinner party, and at least another fifteen minutes to get home. That meant she had nearly an hour to prepare herself.

And as always —thanks to years of practiced timing— Y/N was perfectly ready one hour later. She’d showered, pampered herself with lotions and perfumes and slipped into a white silk robe that fell to her ankles, the sash loosely tied at her waist. Her hair, still a little damp, fell in soft strands around her shoulders.

She sank into her bed, now covered with fresh sheets, and let her hand drift beneath the loosened robe. A few precise strokes over her clit, combined with the lavish fantasies blooming in her head, were enough to make her wet. When she slowly pushed two fingers inside herself, she was trying not to come before he even arrived.

And she would’ve managed — if Harry hadn’t appeared at the bedroom doorway, hair tousled and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

The moment she saw him, she closed her eyes and threw her head back. Just the way he stood there, watching her, made her want to cry.

Harry was the first to speak. “I was hoping you’d behave.”

Y/N smiled inwardly. She knew he didn’t want her to behave. Still, she played along. “Since when have I ever given you what you hoped for?” she asked, breathless.

There was something about lying half-naked and needy in front of him that brought Y/N into line. And she knew —she knew— this was Harry’s favorite. The way his green eyes devoured her with quiet satisfaction was a reward all on its own.

“And when have I ever not given you exactly what you wanted?”

Fuck, she was close. So close. He hadn’t even touched her and she was on the verge of leaking onto the sheets. She closed her eyes, fighting to stay in control. She could last longer than four seconds. She could.

“Tell me this time won’t be any different,” she whispered, breathless.

Through half-lidded eyes, she saw the corner of Harry’s lips twitch. He tossed the jacket off his shoulder onto the white wooden dresser, then dropped lazily onto the single-seater at the foot of the bed.

Y/N had to twist her neck into an awkward angle just to look at him. She frowned. “Please tell me you’re not going to sit there all night.”

“Not all night,” Harry said, stroking the scruff along his jaw.

“You almost made me cry last time you did this.”

“No, you did cry that night.”

She had. Even though he’d been sitting across the room, everything he’d said, the way his hands had gripped the armrests while his entire attention remained locked on her — had pulled her into a cloud so intense, she’d come harder than she ever had in her life.

And yes, with tears in her eyes.

She heard Harry let out a deep breath. “Sorry,” he said. “Got a little speechless at the view.”

“You know... a little help—” Y/N took a shaky breath, trying to push her fingers in deeper with a bit more hope than skill. She couldn’t do it. “—wouldn’t hurt.”

“Can’t reach, huh?” Harry asked with a teasing lilt. “Well, this isn’t really for your pleasure, is it, darling? You’re just getting yourself ready for me.”

Y/N didn’t answer, not because she didn’t have one, but because she couldn’t find the strength to speak. She must have pushed Harry further than she thought tonight. She knew he wouldn’t touch her for a while now and the most she could get would be a look drenched in blame.

Despite the uncomfortable numbness, Y/N spread her fingers apart inside herself, her head falling back when her eyes rolled in pleasure. The sash of her robe had come undone. She needed this too badly. She always got too caught up, always hovered too close to the edge.

But she couldn’t come. Not without Harry saying she could. Even if she was just one breath away.

“Got any cognac?” He asked suddenly.

Y/N visibly paused. “What?”

“I said, do you have any cognac?”

“I heard you,” Y/N replied in a near-whimper. Watching him stay that calm while she was practically coming apart just a few feet away made her jealous, made her closer. “There should be a bottle right under the dresser.”

After the soft rustle of the chair and a few quiet movements, Y/N heard the clink of glass and turned her head to see Harry pouring the amber liquid into a glass, then taking a sip as he watched her through the mirror.

“Sorry,” he said, conversationally. “Didn’t really have time to drink something real today after all that sweet champagne.” He lifted the glass in mock toast. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please — carry on.”

Y/N took a deep breath and moved her fingers again. “Harry…” she started but he was already back in the armchair. She couldn’t believe he could just sit there like that, sipping cognac like he was watching a boring documentary. God. She was going to cry. Again.

“I-I think I’m ready,” Y/N murmured, but she didn’t hear any confirmation. “Harry?”

A long breath. “Come here.”

Thank God. She slid her wet fingers out and wiped them against the white sheets before letting her trembling legs dangle off the bed. Harry hadn’t moved. Still seated comfortably, sipping from the glass. Y/N felt faint just from the calm, commanding presence he radiated. He could turn any chair into a throne. He was rich, powerful, respected —and tonight, aside from the rare occasions when he granted her a bit of control— he was completely, unmistakably in charge.

Biting her inner lip and walked toward him. Her eyes met his and didn’t stray, not even for a second, as she climbed into the armchair and placed her knees on either side of his spread legs.

Harry still wasn’t touching her. His face was hard, lips closed, jaw sharp. Being this close to him felt like a scene out of a movie. Like if he spoke, she might hear music swell in the background.

She pressed her lips together and trying to predict his next move. He’d told her to come over. Fine. Until further instruction, she wouldn’t make a move. But when Harry took another sip of his drink and swallowed loudly, it made it nearly impossible for Y/N to hold back. She wanted to touch him. Needed to. Like her life depended on it.

And just as her thoughts were spiraling, Harry leaned in closer. Reflexively, Y/N tilted her chin toward him. He pulled back slightly, sending a chill across her skin as he brought his lips from her jawline to her ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

That made Y/N pause. “I thought this wasn’t supposed to be about me,” she said hesitantly.

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “It’s not. I’m only asking so I know what I won’t be giving you tonight.”

“Harry—”

“What?” he cut her off. “Did you really think I ran all the way over here just to give my sweet little angel everything she wanted?” Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of delicate lace. “Was that your idea? That stuffing a cum-soaked pair of panties into my pocket would get me moving faster?”

Y/N’s whole body was burning. She couldn’t tell if it was from shame or arousal. Probably both. The closer his face got to hers, the more it felt like her blood had turned to static.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N finally whispered. “I shouldn’t have acted like that… not in front of everyone. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Almost as if to accept her apology, Harry slid one hand inside her open robe and let it settle at the curve of her waist. He tilted his head and pressed his lips against her jaw again. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“A little.”

She reached up with hesitant fingers, gliding them over the fabric of his shirt to the back of his neck, then into his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Y/N saw the expression in his green eyes soften for just a brief moment. “You know you can’t get over this that quickly, right?”

Harry took a deep breath, placing his other hand on her waist, gently gripping her hips and pulling her closer. His nose brushed against her neck, his lips resting on her collarbone. “You have no idea what you did to me,” he said, his husky voice brushing against Y/N’s skin.

“When you sat beside me for what I’m sure was over an hour tonight, shamelessly whispering dirty things into my ear, do you know what I wanted to do? I wanted to press you against a wall in front of everyone and touch you right there, make all our friends see how you walk around like you own everything, but in reality, you’ve been begging for my touch for hours. How good you are for me and—”

Harry pushed the robe loosely clinging to her shoulders with both hands, letting it fall and leaving Y/N completely bare.

She still felt one of his fingers tracing over her slick folds.

“You should’ve,” Y/N said before she could stop herself.

Because she knew she should be quiet — this wasn’t their first time. There were rules, do’s and don’ts, limits and boundaries. But none of that could stop her from pushing herself toward his finger.

“You should’ve pinned me to that bar and shown everyone who I belong to. To all your friends, to Aaron, who kept hitting on me all night, to David—” She paused and dug her nails into Harry’s nape. “Your wife.”

She didn’t even notice the slap on her hip until she heard the sharp sound. But then, the mix of pain and electricity it sent through her body tingled all the way to her fingertips.

Y/N looked up at Harry’s stern face through clenched teeth, letting out a low, muffled moan. Avoiding the gaze she was so used to —the one that usually hid behind curtains in his green eyes, revealing his true feelings whenever she gave the slightest negative response— sent a different kind of electricity through her body.

She knew those curtains well. She’d seen him pull them down when provoked and that gave her a strange sense of security. But now, there were no curtains in his eyes. Everything was out in the open. He was truly angry.

And Y/N was getting wetter.

“Would you have let him?” Harry finally asked after a long pause.

She swallowed hard.

His hand met her hip once again.

Closing her eyes, Y/N gripped his shoulders. Each passing second heightened the tension, pushing her closer to the edge.

“Answer,” He demanded again.

“To whom?” She whispered, her eyes burning.

She was sure her face was flushed, her hips even redder, and her hair completely messy — but she didn’t have the strength to care. All she wanted was to hold onto Harry and take everything he was offering perfectly.

“To Aaron Ashford. Would you have given him permission to see you like this? To do these things to you?”

“Never.”

The unwavering certainty in her voice made Harry look at her deeply for a few endless seconds before closing his eyes and pulling down the curtains she was so familiar with. Something like exhaustion.

Y/N snapped out of the short daydream when she felt his hand gently caress her hip.

“Give me a color.”

Y/N should kiss him. She had to kiss him. She needed to open those curtains in his eyes and kiss him until he saw the truth behind them.

Even though her answer was green, she said hurriedly, “Yellow.”

Because every time she said that, Harry would stop immediately, press a tight kiss to her and ask what was wrong.

Harry withdrew his hand from her hip and softly wiped the dampness off her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

She placed her hands from his neck to his chin, covered in rough stubble. “A k-kiss.”

Harry smiled slightly, as if he had known she would say that, and brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Are you sure everything’s okay? I’m not doing something wrong—”

“I just need you to kiss me, H.”

His green eyes dropped to her lips and his hands firmly cupped her face. His lips met hers, his mouth moving slowly beneath hers. Harry’s nimble tongue traced hers, sharing the sharp essence of cognac with her.

With a small, unassuming kiss, she let everything slip away, throwing her priorities out the window — which wasn’t healthy. Her lungs burned, her head spun from desire, but in that moment, even if the room was on fire, she feared she wouldn’t find the strength to stop kissing him.

It was as if inside her was a poison no one dared to suck out and Harry was the only one who could.

Y/N tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him with everything she had.

When Harry slowly pulled away, his green eyes were wide open, staring at her with pure curiosity. “YN?” His hand found her cheek again, gently tracing it. “Love? Are you okay?”

The worry in his voice made Y/N feel even worse. God, she must have looked like such an idiot. Not long ago, she’d been trembling with desire and now she was shaking to keep from crying. “I-I’m sorry, it’s okay, I just—”

“Kiss?”

“No, Harry. It’s nothing.”

Harry grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “I can’t read your mind,” He said, pushing a stray hair away from her face. “So you have to tell me what you’re thinking. We promised to trust each other, remember?”

Y/N sniffled and nodded.

It was a little strange, sitting naked and wet in his lap — his legs were probably numb, and she was sure he must be sweating from not changing out of his clothes — but she didn’t care. Not when he was looking at her with that curious gaze.

“I just… I mean, someone else... It wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t really let him. Not Aaron, or anyone.” She sniffled again. “I know sometimes I act like a stubborn little bitch but—”

Harry chuckled quietly.

“I wouldn’t trust any of them. Like I trust you.”

Damn it, Y/N was worse than she thought. She didn’t know what she was saying but somehow she hoped Harry understood.

“I’m sorry,” she continued when Harry didn’t respond. “What I did was reckless, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way—”

Harry cut her off stubbornly. “How?”

She wanted to hit him. “W-well, I don’t know, you looked like so much,” she hesitated when their eyes met, surprised to find his expression trying not to laugh.

“How did I look, baby?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh from his throat. “Say it.”

His hand slid from her back down to her hips. “I want you to say it.”

Y/N forced herself not to roll her eyes. “You looked tired and fed up, Harry,” she said all at once. “And I didn’t want you to look like that. Because I didn’t want you to be tired, and there could never be a reason for you to be fed up. Damn it, I didn’t take my eyes off you. I’m always watching you, wanting to be by your side. I think about you all day and then you throw a party at your house, and there’s a woman wearing your ring next to you.” She sniffled again. “Every second I see your attention on someone else feels like torture. I only want to deserve you, but you — you’re like a star everyone adores, always shining, and I can’t show anyone that I’m a part of that star too.” She swallowed to keep her voice steady. “This is awful.”

Harry studied her face for what felt like an eternity. His green orbs traced every inch of her expression, making each passing second harder for her. Would it kill him to say something? She felt like a sack of ruined figs. What was she even saying? If Harry left her now, she’d understand.

“Y/N, baby,” Harry finally spoke, his voice softer and more tender than she’d ever heard before. She felt something inside her melt. “You already have me. I don’t know how you didn’t see it, but I’m wrapped around your little finger, and whether we want it or not, everyone knows it.”

Y/N bit her lower lip. Harry pressed his thumb against her chin, making her release her teeth.

“I know you want us to be more comfortable around each other in front of them, and I want that at least as much as you do, but we have to be patient. We talked about this, remember?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know I’m yours. I don’t want you thinking anything else. I’m sorry, I was bottling it up—”

Harry brushed his nose against hers, silencing her. “Is your color still yellow?”

YN smiled hesitantly. “It was never yellow.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Are you sure it’s green? Really, really green?”

She nodded. “Really, really green.”

Wrapping his arms around her body one last time, pressing a brief kiss to her lips, Harry slowly pulled away. “Now go to your bed, and don’t do anything until I say so. Can you do that?”

Y/N nodded quickly, obediently and headed to her bed.

Before Harry went to the bathroom, he caught her with a swift move, kissed her quickly, then winked before disappearing.

Y/N stood in the middle of her room for a long while, sucking on her lip.

God, she had hit hard and now Harry knew it too.

*

“Are you okay?”

Y/N wiggled her wrists a bit, testing the softness of the fabric that bound them. It was tight enough to hurt but not so much that she couldn’t move her hands at all. “Perfect.”

Harry pulled the fabric tied to the headboard once more, checking the tension, then sat back down on the bed, satisfied. After a moment of inspecting his work, he told her to wait and went to the closet.

Opening the white wooden doors, he rifled through her drawers. When he finally found what he was looking for, he made a sound of approval and returned to the bed, holding one of the patterned scarves Y/N sometimes wrapped around her neck.

“Tilt your head forward a bit.”

She obeyed quickly. With careful hands, Harry wrapped the scarf around her eyes, making sure not to trap any of her hair, then tied and adjusted it gently.

Her heart pounded inside her chest as her head touched the pillow again. Y/N had been tied up before, but never had Harry blindfolded her.

She bit her lip unconsciously and felt Harry’s finger on her chin.

“Stop that.”

Y/N hurriedly released her lip.

There was nothing in front of her but darkness. Normally, that would bother her but somehow it only fanned the fire that had started burning in her stomach. Hesitantly, she called out, “Harry?”

She wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel that he was still there but then remembered her hands were tied. God, she was completely knocked out — her only option was to listen to Harry’s breathing and hope he would touch her.

The answer she needed came to her lips. Harry’s full lips moved slowly over hers, whispering that he was still there. The kiss ended and the darkness swallowed her again.

Y/N was stunned but managed a weak nod.

His lips first brushed her jawline, then trailed down to the curve of her neck. His warm breath set her skin on fire.

“How much, my love? How much do you trust me?”

Y/N swallowed. “V-very, very much.”

At that, Harry’s hands found her hips and pressed her down onto the bed with his weight. “You’ll show me, won’t you, baby? How much you trust me, how much you need me,” He said, biting and gently tugging her lower lip between his teeth.

“I’ll be good for you.” Y/N licked her lips, chasing the taste Harry had left. “Anything you want,” she whispered softly.

Harry hummed happily. His hand gently cupped her chin as he lifted her head. “Angel,” his beard brushed against her neck and then her chest, “tell me who you belong to.”

Though her eyes were covered, she squeezed them shut. Harry’s hand stayed on her chin while his tongue slowly traced her nipple.

Her first instinct was to push him away, but remembering her tied hands, she arched her back like a bow.

Harry slowly bit down. “Say it, Y/N,” he said in a firm tone.

She tensed her body further and let out a loud moan. “Yours,” she said, breathless. “Only yours.”

Harry, pleased with her answer, moved down slowly, his tongue traveling from her stomach to her pelvis.

Reflexively, Y/N pushed against him. “Fuck.”

Harry grabbed her chin firmly and brought his middle and index fingers to her lips. “Control your tongue.”

Shaking with the tone in his voice, Y/N turned her head and put her fingers between her lips, pressing and sucking her tongue hard.

Harry mumbled something like “Well done,” but was too busy leaving a dark purple bruise on her pelvis to hear it properly.

He used his hands to spread her hips, pressing his tongue to the most sensitive places. Y/N clung tightly to the fabric binding her hands, making the headboard shake.

Harry didn’t care and pushed his tongue deeper, making Y/N gasp for air and her hips chafe against his stubble. He was giving her what she wanted but it wasn’t enough.

He loved chasing her, making her tremble with desire until all she could do was whisper his name over and over.

Y/N wanted to scream. She was suffocating under the intense tension that had been building for the last half hour and pushing her limits. Every breath was a struggle. “Harry…” she begged, fingers gripping the fabric desperately, “Please.”

She didn’t even know what she wanted anymore, but she was sure Harry would.

She felt the weight on her hips lift slowly, and Harry stopped all contact.

Y/N frowned.

“What—”

Harry silenced her with a brief kiss. “I’m just taking off my shirt.”

Y/N listened carefully to the quiet sounds of his movements.

The shirt fell to the floor, the belt came off, and the zipper of his pants was undone. Then she felt Harry on top of her again. This time, instead of fabric against her skin, it was Harry’s warm flesh.

YN braced herself, ready for his touch. But Harry only whispered in her ear, “Since you’re so good, I’m going to give you a reward. Want it?”

She nodded excitedly, Harry kissed her temple. “Your eyes or your hands?”

If she chose her eyes, she’d know he was there, see his hair falling on hiz forehead, see his green eyes holding everything she could dare imagine. But she wouldn’t be able to touch him.

She chose her hands.

Harry pressed his smile to her cheek, then stood and untied her hands tightly bound. Kissing the slight redness on her wrists, he freed her. “What’s your color, love?”

“Green.”

Now with free hands, as Harry leaned over her again, he grabbed his shoulders and the back of his neck, still unsure as her hands moved, but Harry kissed each hands, praising her. “You were so good, baby. So, so good.”

A small smile spread over Y/N’s reddening face. She ran her fingers over his face, which she knew by heart, feeling the curl of his lips.

When Harry pressed his pelvis against hers, she pulled her knees up toward him. One second, his cock was pressing against her hips; the next, he was inside her.

Y/N felt her eyes roll back and gripped Harry’s shoulders with all her strength.

Harry stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust, then sped up, matching a rhythm their hips could follow together. Y/N adjusted quickly. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Harry finally hit exactly the right spot, making her break her silence with a moan.

As she arched her body, Harry put his hand in the hollow of her back and supported her movement, making sure each thrust landed in the same steady place.

YN opened her mouth, biting her lip to stop herself from screaming, reminding herself not to do it. “H-Harry,” she held onto his hair at the nape of her neck, “I’m so close.”

Harry rubbed his nose against hers. Without saying anything, he pulled his hand from her waist and moved it toward the spot where her clitoris was. After rubbing it roughly a few times, she came before she could say another word. Y/N’s nails dug into him and she whispered his name breathlessly.

Harry followed soon after, her tightened pussy gripping his penis as he emptied himself inside her. He held her close without breaking their connection.

His lips pressed against her chest as he whispered things Y/N couldn’t fully hear. Her hands were tangled in his hair at the nape of her neck.

“Y/N?” His fingers tangled in her hair, gently grabbing the scarf, slowly removing it from her head. “Are you okay?”

Y/N slowly opened her tired eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the light. She managed to focus on Harry and nodded.

“Harry?” Her hands gently found his shoulders.

“I’m here, baby.”

She pushed herself toward him. Harry understood the message and curled his arms around her. Y/N let out a happy sound and nestled against his neck. He stroked her hair and ran his fingers through her curls until she calmed down, brought his hands to her wrists and gently touched the still-red marks.

Y/N’s eyelashes fell on her cheeks as their breathing found a rhythmic pattern under the sheet Harry pulled over them. She fell asleep.

“We’re going to Tuscany. You and me.” Harry whispered, unsure if she was asleep or not.

Her sleepy eyes opened, and her lips curled in satisfaction. “I love you.”

Harry buried his smile in her hair. “Love you more.”

[please-destroy]

Perfectly Made

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 5k

.

Perfect, technically means to be without flaws. But, the thing about flaws is that they’re subjective.

When you looked at the bullet wound scar on Natasha’s abdomen, you felt like your chest was being crushed. It hurt because she had been hurt. Every time your lips passed over it, you made a point to kiss the marked skin.

Because, Natasha was still perfect.

.

Everyone at Shield thought that Agent Romanoff was flawless. You’d spent your time with the agency hearing stories of missions. The tales were half legend, but the biggest rumour was that all the stories were true.

You pretended it was professional jealousy that left you breathless when you passed her in the corridors. You were rising fast at Shield, but Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff walked through the base like they owned it. Deep down you liked her confidence, she’d earned it.

Then, there was the accident. A broken wrist, Fury had told you. Someone had known exactly how to remove Agent Barton from action. Files were slid across the desk to you, Avengers Initiative, Temporary Placement.

There’d been briefings after briefings. You didn’t need hours of discussion to understand their point. Agent Romanoff couldn’t lose mission preparedness. You were going to be the knock off Clint, the stand in for training and any standard missions until his return.

Your heart thumped with anticipation and fear as you were led through the Avengers Training Facility. Agent Hill’s hand had pressed lightly between your shoulder blades as she nudged you forwards into the gym.

You’d stumbled slightly before catching your stride. You felt like a kid at the playpark, told to go and make a new friend. You walked over to the treadmill hesitantly. You didn’t announce your presence, you knew she could hear your footsteps. She didn’t stop running, she didn’t even glance over.

‘Agent Romanoff.’ You tried after a moment. Her eyes moved across to you but her pace didn’t lessen.

‘Yes?’ The single word had bite. You only felt the sting of it until you noticed her eyes. Wariness filled them, unadulterated in a way that surprised you.

The silence lingered as you suddenly understood the real mission. Agent Barton wasn’t just the best partner for Agent Romanoff at Shield, he was also the only one she’d ever had.

You were both awkward kids pushed together at the playpark. You’d seen the apprehension in her eyes, and now, you could see right through the rest of the mask.

She wanted you to like her too.

You hopped onto the neighbouring treadmill and got started.

.

There was something about walking back to your new apartment suite with Natasha that settled the pair of you. Maybe it was being exhausted and sweaty in front of your hero and secret crush. Or, it was the smile that had crept onto Natasha’s face as you’d asked her about some of the missions you’d heard so many stories about.

When you turned to enter your apartment, Natasha touched your shoulder briefly. You startled, her fingers feeling pleasantly cool on your skin, still hot from the workout.

‘I’m the next door on the right.’ She informed you and, again, you saw the tentativeness radiating from her. ‘Let’s talk later?’

.

You ended up spending the evening sitting together on her sofa. The conversation flowed well but you were definitely making an effort. You posed each question gently, unsure which one might be too intrusive. Natasha answered everything with a raised eyebrow, as if she couldn’t believe you cared enough to ask. Her hesitations and careful answers were endearing. Sometimes, in the brief pauses, you saw her eyes flicker over you. You knew she was waiting for the interest to die down, trying to assess what part of her you were really interested in.

.

It took most of the evening until you even thought to ask for something to drink. It was the first time that Natasha had looked really flummoxed by a question.

‘Check the fridge.’ She said, like the contents were as much a mystery to her as to you. You got up to check and found an empty appliance, save for two water bottles and a bag of apples. Uncertainty swung like a pendulum inside you.

You took a water bottle and sat back down next to her. Real Housewives of Somewhere played needlessly on the television.

‘Are you not hungry?’ You asked your most tentative question as you unscrewed the bottle cap.

‘I’ll pick something up later.’ Natasha had replied with a perfectly timed yawn and a sudden reason to say goodnight. As you walked back to your room, you knew one more unsaid thing about Natasha.

Agent Barton had been doing the cooking.

.

The next morning when you met Natasha at the gym, you brought reinforcements. You waved at her with a friendliness that was still a little preemptive. Her returning smile was careful.

You held her gaze when you thrust the energy bar into her hand without a word - too busy chewing on one of your own.

You’d bought apple flavoured. You hated apples, but Natasha had given few context clues and the bag of fruit you’d found in her fridge was all you had.

Natasha’s smile widened when she took a bite.

. »

You were part of the Avengers Initiative for exactly three months.

Each day for exactly three months, you accidentally made too much dinner. Each evening, for exactly three months, you had to knock on your neighbour's door and offer her some leftovers.

It took the full 12 weeks for you to become remotely accustomed to the taste of apple oat bars.

You became accustomed to a lot of things.

The quiet focus of Natasha in the morning training sessions. The way that her hair curled slightly when you sparred well enough for her to sweat in the hot gym.

The way her head rested on your shoulder as you watched TV. Placed lightly at first, as if the gesture always needed your permission to continue. Then, heavier and heavier as you both sank together into a comfortable position on the sofa.

You were even used to her texts now. Ones that referenced American pop culture so adeptly that, sometimes, you’d have to use Google to understand them. The way she mentioned your private jokes over the comms at the worst points on missions, reminding you that she knew you and that she had your back.

When you first met Clint, he shook your hand like an old friend.

When he caught sight of Natasha coming along the corridor, you watched his shoulders loosen with the release of tension. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting it go.

If you hadn’t known Natasha like you did, you’d have felt like a cat sitter who’d done a good job.

You turned away for their reunion, leaving to pack up the best 12 weeks of your life and return to a normal life that would always feel disappointing now.

Half an hour later, there was a knock at your door. You opened it, wondering if this was going to be like a moment in a movie.

Your heart leapt automatically, Natasha was standing in the doorway. Then you felt the confusion spread through you as you took in the large cardboard box, balanced against her waist. The branding on the side was familiar.

‘The largest I could find was a box of 200.’ Natasha told you succinctly. Your head tilted in confusion and she continued promptly.

‘For all those breakfasts.’ Natasha thrust the box out towards you. ‘Thanks for always offering me your second energy bar.’

Natasha’s smile was genuine, her eyes were oblivious. You didn’t move to take the box.

‘I don’t even like apples.’ You said stupidly. Natasha’s lips parted in shock, you saw confusion cross her face.

You leaned over the cardboard box. You felt her breath against your face when she huffed out in surprise. You were impossibly close.

Your lips found hers, feeling the same tenderness in your stomach as you did with every touch she’d ever given you.

She was soft, warm and perfect.

‘I just like you.’ You told her, finally.

.

You never moved out of that apartment. Temporary placement became Avenger In Training.

You never stopped cooking for Natasha either. Except, now you didn’t have to pretend it was all accidental leftovers. Now, you planned for dinner every night. You weren’t an expert cook by any means. For the first few months, you worried more than anything that she’d get sick of the repetitiveness of your recipes. You could only make so much spaghetti.

But, there was something about the days when you’d get word of Natasha returning from a mission. When she’d open her own front door with a nervous expectation that maybe this time you wouldn’t be waiting for her.

The way your eyes would lock onto each other and she’d take the few steps across the room, burying her face into the crook of her neck and letting your arms wrap around her.

‘It’s good to be home.’ Natasha would mumble, and you’d feel a swoop at her words because you knew she didn’t mean her apartment.

‘What smells so good?’ She’d ask, and you’d feel her lips moving against your skin more than you could hear the words.

Then, you’d grin and say, like always.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’

Natasha would kiss your collarbone and you’d kiss her hair.

Even when she fell asleep on the sofa before the food was ready, it still felt perfect.

.

It was Clint who must have spilled the secret about your cooking. Soon, the Avengers - who you’d barely even been in a room with before - began dropping by Natasha’s apartment every evening. It felt like adopting a group of appreciative strays.

Sometimes, you remembered how untouchable Natasha and Clint had seemed when you’d first joined Shield. Now you sat alongside superheroes at the dinner table and saw how much they all longed for company and home cooked food.

You didn’t complain about it, but the effort required for cooking also increased significantly. Soon, the dread of making dinner filled you up more than food ever could. You adapted the recipes you knew, adding x10 to most of the ingredients. Every evening, your kitchen felt more like a school cafeteria than it had the night before.

The only part you loved was Natasha’s quiet enjoyment of your company. Each night, Natasha returned from training earlier than the night before. Soon, her reasons for being early became less and less thought out. Soon, she didn’t bother with an excuse at all.

You’d hear the front door shut, and feel her arms snake around your front as she pressed against you, barely hindering your chopping or dicing. Her breath would tickle your neck as she rested her chin on your shoulder peacefully, watching you work.

.

Your comment that night had been offhanded, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it.

Tony had brought you a cooking apron with the Iron Chef America logo emblazoned on the front. Stark Industries had taken to sponsoring most ‘Iron’ themed things and this had clearly been part of the latest promotional campaign. He smirked as you put it on good naturedly.

‘Perfect.’ He declared. You made an ironic model’s pose with a pair of oven gloves already on your hands. Tony laughed loudly.

‘You’ll never leave the kitchen again.’ He declared.

You rolled your eyes in playful frustration.

‘I never do as it is.’

Tony turned then, spotting Natasha as she leaned against the bedroom door frame. You glanced at the ground, feeling a wave of shyness as you realised Natasha’s attention had been openly on you.

‘You’d better start pulling your weight, Nat.’ He warned with a tease.

Only you saw the flicker of uncertainty in Natasha’s eyes.

.

You didn’t think any more of it until the next evening. Natasha arrived at her apartment with a smug grin on her face and a paper bag in her hand.

‘Takeout.’ She announced, placing the bag unceremoniously on the coffee table, before throwing herself down next to you on the sofa.

‘I gave Clint the rest, the vultures can circle his apartment for once.’

She grinned at you, obviously pleased with her solution. You threw your head back against the sofa dramatically, surprised at the relief you felt. You’d never been a regular cook. But, it’d been six months since you’d started dating Natasha and, apart from a handful of dates when you’d both found time to leave the Avengers facility, you’d cooked dinner every day.

A sigh left your mouth and you closed your eyes for a second, revelling in the moment. Then, you turned your head to the side, catching Natasha’s eyes and reaching out a hand to hold hers.

‘Thank you.’ You told her, voice laced with obvious gratitude.

Natasha’s expression looked suddenly conflicted.

‘Do you like cooking?’ She asked quietly, her face consciously wiped clean of any hints of her own emotion. An awkward tension filled the room at once. You rubbed your thumb in circles on the back of her hand.

‘I don’t mind.’ You answered after a moment, trying for something close to the truth, though the words still tasted like a lie on your tongue.

.

After you’d eaten your fill of the takeout. Natasha put her hand on your thigh.

‘I’ll take care of tomorrow’s dinner.’ She informed you, matter of factly. You grinned, feeling seen and loved all in one heady rush.

‘What time should I come over?’ You asked with excitement.

‘Maybe you should just stop leaving.’ She mumbled, crawling onto your lap and tilting your chin up towards her with a single finger.

You stayed that night at her place and every night after.

.

You thought the repeat of takeout the next night was only because you’d both spent most of the day packing up your stuff. Then, before you knew it, a week had passed and you’d tried cuisine from seven different countries already.

You didn’t know how to tell Natasha that, for you, ‘taking care of dinner’ didn’t equate to ‘ordering in some food’.

The other Avengers took the change of circumstances with limited annoyance, returning without complaint to their past diet of food from the staff cafeteria and their own takeout preferences.

.

It took two more weeks before you brought it up to Natasha. There was a new pride in her demeanour and you knew how entangled her happiness was with your own.

You had moved in. Now, she was keeping you fed.

You loved her for the way she cared about you. It made you feel safe and whole.

Every night, Natasha took you into the bed that was now yours to share. She touched you reverently, her fingers slow and lingering. Each brush of her lips thanking you for staying another night with her.

.

‘I know you’re busy.’ You started nervously, picking the rushed morning as your best moment to bring up the conversation you’d been nervous about.

Natasha’s back was facing you, but she slowed her movements immediately. Her head tilted as she waited for your next words, fingers still dragging her tank top past her midriff.

‘I don’t want to be an inconvenience.’ You tried again, losing your train of thought at the most inopportune time when you caught sight of her fingers trailing slowly down her bare waist.

‘You want to leave.’ Natasha answered for you. Her tone was neutral but her voice cracked. ‘You can just say so. It’s not been working out.’

There was a pause as her words registered.

‘Oh, Natasha.’ You murmured at the realisation of what she’d been expecting from you.

Natasha turned around then, eyes bright with tears that she was too proud to let fall.

‘It’s okay.’ She told you, even though her mouth was twisting with hurt. ‘I know I’m not easy to live with.’

You moved around the bed, the tiny tremble in her lower lip compelling you closer to her.

‘It’s okay.’ She repeated. ‘It’s okay.’ Her voice broke again but she kept repeating the words, mumbling more each time.

Your hand pressed slowly against her abdomen, calling her back to you. Natasha stopped speaking abruptly, avoiding your eye contact determinedly.

‘You are perfect.’ You told her seriously, Natasha’s eyes closed at your words and you could feel how much she wanted to believe you.

You kissed her carefully and lightly, trying to tell her how much you wanted her all the time. Your fingers trailed up the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.

‘How could I not want to live with you?’ You murmured against her lips. Natasha kissed you fervently, her hand on your waist holding on just a little too tight.

.

‘I just had an idea.’ You told her as you headed to the elevator a few minutes later, both feeling late enough to hurry your matching strides.

‘Maybe next week, we could take turns cooking?’ You suggested hesitantly. ‘If you don't have time though, I don't mind -’

You watched many emotions slide across Natasha’s face, reflected on the elevator doors that faced you.

‘Let me start.’ Natasha told you a moment later, voice full of resolve. ‘I’ll make you something special on Monday night.’

You couldn’t help but beam at her offer, interlacing your fingers with hers.

‘I’m planning on going grocery shopping on Sunday.’ You started to say, playing at shy. ‘Want to carpool?’

Natasha’s returning smile was small but genuine.

.

You’d anticipated no more than an hour at the grocery store. You walked separately to Natasha, at her own insistence. Still, before you headed to the checkout, you sought her out. You spotted her, still near the front of the store, head bent as she stood, engrossed in her phone screen.

You stilled when you noticed the tell tale markers that she normally never displayed in public. The piece of hair she was twisting between her thumb and forefinger. The furrowed brow, her jaw clenched with silent frustration.

You watched silently as she turned to another customer, showing them something on her phone. They gestured to the products on the shelf, clearly explaining something. Natasha nodded and, for once, you saw the clear exhaustion that she usually kept so well hidden.

It was the same tiredness you’d occasionally seen in the lines of her more careful smiles; a painful self awareness that she didn’t fit quite right in a situation. You hoped desperately that being with you didn’t feel like another role she had to play.

.

It was rare for you to return to the apartment after Natasha. But, on Monday, when you opened the door, it seemed like she might have been there all day.

The dishes stacked in the sink were almost comical. Natasha’s hair was tied up, strands falling out of the messy bun. The heat of the kitchen seemed to have made her more dishevelled than any workout ever had. Natasha still looked perfect.

‘You’re back.’ She called out softly as she spotted you hovering. Any nervousness you had, slipped away at the ease of Natasha’s smile.

‘I’m back.’ You confirmed brightly, heading around the kitchen island. ‘What smells so good?’ Now, Natasha’s smile really went wide.

‘It’s either me or the lasagne.’ She told you with mock solemnity, holding her serious expression until you’d thoroughly kissed it from her face.

‘I love you.’ You told her.

Natasha’s expression stumbled in surprise, her hand reached out to your chest as if bracing from the shock. Then, she regained herself. Her fingers slipped under your shirt and she pulled you closer with a tug on the fabric.

‘Yeah?’ Natasha teased, a blinding brightness to her smile. ‘Well, maybe I love you too.’

.

You felt like you were flying. You didn’t come down to Earth until long after you’d finished the meal. The lasagne was delicious. Natasha smiled gently at your praise, quieter than usual. You loved her distractedness, knowing her mind was still focused on your earlier words. Her hand rested on your thigh whilst you ate.

Natasha moved to deal with the stack of dishes as soon as you’d finished eating. You decided to take the plentiful leftovers over to Clint’s. It was still early, and you thought you might catch the others before they called in their takeout orders.

Clint answered his door with his usual smile. You held out the dish, letting it speak for itself. Clint’s eyes lit up immediately.

‘I love your lasagne.’ He told you seriously. You smirked, wondering if you’d ever hear the word ‘love’ again without feeling at least a small jolt of joy.

‘It’s Natasha’s actually.’ You informed him. Clint laughed.

‘No, it’s not.’ He dismissed you with certainty.

‘Yes.’ You insisted, feeling suddenly defensive of your girlfriend.

‘Jarvis.’ Clint called to the ceiling, knowing how to prove his case. ‘Did anyone receive a food delivery today?’

.

You walked back to your apartment, a little shell shocked. You caught sight of Natasha from the doorway, cleaning the last of the dishes. She rolled her eyes playfully at you, glancing down at the large plate in her hands.

Dishes she hadn’t even used.

The meal had been delivered twenty minutes before you’d arrived home. Natasha had barely kept it warm in the oven.

.

You couldn’t tell her you knew. You tried not to dwell on the lie. More than anything, you were confused.

You took her up to the roof, hoping that seeing the stars together would keep the night as special as it had felt before you spoke to Clint.

Natasha wore your sweater. Her eyes seemed so large when they faced the night’s sky.

She was extra quiet, sensing your mood and trying to match it, even if she didn’t understand what was wrong.

Her smile was nervous when she dragged her eyes away from the stars and back to you. She played with the sleeve of the sweater.

Natasha was still perfect. She always would be.

You remembered your faith in her. You realised that you’d accidentally built the role that she’d started to play. You wanted to tell her that she was perfect for who she was, not who she was trying to be.

Instead, you found a piece of the lightness that you knew Natasha was trying so hard to have.

‘I love you to the stars and back.’ You told her, letting your easy smile wash away the doubts in her eyes.

.

The consequences of small lies really begin when they start to spiral. You promised Natasha that you wanted to get back into cooking again. You knew she didn’t believe you, you knew she saw through it. Still, she nodded neutrally at your words.

You both pretended that the meal times felt the same as they had before. You were overcompensating, playing music as you cooked and trying out new recipes.

Natasha was retreating. Her hands barely brushed your shoulders each evening when she returned to find you cooking.

You’d never been inauthentic with her. But now there was a falseness at the dinner table that you couldn’t control. Natasha started coming home later.

Worse were the days when she’d text you, telling you she was going to eat something with Clint instead. She didn’t invite you and you didn’t assume an invitation. Natasha was pulling away, and neither of you addressed the weird elephant in the room.

How can you tell someone they're perfect, when they’ve tried so hard to hide their flaws from you.

.

Natasha’s discomfort was obvious from the way she stood in the bedroom doorway. Not entering or leaving. You were already in bed, she’d stayed late at Clint’s. Things felt lonely.

‘Thursday is Thanksgiving.’ She told you.

‘Yes, it is.’ You said, looking up from your laptop. You wondered if Natasha felt the same awful anticipation in her stomach. The lingering fear that your relationship couldn’t sustain itself much longer, the inability to divert the train from its tracks.

‘Clint wants you to meet his family.’ Her words were unexpected. You wondered if her wording had been intentional or accidental.

‘And, what do you want?’ You clarified, your voice filled with the caution that you’d never had with Natasha until recently.

‘We should go.’ She answered indirectly, leaving to get ready in the bathroom. You lay your head back against your pillow. You saw the writing on the wall, this wasn’t going to last the holidays.

On Wednesday night, you came back to the messiest apartment you’d ever seen. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight of Natasha in the kitchen. The facade of the last meal she’d ‘cooked’ was obvious in comparison to this.

‘Laura asked us to make brownies.’ Natasha told you briefly, meeting your curious expression with a flat one of her own. There was a tray of batter in her hand. The slight burning smell in the room told you it wasn’t her first attempt.

‘I can-’ You started, taking a step forward.

‘No.’ Natasha told you, with a bite that her words rarely had with you. Her expression was miserable and fierce all at once. ‘It’s fine.’

You retreated to the bedroom. You pretended to be asleep when Natasha finally came to bed. You waited until her breathing had evened out before you snuck back through to the kitchen.

You found the brownies still in their tray. Your nose wrinkled automatically at the smell.

2 hours later and you’d made a decent batch. You took Natasha’s attempt out to the trash.

You hated yourself in that moment.

It didn’t matter to you, and yet, you knew it mattered to her. You were helping to cover up the flaws that you didn’t even see.

You left the kitchen exactly as you found it and went back to bed.

.

The next morning, with both of you dressed and ready, you stood with your heart in your mouth as Natasha took out the tray of brownies.

With one cursory glance at the tray, Natasha slammed it down on the counter, making you jump.

‘I’m sorry.’ You started, but your words were lost to Natasha’s.

‘I’m not fucking stupid.’ She told you and you saw her hands clench.

‘I never said you were.’ You retorted, feeling your own frustration bubble up.

‘Well, you obviously think so.’ Natasha's voice rose in volume but the vulnerability in it made her sound small.

‘I’m not stupid.’ She said again, and you saw the tears filling her eyes. ‘I can learn a language in less than a week. I have perfect fucking aim. But no-one taught me how to do this.’

Her arm raised to gesture at the tray of brownies.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ You murmured quietly. ‘How can you think that it matters to me?’

You caught that secret exhaustion of hers in the resigned sigh that came before her words.

‘How can I not?’ Natasha muttered, avoiding your eyes and picking up the tray. ‘It’s just another piece of me that doesn’t fit.’

She moved towards the door and your hand caught her arm. Her eyes met your own and it stung like electricity.

‘We should talk about this.’ You said, voice cracking. Your eyes burned with tears.

‘You should stay.’ Natasha told you, and just like that, you realised she was really saying goodbye. You watched the door close behind her, standing there dumbly.

.

Clint texted you when Natasha left their house.

Foul mood unless the kids were there, was his glowing review of her visit.

You were too nervous to sit down. You shifted from foot to foot, wondering if you should have just packed up your belongings and left. You knew that’s what she was expecting.

You tried to reassure yourself with the memory of Natasha and the box of cereal bars. You glanced at the kitchen counter, wishing you’d cleaned it up properly. You picked up the apron that was strewn across the island in the middle.

Your heart stopped when you heard her unlock the door.

At first, when Natasha saw you standing there, her face held the same expression as it did when she returned from missions. Hopeful and relieved. Something settled automatically in your chest.

Then, her gaze dropped to the apron and you saw her mouth twist with the repressed hurt. The memory of the morning.

‘Oh, no.’ You mumbled immediately, feeling hurried by the strange embarrassment you felt. ‘Obviously, this isn’t for you.’

Natasha’s hand stopped you in your tracks. You froze at her expression and realised she’d heard an insult not a clarification.

‘Why?’ Natasha asked, voice rasping. ‘Are you trying to make a fucking point?’

‘No.’ You tried to assure her, crumpling the fabric in your hand, wishing you’d planned this better. ‘I heard what you said earlier.’

Natasha’s head tilted and you knew she didn’t believe you. You stopped trying to say the right thing and, instead, all the words you felt fell from your mouth.

‘I never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.’ You blurted out. Now, Natasha’s expression froze, leaving only the wariness in her eyes as she waited for you to continue.

‘I don’t care if you can cook.’ You started. ‘Do you really think I’m here, measuring you against some secret expectations?’ Natasha looked confused. You dropped the apron and took her hands instead.

‘The more of you that I get to see, the more you stand there waiting for me to leave. But, that’s not what I want.’ You mumbled, looking away for the first time as you tried to fight tears. Everything you cared about hung in the balance. ‘You said that you don’t fit sometimes. But you do. You fit. We fit.’

There was a moment, as Natasha registered your words.

.

Carefully, Natasha moved forwards. She buried her face in the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped around her like so many times before. The sudden relief burned in your chest. This was still familiar. You were still her home.

‘I’ll always think you’re perfect, Natasha.’ You whispered as your lips kissed her hair.

[citrustan]

killah (jjk) [5]

pairing: managing partner lawyer!jungkook x spoiled brat!reader x senior partner! redacted

genre: strangers/lowkey one sided enemies to ?? idk bec you irk him, angst, smut, like slight fluff, infidelity (jungkook has a girlfriend)

warnings: please read the other parts before this one! soooo in this chapter, you'll see a little emotional and the slightest bit more of physical cheating, descriptions of nudity, accidental flashing, umm foot 😵 and no i'm not explaining myself, hand holding 😋 good luck 👍 extra note: this is LOng btw. i will edit it soon, i think it needs a little refining but not too much! but yes it'll be done a bit later because im scared to read through this again it's edited! !!ATTENTION!! even though this story features another member as a main character, this is still a jungkook x reader fic.

Nobody should be waking up this early on a Saturday. But you had a very important and hopefully fruitful day ahead. 

Kim Namjoon had promised to take you to the gym. Unfortunately, he didn’t plan for a separate event, instead, he just wrote you into his regular schedule. You preferred that though. That was the only way you’d get to see Jeon Jungkook in action.

You had been pretty passive about courting him lately. Joining Logan’s team was a lot more demanding than you had imagined. Nobody would let you slack off.

Initially, they were quite understanding about your incompetence but once it began actively affecting their work, they weren’t shy to let you know it. 

Logan wouldn’t defend you either. So you had to suck it up and win them over through hard work. 

All the hard work was starting to pay off too. 

Logan had put you on a personal payroll. The amount wasn’t as much as the other employees earned (which was alright with you since you had no idea how big of a difference there was between yours and their pay cheques.)

You were being taught how to use Excel and some calendar app to set meetings up for people. 

You also learnt that these were public and everyone could see everyone's calendars. 

Apologies to the sixty people who saw the bikini laser and dick appointments on yours. 

Speaking of dick appointments; none of yours had been successful with Namjoon.

It’s like the universe was keeping you apart.

There were three separate occasions where you were this close to finally getting laid. But the world was working against you, trying to enforce abstinence. 

The first time was the day you met Namjoon, your first day at work. Had Jungkook not walked in, you’d probably have fucked right there. 

The second time was a lot more humiliating. You were at his apartment and it was the first time you had seen each other completely nude. You were certain you were about to have the best sex of your life.

The two of you were fully naked, making out on his expensive couch. His cock was rubbing and prodding against your wet and puffy lips. Everything was just right.

And then his parents came in. 

It happened too fast for you to react in time.

So, yeah. His parents had seen… everything.

Instead of staying on top of you (because it kept the two of you covered,) the idiot hopped off of you, almost hitting his head on his coffee table, putting both himself and you on display for his parents.

This pattern could not keep going. 

First Jeon Jungkook, now Mr. and Mrs. Kim. 

And then it happened once again with Jungkook.

Except, this time, he wasn’t physically present to break you up but he kept blowing Namjoon’s phone up.

You don’t know what it was about but since Namjoon made you leave in a haste, you assumed it was work. 

After that, you had given up.

Namjoon probably got his relief elsewhere because he didn’t seem half as frustrated as you, but it was whatever. 

Anywayyyy....

Today though, you HAD to make a move on Jeon Jungkook. This is what the universe had been trying to do!

Probably.

But you NEEDED that man. He could fix you.

You couldn’t find his Instagram and had to stalk through Namjoon’s instead for more intel on him. You don’t remember the last time you were this invested in something, or someone.

A loud bell finally forces you completely awake. 

You groan, burying your face in your silk pillowcase, as it kept ringing incessantly.  

“I swear to God…” You threw your blanket off and padded barefoot across your carpeted room, then down the stairs to the main door.

Where the hell was Logan?

When you opened the door, something bright , loud and flashy jumped at you making you wince--- “Mornin’, Pumpkin!” 

Fucking Kim Seokjin.

It was followed by a ‘Hello, my kitty.’ from your mother who breezes past you into your apartment.

But her lackey, sorry, husband waits for an invitation that you don’t verbalise.

Instead, you complain, “Stop calling me that, Seokjin.” 

Seokjin was only a decade older than you and was always trying to parent you and Logan. It was... New. Logan entertained it but you're fine without a father figure.

All you needed was Jeon Jungkook. He could be your daddy. :D

“Come into the kitchen, dear.” You don’t know if your mother’s talking to you or Jin. You let him in anyway.

As expected, breakfast was already prepared and displayed on the island: buffet style.

Ryujin, your private chef, had already left.

Logan emerged from the den, instantly latching on to your mother. 

You wondered if her day usually began this early or if it was just today. It’s like 6 A.M. (It was 8.)

Seokjin grabbed you a plate and served you half a grapefruit and a large bowl of tofu pudding while you waited at the table.

You were still a tad delirious.

Your hair was a tangled mess that you’d need help combing out. 

The three adults joined you at the breakfast table a few minutes later.

Logan presented you with your iPad to check your schedule, this time it was hidden from his employees. But of course, you played Candy Crush instead. 

Your brother made small talk about work and about how well you’re adjusting. Something about Seokjin’s new venture capitalist phase was discussed.

Then your mother turned her attention towards her favourite daughter. 

You ignore her gaze and continue shoving chocolate pudding into your mouth.

“Are you seeing anyone new lately?” She asked hopefully.

You took extra long to respond, still chewing on the grapefruit-pudding combo. So, Logan answers for you--- “Kim Namjoon.” 

At that, your mother’s eyes lit up, “Ahh, him. I have known his father for a while. Such a polite kid.” She then adds, “Very eligible.” 

Eligible = marriage material.

But you knew damn well he wasn't thr type to even think about marriage.

Unbothered, you lean back. “He’s OK. Not seeing him.”  

You stretched your arms and legs. “I’m interested in someone else though.”

That made your mother pause mid-bite, “Oh?” 

“Jeon Jungkook.” 

Your mother blinked, now intrigued. She definitely knew that name.

“Namjoon’s… boss?” She tries to find the right word.

“Mhm.” 

Wasn’t he with someone already? Your mother makes a strange face but keeps her thoughts to herself. She has had enough of your bullshit. Ignorance is bliss. 

At least you’re aiming high. 

The topic's forgotten just as fast as it was brought up.

Seokjin takes over, enthusiastically talking about some game show he was going to go on.

You still didn't know what exactly it was that he did. Not that you cared either.

A few minutes later, you excuse yourself from the table.

You hadn’t realised it was already half past 8.

Namjoon would be here in an hour. There wasn’t enough time to get a hairwash in but you’re going to risk it anyway. 

You ask for Seokjin’s help with your hair and he ditches his breakfast to follow you upstairs.

He really does try very hard to connect with you and Logan. You pity him.

Only fifty minutes later, Namjoon texts you just as you finish tying the last strap on your wrap top. 

At the lobby! Is visitor parking free? 

It wasn't, but you don't reply because you'd have been downstairs soon anyway.

You had washed your hair, showered, dried your hair and lotioned up in record time. 

You swipe some more gloss on, adjust your cami and mini ruffle skirt, and kiss your mirror. 

You weren’t sure if you’d need a proper gym bag. You could just take Logan’s but it’s ugly. 

A towel and your Stanley was all you were carrying anyway. Apart from your phone and cards, of course. Namjoon could store those for you.

By the time you make it to the lobby, your insides began to vibrate in excitement.

You briefly wonder if Jungkook would be there as well.

You move through the lobby and finally see your date.

Namjoon was waiting near the entrance, scrolling through his phone.

No Jungkook.

When he looks up, his eyes do a quick sweep of your outfit before settling back on your face.

“Wow?” He says, pushing his sunnies up to his head, “That’s your gym look?”

“This is activewear,” you reply dryly, stepping closer and adding, “Technically.”

It’s what you wore for pilates. The skirt had shorts attached to it underneath. But your breasts were a bit… under secured? A tinge risqué for the gym, but you weren’t planning on doing any heavy lifting.

Namjoon lets out a soft laugh and opens the door for you. "Noted. I’ll go easy on you anyway."

The sunlight hits you, blinding you instantly. You wanna fight it but tilt your face up, pretending to enjoy it. 

Maybe you could gaslight yourself into believing it was about to be a lovely day ahead. 

You wonder if Jungkook was at the gym yet. 

Namjoon opens the door to the passenger seat for you and buckles you in, just so he has an excuse to get closer to your face and steal a kiss. 

Bless his heart. 

This gym isn’t what you expected.

Namjoon guides you inside and the two of you stop at the front desk. 

Natural light streams in through tall windows. The gym is well lit and ventilated, tucked away from the street. It smells… good? Not like sweat, wet cardboard and disinfectant. It’s got, like, hints of oud, amber, something cologne-y and maybe eucalyptus.

Quite inviting.

The front desk lady smiles at you prettily. You return it.

Namjoon’s signing you in as his guest. You silently warn him against giving any of your personal information away.

There’s a hydration station to your left, stocked with little shot glasses filled with vibrant green liquid and large glass jars of veggie-infused water. 

Your eyes flit around the room.

The walls were pale and the machines looked shiny and clean. Even the music was just instrumental and low enough for it to not feel like a club. 

There were maybe fifteen to twenty people there.

But you’re looking for a very specific people.

Jeon Jungkook, of course.

You were about to wonder if he was there at all when you finally spotted him. 

He was straight across from where you stood, knelt and leaning on this terrifying looking contraption. It truly looked crazy.

But more than his stance, what caught your eye was his arms. Your jaw is slightly ajar.

Then bringing your lips together, you furrow your brows.

His entire sleeve of ink, which you had only caught glimpses of otherwise, was on display. In person, it’s almost cinematic.

You hadn’t expected to see him like this. Your stomach tightens out of nervousness.

You bounce once on the balls of your feet without realizing it. 

When Namjoon’s finally done, he leads you inside with your pale pink tumbler in hand.

You wordlessly, eagerly follow a few inches behind him. 

It had been a while since you last saw Jungkook up close. Like, too long of a while. 

You couldn't wait to---

Your eyes fall on another figure.

No.

Nooooo.

Of course, like a slap in the face, there she was. 

On the machine right next to him was Hyewon. With her hair tied up neatly, face flushed from the physical exertion, she wore a fitted, black zip-up jacket and matching leggings.

Your face falls. You’re not sure you recover by the time she sees you and Namjoon. 

Her face lit up with surprise, “_____! Hi!”

That’s when Jungkook stumbles. 

You return a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes.

You see Jungkook's legs drop a second too early from the machine as he glances over, following his girlfriend’s gaze.

His eyes land on Namjoon first, then on you. His eyes travel over your figure--- slowly. You’re certain it stalls somewhere around your chest for half a second too long before snapping back up to your face.

But you’re frozen, already feeling the burn in your cheeks. 

Because Jeon Jungkook’s got fucking piercings.

Could he get any hotter? Oh, my God.

A small barbell at his brow, a silver ring at the corner of his lower lip, silver rings up his ears. What the fuck…

Where had this man been all your life?

You needed a second. 

Jeon Jungkook had no right being this hot.

You’re still recovering from the visual assault when Namjoon casually announces, “This is _____’s first time in a gym.”

Hyewon lets out a little sound of surprise. Jungkook doesn’t react at all.

You want him to not react with his dick down your throat.

You blink a few times and rearrange your head, finally managing to roll your eyes and shake the Jungkook-induced haze out of your mind.

"So we're just gonna be over there." Namjoon points to another area, not too far away from the couple. "Let’s start you off with something easy…" Namjoon's already steering you gently by your waist, toward the cardio section. "Treadmill, maybe ten minutes?"

Cardio???

Uh, he was taking you to the wittle baby machines. No thank you.

“Nuh uh!” You interrupt, suddenly digging your heels in. “I wanna do what he’s doing.” You point straight at Jungkook like a toddler choosing their favorite toy.

Hyewon and Jungkook look at each other. Then back at you. 

Jungkook immediately shakes his head, straightening up next to the Roman chair. “No way.” He says flatly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

If only he knew you’d been doing reformer pilates for the past few months. You think you can handle it. Sort of. 

But also, it’s kinda hot of him to be so… protective? Like the idea of you straining yourself worries him. 

So you lean in a little, voice dropping just enough. “Oh…” You pout. “But won’t you help me?” There’s a glint of mischief in your eyes. 

He doesn’t even blink. “No.” He says, firm.

Then he turns away and gets back on the machine, leaving you and Namjoon a bit dumbfounded. 

Pfft. Whatever. 

You bite back a smile. 

He was annoyed.

How shameless were you? Were you actually flirting with him in front of his own girlfriend; your friend? 

Hyewon deserved better than you. 

(And him.) 

Hyewon breaths a smile through her nose, “Well, if you need anything, let me know, okay?”

You look at her with a genuine smile. “Thanks, Wony. I think I’ll probably just go with what Joon’s doing first.” Insinuating that you’d seek her later. 

Namjoon smiles at her as well.

He then tugs you away, still feeling entertained by you and Jungkook. “Let’s start with the treadmill, come on.” 

You sigh dramatically, casting one last look over your shoulder.

Jungkook’s full focus was on whatever activity he was carrying out. Hyewon’s beside him, adjusting her gloves. 

You drag your feet after Namjoon reluctantly.

The treadmill was whatever. Namjoon inclined it for you but it was still just whatever. Namjoon swore he thought you’d enjoy it. Most newbies did.

After fifteen minutes of that, Namjoon coaxes you into doing a few warm-up stretches.

You generally didn’t enjoy doing these in public but you obliged anyway. He took the lead and you followed.

The fucker would purposely try to make you bend over so he could ogle your tits.

Of course, you weren't going to give him that satisfaction. You're still annoyed at Namjoon for not finding time to fuck you.

Then he puts you on a machine where you stand and cycle; an elliptical.

Only fifteen minutes of it turned your legs into jelly. 

It was so embarrassing to fall straight into Namjoon after getting off. 

More so when you noticed Jungkook watching. 

You wanted to cry. You were better than this.

Namjoon then patted your face a little, offering you a sip of his fruit juice. 

Then he gestures toward another one of the beginner-friendly machines--- something with a padded bench and two handlebars. A seated chest press machine? You can't remember what it's called.

But you take one look at the bench and recoil.

No way you were sitting on that, nuh uh.

You protest. “Ugh, Namjoon, I’m not sitting on that.”

He looks at you incredulously, “Why not?” 

You mirror his expression, “Think about how many butts have been on it and then ask me that again.”

As if he knew what you were going to say, he sighs, already pulling a pack of sanitizing wipes from his gym bag.

He had done this twice for the handles on the other two machines you’d been on. 

He gives the whole thing a thorough wipe-down--- handles, bench, even the adjustment knobs. 

You watch him with the faintest smirk. 

At least he’s learning.

“There,” he says, stepping back. 

You inch closer.

Then wrinkle your nose. “Still looks gross.”

Namjoon stares at you for a second, then gives in with a groan.

He shrugs off his jacket, folds it neatly, and lays it over the bench like it’s a cushion.

That was more like it!

You finally plop down on the jacket dramatically, crossing one leg over the other. "Ok, tell me what to do now."

You shrug a loose pigtail over your shoulder. An impractical hairstyle for the gym but you didn't want to compromise on your personal style.

Also, your hair had been super soft and silky that day.

♡ 

From across the room, Jungkook’s watching you struggle with the chest press.

He’s taking a break, a protein shake in hand, towel slung around his neck.

He’s still in disbelief a little. He had watched you wait around as his friend cleaned all the machines for you.

He even briefly heard you whine about something. Your voice was so irritating to him.

There’s no way you were that high maintenance.

Such a goddamn princess.

Thank goodness Hyewon wasn’t like that. He got lucky. 

Almost on cue, Hyewon jogs up beside him, breathless and glowing, “Ok, ready!”

Jungkook sets down his bottle and adjusts the 25kg barbell for her with a small smile, checking the weight settings and spotting her like he usually did when they worked out together.

It wasn’t often but enough times for them to have their own little routine.

Jungkook watches out for signs of discomfort on his girlfriend's face. “Good job. You’re doing perfect, babe.”

Hyewon giggles breathily. 

You see all of it.

And you’re instantly peeved.

Their whole… dynamic. Relationship, whatever. You didn't get it. They’re so basic it pisses you off. 

Jungkook was so nice to her but he wouldn’t even smile at you.

Like so what if that’s his girlfriend?

Does he just never look at other people? You can't seem to fathom that.

.

Was Hyewon controlling? 

.

Yeah, no. Even the thought of that seemed ridiculous.

You watched him hold her waist and glide his hand up and down her back. 

Ugh. This wasn’t what you signed up for.

You weren’t gonna sit here and watch Jungkook feel his girlfriend up in public. 

That should've been you!!

You let out a huff and look up at Namjoon. “I’m done.”

You sigh, standing abruptly. “I wanna go.”

Namjoon blinks. Now? “Wait, already?” 

It had only been a bit over forty minutes. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to start his own, proper work out.

“I’m bored. This isn’t fun anymore.” You pout, blowing your hair out of your face.

Anymore. So you were enjoying it? 

Maybe he could make you wait a while for him to finish up. 

“Why don’t you go get a steam with Hyewon? I’ll finish up here by the time you’re done.” Namjoon bribes you with something he knew you'd like, hopeful.

But you don’t even entertain the idea. “No… it’s okay. I don’t want foot fungus.”

You sneak another glance at the couple, feigning a stretch.

They’re still engaged with each other. 

Ughghdgh.

You were done for the day.

“I think I’m just gonna head home. Then maybe call for a massage.” You think a relaxing Thai massage would be perfect right now. “You can finish up here. I’ll see myself out!”

He sighs, wipes his hands on his shorts, and grabs his gym bag. He wasn't about to let you leave like this.

“Wait. I promised you a meal anyway. Let’s get brunch instead?” Namjoon offers.

Oh, right. You hadn’t even cared for that bit. 

You blink owlishly. “I forgot about that. You really don’t have to-” - “No, I want to.” He smiles, hopeful.

You look unconvinced. 

Namjoon’s staring you down.

He’s so persistent. 

You’re mid performing your eye-roll-flirting combo when a shadow appears beside you.

Hyewon. 

She looks curious, a little concerned even. “Everything okay?”

She noticed you and Namjoon having a bit of a disagreement so she had to check in on you. 

Namjoon turns to her with a friendly smile, “Oh, yeah. _____’s over the gym. So we’re gonna head out actually.” He nods at the exit.

Hyewon’s lips form an ‘o’ and she nods slowly. She had hoped to spend some time with you.

Then, as if it suddenly occurs to him, Namjoon exclaims, "Oh!" You don't like the sound of that. "We’re just going to this little cafe nearby. You and Kook should join us. It’s not even ten minutes from here, he knows which one."

W-

Wait a damn minute. 

When did this become a group activity? You hadn’t agreed to this!!

Why did Namjoon always have the wOrst ideas?

You turn your head sharply to glare at him. Neither of them catch on.

But Hyewon lights up instantly. “That sounds great!” She doesn't bother confirming with her boyfriend, knowing he’d agree to it if she asked nicely. 

Hyewon had been meaning to find a way to sit down with you one of these days. Maybe get to know you better.

What better opportunity was she going to get than this? 

Since her work lunches had never happened with you, she thinks this brunch may be an opening to more like these.

And just like that, your simple date with Namjoon… becomes something else entirely.

You tap your foot impatiently.

The three of you were forced to wait for fifteen more minutes for His Highness to finish his post-workout steam session.

Hyewon had tried to start conversations with you the entire time. Ones that you just couldn't care to follow up on. You can't do small talk.

You prayed Jungkook got a foot fungus.

Who did he think he was making you wait around for him like some lap dog?

Jungkook finally reemerged from the changing room dressed in a white button down, dark grey trousers and dress shoes.

You squint for a second. Was this just his regular getup? 

No, you’ve seen photos of him in regular people clothes.

You shake it off. Maybe he was gonna return to the office. Did he ever rest?

As if you weren't already agitated. On top of waiting on Jungkook for so long, Namjoon makes you walk ten minutes to the eatery. 

Namjoon walks beside you, holding both his gym bag and your Stanley Cup like a true gentleman. You hear Hyewon yapping behind you, attached to Jungkook’s arm like an accessory. 

You can’t help it. Every now and then, you glance over your shoulder. As does Namjoon, but for a totally different reason. He’s making sure they were all close together and you’re only sneaking peeks at Jeon Jungkook. 

It pisses you off when Jungkook doesn’t even return your gaze. 

What you don’t realise is that his eyes stayed glued to you when you weren’t looking. 

But in his defence, you're in his line of vision whether he wants it or not.

So... Yeah.

When you got to the cafe, you were able to cut the line and get a table instantly because Jungkook and Namjoon knew the owners. 

It's a pretty little place with a warm and welcoming atmosphere. It's a bit too brown for you but you get the appeal.

You think you read about this place in Vogue or something.

Inside, the host greets Namjoon by name and guides your party to a circular table. It had two pairs of stools placed on opposite sides, facing each other. 

You take your seat beside Namjoon before anyone else could.

Jungkook and Hyewon sit across from you. 

There’s not a lot of space--- your thigh is just barely touching Namjoon’s. 

You weren't down with this arrangement.

“Joon, would you mind switching seats with me?” You ask sweetly, tugging lightly on his sleeve. “There’s a draft blowing right on my neck and it’s already beginning to give me a headache.”

“Yeah, of course,” Namjoon says without hesitation, already rising from his seat. He even offers you his jacket which you decline.

Uh, yeah, so there was no draft.

You just didn’t want to spend the next hour, or whatever, staring at Hyewon’s face when you could stare at Jungkook's instead. 

Jungkook raises a brow. He, too, knew there was no draft. And if there was, were you really just about to put Namjoon through that discomfort?

It seemed so typical of you.

But you're a little happier now.

You were finally directly across Jeon Jungkook. 

Jungkook’s arms are folded; elbows on the table, muscles flexed. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Yet you could see his muscles through the white fabric.

His brow piercing glints under the sunlight streaming in from the massive window behind you.

He still refused to look you in the eye. 

Was he shy or something? 

He was crazy gorgeous.

You loved piercings on men.

Jungkook's muscles were so hot.

Namjoon was plenty muscular too but Jungkook’s were more toned and defined. And you like that a lot. 

Ideally you didn't prefer muscular people but Jungkook's were perfect.

For the first time, you find yourself being jealous of another woman.

You couldn’t believe Hyewon’s luck. She really gets to have Jeon Jungkook to herself and call him hers. 

You almost scoff. 

Well... You would just have to change that. 

Hyewon is already leading the conversation.

“I’ve been dying to try this place!” She exclaims, flipping the menu even though she clearly knows what she wants. “I’ve always heard them talk about it.” She directs at you. 

You smile at her, but your eyes bat to Jungkook.

His face is unreadable.

His eyes flicker from the menu to his girlfriend. And then to you. 

He stares at the side of your head when you’re looking at the menu in Namjoon’s hand.

Your hair fell beautifully on your eyes.

You don’t notice because you’re focused on Namjoon. He’s describing each drink to you and Hyewon. 

The two of you then end up picking the same citrus raspberry hibiscus iced tea.

Namjoon leans toward you and points to one of the drinks in the smoothie section. “You’d like this one actually.” He explains, "It has like five kinds of berries."

You liked berries but you weren’t in the mood for anything heavy so you shook your head at his suggestion. 

When the waiter arrives, Jungkook orders for everyone.

Taking charge. Nice.

Before he concludes, he looks at you, “Are you sure you don’t want the berry smoothie? It’s sweet.”

You almost startle because this was the first time he had initiated a conversation with you in weeks. 

If Jungkook wanted you to try a berry smoothie, you were going to do just that.

It's psychology. You knew it'd inflate his ego and then maybe he'd give you a little more attention.

Smiling sweetly, you oblige. “Ok, I’ll try some.”

Namjoon raises a brow in fake-offence but lets it slide. 

Jungkook nods and adds it to the order. He then smiles at the waiter. 

You couldn’t look away. His smile was so attractive. Especially with the lip ring.

What was going on here in this place right now?

Namjoon briefly excused himself to take a work call outside.

You wave him off, asking him to hurry back.

Internally, you swore you were going to walk out if Jungkook and Hyewon started talking amongst themselves.

Jungkook sighs deeply and leans back in his stool.

As he relaxes, his shoe accidentally knocks against yours.

At that, he suddenly straightens up and throws you a quick apology. “Sorry.” 

You simply smile at him as an 'It's okay.'

An awkward minute passes.

"By the way..." Thinking quick, you use this chance to open a conversation with him now that you had his attention. "I really like your piercings. I have them too."

Jungkook has always loved receiving compliments on his piercings and body art.

So he couldn't help but tell you about them.

He purposely ignores the comment about your own piercings though. He did not need to think about that right now.

He leans forward, flattered. "Thanks... I got my ears done in my late teens. Along with my first few tats on my fingers actually."

You gasp. Finger tats???

Without asking, you reach across the table and grab his hand with both of yours, bringing it closer. "Lemme see!"

Jungkook doesn't even flinch. Instead exhales a muted laugh.

He had to admit that was kinda cute of you.

You run your fingertips gently over the small designs on his knuckles and sides of his fingers.

They were a bit faded. Except for an emoji that you absolutely did not expect. It's the crazy looking one. 🥴.

So silly.

"Do you have to keep refilling them?" You asked out of genuine curiousity.

Jungkook nods. "Yeah. These tend to fade a lot faster because your hands are always in use and exposed to the elements. And the kind of tattoos I chose are called fine line tattoos, they'd fade anywhere on your body since they're made using just one thin needle."

He later adds, "But I prefer it."

You hum, tracing the patterns with a kind of reverence that makes Hyewon stiffen.

You tilt your head. "Hmm... Like if you get bored of it, you'd just need to wait for it to go away on its own rather than get it lasered off!"

"Exactly." Jungkook slightly smirked at you.

You’re quiet for a second, focused on his fingers, then look up at him with a grin. "These are so hot. Like criminally hot."

You also shoot his girlfriend a smile so you wouldn't seem too forward or predatory.

Jungkook huffs a little laugh but doesn’t pull away.

His hand stays in yours.

It gives you butterflies. It's like you don't know what to do with his hand. It's... There.

Hyewon’s voice cuts through, sounding casual but pointed. "That’s actually the first thing I noticed too!"

With her eyes only briefly on you before settling on Jungkook, she continued, "When we reconnected last year. He had the eyebrow and lip, and I was like, wow."

Hyewon then places a hand on his bicep. Staking her claim.

You wait for more but it never comes. What the hell kinda anecdote was that?

But it made sense for her to approach him instead of the other way around.

Then you echo, still holding her boyfriend's hand, "Reconnected?"

"Yes. We were in the same uni. He's older." Hyewon smiles tightly. "And we met again at Choi Soobin's party." She adds at the end, "Last October."

Wait, Soobin? Now your attention was on her.

That man was your first friend in uni. He's two years older though, so you only spent a year with him closely. He taught you how to drink. And you stayed in touch ever since.

But he'd only had one public party last year. That had to be it. You were there!

How had you not seen Jungkook then? (You were super drunk the entire time so... It makes sense.)

"Soobin's rooftop thing, right? I was there!!" You squeak.

Hyewon smiles wider now, nodding. "You were! You wore that white Chanel t-shirt. I loved that top. It's still my favourite look of yours."

It was like the most basic look you could've pulled together, but you don't say that. Maybe it was the lilies in your hair that gratified her.

You beam, resting your elbows on the table. "Thank you, Wony."

God, you'd always remember how you acquired that top.

"That outfit almost cost me my life." You exaggerate with a phew.

Sensing a story there, Hyewon stared at you questioningly.

Finally, you exaggeratingly roll yours eyes (not at her) and release her boyfriend's hand, preparing to narrate this thing that happened to you.

Undoing your wrap top for absolutely no reason, you begin with some background--- "OK, so, there's a little boutique in Troye. Like two hours from Paris, maybe? It's an 'unofficial official' discount store for Chanel. You can only access it if you regularly spend a certain amount of money at Chanel though."

You explain. "They don't like to advertise sales because that'll break the illusion of a luxury brand."

You didn't shop Chanel often, but your mother met the mark. That's how you gained access to it.

You were more of a Miu Miu and Sandy Liang girl.

Hyewon was now very intrigued. You had just given her some crazy insider info. Something only someone like you could offer. Something she could use to her benefit.

"Anyway, this lady really wanted to play tug of war with that top. She was such a tiny woman but she actually flung me across the room!"

You had only gotten to buy that top because she got kicked out.

Hyewon was thoroughly immersed, even getting over the fact that you had been playing with her boyfriends hand nonchalantly just a minute ago. And that he had LET you.

Either way, she felt herself slowly growing a friendship with you. Like, a genuine one.

It was either super easy to impress Hyewon or she was just deluded.

Namjoon returns just as finish the tale about your wrestling match in France.

You spot him first and sit up straighten in your seat.

Jungkook looks up too, eyes flicking to his friend in silent question.

Namjoon shrugs, muttering under his breath as he drags himself back into his seat, “Handled.”

Jungkook nods once, accepting the vague answer.

You grin at Namjoon and gloat, “You just missed a really fun story.”

He plays along, amused. "Yeah?" - "Mhm." You nod, with your nose up.

Hyewon was just about to complain about the service when three plates appear in front of you seemingly out of nowhere.

It even startles the two of you. Goodness. Whatever that was all about.

Jungkook's stack of protein pancakes looked weird to you. But the whipped cream was a good choice. He also got himself a cup of coffee, without sugar or cream or anything.

So bitter.

Namjoon got a bagel sandwich. It's stuff in a bagel, it's whatever. But it was huge. The portion size seems to match the price range.

So far, Hyewon had the best looking order.

A pretty bowl of shrimp with other healthy looking stuff.

You ask if you could take a picture of it.

She just nods excitedly, asking you to tag her if you post. You do.

(Somin is side-eyeing you, BTW.)

Your smoothie looked a bit menacing though. It was scarily red. But only a sip told you otherwise. "Mmm!! Yum!" This was aimed at Jungkook who just nodded satisfyingly, and then you turn to Namjoon who shot you a smug smile.

You hum in content and reach out for the iced tea drink next.

The tea tasted like soap.

Disappointed, you frown at your straw.

The flavours of the smoothie had overpowered the tea.

You pout a little, and feel a little annoyed when nobody notices or says anything.

Jungkook did though.

Jungkook almost shook his head. Like, what did you expect?

Namjoon and Hyewon start talking about some high profile client who recently left Hyewon's firm to join J, K & K.

You hear the name in passing, some tech company whose CEO allegedly had a meth addiction.

When Namjoon mentions something about a prenup, hinting that this CEO was getting married, you see Jungkook freeze for just a breath, his fork pausing mid air.

His jaw flexes for a second before he resumes chewing.

He was clearly upset. You don't know why.

Jungkook was irritated by Namjoon's tendency to ignore confidentiality clauses. This could've been troublesome had you been someone else and listened to their conversations.

You snuck peeks at him, pretending to pay attention to Namjoon.

Jungkook's such a cutie.

You doubt he even realises it.

Sometimes, he looks so round. You bit your lip to hold back a smile.

Generally, a lunch date like this, where people had co-conversations away from you, would've bored you. But simply watching Jeon Jungkook was really fun. You don't know if he noticed you were.

(He did.)

Your legs are crossed under the table, and on impulse, you decide to do something. Just to see what happens. You uncross them slowly.

Slipping a shoe off, you inch your sock clad foot toward Jungkook’s. 

A second later, you slowly slide it next to Jungkook’s foot.

He feels it.

But doesn’t react. 

You take it a little further and rest your foot on his shoe for a minute, just to test the waters. 

And nothing.

Jungkook doesn't seem to care.

Hm… interesting.

You blink at him slowly like a cat. He was trying hard not to look at you directly. But, his eyes did involuntarily wander to you.

When he still doesn’t shake you off, you move up his ankle. You hold eye contact and watch his reaction closely.

Jungkook goes stiff. 

Letting a shaky breath out, he takes a sip of his coffee.

And at the exact same time, you drag your foot up his calf. 

His eyes widen and he chokes on his coffee, nearly breaking into a coughing fit.

Namjoon and Hyewon abruptly turn to Jungkook, startled.

Hyewon, alarmed, starts patting his back. “Are you okay, baby?”

You snatch your foot back, innocently watching him with wide, doll-like eyes. 

Jungkook furrows his brows, trying to hold his coughs in and shakes his head, reassuring his girlfriend, “Mm. Yeah, it’s- I’m ok now.” He nodded.

When he recovers, like barely, Hyewon continues with her story, not wanting to lose her train of thought. But she still glances at her boyfriend from time to time.

This was funnn. You smile cheekily.

Jungkook gives you a warning look, thinking, 'You better not act up again.'

You study him through your lashes as you suck on your straw.

And only a few beats later, you strike again.

This time, you’re bolder. Slower. Higher. Sliding your foot from his calf to his knee. Making circular, rubbing motions on it gently. 

Your core tingles a little, making you clench around nothing. 

You stare into Jungkook’s eyes, giving him a blank expression.

But he could clearly see the mischief dancing behind your irises.

And then, you make the most tender move.

You aim and press your foot directly on his thigh. 

In one swift move, he suddenly grabs your foot under the table, startling you.

You almost squeak but somehow manage to hold your shock in. Your eyes widened and fall to the plate in front of him.

Fuck.

This was exhilarating.

He’s staring you down now, unbeknownst to Hyewon and Namjoon who were looking at something on her phone. 

Jungkook holds your foot firmly on his thigh. He doesn’t let go.

Your lips part a little, unsure of what to say or do.

You glance up at Jungkook through your lashes--- and he’s still looking right at you. Eyes narrow and sharp. 

You gulp visibly and your chest heaves faintly. You bite your cheek.

He squeezes the top of your foot ever so slightly and your stomach flips. You press on to him harder.

This. Was. So. Hot.

His hand covered almost your entire foot. 

Jungkook could probably manhandle you way better than Namjoon. Joon was strong but pretty clumsy. Jungkook though… He seems to know how to use his strength. 

Involuntarily, you moan a little at the thought, accidentally drawing everyone's attention to you.

Oops.

“You okay?” Namjoon asks you. You were more than okay.

You snap your head at him and blink. “Mhm!”

Eventually, Jungkook lets go of your foot.

You behave for the rest of the meal. Still peering at Jungkook every so often.

You don’t know how Hyewon hadn’t noticed. And if she had, she didn't say anything.

You're relatively silent, only responding when spoken to. Something Jungkook secretly seemed to find delight in.

He had managed to shut you up. That's a win in his book.

When the bill comes, Jungkook grabs it before Namjoon could.

Also hot.

But before he pays, he turns to you with a raised brow, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? You barely ate.”

You’re caught off guard by this.

Was he displaying... concern?

You tilt your head. “I’m okay... I had breakfast with my family earlier.” 

“They have really good chicken salad.” Unconvinced, he suggests. “You could get a takeaway.”

You pause. The softness in his voice disarms you. You clench your toes in your shoes.

“I’m okay.” You affirm softly, hoping nobody notices your reddening cheeks. You squirm in your seat a little.

He nods and proceeds to hand his card over to the server, sneaking one final glance at you.

Although you initially dreaded it, this joint lunch had been... so, so fruitful.

More than that, you now know your advances toward Jungkook were indeed approved.

It was weird though.

You sort of felt like a school girl with a crush on her teacher.

Very strange.

note: sorry it's so goddamn long once again, i thought i could break it into two parts but i didn't want to make you wait any longer

i skipped sleep for this so please tell me if that was worth it or not, ok? lovely

also do you guys think jks gonna tell hyewon about this or nah

[ddejavvu]

You and Me, as One - Hiccup Haddock x Reader (Part Two) | SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III isn’t the burliest, hairiest, or the best with an axe in his tribe. But he is the viking who can tame any dragon with only a flash of his palm. Until now. When he stumbles upon an unfamiliar dragon off the far coast of Berk, she doesn’t play nicely with his offering of friendship. Neither does the dragon’s rider, who has just as fierce a snarl. The feral pair present an enticing mystery to Hiccup, but neither the dragon nor the human show any interest in getting close. Can he make friends, or are there corners of the world his optimism can’t brighten?

Contents/Warnings: afab!fem!reader, mentions of past torture/captivity, trauma, mention of physical scars/injuries, The Light Fury (light fury haters this one's not for you sorry)

WC: 4.0K / navigation / inbox / ddejavvu's summer of series

A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait between chapters one and two!! updates should be much more consistent after this. I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think of the story so far!

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Hiccup and Toothless set out at first light, aiming to beat any suspicion from the residents of Berk. They do frequent patrols, so it wouldn't look out of place for him to be soaring over the island, but with a secret this big, Hiccup is intent on keeping it private. At least until he can figure out why you’re there, and where you’ve come from. Outsiders are- few and far between on Berk, but most of them end up being murderous, so Hiccup wants to curb that instinct of yours before introducing you to the village.

Despite the disappointment of yesterday, enthusiasm rises in both of their chests, so that when they land on the cliff where you’d nearly gutted Hiccup just yesterday, both boys are nearly trembling with excitement. Toothless is ruffling his wings and bobbing his head up and down, desperate to catch a glimpse of the white dragon, and Hiccup casts a cursory glance into the trees above him, intent on finding you before you find him.

“Careful bud. Like we talked about. We’ve gotta get them separated. I think we should try the woman first.”

Toothless snorts at him, momentarily discouraged.

“I know you want to see the dragon.” Hiccup soothes him with a stroke of his palm over the dragon’s head between his eyes, “But she wants to kill us both. And she’s tried. Twice. At least I can talk to the woman- she seems to understand even if she won’t talk to me, and she can’t shoot plasma at us, which is definitely a plus.”

Toothless lets out a low, grumbly warble, something distinctly upset, but doesn’t shove Hiccup into the grass, which is a good sign.

“Okay. Food.” Hiccup opens the satchel he’d brought with him, slung over one shoulder and resting against his hip, “I brought- bread,” He shows the fresh-baked, still warm loaf to Toothless, who eyes it curiously, “-and some jam to go with it. Fish jerky, because it’ll last longer than fresh-caught fish, and some berries so that she doesn’t have to pick her own. I’m pretty sure, like, half of the ones that grow around here are poisonous.”

Toothless, who had busied himself just two days ago by munching on the wild ones he’d found while exploring the island, looks distinctly alarmed at this information.

“Hopefully she likes it,” Hiccup sighs, anxious as he drags a hand through his hair and stares out over the clearing below, “Do you see either of them, bud?”

Toothless’s enhanced, draconic senses aren’t enough to save the day. The dragon is just as lost as his rider is, and they settle into the grass towards the edge of the cliff to wait for either of you to show yourselves.

“We might not ever find them.” Hiccup realizes, dismayed, “We might have scared them off, or they might be hiding because they knew we’d come back. We might not make contact today, bud.”

Toothless warbles sadly and nudges his face into Hiccup’s belly, begging for a reassuring scratch beneath the chin. Hiccup grants him one, sighing as he stares out over the empty grass.

“And now we wait.” Hiccup declares, pushing the satchel away from Toothless’s wide snout, “Don’t even think about eating that jerky.”

--

Waking comes with a rush of pain, like it always does. Being kept in such a small space for so long, crammed beside a dragon five times your size has certainly changed your body, given you muscle pains and creaky bones. No matter how much it hurts to sleep bundled up each night, you tuck yourself beneath her wing because you know she’ll protect you if need be. Waking first means that you’re on guard duty now, and you slip out from beneath her white, shimmering wing to peer blearily at your surroundings.

No iron bars, which is nice.

Each day of freedom feels like an anomaly. Like a dream, like something that’s going to melt away and reveal itself as a psychotic episode. But the dirt feels real beneath your feet, and the grass too, once you edge your way out from beneath the rock protruding above you, and soak up the sun on your skin.

Water is sometimes a hard thing to come by on the run, because most of it is either salt or still. Ponds build bacteria and ocean water dehydrates you, but there’s a brook that runs through one side of this clearing that filters away all of the sediment from the water and gives you something to cup your hands in. You do so with a wince at your dry throat, and you scrub off any dirt from your face with the clear liquid, too. You’re keeping yourself as clean as possible because you have the privilege to now, but you’re sure you still smell like a fresh-caught fish, or something worse.

--

“There, bud.” Hiccup elbows Toothless to wake the drowsy dragon, pointing towards a stream down the side of the clearing that you’re kneeling at, scrubbing your face with the fresh water, “She came from over there.”

What Hiccup had thought was just another cliff face must be hollowed underneath, because you disappear beneath it after you’re done washing yourself. Hiccup can’t see much from their spot atop the cliffs, but he catches the shine of a white dragon’s tail and Toothless perks up at the sight.

“Okay, we know where they sleep.” Hiccup whispers, trying not to make any sound that either of you could pick up on, “Let’s move that way. Not closer, just- just enough to see them.”

He and Toothless creep through the shrubbery above you, settling themselves down in a thicket of berry bushes to avoid being seen.

“These ones are poisonous.” Hiccup mutters to Toothless, who plops his head onto his paws with a world-weary sigh.

From this angle they can see you clearer. Not perfectly, because the rock that hangs over your shelter still obscures your face from view. But he can see your legs, your hands, and her tail, which are all working together. Your fingers scratch and scrape at the scales on her tail, and they shed onto the scarred skin of your legs that she’s resting on. You’re grooming her, and Hiccup lets himself get lost in the image.

He wishes he could see your face. Your touches are tender, but rough enough to scrape the old scales off and reveal the softer, more tender ones underneath. The white dragon could be doing this herself, either with her talons or with her teeth, or by dragging her tail against a rock, but you’re letting her drape her tail into your lap and you’re doing it for her, delicately peeling away old itchy scales. He’s done the same favor for Toothless countless times, and he wonders if you keep any especially pretty scales like he does.

When you’ve grazed your fingernails over every scale on her tail she snakes it out of your lap, and Hiccup can finally see all of her as she burrows her face against your legs in thanks. Her face is rounder and smaller than Toothless’s, and he feels an involuntary grin ghost over his face as she snarls at you, gumming at your calf to get you to play with her.

Retractable teeth-! Another similarity, Hiccup realizes. He pulls out his journal, scribbling it beside a drawing of her he’d done last night. He keeps it out, charcoal laying limp in his hand as he watches you rise to her bait.

You push hard at her head clamped over your leg but it’s no use- she’s stronger than you. All you manage to do is tumble forwards yourself, and she takes the advantage of size by plopping herself on top of your back, pinning you face-down in the grass. You yelp and kick your feet out, your voice once again gravelly and reminiscent of a dragon’s call, but she takes to gnawing on your bicep instead of setting you free. You try shaking it out of her grip but you have almost no leverage- not from the way you’re cemented beneath her into the ground. She only lets you go to snort hot air into the space between your shoulder blades, and drag her snout down your back.

Hiccup’s drawing without thinking, something innate fueling the sketchy lines he’s mapping out on the page as his eyes flick from you to his journal. He’s drawing so vigorously that the charcoal scratches noisily on the paper, barely able to keep up with his eager hands. By the time he’s got body parts clearly detailed he glances up and realizes he’s lost you again, as the dragon has wandered away to drink from the stream and you’re nowhere to be found. Something jumps in his chest at that- fear, maybe - and Toothless doesn’t seem to know where you’ve gone either.

“We’re bad at this, bud.” Hiccup glances sideways at Toothless, “Where’d she go?”

He barely has time to get the question into the air before he’s pounced on, heavy bones and toned muscles knocking into him from behind and pinning him face-first into the dirt beneath him. For the second time in twenty-four hours Hiccup finds himself rendered completely useless beneath you, much the same as you’d been beneath the pearly-white dragon only moments ago.

“Ow! Ow, don’t- I’m not here to hurt you!” He yelps, and Toothless is again unsure of what to do. He knows Hiccup wants to make friends with you, as he wants to make friends with your companion. But that’s his rider you’ve got beneath you, his best friend, and he doesn’t like the way you’re shoving Hiccup’s face into the dirt, nor the way you’ve got his hands bent painfully behind his back.

This culminates in a low snarl, not an attack but a warning.

“Toothless,” Hiccup gasps, the air knocked from his lungs as he tries catching a glimpse of the dragon at his side, “Toothless, no. Stop. Back off.”

The dragon’s growl peters into a series of concerned rumbles, and he takes off pacing back and forth over the grassy cliffside, anxious.

“We’re not here to hurt you.” Hiccup repeats, as best he can with his nose in the dirt, “We brought you food.”

You don’t respond, but you do lift his face out of the dirt without taking the pressure of your knee off the point between his shoulder blades. It means his neck is craned uncomfortably, close to snapping, and he moans as his muscles are pulled taut.

“Ow! Ah- it’s- it’s in the bag! There,” He points as best he can, trying to move his shoulders as much as he can despite your weight resting on them, “Toothless, my satchel.”

The dragon rushes to shove it forwards, and a jar of preserves rolls out at the nudge of his nose.

You study it with a skeptical expression, and at another pained whimper from Hiccup, you let go of the sides of his head. He lays it back down in the dirt, strangely relieved to be sticking his nose in the ground. When you touch his head again it’s to turn it, and he lets you press his cheek into the grass so that you can stare into his eyes.

“Hi,” He supplies lamely, breath tight in his chest, “Can I get up? I swear we won’t hurt you.”

Toothless ruffles his wings nervously, crooning plaintively as if it’ll convince you to free his rider. Your companion is alerted to their presence now, sensitive ears having picked up the scuffle, and she’s poised to fly, ready to help if need be. She’s clearly still skittish around newcomers, but she must have faith in your fighting skills if she hasn’t jumped in yet. Not reassuring to Hiccup, who’s laying limp in the grass.

“It’s fresh bread.” Hiccup continues, keeping his voice soothing and low, “And jelly, and jerky, and berries. I can imagine fish gets old after a while."

He’s attempting to calm you with the sound of his voice, but what catches your attention is his journal, sprawled out to a random page as it had been tossed aside in your scuffle. It’s a sketch of Stormfly, turned sideways so he could draw out her large, round eye.

A soft, inquisitive coo comes from your throat, something barely audible to Hiccup whose ear is pressed flat into grass.

“My- my journal? Here,” He wriggles an arm, trying to free it, “I’ll show you. Let me go, I’ll show you.”

You pinch his wrists tighter, clearly unwilling to let your prey go. But perhaps something about staring down a muscled night fury makes you reconsider your actions, even if your own lethal dragon is waiting for your cue. You let Hiccup’s wrists go, and leap back to sit back on his legs so that he can reach for the journal. When he shifts his legs you scramble off of them, standing ready to bolt into the surrounding trees. But you watch warily as he crawls to his feet, Toothless eager to help him off of the ground. He scruffs at the dragon’s neck and plucks his journal and charcoal from the grass, brandishing both to show you.

“Look, see? I draw dragons,” He explains, but your eyes dart to his charcoal stick, the tip fine-tuned into a point from the amount of shading he’d done on your page.

You look at it like it’s a spear, because it probably seems like one to you, and you decide your time is up. You dart backwards, turning and twisting yourself up into a tree so fast that Hiccup blinks and you’re gone.

“No, wait!” He chucks the charcoal behind him, “No, come back, I won't hurt you!” But you’re gone, swinging from branches until you reach a tall enough one to jump from. You dive straight off the edge of the cliff, and Hiccup feels his heart drop to his stomach until the white dragon soars to meet you midway, and you land squarely on her back in mid-air. As soon as she’s caught you she flees, beelining for the far side of the island, even further from Berk.

Hiccup and Toothless watch side-by-side, helpless as you disappear into the foggy mountains. Hiccup's shoulders slouch as he realizes he’s botched two chances in a row.

“It’s… okay, bud. We’ll come back.” Hiccup smooths a hand over one of Toothless’s ears, taking it in his fist and tugging gently, “Let’s go down there and leave them their food.”

Toothless grumbles agreeably, albeit morosely, and as soon as Hiccup gathers his things, they’re gliding down from the clifftop to the shelter that you’d found beneath the bedrock. It’s rudimentary at best, littered with seared patches of ground and ashes that used to be twigs. There’s fishbones scattered around and a patch of grass that’s flatter than the rest, which he assumes is where you’ve been sleeping. You’ve been living with nothing, no water bucket, no food reserves, no blankets. Nothing but grass and dirt, and whatever you can fish.

Hiccup gathers the food he’d brought you, hesitating before keeping the knife he’d brought for the preserves in his satchel. He won’t bring it next time- he doesn’t want to spook you again, but he doesn’t think giving it to you would be smart either. He sets everything neatly wrapped and concealed in one of the back corners of your little cave, and, on second thought, reaches for his journal.

He takes the sketch he’d done of you and your dragon- messy, rushed, unrefined but recognizable, and rips it from the bindings. Toothless tilts his head sideways as Hiccup sets it in the grass, pinned beneath a corner of the loaf of bread so it doesn’t blow away.

“There.” He hums, stepping back and leaning against Toothless’s neck, “Do you think they’ll come back?”

--

That’s the question that weighs so heavily on Hiccup for the entirety of his journey back to work that Fishlegs notices something is wrong. He’s one of the more emotionally intelligent members of their group, but often distracted by something, so when he asks Hiccup what’s bothering him, the man knows he has no choice but to tell the truth.

“There’s a new species of dragon in the woods.”

Fishlegs’s eyes glow, “Really? What class? Are they venomous? Or- or fire-breathing? Or do they bash things in with their tails?”

“Fishlegs.” Hiccup cuts him off, “It’s- one dragon. Just one. And… she looks a lot like Toothless.”

“Another night fury,” Fishlegs breathes, “A mate for Toothless!”

“Fishlegs” Hiccup repeats, slowing the man’s excited bouncing, “I need you to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. Not even the other riders.”

Fishlegs frowns, “You know I’m not good at keeping secrets.”

“Fishlegs. This is important.” Hiccup meets his friend’s eyes with a steely gaze, “Promise me. They’re skittish, and the last thing we need is someone rushing in there and scaring them off.”

“Them?” Fishlegs asks, and Hiccup inhales deeply.

“There’s a woman there, too. With the dragon. And she’s- aggressive. She acts like a dragon. I think they ran away from someone. Something. She thinks I’m trying to kill her.”

“Another dragon rider.” Fishlegs realizes, “But she’s running from something. Hiccup, do you realize what this means?”

“That we’re going to have to keep this a secret from my dad until we can calm them down?”

“What? No. It means whatever they’re running from is going to chase them here. To Berk.”

Hiccup actually hadn’t considered that. But having seen the scars littering your skin, the primal fear ingrained into your behavior, and the clear desperation you possess just to survive, Hiccup knows he can’t stand by and let whatever you’re running from find you.

“You’re right. We have to help them.” He decides, “Not just let them live here, we have to finish whatever fight they’re in.”

“That’s-! Not what I meant,” Fishlegs’ shoulders sag, his expression nervous, “But- um, I guess you’re the future Chief. Just- don’t let anything bad happen to Berk?”

“You know I’d never do that,” Hiccup’s determined expression deepens, “Tomorrow, Toothless and I are going back to find them. The woman doesn’t talk, but- but I’ll talk to her. I’ll figure out how to get her to Berk and I’ll find out what she’s running from. Then we can help her finish it, once and for all. So they can stop living in fear. And you,” Hiccup glares at Fishlegs sternly, “Are going to keep your mouth shut.”

Fishlegs nods vigorously, “Okay, but- but if Astrid threatens me, I might crack! You know how scary she can be, Hiccup.”

“She’s bluffing.” Hiccup vows, “Trust me, if she weren’t I wouldn’t have any limbs left. Stay strong, Fishlegs.”

“Don’t let her find me!” The man begs, but Hiccup and Toothless are already making their way homeward, leaving the nervous man behind.

--

After hours of hearing nothing but silence from your temporary shelter, and peering over the cliffside to ensure there’s no intruder skulking around, you finally decide it’s safe to go home. She flies you down to the cavern you’ve taken residence in, but her nose scrunches as she snarls at a pile of things in one corner that weren’t there before. You’re sure they reek of the man and his dragon, and you crouch before them to inspect his parting gifts.

It’s food. Not the kind of food you were granted in the cage, on the boat, but real food, the kind you’d made for yourself before you’d been taken. The kind of food they’d all enjoyed around you, rubbing it in your faces that moldy bread and raw fish were your only options. This bread looks fresh, and the berries beside it look enticing. 

She moves past her hatred for the man and his dragon in favor of sniffing at the fish, but before she can snap it up you grab her chin and shove her face away.

She huffs at you, irritated, but you give the food a wide berth. Grimmel's finally found you. You’re being hunted, you’re sure of it, and to accept any food from the man he’d sent as bait-? That would be downright foolish. You’re not going to indulge in freshly-baked bread and dried fish just to wake up on the ocean again, trapped behind iron bars.

You kick the food out towards the mouth of the cave, but something stays behind, and you peer down at the paper that rustles in the cool night wind.

It’s a drawing. Not the dragon you’d seen earlier, the nadder with a spiked crown of horns and a large, inquisitive eye. No, this is a drawing of her, and you glance at the figure her tail is draped over only to realize it’s you.

He’d sketched the two of you, your messily-drawn fingers plucking scales off of her tail. Your stomach churns at the knowledge that he’d been watching you- he’d been there and you hadn’t even noticed, but you admire the way he’s caught her beauty in her sweet, curved face, and her delicate tail fins.

She’s really a gorgeous dragon, and even if he’s hunting her for a bounty, it’s nice to know she’s appreciated.

You wonder if he grooms his dragon. You wonder if he scratches at the dragon’s itchy underbelly, if he helps whack stubborn bugs out of the gaps between the night fury’s scutes. You can’t fathom why someone with a night fury- with something to lose - is helping Grimmel, but you know this is the last one Grimmel’s after. The black dragon is the last of a dying breed, and you’re all three being hunted in equal measure. 

The dragon seems to trust him. They seem close, in-sync, and they move together the way you move with her. If you didn’t know they were working with him, you’d have mistaken them for friends. But when Grimmel gets you he’s going to take the night fury too- he’s trading his dragon’s life for a sack of gold. How can you abuse the loyalty of someone who trusts you- does his dragon know he’s marked for death? Does the night fury know his rider has sold him out? You have half a mind to free the beast, but you’d have to kill the man to do it, and you’re sure it would give Grimmel a reason to kill you, too.

But perhaps dying would be better than living if it’s Grimmel you’re talking about.

You wonder if the man knows he’s signed a deal with the devil. Surely Grimmel had offered him money for your capture, but had he mentioned the part of the deal where the night fury would die at his hand? Grimmel likes staying two steps ahead- maybe the man doesn’t even know Grimmel hunts night furies. Maybe Grimmel had played the part of the cheated captain, searching for his mutinous crewmate who had fled with his prized possession.

Maybe the man isn’t a monster. Maybe he is bonded with his dragon, maybe they are truly friends. But he’s working for a monster, and that’s enough. 

Grimmel has always sent her to lure his targets in. He pokes and prods her onto shore, he makes her tempt the lonely into her trap, he makes you think there’s someone or something out there who cares for you- and then he takes it all away. You’d fallen for it once, and you won’t fall for it again.

You fling the drawing towards the food outside of the mouth of the cave. It flutters in the cool night breeze, landing softly atop one of the dried fish- surely poisoned. You try forgetting its compelling lines, the sweetness spread over its surface, and you retreat into the cave to retire for the night. You take solace in her glimmering white wings, letting her spread one over the floor of the cave for you to lie on. Then she drags it towards her chest, rolling you over with it and covering you with the other one. Her steady breathing and beating heart are comfort enough to drift off, and you lament that you’ll have to go back to being on the run now that you know they’ve found you here. The man is hunting you, Grimmel is hunting you, and even if the night fury’s rider doesn’t know the full story, he’s dangerous enough that you need to get out. Tomorrow, at first light, you’ll leave.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[c4tluver02]

hopefully this isn’t too vague but for a request i’d love some fluff! potentially steve and henderson!reader like dustin’s older sister and what that would all entail, like steve being a part of the family :,)

the secret

wc: 2.1k

summary: After keeping your relationship with Steve a secret from Dustin, he just so happens to find out in the worst way.

cw: Henderson!reader, older sister/ younger brother, slight fight, nothin rlly!

a/n: thank you sm for the request i really appreciate it!!! i hope you enjoy!!! <33

As of right now you and Steve are keeping your relationship a secret.  

At least from Dustin. You both don’t know how he’ll react and personally you’d hate for this to be something that doesn’t work out and you ended up getting him mad for no reason. Not that you and Steve are breaking up anytime soon, he’s actually been great. He calls you every night and on dates he gets you flowers. He’s perfect and you’re extremely happy.   

Steve saw you for the first time when he went to pick Dustin up. He sat in his red car with furrowed brows because the kid was late. Like 20 minutes late. Doing what? Steve still doesn’t know to this day but he’s thankful something kept him up. It’s what brought you to his car.   

You had a pretty summer dress on and if Steve were a gentleman his eyes would have found your face before your dress but that’s just how it happened. You also didn’t have shoes on, underestimating just how hot the summer concrete would be, or maybe, probably, not expecting to tell Dustin’s significantly older friend that he can’t go anywhere today. Steve can see your height get higher as you stand on your tippy toes trying to avoid the heat on your bare feet.

It’s how you got into his car, after he offered you to sit in it of course. Letting your feet have a break. It also lets him keep you for a little longer. You had told him all that he really needed to know and yet here you are in his passenger seat with the door open. You’re letting out cold air but Steve would never tell you to do anything about it.   

After that day Steve picked Dustin up more and suddenly he began walking up to the front door. No longer waiting the whole time in his car for Dustin to fix his timing issues. Instead he sits with you in the living room and talks. When Dustin was ready he’d give you a goodbye and Steve would send a smile and wave. It was easy to fall in love with Steve Harrington.   

With all of this being said Dustin knows you’re dating somebody, just not Steve. In typical Dustin fashion he couldn’t care less about it, it’s not affecting him in any way other than you’re gone more. He’s too busy in his own life to notice anything about yours. And you two have been careful so far. Like when he drops you off a few houses down so Dustin doesn’t see his car, or when he sneaks into your room through your window– But that one even your mom doesn’t know about.   

It was working well so far. Would you like to tell your brother you’re dating someone he sincerely looks up to? Well when it’s put that way no. But you would like to stop being secretive. You and Dustin are pretty close, you never keep something this big from him. It’s what eats you up at night when Dustin asks when he’s gonna meet this special guy you talk about.  

But you know it’s best that he doesn’t know quite yet. To know your sister and best friend are getting together behind your back is understandably devastating. Even though it’s 100% serious Dustin doesn’t think Steve is serious about anything and you’re his sister who is lame and boring. It just simply doesn’t work. 

Steve is coming over again tonight, you had spent a few days last week at his place so now it’s his turn to go to yours. A nice back and forth to make things even. Although being at Steve’s is better than being at your place, no hiding, no parents, just you and him in a house all alone.   

However it is nice to be in your bed with your clothes. Not needing to pack a bag of things that you need. Steve packs light anyways, boys are so lucky for that. And he always tells you how much he loves your room, stating that it feels like you are unlike his room. Something that his parents threw together and he just put his personal belongings into. You have posters and pictures of friends all around, your music collection is stacked, and downstairs is a family that’s close and happy. Something Steve doesn’t get to see at his own home.   

When you hear a knock on your window it makes you jump slightly. Your nose stuck in a book you rented from the library when you and Steve went a few days ago. You’re quick to hop off your bed to open it for him. He always tells you to keep it locked even when you know he’s coming.  

 “Hey angel.” He preens once both of his feet are planted on your bedroom floor.   

“Hi handsome. Have you eaten?” You ask putting your arms around his neck giving him a hello kiss. It’s quick despite his arms trying to pull you closer into him and he answers with a nod. Your mom made one of his favorites but he can always take some home when he leaves.  

Your mom is maybe even a bigger fan of Steve than you are. When he has dinners with all three of you– just as a hang out with Dustin of course– she always asks him questions and makes jokes. He gives into her, laughing at anything and everything she says. It’s very sweet, completely unnecessary, but still he does it. Your mom can like anyone so Steve doesn’t need to try so hard and yet he does.   

Dustin will complain if Steve gets seconds and you’ll kick his leg under the table. Not only is he being a brat but that’s your boyfriend who deserves seconds. He gives you a death glare in return that means absolutely nothing to you at this point, seeing it for many many years.  

Steve even sometimes scolds him and you think you like him the most then. All defensive of you and then he puts his hand on your thigh under the table. The flush that comes to your cheeks is missed by your brother but not by the boy sitting next to you.   

His hands squeezing your hips pulls you out of the memory. You can see his eyes traveling around your room, looking for anything new that he might not have seen the last time he was there. When they land on your bed he immediately speaks up.   

“How's the book going?” He nods his head towards the direction of the book on your bed. Steve remembers how happy you were to find it in your local library, it is a fairly new release for Hawkins to have.   

“It’s really good so far, I barely had time to read it cause Dusitn was bothering me all day.” You huff as you sit back down on your bed, Steve follows suit. The way your hands immediately intertwine could almost make it seem like there's a magnet holding them together. Always coming together when close. 

The timing in which Dustin knocks on your door after you mention him is scary. So scary you fear he might have heard what you said about him. But what's worse is Steve is right next to you. Both of your heads turn to look at each other with wide eyes. 

“What?” Your tone is not harsh but it does exactly say ‘come on in!’ 

“I need to talk to you.” 

Dustin never really comes to you about stuff unless it's to complain about your mom. But she’s asleep now so this must be something serious. You get up from your spot on your bed and make a ‘shoo’ motion to Steve. He quickly fumbles his way into your closet, it’s bigger than Dustins which is why you picked this room. Still it doesn’t leave Steve a ton of moving area for him to stand comfortably. Your hanging clothes force him to be pushed against the door. 

When you open your door Dustin is standing in front of you with a frown. Your arm stretches out to let him know he can enter and he sits on the chair by your vanity, the one that's right next to your closet. 

“So, what's up?” You are leaning against the end of your bed, hoping this goes quick so Steve can get out of the stuffy closet. 

“I think Steve is done with me.” The way he lets his head fall into his hands with a sigh tells you he's really been thinking about this. 

“What do you mean ‘done with you’? He’s here all the time.” 

“No, he’s only here for dinners after mom begs him or to pick me up and drop me off. We never hang out.” You could scold him for spinning around in your expensive chair but you decide against it. 

“Well Dustin he is older he’s probably got stuff to do y’know? I doubt it has anything to do with you.” You give him a small shrug of your shoulders, hoping this clears his head for the time being. 

“I think he’s dating someone.” Dustin rolls his eyes, you're glad Steve can't see it. “He’s all happy and it’s weird.” 

“Oh really?” It’s taking everything in you not to grin, trying to come off like you couldn't care less. 

“Yeah, maybe it’s her that's ruining him.” He ponders. This conversation isn't really going in the direction you were hoping for. 

When a loud sneeze booms from your closet Dustin is quick to jump off your chair and run towards you. Could this get any worse?

“Who is in your closet?” The lack of response you had to the sneeze gave you away. His head shoots from you to the door. 

When it opens slowly and Steve's face pops out with a wince you can't help but throw your head back with a groan. He fully steps out and when you look back at him you can see a slight sheen on his face, it probably wasn't the coolest being trapped in there. 

“I’m so sorry Dusty I really didn’t mean for you to find out like this and I-” The nickname slips in hopes of saving this situation. 

“Are you sleeping up with my sister?” Dustin shouts at Steve. 

“What? No! I’m not sleeping, well I sleep with her sometimes but-” 

An ‘oh my god Steve’ comes out muffled as your hands cover your eyes but it doesn't stop the horrible situation playing out in front of you. 

“How long has this been going on?” Dustin's poor little face is red, maybe from shock or anger but it breaks your heart all the same. 

“We’ve been dating for 4 months.” You say. 

“Dating? 4 months?!” His voice breaks mid screech. 

“I swear we were going to tell you but there was never a right time, and we knew you’d be upset. It just happened since he was here so often and, I dunno I just- he’s really great Dustin I promise.” It comes out all scrambled but Steve's smile from your words shows enough. 

“It isn't a fling Dustin, this is serious.” Steve speaks up. You quickly nod in response hoping it comes out as sincere as it feels. 

“So I was right, you are dating someone. It’s just, you’re my sister.” You can see the wheels turning in his head trying to understand how he feels about the situation. 

“Yeah, and m’not ‘done with you’ man.” Steve says, quoting Dustin's earlier words. “And now that you know about us, you’ll probably get sick of me being around.” He jokes trying to save this conversation. 

Steve walks over to you, again his hand magnetizing to yours. It’s a visual that concretes everything that has been said, proof that this isn't some prank or a dream. 

“Please forgive us for hiding this from you.” Dustin finally looks at you and his lack of words scare you. 

A few years ago you accidentally broke his lego set he spent 3 weeks building and he didn't talk to you for 10 days straight. Now he’s got a serious reason to not talk to you for a whole year. 

“Fine, I’ll forgive you but for the next two weeks you have to do my laundry. And you’ll drive me around whenever I need to go.” He points to you then Steve. 

It takes everything out of you to not automatically roll your eyes but you nod in agreement. “Okay, deal. Are we good?” 

“Yup, we're good.” Dustin smiles as he makes his way to leave. But not before, “Leave this door open.”  

Now you feel safe to roll your eyes at his annoying dramatics. Right as he turns his back from you he can hear the shut of your door. You may have been stressed about this but not enough to have your older sister's antics fly away. 

All Dustin can think now is maybe he should have acted more upset… 

[hivemuthur]

Favours Between Friends - Ch.1.

viktorxfem!reader mature: Modern AU, omegaverse (is it hot in here? why are my hands sweaty?), alpha Viktor x omega Reader, rom-com, fake dating, author has a very vague understanding of omegaverse but there's some terminology, dubious science, I regret nothing and everything at once. Cringe. But. Free.

Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4.

word count: 5,5K

author’s note: I'm sorry. No, I'm not. Ok, this won't have a masterlist. It has four parts. It's cringe as fuck but also sweet. Doesn't really get strictly NSFW until the last part. I just had to get it out of myself. Treat it as a temporary Freaktor installment. I promise, I will publish something normal at some point. It doesn't have a playlist or art, because I can't bring myself to ask any artist for permission to publish an omegaverse fic under their masterpiece. I understand your reservations. It's just a romantic comedy with all the cliché tropes. Ok, I'm shutting up now, bye!

AO3

—

Surrounded by the ominous ticking of Vi’s wall-clock and the clatter of tools striking metal trays, you sit with your face propped in your hands and glare at the offensive piece of paper. The once-elegant tri-fold is now blotched where your sweaty palms keep smoothing it; the letter itself was liberated from its envelope only because Vi, exasperated, ripped it open after the hundredth time you reached for it.

“So?” Vi drawls, sliding the parlour’s heavy shutters into place with a clang. “Are you a genius or what?”

You let out a pathetic whine and nudge the sheet across the counter. “Read it to me?”

Vi snorts. “You’re such a baby.” Nevertheless, she picks up the parchment and clears her throat—

—the bell above the door jingles weakly as Caitlyn squeezes through the gap, hair scraped into a greasy ponytail, scrubs peeking beneath a zipped-up hoodie, every line of her face carved by exhaustion. The fatigue melts the instant she spots Vi. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, voice hoarse. “We had a suspected meningitis case; it’s a miracle I got out at all. What did I miss?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Vi answers, cocking a brow at you. “She’s been staring holes through that letter for forty minutes, isn’t that right, genius?”

You groan. “Give me a break, I’m bracing for optional rejection.”

“That’s weak,” Vi laughs, but there’s no heat in it. “World needs its weaklings, yeah?” She musses your hair, and you swat her hand away with a scowl. “Right, where was I?” She clears her throat a second time and begins to pace between the ink-stained chairs. “‘Dear Miss — yadda-yadda — we were extremely impressed — yadda-yadda — and therefore… we would be overjoyed if you could attend the award-acceptance ceremony.’”

“What—?” Your brain short-circuits. “Holy shit.” Your hands move before your thoughts catch up, snatching the paper from Vi. “Is that definitely my name?”

“Have you hit your head?” Vi chuckles.

“No, I’m just—” You scan the letter again, frantic for proof. “Get off my case, Vi. This is insane.”

“Jayce will be thrilled,” Caitlyn says, looping an arm around Vi’s shoulders. “We’re thrilled. Well done, truly.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d get it,” Vi adds, mouth tugging into a lopsided grin. “Always so dramatic.”

“Violet!” Caitlyn chides.

“Shit,” you whisper, the elation draining away as quickly as it came. By now you’ve accepted that where most people find a silver lining, you discover the tarnish: ambitious and talented, yet too anxious to push your ideas into daylight; sociable and funny, yet too vulnerable to let anyone see inside; quick to solve everyone else’s problems, yet hopeless at asking for help yourself. And now—winner of the Isolde Prize for Applied Ethics in Research—but obliged to sit through your ex-boyfriend’s discussion panel about a project he cooked up with his shiny new partner. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

“Is there a sequel to that ‘shit’?” Vi asks, though Caitlyn’s knitted brows already spell it out.

Your shoulders sag. “Dan’s going to be there. With his new project. And his new project.” You drop the letter on the counter. “Why can’t anything just be simple? Why can’t I accept the award, go home, ring my dad, and actually enjoy it?”

Caitlyn frowns. “Why is he a problem?”

“He fucked her up,” Vi mutters—far too loudly. You shoot her a look. Did he ignore your needs? Occasionally. Often. Make you feel guilty for having them? Sometimes. Also often. Leave your confidence somewhere south of absolute zero? Definitely. But fucked you up? You did a fair bit of the fucking up yourself.

“Hey, don’t spiral, pookie.” Vi’s tone softens. “Can you take a plus one?”

You inhale a fortifying gulp of air. “Apparently I’m encouraged to. Don’t see any volunteers, though.”

“Cait’ll go with you,” Vi announces.

“I’ll go with you,” Cait echoes at once, nodding. “Problem solved.”

“Guys, that’s lovely, but I don’t want to look like a charity case.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You two are all over each other’s feeds. People would clock the third wheel in seconds.” You manage a grin. “Not that I’m complaining—be as obnoxious as you like.”

“Oi! What can I say? I’m obsessed with my Cupcake,” Vi sings, nudging Caitlyn.

Cait giggles, flattening her palm against Vi’s laughing mouth. “Quiet, you.”

You back away, smile stretched tight by politeness. Caitlyn’s been on a thirty-six-hour shift and Vi has spent every one of those hours complaining to you—via texts, screenshots, voice notes—about missing her girlfriend. “I should leave you two to catch up.”

Caitlyn reaches for you. “Wait—don’t you want to celebrate?”

“No, I… I’m good. Honestly.”

They share a glance, then close in, wrapping you in a two-person bear hug. For a second you forget to breathe and your vision prickles. You wriggle free before you crumple like a child, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, more to yourself than them.

Outside, you take the long way home—just a few blocks of neon-washed pavement, past shuttering shops and flickering signs that paint everything electric pink and acid teal. The night air tastes of rain and fried noodles and possibilities that are both thrilling and frightening.

It’s good. It’s great—what an honour. Only twenty-eight and already recognised. And life is good like this too—untethered and safe amongst friends, when the pond you tried to dip your toes into is full of alphas who either take grave offence at the quality of your professional work or are interested only in a short cruise rather than a long journey. Camille was both the former and the latter. Strong and independent—as an alpha should be—she kept you on display like a pretty object, didn’t want to hear a word of your ambitions and refused to bind. It didn’t end tragically, just with you stamping your foot once, getting called disobedient and acquiring a certain prejudice against alpha women draped in gold, which is why you kept your distance from Mel for a good couple of months, only to realise she’s an indispensable friend.

Then Dan came along. A nice beta man. Handsome, smart, put together, seemingly enamoured of the full package—looks, brains, heart. Until the package revealed its secret cyclical feature that comes with an omega girlfriend—heats. Scent was the only tolerable thing, even though you’ve been told your scent is on the lovelier side. Nesting? Odd and unsettling, outright disruptive to his everything-is-in-the-right-place, sleek, soulless flat. Scenting? Made him uncomfortable. The rest of it—he tried to fold into digestible arguments, but you could taste the stomach-coiling fear beneath.

So you tried to work it out on your side. You put yourself through a brutal regimen: weekly Luprisol injections to shut your cycle down, round-the-clock suppressant patches hidden between your shoulder blades, just in case, high-dose progesterone tablets that left your thoughts cotton-wool thick, ice-cold showers at three a.m. whenever breakthrough cramps dragged you from sleep, and scent-blockers, so Dan doesn’t have to deal with the sickly-sweet smell of want. You logged every symptom in a colour-coded spreadsheet, sworn to the illusion of control; pretended the hot flushes were faulty climate control and choked down protein shakes because the meds torched your appetite. And every time you promised it would be the last course—right up until the reminder for the next prescription pinged on your phone.

It went hunky dory until your doctor burst the bubble, introducing you to the new inhabitant of your uterus—a fucking ovarian tumour the size of a large apple, which explained why the cramps had invaded despite all that effort in the first place. The options were to persevere and risk both your fertility and overall health, or else fall back in line with whatever funny thing nature had intended for you. No illusions there: you were nowhere near ready to have a baby. But you were also nowhere near ready to rule a baby out forever. So, off went the patches and back came the heats, along with each tut and hiss Dan produced whenever you tried to rest your burning forehead on his shoulder.

“It’s not working out for me. I need someone more stable,” he told you over breakfast, face so unbothered you wondered if he was even human.

“I’m not unstable,” you said, voice thin as you lowered your spoon with a tiny clink, “I’m just in pain.” He didn’t look up from his tablet; the silence that followed felt like the closing of a lid.

The tumour stayed, but Dan went. Then the tumour went too, leaving you catatonic in bed for a month—one functional ovary left, and a heart smashed into ugly, shapeless pieces Vi tried to glue together with hot cocoa and trash TV. The coma lifted with one email: confirmation that your non-invasive wearable, which monitors neurochemical markers in end-of-life patients, had been approved for pilot trials. Not a cure, but a comfort; you’d been laughed out of more than one clinic for the idea—until Professor Heimerdinger saw the dignity it could return to people no longer able to voice their needs. Back at your alma mater, you could finally spread your wings, however battered they were.

You returned to work like someone crawling out of their own skin. Locked in lab coat and headphones, you rebuilt your confidence with obsessive precision: every test logged in triplicate, every finding cross-validated and documented before being shared. Your notebooks were as much emotional scaffolding as scientific record—colour-coded, indexed, margins full of doubts you’d never say aloud. Lunches forgotten, evenings swallowed whole, entire weeks blurred around trials and calibration logs. In that way, you stitched yourself back together. Not in joy, but in proof. If nothing else, the data couldn’t lie.

So, now—it’s good. You slog through each heat alone—extra blankets, noise-cancelling headphones, a hydration timer on your phone—and once the fever breaks you’re up again, tired, clear-headed and medication-free. Save for the scent-blockers at work, for the sake of society.

Your bloodwork has steadied, the surgical scars are fading, and without the hormonal fog you can pour every lucid hour into the lab. The effort has paid off spectacularly: prototype funded, trials green-lit, your name whispered with something like respect in corridors that once echoed with laughter. Life is genuinely sweet, so long as nobody asks you to come to a wedding—or stride across a stage to accept an award with a non-existent plus-one.

You kick a rock into a puddle just outside the door to your building block, when your phone buzzes:

Jayce: WELL DONE! Super proud of you! Coffee’s on me tomorrow!

Staring at your dripping shoes, you decide the smiling can wait. No more good is allowed to happen today. You opt for a long shower and bed, sliding the letter into exile beneath the key bowl so only its smug corners show.

Night folds around you—until day yanks you out of sleep with the insistent buzzing next to your head—Mel flashes on the screen.

“Why on earth did you not boast? Congratulations! Coffee’s on me, and! I need to see that letter.” She sounds like she’s been awake for hours and waited until sun rises so she can call you.

“Mel—uh, hi.” You wipe at your eyes, voice hoarse. “I’m afraid Jayce has already booked coffee with me today.”

“He did no such thing,” she replies, smooth as cut glass. “I require girl time and some bragging from you.”

Nose scrunching, yawn breaking out from your mouth, you ask, “You realise I have to be at work at eleven?”

“You’ll be a little late,” she decrees. “I’m picking you up.”

Before you can protest, the call ends—replaced by a location pin of your street corner and a flurry of celebratory emojis. You stare at the screen for a second, blinking through sleep, then swipe up by habit—Vi’s sent a meme at 2:14 AM. It’s a blurry screenshot of a raccoon gripping a traffic cone, captioned: me holding onto my dignity after saying something insane in public. You snort softly, heart loosening at the edges.

It’s always like this. Vi sends you trash at ungodly hours, always with weird feral animals and one-sentence pep talks. Caitlyn’s version of care is more practical—she’s bandaged your knees after a heat crash, fought off an urgent care nurse who tried to sedate you once. Different brands of loyalty, same baseline: neither of them ever made you feel like a burden. The pity you fear doesn’t live in their orbit. With them, support has never felt like exposure. It’s just… there. Natural. Reliable.

You drag yourself out of bed, limbs leaden, and pad across the flat in search of something presentable. Jeans, jumper, trainers—good enough. You scoop every loose note and schematic from your desk into a tote, gulp a glass of water to flush the scent-blocker capsule down, then pat your pockets—keys, phone, wallet—only to realise you’ve forgotten the damned invitation. One irritated spin on your heel, a rummage beneath the key bowl, and the envelope is safely tucked inside your notebook.

You jog down the stairs two at a time and vault the last three, landing in front of Mel’s low-slung, midnight-blue coupé.

“Morning, my genius,” she sings, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. “If you’d told me last night, I’d have taken you out and got you gloriously drunk.”

She looks impeccable as always: hair in glossy curls, half-pinned with ornate gold combs. It must be her day off—she’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt—yet the ensemble still radiates money. The rich scent of leather floods your nose; whether it’s just her or the seats, you can’t tell.

“Which is precisely why I kept quiet,” you mutter, sliding into the passenger seat. “Where am I being kidnapped to?”

“Round the corner,” she replies breezily, pulling away from the kerb. “Breakfast, coffee, a quick presentation of that letter, and then I’ll deposit you at work unharmed—scout’s honour.”

The café is barely open, sunlight still slanting through half-tilted blinds, when Mel claims a corner booth and waves down the first bleary-eyed server she spots. You both order—croissants, scrambled eggs for her, porridge drowned in berries for you, two flat whites. Before the mugs even touch the table Mel makes grabby hands across the laminate.

“Show me, show me,” she insists, fingers fluttering in an impatient little grab-gesture.

You roll your eyes but dig into your tote, producing the envelope. She all but snatches it, smoothing the creases, and reads aloud in her courtroom voice. When she reaches the formal line of congratulations she presses a hand to her heart and exhales.

“Amazing. You must be overjoyed. Jayce cried when they got it with Viktor—so fucking sweet,” she sighs, eyes glossy with second-hand pride.

“Mhm,” you manage, burying the sound in a sip of coffee.

Mel’s brow climbs. “What is it?” she prompts, tilting her head like she’s studying a specimen.

Your shoulders lift, drop. “Part of me doesn’t even want to go,” you admit, voice low enough to ruffle the foam in your cup.

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffs, flicking an imaginary crumb from her wrist.

You smirk into your drink. “Yes, I know—it would be a real pity for your investment,” you tease.

She softens a notch, elbows sliding forward. “I won’t lie to you—yes, obviously. But most of all, a real pity for you. You worked very hard for this, no? Why wouldn’t you accept?”

You set the mug down. “My ex is going to be there. And I know it’s silly, but I don’t want to go alone.”

Mel taps a lacquered nail against the table in thought. “Take Jayce,” she suggests, fingers clicking like a metronome.

You snort. “This means a lot. But with all due respect, Jayce smells like a new Mercedes-Benz bathed in expensive champagne; everyone will know he’s borrowed,” you say, shaking your head.

“Is that what I smell like to you—car and booze?” Mel laughs, arching a perfectly groomed brow, though the widening smile shows she’s pleased.

You chuckle. “It’s a compliment. You smell like luxury—leather and expensive alcohol. You smell like fun.”

“Well, I am fun.” She preens, then sobers, gaze skimming the street outside. “But fine, I do see your point. Why don’t you ask Viktor? He’s nice. Polite. Unclaimed, as far as I know.”

“I don’t know him that well; we’ve only met in large catastrophic groups,” you murmur, tracing a damp ring on the tabletop.

“I know,” she concedes, lips pursing. “But since you’ve clearly ruled out Vi and Caitlyn, and now Jayce, the other option is a professional—and knowing you, you will never agree. My mother—”

“No. I will not follow Ambessa’s footsteps,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head. “I don’t know, Mel, it seems like a lot to ask of someone who only attends social events under duress.”

“It’s just a favour between friends,” she shrugs. “Ask him. Worst-case he says no, and we’ll work from there.”

You tap a finger against your mouth, weighing beta against beta, wondering if one neutral presence can cancel the memory of another. Thought melts into an absent-minded bob of your head, then a nod. Mel’s answering smile is small and satisfied.

The conversation drifts—work gossip, travel plans—until plates are cleared and Mel fishes for her keys. Half-standing, you pause.

“What do I smell like to you?” you ask, curiosity slipping out before you can trap it.

She hums, eyes narrowing in playful analysis. “Ripe apricot—one you don’t even have to bite, it just dissolves in your mouth. Like summer. Joy. That’s what you smell like to me.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks. Fucking alphas—deadly when they’re charming, even in a friendly manner. You clear your throat, mutter a quiet “good to know”, and let her pay for the both of you. Just as promised, she drops you at the very doorstep of the Piltover Institute and, as an extra, hugs you too tightly; the scent of new leather and champagne clings to you.

You swipe into the faculty building, badge clacking against the reader, and let the familiar aseptic hum of recirculated air settle your nerves. While the lifts grind their way up from the basement you mull over your options—well, option, singular: Viktor. It isn’t as though you’ve never asked anyone out before; biology may script omegas to wait for invitations, but you’ve happily torn up that page before. Only this isn’t asking him out, is it? A favour between friends—except you aren’t even close friends.

He’s nice—soft-spoken, yes, and distant in that way people get when every joule of energy is reserved for the next breakthrough—but never unkind. You count up your past interactions on your fingers: maybe ten polite exchanges, all triangulated through Jayce delivering takeaway noodles at lunch or Heimerdinger facilitating consultancy hours. Not exactly intimacy. You don’t even know what Viktor smells like; in group meetings his pheromones dissolve into a soup of lab-coat starch, solder, and Jayce’s cologne.

The lift doors hiss open on Level Seven. You step out, shoes squeaking, and the uncanny web of connections pricks at you again. Friends with Vi since the dawn of time; Vi dates Caitlyn; Caitlyn grew up with Jayce; Jayce works every day arm-in-arm with Viktor. A perfect ring. Yet when you press your memory for a single one-on-one moment with Viktor, the screen stays blank.

Fine. New plan: catch him somewhere neutral and ask casually—no big deal, favour between colleagues, absolutely not a date. You sketch the approach in your head: bump into him in the canteen queue, praise the latest paper, segue into “speaking of conferences…” and drop the invitation like it’s nothing. Easy.

Except the first time you spot him—Friday, half-past twelve, queue winding round the salad bar—Jayce ploughs in from behind, claps an arm round Viktor’s shoulders and drags him off to discuss “reactive polymer lattices” over reheated lasagne. You watch their backs retreat and tell yourself it’s fine; there’s always Monday.

The weekend offers a brief reprieve—time to draft and redraft a text you can’t send because you don’t even have his number. Asking Jayce for it would scream matchmaking, and you’d rather swallow a Petri dish whole. Swear to everything, being an awkward human being has never been this harrowing.

Monday arrives. You loiter in the foyer outside Bioengineering with two takeaway coffees, pulse hammering your ribs. Footsteps echo—Viktor, unmistakable limp-click gait—then a gaggle of first-years spills from the stairwell, drowning him in questions. He gives them an indulgent smile, and you slide into a side corridor like a guilty ghost, coffees cooling in your palms.

Tuesday you try again, patrolling the quad at lunch. Viktor does appear, alone this time, but you dither a second too long; he’s already through the door when your courage catches up. You curse, spin on your heel, and march back to Bio-Med with a new determination you know won’t last the length of the corridor.

By Wednesday afternoon you’re ready to surrender, rehearsing polite ways to attend alone and pretend you’re delighted about it. That resignation is still settling when a sharp, deliberate knock rings against your office door.

Nose still buried in your notes, you mutter, “Come in.”

“Good day,” Viktor says. He edges through the doorway, leaves it ajar, and stands just inside, cane hanging loosely from his fingertips while his gaze takes a slow circuit of the room—as though cataloguing every coffee ring and scribbled post-it. “It seems that there is something you wish to speak to me about.”

The way he fires it off—mild, factual—makes your pen slip. “What? I—how do you know?”

He tilts his head, mouth curving. “You are not a very stealthy stalker.” A soft chuckle leaves him when you emit a mortified whine and press both palms over your cheeks. “But it’s all good. I can use this opportunity to properly congratulate you on your success. Anything I can assist you with?”

“Well, actually… about that.” You force yourself to meet his eyes. Up close he seems unexpectedly imposing: shoulders set square beneath a charcoal waistcoat, one trouser-leg tailored wider to hide the brace; cane balanced against his thigh like an after-thought. For the first time you can isolate his scent—little more than lab detergent blunted with antiseptic, sterile enough to make your nose prickle. Almost as if there is no scent at all.

“I have to accept the award in person, and, uh—” Heat crawls up your throat. “Sorry, that was much easier in my head.”

“I understand; not very fond of public performances myself,” he says, voice dipping conspiratorially, a comfort. One eyebrow lifts. “Should I stand with my back to you?”

“What? No, that’s ridiculous,” you laugh too sharply.

“It helps me.” He gives a tiny shrug, half turning before catching himself. “Well, go on then.”

“I need a date to it. A plus one,” you blurt, the words tripping out in one breath.

“Oh.” His brows jump; surprise flashes, then quickly smooths away. “And I am… your first choice?”

“Well… actually not. Not because I—” You swipe a hand through the air, flustered. “Oh God. Okay, you know what? Please forget that it happened, it’s one of those ideas that should be scraped before they exit the draft stage.”

Viktor lifts a calming palm. “No, I—why do you need a plus one to accept the award?”

“I, eh… My ex is going to be there. And I—” Your shoulders hunch; sweat beads along your spine. Dan once told you, mid-argument, that emotions were like humidity—inevitable, but you should really design around them.

When you glance up again, Viktor has inched back, as if giving fragile equipment space, head angled, studying you. “I apologise. This is deeply immature; I only realised when I said it out loud,” you mutter, eyes dropping to your hands.

“Not at all—believe me, I can relate to social inadequacy.” He drums two fingers against the cane’s silver collar, glancing sideways. “I’m just afraid I cannot be of assistance if this is your particular reason behind it.”

“Oh. Oh, of course.” You manage a brittle nod. “Well, that’s settled. Thank you anyway. And sorry for this being so awkward.”

“I’m sorry,” he echoes, frowning. “I’m just uncertain whether it’s a good idea to stir the pot in public, so to speak.”

“What? Oh, Viktor.” You push hair from your eyes. “I’m not… I’m not trying to make anyone jealous, Jesus. Oh God, is that what you thought? Not that people shouldn’t be jealous of you. Or that they should. Fuck.” A bark of humourless laughter escapes. “I just—alright. I had a hard time after the breakup. I don’t want to face him alone or with someone who’d obviously register as moral support. He isn’t passionate; he wouldn’t be jealous if I arrived with a Nobel Prize winner. I just… don’t want to be pitied. That’s all. But it’s fine—I’ll brace through it. I’m so sorry, this is not how I imagined our first one-on-one would go.”

Viktor’s expression softens; he shifts his weight, thumb tracing a seam on the cane. “Who is your former partner?”

“He’s a… scientist. He has a discussion panel there. He’s just… Dan. He’s no one in particular to you, I guess—just a regular beta guy.”

“I see.” His eyes flick upward in thought. “What does the trip entail?”

“It’s a… long-weekend trip. Next Friday, afternoon mixer, Saturday ceremony, some wrap-up on Sunday. Two hours by car from here, I—”

“Separate rooms?” The question slips out low, cautious, his shoulders tensing the moment it’s spoken.

“Absolutely, yes.” The affirmation tumbles out; your pulse drums in your ears.

Viktor’s fingers tighten around the cane; he draws a steady breath that seems to brace his whole frame. “If I come—” He hesitates, throat bobbing. “You need to take suppressants. And scent-blockers. Better than the ones you’re on now.”

“I’m sorry, what?” You blink, confusion and a flicker of alarm chasing each other across your face.

“If it’s next week I have a deadline I must meet not long after,” he explains, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “I can’t risk… breaking out. And I can’t take suppressants myself. I can provide extra blockers on my side as well.”

“Are you—?” The realisation clicks; your eyes widen.

“Surprised? Join the long line,” he answers wryly, but his grip shifts on the cane, betraying nerves.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I just never… felt you.”

“I use heavy-duty scent-blockers,” he says quietly. “Take time off when I have to. And, as you mentioned, this is our first one-on-one. Most other interactions were around Jayce, who smells entirely like Mel, or around Mel herself—who, well, overwhelms most ambient signals.”

“True, she smells like three people folded in one,” you huff, crossing your arms in a vain show of composure.

“Yes, I can usually tell when you’ve seen her before work,” Viktor replies, tapping the bridge of his nose with a rueful half-smile. “But you smell quite strongly yourself.” His gaze drifts across you as if he’s reading a set of chemical peaks.

“I’m… sorry? No one’s ever complained, but—” You shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of your own skin.

“I am not complaining,” he interjects, one palm lifting in quiet reassurance, “just noticing, is all.”

“Is that how you knew I wanted something?” You lean forward, curiosity edging out mortification.

“Precisely.” The single word lands crisp; he inclines his head as though confirming experimental data.

“Great, sniffed out by the prey. Ironic.” A short, humourless laugh lands between you; you scrub a hand over your lips.

A beat of silence stretches, charged and strange. Your mouth is dry. “I will take the suppressants,” you say at last, voice steadier than you feel. “Thank you.”

Viktor nods once, the motion small but decisive. “When are we leaving?”

Details shared and phone numbers exchanged, Viktor leaves your office and heads straight for the bathroom. The back of his head thuds against a cold tile as he exhales and closes his eyes. Agreeing was definitely not the smartest move. But he’s been curious for months, and he genuinely wants to help. The impulse sprouts from different seeds—he likes to believe the tallest shoot is his good-natured desire to assist, casting a shadow over the less noble one: the primal urge to answer an omega in need. He’s enjoyed catching hints of your scent at parties and during closed-circle meetings with Heimerdinger, but that was as far as he ever allowed himself to go. He kept his distance, fully aware you did next to nothing to blunt your natural cycles. He never condemned you for it; as with his own choices, he suspects yours are shaped by forces outside your control.

After the surgery, Viktor was left with nearly no options to dampen whatever nature aimed to put him through every couple of months. None of the widely accessible hormonal treatments agreed with his medication, so he settled on scent-blockers and a furious regimen: cycle prediction charts, meditation, strict diet, cold showers only, and contact with omega individuals kept to a minimum. Anything to stay on top of himself. Whenever he absolutely has to, he takes time off to suffer through it alone; if it gets really bad, he seeks assistance—usually with a beta. It does the trick without endangering the routine he’s crafted.

Most days, Viktor doesn’t mind being perceived as slightly mechanical—polite, aloof, all straight lines and measured steps. The cane helps, in that regard. People clear space for him automatically, defer just a touch longer, hesitate before they intrude. It’s not disdain; it’s insulation, and insulation is useful. He doesn’t tolerate being fussed over, but he’s learned how to let assumptions do the work for him. Let them think he’s delicate. It keeps the boundary intact.

He’s forsaken tenderness for control, exchanged closeness for brain-stimulating friendship, and traded the joy of being wanted for the satisfaction of being admired. Loneliness is a by-product he’s almost mastered, sweetening it with a circle of people who entertain him with occasional get-togethers and a pat on the back whenever his joke lands.

Viktor rinses his face, dabs the water away with a paper towel, and studies his reflection as though it belongs to someone else. The mirror gives back a man who prides himself on order: tie knot centred, waistcoat flat, hair parted with mathematic precision. Yet just beneath the starch and symmetry he can feel the stir—that restless current he spends a lifetime corralling. Omegas are dangerous in close orbit, so he keeps them at vector length: pleasant nods in corridors, dispassionate praise when warranted, nothing more.

You, however, keep slipping through the containment field. Vi invites you to every pub quiz; Caitlyn drags you to any lecture with free sandwiches; Jayce insists you’re the only person who can keep Viktor honest during spirited debates. Friendly proximity becomes routine before he realises he’s let down the gates.

And you are—infuriatingly—oblivious. He’s watched colleagues hover too long in your personal space, inhale when you pass, stumble over offers of help, only for you to smile, thank them, and pivot back to polymer chains or ethics protocols as though pheromones were a myth. At first he assumed tactical coyness; now, with Dan in the equation, he suspects numbness by necessity. It needles him, the idea that someone gifted with your scent, your mind, could be blunted by a partner too small to recognise the value. He files the irritation away—none of his business—but the file keeps resurfacing.

The logical part of him catalogues every risk: confined car, shared itinerary, public eyes parsing every micro-gesture; an omega he cannot fail, a body he must not fail. The curious part—the part that hears the low hum of possibility whenever your laughter drifts across a room—wins the vote. He has agreed, and the agreement feels like picking up a fragile compound with bare hands: exhilarating, stupid, and irreversible.

So he will ruminate. He will mark the calendar, set a packing list on his tablet, double the dosage of scent-blockers. He will practise polite smiles in the mirror until they look unrehearsed, draft conversational scaffolding for awkward silences, and remind himself—sternly—that this is a favour between friends. Nothing implied, nothing promised. Just two professionals attending a ceremony.

As he turns from the sink, the thought gets shelved away: labelled, dated, and slid out of reach. The upcoming weekend is a controlled anomaly—no more, no less—and once the agenda ends he will re-establish the buffers that keep life functional. Friendship maintained, complications avoided, and the quiet machinery of his days allowed to turn unimpeded. A favour, is all.

—

how bad was it?

[ridingreeves]

Hello, how are you? So… I don't know if you accept any kind of request, but if you do, could you do something with John Wick dating a younger assassin?

English is not my first language and I'm not very good at it… so sorry if there are any mistakes, anyway, thanks.

𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗑 𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－Being with John Wick wasn’t about romance—it was about survival, trust, and quiet intensity. You met on opposite sides of a contract, but somehow, through blood, bruises, and shared silence, you became each other’s only peace. He loved you without words—through protection, presence, and the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

𝖠／𝖭－𝖨 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗉𝖾𝖺

Being with John Wick wasn’t like the movies.

There weren’t candlelit dinners or weekend getaways. No flowers on the kitchen table, no grand gestures. The world didn’t let men like John love like that.

But he loved you in his own way.

In the way he cleaned your wounds before his own. In how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk. How he noticed when you were down to your last magazine, even in the middle of a firefight. How he memorized the rhythm of your breathing while you slept—just in case it ever changed.

You met on a job in Morocco. Two professionals. Two contracts. Same target. You nearly killed each other in a hallway before realizing the contract was double-booked.

You cracked the first joke.

He didn’t laugh—but he didn’t shoot, either.

Now, two years later, you lived in a hidden townhouse outside of Naples. The walls were reinforced. The basement had three exits. And your bedroom had blackout curtains and a drawer full of unregistered weapons. Still, it was the closest thing to peace either of you had known in years.

Mornings with John were… surprising.

You always expected him to be cold. Stoic. But he was quiet in the mornings in a way that felt tender. He made coffee just the way you liked it, always handed you your mug before touching his own. Sometimes, you’d find him out on the patio before sunrise, barefoot, wrapped in a robe, staring into the trees like he was waiting for something—or someone—that would never come.

You never asked what he was thinking about.

You just sat beside him.

No words. Just presence.

Training together was… violent foreplay.

Sparring in the basement usually ended in bruises and heavy breathing. He never went easy on you, and you wouldn’t have respected him if he did. You learned each other’s rhythms. The way he favored his left side after taking a bullet last spring. The way you dipped your shoulder before every hook.

One time, you had him on his back, your knee against his chest, hair falling in your face. You smirked. “You’re slipping, old man.”

His response was to grab you by the waist and flip you in one brutal, fluid motion.

He was on top of you now. Breathing heavy. Hands planted on either side of your head.

“You were saying?”

You just smiled.

Sometimes, the fights ended in sex. Sometimes, in bruised egos and ice packs.

Either way, it was always honest.

The work never really stopped. You still took contracts. So did he. Sometimes together. Sometimes apart.

The part no one warned you about?

The waiting.

When John was out, the house was too quiet. You cleaned your weapons. You sharpened your blades. You stared at your phone like a rookie.

Because as skilled as he was… you knew how fast things could go wrong.

And when you were the one out in the field? He’d be waiting with the front door cracked open and a first aid kit on the counter—never asking questions unless you needed to talk.

Because that’s the kind of love you had.

No demands. No ultimatums. Just survival and understanding.

Nights were the best part.

He didn’t like to be touched much in public. Not in front of other assassins, not in front of enemies. But at home? He was starved for it.

He held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Slow. Careful. One arm around your waist, the other tangled in your hair, like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

“You trust me?” you asked him once, voice soft against his chest.

“With everything,” he said, no hesitation.

You didn’t respond. You just kissed the scar on his collarbone, the one you’d stitched yourself six months ago.

You argued.

You were reckless. He was stubborn.

Sometimes you came home bleeding, grinning, high on adrenaline, and he’d pace the hallway like a man trying not to scream.

“You’re not untouchable,” he’d growl, patching you up rougher than necessary.

“Neither are you,” you’d spit back, eyes flashing.

But then he’d stop. Look at you like you were glass. Like he was afraid one day you wouldn’t walk back through that door at all.

And he’d say nothing. Just pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and hold you like you were slipping through his fingers.

“I can’t lose you too,” he whispered once.

You didn’t say anything.

Just held him back tighter.

The world called him the boogeyman.

You just called him John.

He wasn’t perfect. He was broken. Haunted. Still wore grief like a second skin.

But so were you.

And maybe that’s what made it work. Two broken people. Two survivors. Finding peace not in safety—but in each other.

The world never stopped chasing him. Not really. And by being with him, it came after you too.

But you never wanted safety. You wanted something real.

You wanted him.

And John, for all his damage—for all the ghosts he carried—chose you.

He didn’t say “I love you” often.

But he said it in the way he bandaged your ribs.

In the way he never turned his back on you during a fight.

In the way he’d sit on the edge of the bed, watching you breathe like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

Even if the world burned tomorrow, you’d die knowing you were loved in a way few ever are

Fully. Quietly. Fiercely.

You were his war

And he was your peace

But somehow, the two of you found something between the two.

Something that felt like a future—even if it came one bloody day at a time.

With John, everything started slow.

There was no rush. No fumbling. No words wasted.

He touched you like a man who’d thought about it too many times. Like he’d memorized the lines of your body long before his hands ever got the chance to trace them.

It always started with silence.

His fingers on your jaw, his thumb brushing your lips. A low look in his eyes that asked permission without ever saying a word. You nodded, breath caught in your throat, and that’s all he needed.

He kissed you like he was starved for it. Like you were the only thing tethering him to this world. And when he pulled back just enough to breathe, he looked at you—really looked at you—and said things with his eyes he never said out loud.

“You’re mine.”

“I need this.”

“I need you.”

When he finally got you into bed, he took his time—at first.

Hands on your waist. Mouth trailing down your collarbone. He was slow, methodical. Like he was cataloging every sound you made.

“You always make that noise?” he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your thigh.

“Only for you,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.

That made him smirk. The kind of rare, quiet smirk only you ever got to see.

And then he wasn’t slow anymore.

He flipped you, dragged your body beneath him like he couldn’t stand the distance, and bit your shoulder as he slid inside you for the first time.

It wasn’t gentle.

But it wasn’t careless either.

John was the kind of lover who held you down, but kissed your temple. Who grabbed your throat, but stroked your cheek afterward. Who made you feel it—every thrust, every grip, every shaky breath.

He fucked like a man with something to prove—like he was trying to erase every man who came before him. And you let him. Welcomed it.

Because with John, it wasn’t just about sex.

It was about claiming. About trust. About needing someone so badly it hurt.

Afterward, he didn’t say much.

Just pulled you against him. Held you so tight your bones ached in the best way.

His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your heartbeat slowly steadied. And eventually, his lips brushed your hairline, and he whispered something so soft, you almost missed it.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You looked up at him, sweat-damp and dazed.

“You’ve got me anyway.”

And in the quiet of that moment—in his arms, with his scent all over your skin—you knew you’d let him ruin you a hundred times over.

Because John Wick didn’t take what he didn’t mean to keep.

And you’d never be the same again.

[blaysreid]

You asked for a request and you shall receive

Fluff, fluffiest fluff I can have. Although I. Eed some order feelings in there si whatever else you want, angst, hurt/comfort, arguing as ling as it ends on a good note 🙏

Im think early to mid seasons spencer reid? Reader preferably another agent (not necessarily BAU if you want a change :) )

I might come back and if I do you can recognise me by 💿 :)

(May have gone overboard but oh well yolo unless you're one of em shifters) (I'm giggling)

A/N = this wasn't supposed to end up so long! But I hope it matches up to your expectations anyway. Lots of fluff and a super heated argument with spencer left appreciating and loving reader through apologies, sweet touches and words. THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST ANON!!

pairing = midseason!frustrated!spencer + forgiving!frustratedbau!reader

summary = After a messy argument, Spencer and Reader find comfort the next morning over pancakes and quiet affection. With Reader in his lap, they feed each other between kisses, gently unpacking their hurt and offering forgiveness in soft, unspoken ways. It’s tender, sticky, and full of love. A slow return to each other, one bite at a time.

The police station was too hot.

Not just temperature wise but emotionally, everything felt like it was about to crack open. You could feel it in the way Morgan nearly snapped his pen in half earlier, in the way Emily was pinching the bridge of her nose, in how JJ had barely said a word since morning. And especially in the way Spencer Reid was currently standing across from you, arms folded, jaw clenched, and refusing to look up from his goddamn notebook.

You weren’t even sure what started it. It had been a long three days. A kidnapped child. Barely any sleep. Constant movement between press conferences, house to house interviews, a suspect list that only seemed to grow. And now the corkboard. Red string. Timelines. Locations. Your own handwriting shaking with exhaustion.

You pointed at the board with one hand and gripped your coffee in the other. “The route makes sense. The second and fourth victims were last seen within a block of Route 19. He’s following the bus path, or something close to it. I think he’s watching them get on, or off. It’s too specific to ignore.”

Spencer didn’t even look up. “The second and fourth, maybe. But the first and third lived well outside that zone. You’re seeing a pattern that isn’t consistent across all four.”

You stared at him, waiting. Hoping he’d soften it, or at least look at you.

He didn’t. Just turned a page and jotted something down.

That’s when the heat started to rise in your chest. The kind that burned slow, creeping from the inside out.

“You’re not even listening.” you said tightly.

“I am.” he replied, still without glancing up. “You’re presenting a theory that doesn’t line up with all the geographical data. If I thought it had weight, I’d say so.”

That’s when it happened. The crack.

You dropped your coffee onto the desk with a louder thud than intended. “God, Spencer. Not everything’s about data. Maybe try thinking about the actual victims for once instead of the stupid spreadsheet in your head.”

That made him look up. And god, the look he gave you.

Cold. Sharp. Analytical.

He blinked once. “You’re letting your emotions get in the way. Again.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise but from how much it hurt.

You took a slow step forward, heart in your throat. “Don’t say that to me.”

He didn’t back down. That was the worst part. “I’m just trying to solve this case the right way. If we start throwing out logic every time it gets hard-”

“You think I’m being illogical because I care?” you snapped. “Because I don’t have your perfect, clinical detachment?”

Spencer flinched. Just slightly.

But you were already spiraling. “You act like emotions make someone less capable. Maybe if you actually let yourself feel something once in a while, you’d understand that gut instinct matters just as much as your numbers.”

He was silent. For a beat too long. Until he spoke up, coming out harsher and deeper than he intended to.

“I never said you were less capable,” he muttered. “Just… inconsistent.”

That did it.

You blinked hard, backing up as though the words physically hit you. “Wow,” you whispered. “Okay. You know what? I’m done.”

“Wait-”

“No,” you said, already turning away. “Finish your report, Reid. You don’t need me for this part.”

You didn’t hear what he said after that.

You didn’t want to.

When you were all settled in your seat the jet was too quiet.

Too many empty seats. Too much space between you and him. It was a small plane, but tonight it felt like a cold, hollow auditorium with only the sound of the engines to fill the silence.

You were seated near the back, pressed against the window as if you could escape through it. Arms crossed, headphones in, but no music playing. You didn’t want to hear anything. You just wanted to make it through the flight without crying.

Spencer had walked on a few minutes after you, his messenger bag slung tight to his side. He hesitated at the top of the stairs when he saw where you were sitting.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Saw the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could sit beside you. Or near you.

But then your eyes met. For one sharp second.

And you looked away.

When he took the seat across the aisle instead. Not too close, not too far, but it still felt like a mile.

Hotch didn’t come. He stayed behind to debrief with the local PD. Morgan, JJ, and Emily had all flown back early. But since you and Spencer were at the crime scene, it took a few hours longer to finish up.

NowIt was just the two of you and the pilot, and neither of you said a word for the first hour.

You could feel it though. Spencer kept shifting. Restless. Like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the thread to pull.

He didn’t know how to start.

So he didn’t.

You tried to focus on your file, but the words blurred. The same way his face did when you let yourself glance over at him. Face pale under the cabin lights, brow furrowed like he was doing calculus in his head. He hadn’t written anything for the past thirty minutes.

He was thinking.

And you hated that you still cared.

Eventually, you stood up to stretch your legs, walking past him without a glance. You felt his eyes follow you. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

But the silence was so heavy it made your chest ache.

When you sat back down, you gave in. Just for a moment. You looked at him and to your surprise, he was already looking at you.

And God, he looked like hell.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… haunted.

Like he’d been replaying every word over and over, and hated every single one.

He didn’t say anything. He just dropped his eyes and picked at the seam of his seat cushion like a nervous habit. It should’ve made it easier to stay angry.

But it didn’t.

Because no one looked that guilty if they didn’t mean it.

When the plane landed, the tension didn’t ease. It followed you both down the stairs, through the car ride back to Quantico, and up the elevator.

By the time you stepped into the BAU bullpen, it was completely empty. Everyone had already gone home.

You grabbed your go-bag and turned toward the exit.

But his voice, soft and shaky, cut through the stillness.

“…Wait.”

You froze.

His shoes tapped lightly across the floor. He didn’t rush. Didn’t demand. Just moved slowly and gently like he was afraid you’d vanish if he came too close.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

You didn’t turn around. Your eyes burned, and your voice was sharp when it came. “Which part?”

He exhaled hard, hands in his pockets. “All of it.”

You finally turned. And when he saw your face, exhausted, red-rimmed, tired of fighting and just then, his expression shattered completely.

“I didn’t mean you’re inconsistent. I-" His throat worked. “I was frustrated. With the case. And with myself. And you were right. You usually are, actually. And I-I took it out on you.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not good at people,” he continued, quieter now. “But that doesn’t excuse it. You didn’t deserve that. I know I hurt you.”

Your lip trembled.

He took a careful step closer. “Please don’t shut me out.”

Something in your chest cracked.

You blinked, and the tears finally slipped. “You made me feel small.”

“I know,” he said quickly, voice breaking. “And I hate myself for it.”

You swallowed. Looked down at your shoes. Then back at him. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know baby.” he whispered. “I know. And I pushed you away.” His heart swelled at your vulnerability. Seeing you so upset and still hearing him out made him appreciate you more than ever.

You nodded slowly. “You did.”

He took one more step, then stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth from his coat. “Can I… can I fix it?”

You hesitated. Then reached out, fingers brushing against his. He latched onto it like a lifeline. Held it so gently you could’ve cried all over again.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” you whispered.

“I don’t either.”

You looked up at him.

“You owe me a smoothie.”

His breath caught a short, stunned laugh and you could see the tear caught in his lashes.

“I’ll buy you three,” he promised.

You squeezed his hand.

And left the BAU together.

Hand in hand.

Heading for the nearest 24-hour smoothie shop like it was the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

After being tangled up in bed together for the rest of the night,soft whispers and gentle touches, morning came softly.

No alarms, no rush. Just the pale gold of sunrise filtering through the thin curtains, dust motes dancing in the air like the world had decided to move in slow motion.

You were warm.

Not from the blanket which had mostly slipped to the floor but from the man curled tightly around you. Spencer had somehow managed to wrap himself around every limb you owned. His legs were tangled with yours, his hand under your shirt but resting respectfully just above your waist, and his face… God, his face was nuzzled into the back of your neck like he belonged there.

You could feel his breath, warm and rhythmic. One of his curls had fallen into your ear.

You blinked slowly, adjusting to the quiet light. It was too early to be up but your body always knew when the sun rose. You shifted gently, stretching your legs.

He groaned.

A soft, pathetic little sound, like moving away from you physically pained him.

You bit back a laugh. “Spence…”

“Mm?” His voice was rough with sleep.

“I have to get up.”

“No,” he said immediately, tightening his arms around you like a sleepy octopus. “Stay.”

You huffed a gentle laugh. “Spencer.”

“Just five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

He didn’t answer and instead just buried his face deeper into your neck with an exaggerated sigh that tickled your skin. “You’re warm. You smell good. The sun is out. The world can wait.”

You tried to turn, but he held you tighter.

“Okay, philosopher,” you teased. “You get five minutes. No more.”

“Ten,” he bargained.

“Spencer.”

“Okay, okay.” He kissed the back of your shoulder. “Five. But I get to hold you like this all day.”

You smiled, your cheeks heating. You reached back to comb your fingers through his curls. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt him relax behind you. His breath slowed again. A little hum of contentment vibrated against your spine.

“You make it easy to feel okay again,” he mumbled sleepily.

You closed your eyes.

“So do you.” You comb your fingers through his messy hair, feeling him relax more and more within every second.

A scratched up pan, two mismatched mugs (one with Einstein’s face, the other with faded snoopy with flowers), and a fridge that hummed like it was overworked. But it was yours. It was quiet. And it was full of something soft and healing this morning.

Spencer stood at the stove in one of your hoodies, sleeves a little too short, hair still sleep-fluffy from earlier. He looked painfully domestic and painfully unaware that he was currently flipping a pancake with all the focus of someone defusing a bomb.

You leaned on the counter behind him, sipping coffee from your cherry blossom mug, trying not to smile too wide.

“I’m just saying,” he said suddenly, “the first pancake is always a disaster. That’s not failure, it’s science.”

You raised a brow. “You’re blaming physics for your burnt pancake?”

He turned to you with the spatula still in hand. “Well yes. The pan is still regulating temperature. Uneven surface heat leads to inconsistent Maillard reactions. It’s not my fault, it’s thermodynamics.”

You took another sip. “That sounds like something someone who just made a hockey puck would say.”

He looked mildly offended. “That pancake was brave. I'm proud of him.”

You laughed, a proper one, the kind that stretched through your chest like sunlight. God, you’d missed this after the past few days.

He turned back to the stove, mumbling something about “justice for pancake pioneers” while pouring more batter. You moved closer, setting your mug down on the counter and wrapping your arms around his middle from behind.

He stilled for half a second.

Then he melted into it, let out a breath like he’d been waiting to exhale all morning.

“You’re clingy,” he mumbled.

“You like it.”

“I love it.” He leaned his head back against your shoulder. “I really do.”

You pressed a kiss to his jaw, letting the quiet fill in the spaces between the moments.

He flipped the second pancake. Perfect golden brown.

“See?” he said proudly. “Told you.” A smug little smirk on his face appearing.

You peeked over his shoulder. “A scientific masterpiece.”

“Mmhm. Want the first one?”

You made a face. “Not if I want to live.”

He laughed softly. “We’ll bury it in syrup. You’ll never know.”

You didn’t even bother with plates. Just grabbed forks and ate side by side at the counter, knees bumping, syrup dripping on your fingers.

At some point, he turned to you, a bit of whipped cream on his nose.

“I was scared yesterday,” he said suddenly. “That I’d ruined it.”

You paused.

“Yeah?” you said softly.

He nodded. “I’m not used to someone staying after I mess up.”

You wiped the cream off his nose with your thumb, then leaned forward to kiss the spot you’d cleaned. “Good thing I’m not just someone.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

“You really aren’t.” He smiled at you, hand snaking around your waist, continuing feeding you.

At first you didn’t mean to end up in his lap.

It just sort of happened somewhere between the last stack of pancakes and the halfway point of your second coffee. Spencer had finished chewing a bite, looked at you like his brain had suddenly short circuited, and pulled you onto him with absolutely zero grace.

“You were too far away,” he mumbled like it explained everything.

Now your legs were straddling his thighs, knees bracketing either side of his hips, one of his hands resting at the small of your back while the other gripped a fork sticky with syrup.

His chair turned sideways next to the table so you can access his burnt pancakes.

“I’m literally right here,” you teased, stealing a strawberry from the side of his plate.

“Now you’re closer,” he said, deadpan but his eyes were warm, drifting lazily over your face like he still couldn’t believe you were here, touching him, his.

You reached for the next forkful he offered, leaned in to take it from his hand but not before quickly leaning up to his face, placing a soft, quick kiss on his lips.

He sucked in a breath through his nose. “That’s not fair.”

You grinned. “I’m not trying to be fair. I’m trying to ruin you.”

“You already have,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

Your smile softened. “Spence…”

He looked down, fork paused between you. “I said a lot of things yesterday I didn’t mean.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be like that with you,” he added, voice quieter now. “I don’t ever want to talk to you like you’re… an opponent. You’re not. And I never should've said those hurtful things to you.”

You tilted your head, let your fingers rest lightly on his jaw. “I’m not going to pretend we’ll never argue again. But I do know you. And I know you didn’t mean it.”

He looked up at you then, really looked. “You always say the right thing.”

“I don’t.” You leaned your forehead against his. “But I mean everything I say to you.”

He offered you another bite, and you took it without looking away from him. Something about sharing food like this. Knees touching, eyes locked, sugar on your lips — made the air feel thick with softness.

You scooped some whipped cream onto your finger and gently tapped it onto the tip of his nose.

He blinked.

You grinned.

Then leaned in and kissed it off.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he whispered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Just giving you a reason to stay alive.”

He held you tighter, his free hand running slowly up your back like he needed the reassurance of your bones. “I would’ve fallen apart last night if you didn’t let me come home with you.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. Letting his lips linger on yours for longer than a few seconds. "Then it’s a good thing I love you too much to let you fall apart alone.”

The fork clattered quietly onto the plate as he pulled you in fully, pressing his lips to yours in a way that said everything he was too scared to speak aloud. It wasn’t urgent. It was honest.

You fed each other in between kisses, alternating between giggles and deep, slow silences, syrup drying sticky between your fingers where they threaded into his hair. He looked at you like you were something rare. And you held him like he’d never been held right before.

Pancakes never tasted so sweet.

And neither did forgiveness.

[byhuenii]

Pasilyo

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis When you tell Bucky that a Filipino love song reminds you of what it feels like to love him, he learns it—for you.

What begins as quiet practice becomes a quiet promise.

A song. A vow. A path walked slowly, hand in hand.

Word Count 7K

Themes + Warnings Soft love , unspoken gestures , language of music , semi-tower fic , cannon-divergence , tender masculinity , FLUFF , FILIPINO READER. (No if ands or buts) , unspoken devotion , Bucky Barnes learning how to be loved </3 , MENTIONS OF PETER x MJ , found family

— Pasilyo “Hahagkan na’t 'di ka bibitawan” I’ll kiss you and I won’t let go - Sunkissed Lola

M. List | Request (open)

The compound was quiet.

A rare thing.

No alarms, no clashing egos echoing from the gym, no Tony sarcastically narrating someone else's mistakes over the intercom. Just silence—soft, golden, and late at night.

Bucky walked down the hallway slowly, towel slung over his shoulder, fresh from a shower. His damp hair clung to his temples, and he was halfway to his room when he heard it.

A voice. Yours.

Not speaking. Not laughing. Not cursing at an exploding espresso machine. Humming.

He froze.

It wasn’t just any tune—it was lilting, delicate, something foreign to his ears but familiar in the way a dream sometimes is. The notes were simple, repeated softly under your breath. He took a step closer to the kitchen, peeking around the corner.

You were washing dishes, hair messy, sleeves rolled, swaying ever so slightly with the rhythm you made. It wasn’t performed—it wasn’t for anyone—it just was.

The song.

And the way you hummed it, gently under the fluorescent light, like it had lived in you for years... He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew he wanted to hear it again.

To understand it.

To give it back to you.

He stepped away before you could notice him, the notes still echoing in his mind long after he made it to bed.

The next day, over coffee, he asked, casual but curious,

“What’s that song you were humming last night?”

You blinked. “You heard that?”

He nodded. “Sounded… nice. Familiar, almost.”

You smiled softly. “It’s called Pasilyo. It’s a Filipino song.”

“Pasilyo,” he repeated slowly, tasting the syllables like they were something sacred.

“What’s it mean?”

You looked down at your mug for a moment, then up at him.

“It’s... a hallway. An aisle, technically. But in the song, it’s about love. Like walking down an aisle toward the person you’ll spend your life with,

“It’s a love song. A really soft one. Not about grand gestures or shouting from the rooftops. It's just about choosing someone—everyday, quietly, fully. Walking down the aisle together like… that’s it. You’ve found home.”

Bucky stilled.

You added, quieter now, “It’s a song I fell in love with. About slow love. Choosing someone every day. Loving someone like they’re the home you’re walking toward.” You met his eyes, smiling shyly.

“It feels like what loving you is like.”

You look up. He’s not blinking. Not moving.

“That’s what being with you feels like, Bucky. Like I’m walking down that aisle. Like I don’t need to look anywhere else.”

His lips part slightly, like he wants to respond, but the words don’t come yet. He looks… stunned. Moved. Like no one’s ever told him he feels like home before. Not in a way that wasn’t laced with fear or obligation or war.

You take another sip of your now-cold tea and smile through it.

“I know it’s in Tagalog, but maybe one day I’ll translate it for you. Or sing it.”

He said nothing at first.

Just stared. A little stunned. A little overwhelmed. Like you’d handed him something precious, and he didn’t know how to hold it yet.

Then he nodded slowly. And said, softly, “Will you sing it for me sometime?”

You smiled. “If you promise not to laugh.”

He chuckled. “I would never.”

But he didn’t ask again. Because he had something else in mind.

Something that would take time. Something he wasn’t sure he could do right.

But something he needed to do—for you.

His fingers twitch against the edge of the table. Like they’re remembering the feel of piano keys.

Like a seed’s been planted.

And you?

You just go on with your night, not knowing you’ve just handed him the map back to himself.

Not knowing that, while you sleep soundly that night, Bucky Barnes is pulling up the sheet music on FRIDAY’s display, heart thundering in his chest like he’s standing on a ledge—

Ready to jump headfirst into love. Into music. Into you.

“Pasilyo,” you repeat slowly, your tongue wrapping around the syllables like a memory you’ve never let go of. “It means aisle. Like a wedding aisle. Like… a hallway you walk through—towards forever.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. He’s looking at you like you’ve just dropped something fragile in his hands. And maybe you have.

You're both sitting on the compound’s balcony, two steaming mugs between you and the chill of the night air brushing past like a whisper. It’s one of those rare moments of stillness—when the world isn’t asking you to fight, or lead, or bleed for it.

Just breathe.

And tonight, just talk.

You glance over and find him already looking at you—elbows on his knees, fingers curled around his mug, eyes soft.

“You really wanna know what the song means?” you ask, a little nervous.

He nods. No hesitation.

So you take a breath. And give him your heart.

“It’s not just about getting married. Not in the shallow sense, anyway.” “It’s more like… choosing someone. Every day. Step by step. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s quiet. Even when it’s been years and the butterflies are gone, and what’s left is just... devotion.”

Your voice is quiet now, as if louder would cheapen it.

“It’s the kind of love where you walk beside someone. You match their pace. You don’t rush ahead. You don’t fall behind. You just… walk. Together.”

You look down, fiddling with your fingers, a little shy. “The first line says ‘Ikaw at ikaw.’ It means you and only you. Like... no matter what. It's always going to be you."

Bucky swallows hard, jaw tightening like he's trying to stay calm but failing a little.

“The chorus says ‘Sa pasilyo tungo sa ′kin, At hinawakan mo ako't aking ′di napigilang– Maluha nang mayakap na” “It’s saying—this hallway, this aisle, it feels like heaven. Like where we’re going… it’s somewhere sacred.”

You laugh a little, more to yourself.

“It sounds dramatic, I know. But when you’re in love the way the song describes… it feels dramatic. Like everything slows down just because that person exists. Just because they look at you like you’re the end of the path they’ve been walking their whole life.”

You finally look up.

Bucky hasn’t moved.

Not even blinked.

His eyes are locked on you—not in that intense, soldier way, but in that soft, soul-crushing way that says he’s cataloguing every breath you take like it’s gospel.

“That’s what the song means to me,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper. “And when I said loving you feels like it—I meant it.”

He sets his mug down slowly, like he needs his hands free to feel this.

“No one’s ever talked about me like that before,” he says, voice rough.

You don’t rush to fill the silence. You let it sit between you. Let it echo.

He shifts toward you on the bench, eyes still full of something heavy—tender, almost scared.

“What’s the word again?” he murmurs. “That first one you said. The one that means ‘you and only you’?”

You smile, slow and genuine.

“Ikaw at ikaw.”

“Ikaw at ikaw,” he repeats. Clumsy but careful. And then again, this time a whisper: “Ikaw at ikaw.”

Like a vow.

You lean into him, shoulder against his, and let the silence take over again—this time, not empty, but filled. With understanding. With warmth. With the soft kind of love that doesn’t need fixing or fighting.

You don’t know it yet.

But he’s already made the decision.

He’s going to learn that song. Note by note. And one day, he’s going to play it for you. Because that’s what you do when someone tells you they found heaven in loving you.

You walk the aisle back to them— every damn time.

“Play it again,” Bucky muttered to himself. “No—wait. That’s wrong. Shit.” A clumsy chord echoed through the common room. “FRIDAY, run it back.”

“Again, Sergeant Barnes?” “Yes.” “Third time in an hour.” “I didn’t ask for sass, I asked for the song.”

The piano in the corner of the Avengers compound was usually more decoration than instrument—a sleek black upright Tony had bought on a whim after a gala. Dust collected on the keys. No one really touched it.

Until now.

Bucky sat hunched over it, his metal hand hovering above the ivory like it didn’t belong there. Because, honestly, it didn’t. His fingers were built for holding weapons, not crafting tenderness. His hands had been wired to hurt, not to create.

And yet, here he was. Learning to play your song.

For the past week, he’d been coming down to the lounge every night after everyone had gone to bed—when the halls were empty, the lights dim, and the only sound was the soft click of his fingers over plastic keys.

At first, he just had FRIDAY play the song over and over while he listened. Eyes closed. Jaw clenched. Not really understanding the words, but memorizing the way your voice softened when you hummed it. The way your shoulders relaxed when the first chord came on your playlist. The way you once said:

“That song feels like love walking beside you.”

And if he could just learn it, maybe he could show you he felt it too. That he understood now. Even if he couldn’t always say the right things, or believe he deserved you.

It wasn’t easy.

The first night he sat at the piano, it was nearly an hour before he even played a note. His metal fingers were too heavy, too clunky. His left hand hit two keys at once, and his right hand—shaky from frustration—kept missing its place.

He almost gave up.

But then he remembered the way you said “Ikaw at ikaw.” How sure you sounded. How certain.

So he kept trying.

Over the next few days, he practiced every night.

FRIDAY was surprisingly cooperative (with a dash of sarcasm):

“Would you like to hear the first verse again, or shall I prepare tissues for your fourth emotional breakdown, Sergeant?” “The verse. And shut up.”

He wrote the chords down in that neat, soldier-style handwriting of his. Over and over. Scribbled Filipino lyrics beside them, even though he didn’t know what half of them meant.

He watched videos. Listened to instrumental covers. Slowed it down to half-speed, grimacing every time he got it wrong. He would mouth the words, not fully understanding, but feeling the shape of them in his chest.

One night, Sam caught him at it.

“Damn, Barnes. Didn’t know you were dropping a heartbreak album.” Bucky didn’t look up. “It’s not for you.” “No kidding. It’s for her, isn’t it?” Silence. Then, quietly: “Yeah. It is.” Sam smiled, uncharacteristically gentle. “Then don’t stop.”

The breakthrough came one night when his hands finally moved together, smoothly, like they were meant to do this.

FRIDAY played the reference track. And this time—this time—Bucky played along.

He didn’t think. He just let it happen. Let the song live in his hands the way it lived in yours.

The melody was sweet. Patient. Like the person he’d become with you—softer, but stronger.

He finished with a shaky breath, sitting back on the bench like he’d just run ten miles. His heart pounded.

“That’s it,” he whispered to himself. “That’s the one.”

And for the first time in his entire life, James Buchanan Barnes smiled at himself.

Because he finally had something he couldn’t wait to give.

He practiced it a few more times, just to be sure. Memorized every pause, every breath between chords. He even started quietly mouthing the first line in your language, repeating it over and over.

Ikaw at ikaw. Ikaw at ikaw. You and only you.

Your voice echoed in his head, telling him what the song meant:

“It’s about love that chooses you. The kind that walks with you.”

And soon, you’d be home from your mission.

He would wait until the timing was right. Not a performance. Not a surprise. Just a quiet moment. Just the two of you.

“Can I show you something?”

The compound was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, which was suspicious enough on its own.

Peter was upside down on the couch, legs propped on the wall, halfway through a bag of Goldfish. Tony was arguing with Sam about whether the compound thermostat had been tampered with. Steve was reading something ancient and probably morally upright. And then—

A single piano note echoed from the hallway.

Everyone paused.

Peter blinked. “Was that the… piano?”

Another note. This time, slower. Softer. Followed by a gentle string of chords, unsure and tentative, like someone was figuring out where their fingers belonged.

Tony stood up. “Okay, who’s emotionally spiraling? We made it four days without someone dramatically playing an instrument. That’s a new record.”

They all followed the sound like curious cats, poking their heads around the corner.

And there he was.

Bucky Barnes.

Sitting at the piano, back to them, hunched forward like the music was something sacred. FRIDAY was softly giving instructions through the room speakers.

“Left hand on G. Good. Now, right hand follows with D major. Yes, Sergeant.”

The boys stood frozen in the doorway.

Peter whispered, “Uhhh since when does he play?”

Tony raised a brow. “Since never. That piano has been collecting dust since I bought it for aesthetic reasons.”

Sam folded his arms, squinting. “Wait… is that the song she always hums?”

Steve, leaning against the doorframe, just smiled to himself.

“He’s known how to play,” Steve said casually, arms crossed over his chest. “Just doesn’t talk about it.”

Four heads turned.

“Wait—what?!”

Steve nodded once, still watching. “Used to play before the war. Said it helped quiet his head. Took it up again recently, I guess.”

Inside the room, Bucky cursed under his breath, hitting the wrong note.

“FRIDAY—run it again.” “Of course, Sergeant. At bar twelve, from the top.”

Peter whispered, “Why does this feel like watching someone fall in love in slow motion?”

Tony frowned. “Because it is, Underoos.”

Bucky hadn’t noticed them yet—his face was serious, brows drawn together in focus, jaw flexing every time he missed a note. His metal hand trembled slightly when it hovered above the keys, as if unsure it even belonged there.

But he kept going.

Over and over.

Like he was playing for someone who wasn’t even in the room.

Steve tilted his head, a knowing warmth in his voice.

“He’s not just playing music. He’s making something for her.”

Sam smirked. “Goddamn. Barnes has got it bad.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Like... marriage-song bad.”

Tony looked mildly offended. “I thought I was the only one here with a soft side.”

Steve chuckled.

Then, Bucky finally realized they were there.

He turned around slowly, suspicious.

“How long have you been standing there.”

Tony threw up his hands. “Excuse us for witnessing the Winter Soldier’s Piano Redemption Arc.”

Peter clapped his hands like he was watching the finale of a K-drama. “Can you play it again? It was really pretty.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “No.”

Sam sat down dramatically on the floor. “C’mon, Barnes. Don’t be shy. We love a man in his musical era.”

Bucky grunted, standing up from the bench.

“Not doing this with you people.”

Steve just smiled and clapped him on the shoulder as Bucky passed.

“You’re doing good, Buck. She’s gonna love it.”

Bucky paused at the door, head tilted.

And maybe—just maybe—there was a small smile on his face as he muttered:

“That’s the plan.”

It’s late again.

Everyone’s asleep—or pretending to be. The compound is quiet except for the soft clicks of keys under Bucky’s fingers, and FRIDAY’s gentle whispering instructions.

“Repeat the last measure. You missed the root chord.”

Bucky sighs through his nose and resets his hands. The notes are getting smoother, more natural, but he’s still not satisfied. It needs to be perfect. Not polished. Not flashy. Just... full of her.

He presses the first chord, and the familiar melody starts to spill from his hands.

He doesn’t notice Peter slip into the room until the song ends.

“Was that Pasilyo?” Peter asks softly, standing in the doorway with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

Bucky turns a little, surprised, but not annoyed. Not like he would be with anyone else.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “You know it?”

Peter nods, padding across the room like he’s scared he’ll scare the music away.

“It’s been everywhere on TikTok. All the versions too—wedding edits, proposal videos, those aesthetic compilations where people film rain and talk about their soulmate like it’s a poetry slam.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “Didn’t realize it was that popular.”

Peter sits down cross-legged on the floor, facing the piano, chin resting in his palm.

“One time, she told me this song reminded her of you. Said it was exactly what falling in love with you felt like.”

Bucky’s fingers falter.

Peter’s eyes are soft.

“I didn’t get it then. I mean, I knew she loved you. It was obvious. The way she looks at you like you hung the moon... but I didn’t feel it.”

He gestures toward the piano.

“But when you play it? Like this? I get it now.”

Bucky doesn’t speak. Just listens. Takes it in like a truth he’s still learning to hold.

Peter’s voice is quieter now, almost reverent.

“When MJ and I started dating—really dating—I heard this song again. One of the mellow versions came up on my feed while I was walking her home. And I just... got it.”

He looks up at Bucky. “The way love slows you down. Makes you pay attention. Makes you want to match someone’s pace.”

Bucky’s hands return to the keys, and this time, he starts humming. Low and quiet, just under his breath, the melody threading into the space between them.

Peter closes his eyes.

The notes are softer now. Bucky’s pace more confident. Each chord falls exactly where it’s supposed to. His hums trail into the air like they’ve been waiting for this moment to land.

Peter opens his eyes again, barely above a whisper.

“You know what pasilyo means, right?”

Bucky nods once. “She told me. The aisle. A hallway. The walk toward someone.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, voice cracking just a bit. “But it also means not rushing. Just being there. With them. Through it. I think… she chose the perfect song. For you.”

Silence settles between them again. But it’s not empty.

It’s full of something soft. Something shared.

Bucky presses the final chord, and this time, he lets it ring out fully. No flinching. No pause. No correction.

Just… completion.

He exhales and leans back on the bench, shoulders looser now.

Peter gives him a quiet smile.

“She’s gonna cry when she hears it.”

Bucky nods.

“I hope so.”

The song fades again, slow and deliberate, like a whispered promise at the end of a letter. Bucky lifts his hands off the keys, but the sound lingers—the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask to be filled. Just felt.

Peter doesn’t say anything. He’s still sitting cross-legged on the floor, elbows on his knees, just… watching.

And Bucky lets him. Because for once, the silence between them doesn’t feel awkward. It feels understood.

Peter finally breaks it, voice low.

“It’s weird. It’s like… the piano’s singing.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He gently presses a single note again, slow, sustained. The kind of note that vibrates through your ribs and settles in your chest.

Peter’s eyes stay on the keys. He’s not smiling—not fully. He’s feeling.

“The way you play it,” he says quietly, “it’s not just notes. It’s like… the music knows how much you love her.”

Bucky’s shoulders rise slowly with a breath.

Peter swallows.

“It made me think about MJ.”

He laughs a little, embarrassed. “She loves this song. Used to send me clips of it when we were just friends. Said it made her think of the kind of love she wanted one day.”

He glances at Bucky.

“I didn’t get it. Not until we were walking home together one night and it started raining. She grabbed my hand like it was just… obvious. Natural. Like we were supposed to be walking side by side all along.”

He pauses.

“That’s what this song feels like. Like that.”

Bucky presses another chord. Soft. Careful. Right where it belongs.

Peter lets his head rest on the back of the couch behind him, eyes tracking the rise and fall of Bucky’s shoulders as he plays.

The piano sings.

Not loud. Not flashy. But full of warmth.

Like walking hand-in-hand in the rain. Like coming home after a long, hard day. Like whispering “I love you” when there’s nothing else left to say.

Peter swallows thickly.

He thinks of MJ.

Her laugh when she throws popcorn at him. Her sleepy voice on late night calls. The way she looks at him like he’s not broken, even on the days he feels that way.

“Hey, Bucky?” he says softly.

The music slows, but Bucky doesn’t stop playing.

“Yeah?”

Peter fidgets with a string on his hoodie. “Could you… maybe teach me? Sometime. The song.”

Bucky doesn’t look up from the keys. But his metal hand glides smoothly into the final chord, holding it like a quiet promise.

“You play?”

Peter winces. “I was in band. For like... two years. I quit. Too many trumpet kids. They were terrifying.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath. The sound is so rare it almost startles Peter.

He just lifts his metal hand, plays the opening line again—your song, soft and familiar. And then he speaks.

“If it’s for MJ…” A pause. A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “…anytime, kid.”

Peter’s throat gets a little tight. He blinks fast, hides it with a sniff and a rub of his sleeve.

“Thanks,” he says, voice cracking a little. “That means a lot.”

“I know it does,” Bucky says softly. “That’s the point.”

They sit there a while longer. Not playing. Not talking. Just being.

The song echoing in both their chests. A melody about walking beside someone—not ahead, not behind.

Just together.

The Quinjet lands with a low hum, night spilling over the landing pad like ink. You stretch your back, roll your shoulders, feel the ache of the last few days settling deep in your bones.

Nat slaps your arm lightly as she disembarks. “You’re getting soft.”

You snort. “You were the one who said your knees were cracking like popcorn during that rooftop sprint.”

Wanda comes up behind you with a smile, levitating her bag for the drama. “Are you going to go see him first? Or pretend to play it cool?”

You blink. “What?”

Nat shrugs. “You always do. You get back from a mission, and five minutes later you're either in his room or pulling him into yours like a human weighted blanket.”

“I do not—”

“She’s home,” FRIDAY interrupts over the comms. “He’s asking for her in the piano room.”

You freeze.

The piano room?

He never— Bucky doesn’t perform. He doesn’t ask. He disappears, or waits outside your door like some kind of lost dog with love in his eyes.

But this?

This feels different.

Wanda grins and floats away like a fairy godmother who already knows how this ends.

Nat just smirks. “Go.”

You move through the compound slowly. Not rushing. Because something about the way FRIDAY said it made your chest clench tight.

He’s asking for you.

Like he’s ready to give you something.

As you near the hallway leading to the music wing, you notice little things.

The lights are dimmer than usual. Warm. Intentional.

There’s a faint echo of a chord—not music yet, just the shape of it—like someone’s checking the sound of their own heartbeat before they let it speak.

And then you hear it.

Laughter.

Not loud. Not teasing.

Just soft.

And his.

You pause outside the cracked door, peeking in.

Bucky’s sitting at the piano—nervous, fidgeting, adjusting the bench like it might change the outcome. His metal fingers curl and uncurl.

Peter stands nearby, setting a guitar back on its stand with the kind of smile only someone who’s seen something real can carry.

“She’s gonna cry, you know.”

Bucky huffs. “Don’t tell her that.”

“I won’t,” Peter says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “But she will.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Peter starts walking toward the door and spots you frozen just outside. He stops, smiles softly, and doesn’t say a word.

Just brushes your arm gently as he passes and whispers:

“It’s time.”

And then you’re alone. Just you. And him.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

His fingers hover over the keys. He breathes in through his nose, steadying himself. His lips move soundlessly—mouthing words he’s probably rehearsed a hundred times.

You stay in the shadows a moment longer. Because you want to remember this. This version of Bucky Barnes—nervous and beautiful and brave in a way that has nothing to do with bullets or war.

He adjusts the sheet music one last time—though you’re certain he doesn’t need it.

Then he speaks, quiet but sure.

“FRIDAY… let her in.”

And that’s where we pick up the Reveal scene. Right at the door.

Right at the start of everything.

(Before you land)

The compound is too quiet.

That kind of quiet that feels loud in Bucky’s ears. Even with FRIDAY running soft diagnostics and Peter’s guitar case long gone, it still hums wrong—like the walls are holding their breath with him.

He’s alone in the piano room.

Again.

Fingers hovering over the keys. Again.

“She’s coming home in forty-seven minutes, Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY says gently.

His stomach lurches.

Forty-seven minutes. Less than an hour until you walk through the doors smelling like wind and danger and stars. Until you’re home again.

And he’s still not sure if he can do this.

His metal hand twitches. He shakes it out.

Again.

He starts with the intro. Slow. Careful. Like he’s whispering a secret to the room before you can hear it.

But his hands stumble—wrong chord. He curses under his breath and pulls back from the keys like they bit him.

“Shit—”

He exhales, jaw clenching tight.

He’s not scared of much anymore. He’s seen war. He’s been it. He’s jumped out of planes, ripped through walls, walked into bullets without blinking.

But this? This has him pacing.

Because he’s never played something that meant this much.

He’s not just playing you a song.

He’s showing you every piece of his heart. Every scar, every breath, every fragile, soft, terrified part of him that has learned how to love again because of you.

What if it’s not enough?

What if you hear it and it doesn’t say everything he needs it to?

What if you don’t cry? What if you do?

He drags his hand through his hair. Sits back down. Stares at the keys.

“Get it together, Barnes.”

He looks at the music—not because he needs it, but because it reminds him this was something real. Something you sang when you thought no one was listening. Something you hummed under your breath like a prayer.

“Pasilyo,” you’d told him. “It’s like a wedding aisle. But it’s also a path—one you choose to walk down. To meet the person you want to spend your life with.”

He remembers how your voice had cracked when you said it. How you looked at him. How he wanted to cry right then and there, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Now he wishes he had.

He plays it again. Slower. Breathing with it. Feeling where each note catches in his chest.

It’s not perfect.

But it’s true.

And it hits him, somewhere deep and raw:

This is what love sounds like.

Not clean. Not polished. Not without tremors in the middle of the melody. But still—it arrives. Still, it walks.

Just like you did. Into his life. Into his heart. Without flinching.

His fingers hover at the bridge—his least favorite part, the one he always messes up. Too many emotions there.

Because that’s the part where the song lifts, right? Where it believes. Where it’s not just aching— But hopeful.

And Bucky’s never been good at hope.

But for you?

He forces his fingers down. Lets them play.

And for the first time—

He doesn’t mess it up.

His shoulders fall. He doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until the room settles.

“Thirty-three minutes,” FRIDAY says softly.

He nods once.

“Keep the lights low,” he murmurs. “She likes it soft when she gets back.”

“Of course.”

He breathes in. Breathes out.

Waits.

And somewhere in the compound, an alert pings.

She’s landed.

He doesn’t hear her footsteps at first. But he hears Peter—murmuring something as he passes by. A quiet laugh. A hand on his shoulder.

And then—her.

You.

Standing just beyond the door.

He doesn’t look yet. Because if he looks, he might cry.

And he wants to play this right.

He wants to give you this moment the way you gave him the courage to exist again.

“FRIDAY…” “Let her in.”

You don’t even realize you’ve dropped your bag until you hear it hit the floor.

The hallway is quiet now. Peter is gone. Wanda and Nat are halfway across the compound. But you—you’re standing at the threshold of something undeniably big.

Something warm and soft and intentional.

The piano room glows low with amber light. No sharp whites. No tactical coldness. Just this amber haze like candlelight, like golden hour had been pulled inside just for you.

And in the middle of it all—

Bucky Barnes.

Sitting at the grand piano, lit like a memory.

He’s wearing that soft henley you love—the one that stretches across his shoulders and makes him look almost breakable. His head is bowed, fingers flexing above the keys like they’re trying to remember something holy.

You don’t breathe.

And then, without looking—

“Can I show you something?”

His voice is low. Unsteady. Like it’s been soaked in silence too long and is finally ready to speak.

You nod, even though he can’t see it. Your throat’s already tight.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Of course.”

He shifts. Settles his hands. And begins.

It’s quiet, at first. Hesitant. Like footsteps on a new floor. The melody of “Pasilyo” unfolding from his fingers, soft and reverent.

But then— You hear it.

The heart.

Not the perfection. Not the technicality.

But the way it feels.

Each chord is him. Every note—his past, his pain, his impossible hope, all woven together into this aching confession he’s never been able to speak aloud.

Your lips part. Because you know this song. You know it so well.

And yet… It’s different in his hands.

He’s not just playing it.

He’s praying.

He’s walking.

Toward you.

You step further into the room, chest tight, every hair on your arms standing up.

Then—your voice cracks into the air:

 Hahagkan na′t 'di ka bibitawan— Wala na 'kong mahihiling pa…

(I’ll kiss you and won't let go— I wont ask for anything more)

His head lifts just slightly. Eyes flick to you.

And he sees it—

The tears. The awe. The recognition.

You’re looking at him like he’s just handed you the moon.

“You remembered,” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer out loud. He just keeps playing.

Your feet move on their own—closer, closer—like you’re being drawn by a string wrapped around your ribs.

′Di maikukumpara, Araw-araw kong dala-dala 

(Nothing compares, I carry it everyday)

His playing swells. Not loudly. Not boldly. Just… full. Full of everything he’s ever wanted to give you and didn’t know how.

The bridge hits.

The part where you always said the meaning lives.

And his hands don’t falter.

He doesn’t even blink.

Because this is what it’s always been about.

Not flowers. Not rings. Not dramatic kisses in the rain.

A path. A choice.

A pasilyo.

He finally stops. The last note hangs in the air like smoke.

The silence after is just as loud.

You cross to him, eyes shimmering, heart racing.

He opens his mouth—but you speak first.

“Do you know what this means?”

He watches you, still breathless. “Tell me.”

You sit beside him on the bench, hand resting on his thigh.

“This song is about walking toward someone and knowing that no matter what came before, they are your future. They’re the one at the end of the aisle. And not because it’s perfect—but because it’s yours.”

You swallow hard.

“It’s about choosing them. Over and over.”

He blinks, and tears spill over—real ones. Not silent. Not hidden.

“I never thought I could be that for anyone,” he whispers. “Someone worth choosing.”

You place your hand over his metal one. The hand that learned this song for you.

“Bucky,” you say softly, “I’ve been walking toward you since the day I met you.”

His breath shudders.

And then, with his head bowed and your hand over his heart—

“I love you.”

You lean in close, forehead pressed to his, voice shaking like a candle flame.

“Then walk with me.”

And outside the room, the hallway stays quiet. But inside— Inside, the aisle is lit. The path is clear.

And Bucky Barnes, for the first time in his long, haunted life, doesn’t just feel loved.

He feels chosen.

The music room isn’t full. But it feels full.

There’s no announcement. No plan. No gathering call.

Just a soft chord drifting down the hallway, a melody warm enough to pull people in like gravity.

It starts with Bucky—fingers drifting across the piano like he’s remembering something instead of reading it. Then Peter, beside him, grinning quietly as he joins in on the keyboard.

Different layers. Same song.

“Pasilyo.”

But this time—this time it’s not for practice. Not for nerves. Not even for confession.

It’s pure.

It’s joy. It’s the feeling of love after the tears, after the fear. It’s the sound of two men finally understanding what it means to be held and seen and chosen.

And on the old couch near the window—you and MJ sit, legs tucked up, cheeks in your hands, watching them like they just spun the stars into a lullaby.

Peter’s tongue sticks out slightly when he concentrates. Bucky hums softly under his breath, a habit he doesn’t even know he has.

They glance at each other—sync without speaking.

You whisper to MJ, voice trembling from the sheer softness of it all, “Do you hear that?”

She nods, eyes wide and glassy.

“It’s like they’re speaking in a language they only just remembered.”

One by one, the others appear.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Sam leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

Steve slips in behind him, posture soft, eyes damp.

Natasha sits on the floor near the corner, knees pulled to her chest, breathing like she’s afraid to make a sound.

Wanda hovers close to the window, fingers fluttering at her side like she’s trying to touch the music itself.

Bruce stands at the back, utterly still.

Thor ducks slightly through the doorway, his massive form surprisingly gentle in the silence.

And Tony—

Tony stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t hit him the way it does. But his hand moves to his chest like something cracked there, something long rusted and unopened.

None of them speak.

Because there’s nothing to say.

Bucky glances over at you now and then. Just a flicker of blue eyes, checking, anchoring.

Every time he does, you smile.

You don’t realize it, but your head is tilted the exact way it was that day you sang it. Back when you were barefoot in the kitchen, humming it like a secret prayer.

MJ reaches for your hand and squeezes it gently.

“They’re doing it for us,” she says softly.

You nod.

But it’s more than that.

They’re doing it for themselves too. To remember. To believe. To hold onto the feeling that love doesn’t have to hurt. That it can sound like this—like keys and strings and the breath between two chords.

The song slows.

Not because it’s over, but because it doesn’t need to rush.

The final notes echo—soft and slow, like footsteps fading into a forever that doesn’t scare them anymore.

When it ends, no one claps.

No one needs to.

There’s just this stillness.

This moment suspended in amber.

This one, impossible truth:

They made it.

Not just through war. Not just through pain. But through the long, aching walk back to themselves.

And when Bucky finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper:

“You taught me this song…”

He turns to look at you.

“But loving you taught me how to play it.”

Peter laughs under his breath, ducking his head.

“Yeah, and MJ taught me I wasn’t terrible at music. Just stuck with the wrong instrument.”

MJ wipes her cheek. “Trumpet kids,” she jokes, voice cracking.

Laughter rolls across the room like thunder softened by love.

Bucky chuckles, glancing at Peter.

“You wanna play it again?”

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

But before they begin, Bucky reaches over—hand brushing your knee—and asks:

“Stay?”

You don’t move. You don’t blink.

You just say, voice thick with tears and certainty:

“Always.”

And behind you, in the silence left behind by music and memory—

The Avengers watch.

Not as soldiers. Not as heroes. But as people who have seen fire and ash and death.

And now—

They see love. And for once… It’s enough.

The music room isn’t full. But it feels full.

There’s no announcement. No plan. No gathering call.

Just a soft chord drifting down the hallway, a melody warm enough to pull people in like gravity.

It starts with Bucky—fingers drifting across the piano like he’s remembering something instead of reading it. Then Peter, beside him, grinning quietly as he joins in on the keyboard.

Different layers. Same song.

“Pasilyo.”

But this time—this time it’s not for practice. Not for nerves. Not even for confession.

It’s pure.

It’s joy. It’s the feeling of love after the tears, after the fear. It’s the sound of two men finally understanding what it means to be held and seen and chosen.

And on the old couch near the window—you and MJ sit, legs tucked up, cheeks in your hands, watching them like they just spun the stars into a lullaby.

Peter’s tongue sticks out slightly when he concentrates. Bucky hums softly under his breath, a habit he doesn’t even know he has.

They glance at each other—sync without speaking.

You whisper to MJ, voice trembling from the sheer softness of it all, “Do you hear that?”

She nods, eyes wide and glassy.

“It’s like they’re speaking in a language they only just remembered.”

One by one, the others appear.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Sam leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

Steve slips in behind him, posture soft, eyes damp.

Natasha sits on the floor near the corner, knees pulled to her chest, breathing like she’s afraid to make a sound.

Wanda hovers close to the window, fingers fluttering at her side like she’s trying to touch the music itself.

Bruce stands at the back, utterly still.

Thor ducks slightly through the doorway, his massive form surprisingly gentle in the silence.

And Tony—

Tony stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t hit him the way it does. But his hand moves to his chest like something cracked there, something long rusted and unopened.

None of them speak.

Because there’s nothing to say.

Bucky glances over at you now and then. Just a flicker of blue eyes, checking, anchoring.

Every time he does, you smile.

You don’t realize it, but your head is tilted the exact way it was that day you sang it. Back when you were barefoot in the kitchen, humming it like a secret prayer.

MJ reaches for your hand and squeezes it gently.

“They’re doing it for us,” she says softly.

You nod.

But it’s more than that.

They’re doing it for themselves too. To remember. To believe. To hold onto the feeling that love doesn’t have to hurt. That it can sound like this—like keys and strings and the breath between two chords.

The song slows.

Not because it’s over, but because it doesn’t need to rush.

The final notes echo—soft and slow, like footsteps fading into a forever that doesn’t scare them anymore.

When it ends, no one claps.

No one needs to.

There’s just this stillness.

This moment suspended in amber.

This one, impossible truth:

They made it.

Not just through war. Not just through pain. But through the long, aching walk back to themselves.

And when Bucky finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper:

“You taught me this song…”

He turns to look at you.

“But loving you taught me how to play it.”

Peter laughs under his breath, ducking his head.

“Yeah, and MJ taught me I wasn’t terrible at music. Just stuck with the wrong instrument.”

MJ wipes her cheek. “Trumpet kids,” she jokes, voice cracking.

Laughter rolls across the room like thunder softened by love.

Bucky chuckles, glancing at Peter.

“You wanna play it again?”

Peter nods. “Yeah.”

But before they begin, Bucky reaches over—hand brushing your knee—and asks:

“Stay?”

You don’t move. You don’t blink.

You just say, voice thick with tears and certainty:

“Always.”

And behind you, in the silence left behind by music and memory—

The Avengers watch.

Not as soldiers. Not as heroes. But as people who have seen fire and ash and death.

And now—

They see love. And for once… It’s enough.

(You've got mail!) YALL DONT GET THIS SONG LIKE I DOOOOOO. IKAW AT IKAWWWWW. IKAW AT IKAWWWW. IKAW AT IKAWWWWWW. I’m so pasilyo about Bucky it makes me so sad like genuinely. This is one of the 2 fanfics I have been talking about. And yes I know x Readers are supposed to be inclusive but reader being Filipino makes sm sense to me (I’m Filipino im projecting.) but in our culture songs and music is such a big part of our love language, that’s really how we founded the acts of serenading. So Bucky taking time out of his day to learn this song is like HEART GUTTING FLUFF SOFT I LOVE YOU. But I hope you liked this because I deadass cried while making this…

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101 @totallyanxiousart @lovinqbella @starstruckfirecat @beestarsuck

[confessionsandcreampies]

quiet places with your favorite blue lock boy, a small story for all my thick girls out there 🫶🏽

he never liked the cameras. not really. maybe once, when he was young and cocky and too new to the spotlight to understand what it meant. but he’d learned fast that the cameras weren’t for him. they were for the brand. for the image. for the insatiable appetite the world had for digging beneath the surface, ripping people open just to see what spilled out. and he could stomach that when it was about him. he could take the stories, the edits, the cruel comments dressed as jokes.

but he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let them turn that hunger on you. it wasn’t shame. not even a little. if the world knew what he whispered into your skin when the lights were off and the door was locked, they’d understand just how far from shame this love was. it was reverence. it was worship. he adored you. every inch, every curve, every soft and sacred part of you. he kissed your belly like it was scripture, bit into your thighs when you made him laugh, tangled his fingers in the plush skin that hugged your hips and held you tight against him like home. he loved your softness. craved and needed it. the gentle give of your body against his. the way you folded into his arms like you were made for him.

when you laid beneath him, messy and moaning, hair fanned out on the pillow and your thighs trembling around his waist, he didn’t just fuck you. he cherished you. whispered the filthiest, sweetest things he could think of. told you how good you looked taking him. how perfect you were. how no one, no one in the world could make him feel the way you did.

it was never about what size you were. it was about you.

but he also wasn’t blind. he knew what the world was like. he knew how headlines reduced women down to numbers and how the comments under a photo could bleed someone dry. he’d seen it all before. watched fans turn on people with venom wrapped in fake concern. watched love be twisted into a punchline just because it didn’t fit someone else’s fantasy. he knew how cruel it could be, how fucking brutal, especially to women who didn’t look the way the world demanded.

so no, he wasn’t ashamed of you. he was terrified for you. you were his peace. his anchor. his best-kept secret in the kindest way. not hidden, but protected. kept safe from the claws of the internet, from the lies that spun themselves out of nothing. from the judgment no one deserved, especially not you.

so there were no red carpet photos. no hard launches. no hand-holding caught on shaky fan videos from the stands. when the team went out drinking, you stayed home in his hoodie, curled up with your favorite blanket, the smell of his cologne still lingering on your sleeves. you’d smile when your phone lit up.

miss you already.

you know i’d rather be with you.

i’ll be back soon. don’t fall asleep on me, baby.

and the thing that made him fall even harder? you never minded, not even a little. because you knew where the real love lived. it wasn’t in the filtered selfies or flashy date nights. it was in the quiet moments. the familiar things. the way his key turned in the lock and his voice called your name like a sigh of relief. the way his bag hit the floor with a heavy thud, and then you. in his arms. lifted, held, kissed breathless as if just touching you made the rest of his day fade away. and maybe it did. because every time he held you like that, face buried in your neck, arms locked tight around you, and hands spread across your back like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again, you could feel it.

that real, aching kind of love. the kind that didn’t need an audience. the kind that lived in low whispers and tangled sheets and the way his lips brushed your ear when he said, “i wish i could show you off every damn day. i do. but the world doesn’t deserve you. not yet.”

and you, with your fingers slipping gently through his sweat-damp hair smiled, so soft, so sure. “that’s okay. i only need you to see me.”

and he did, always and deeply and truly. more than anyone ever had. you were his quiet world and he was your loudest love.

it started with a blurry photo. you weren’t even touching him. you were walking a few steps behind, arms folded, your oversized jacket slipping off one shoulder like always. he was in front, mask pulled low, hat yanked down to try and keep from being recognized. but he’d been too famous for that for a long time now.

you saw it on twitter first.

is this the [player name] and… his girlfriend?? 👀👀👀

the picture was grainy, taken from far away, probably through a car window or across the street. but it didn’t matter. it was you. no mistaking it. thick thighs in your favorite pants, your smile caught mid-laugh, your face turned toward him with that soft, unguarded joy that only he ever got to see. despite the angle. despite the quality. it captured something real. a tenderness. a warmth.

and a few hours later, it was everywhere. your phone lit up like a storm had rolled in.

📸 pro striker possibly spotted with mystery girlfriend

📸 who is she? fans speculate identity of woman in viral photo

📸 “she’s not what we expected”: social media reacts to player’s rumored relationship

you tried not to click. tried not to care. but the headlines weren’t the worst part. the comments were. some of them… god, some of them made your throat tighten in a way that felt almost like joy.

she’s so pretty omg and her smile?? he’s lucky fr.

not everyone wants a model. real bodies are hot too 😤

wait i love her? she looks like someone who’d keep him grounded. king behavior.

but the others… they stuck harder.

you didn’t go looking for them. not really. but hate has a way of finding cracks in the walls you didn’t know you had. it seeps in under the door. it whispers where it knows you’re softest.

he could literally have anyone and this is who he chooses?

y’all say body positivity, but i know he’s insecure af dating someone like her lmao.

why do men like him always go for girls like that in secret? it’s giving fetish.

the words landed like bruises. not sharp, but heavy, sinking, spreading.

you closed the app. then turned off your phone completely, but the sting didn’t go away.

when the front door opened later that night, you didn’t even lift your head. you stayed curled up on the couch in the dark, your phone face-down on the coffee table, your body still wrapped in one of his hoodies like it might shield you from the world.

he didn’t say anything at first. just stood in the doorway for a second, taking it in. “hey.” his voice was cautious. already knowing. “you saw it.”

you nodded without looking at him. he crossed the room in slow, careful steps and sat beside you. he reached for your hand and twined his fingers with yours like the act itself might anchor you both.

“say it,” he murmured. “whatever’s in your head.”

you swallowed. “i’m not… i don’t know. i just— i didn’t want it to happen like this.”

he didn’t try to rush in with comfort. didn’t deny the hurt. instead he lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles softly once. then again. then again. as if each one could erase a comment, a headline, a wound.

after a long, aching pause, you added quietly. “some of the comments were sweet. but some were… cruel.”

his jaw tightened. you felt the shift in him, the rage laced with helplessness. “i know,” he said roughly. “i read them too.”

you turned to him then, finally, and your eyes were glossy, not quite wet, but close. “and?”

he didn’t hesitate. “i should’ve posted you myself,” he said, and his voice shook with the weight of truth. “a long time ago. i should’ve told the world the first time you made me laugh so hard i choked on my protein shake.”

that earned a snort. it slipped out before you could help it. he smiled a little. “i don’t ever want you to think i was keeping you a secret because i was ashamed.” his thumb brushed over your wrist, soft and sure. “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. you’re my peace. my home.”

he paused and looked at you with that ferocity he always saved just for the field. and for you.

“and now that they know? let them. let the whole fucking world know.”

you blinked. “you’re serious?”

“i’ll post a photo tonight,” he said, already reaching for his phone. “a real one. where you look like you. beautiful. comfortable. safe. because you are. and if anyone’s got a problem with that?” he shook his head, eyes narrowing. “then they were never fans of me.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i want to.” he looked at you like there wasn’t a single part of you he didn’t worship. like you were made of stardust and gravity and soft things strong enough to hold the world together. “i want to show them what love actually looks like.”

later that night, he did. he uploaded a photo. a quiet one. you curled in his hoodie, makeup-free, glowing with that lazy kind of happiness only he ever brought out in you. his arm wrapped around you, hand spread protectively across your stomach. the light golden and warm. your smile real. the caption was simple.

this is her. mine. 💙

this time, the support was louder, brighter.

people clapped back. they celebrated you. they saw you. sure, the hate didn’t vanish entirely. it never does. but it stopped mattering.

you turned your phone off one more time. not because you were afraid. this time, you just wanted to see him. the real thing in front of you, holding you like a prayer.

and as he pulled you into his arms that night, whispering how proud he was of you, how sorry he was for not doing it sooner, how lucky he felt just to call you his you believed him. because sometimes love doesn’t need the world to understand. it just needs to be loud enough that you never forget it’s there.

[elssero]

he’d saved you from the rain.

it sounds so silly to say out loud, such a tiny act of kindness from atsumu miya has your heart swelling and your knees wobbly.

you’d never really been majorly attracted to the boy before, he’s arrogant and loud and definitely thinks that everyone around him is far more enamoured with him than they actually are. (even if everyone does actually love him)

but something about him throwing his volleyball jacket over your head, grabbing your hand and running you both to his house instead of yours because it’s closer.

your in his living room, he’s absolutely dripping wet but someone manages to be more concerned about you in this situation than himself, regardless of the fact that the thickness of his jacket had managed to keep you almost entirely dry.

he doesn’t know why he did it, maybe it was because he felt bad for keeping you late at his practice, or maybe because he knew that you had done your hair all pretty today and the rain would ruin it, or maybe it was because he’s had the biggest crush on you for months and you still hadn’t noticed.

you don’t notice how he looks longingly at you while you do mundane tasks, how he only ever wants to spend time with you, or how he doesn’t even look at anyone else.

maybe you don’t notice this because you’ve never really taken much of a thought to how either of you feel about each other at all.

but now, as he stands in his kitchen, dripping wet, hair covering his face and t-shirt clinging to his body like it was made for him, you can’t help but feel horribly attracted to him.

he’s talking to fast for you to understand- something about him getting you a change of clothes and setting up the spare room so you can stay the night- it doesn’t matter.

‘atsumu?’

it shuts him up, probably because it’s the first thing you’ve said since he grabbed your hand and ran you home.

‘yes princess- what’s wrong? are cold?’

his usual nickname for you now has your heart beating a little faster.

‘kiss me.’

the shock on his face only lasts a second before he’s keeping towards you, it takes him less than a second before his face is bashing into yours, kissing you like he’s starved.

his face is hot on yours immediately, kissing you harshly with a soft hold on your face. he breaks the kiss for a second, long enough to whisper in your ear, his voice low and a little hoarse.

‘you’re cold’

looking up at him slowly, holding his gaze. ‘so are you.’

“i’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we met,” he whispered.

and then he did.

the second kiss wasn’t tentative. it was deep and slow, filled with the months of longing he’d buried in glances and half-spoken words. his hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing the heat of your cheeks, while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like you were anchoring yourself to him.

melting into him with a soft sigh, your mouth parting under his, body’s pressing closer. rain still clung to his skin, but the kiss was warm and breathless- nothing shy or uncertain about it now. when you broke apart, it was only for air, your foreheads resting together, breathing each other in.

your voice was barely audible. ‘you could’ve done that a long time ago.’

“i know,” he said, eyes still closed. “i was scared.”

you smiled then, brushing your lips against his one more time.

outside, the rain kept falling.

inside, in the warmth of his kitchen, he kissed you again- this time slower, deeper- because he could, because you wanted him to, because the wait was finally, blessedly over.

[fiendsgf]

Soulbound

IV. Unspoken

sylus x reader, rafayel x reader

Summary: An invitation. A new role. A gala that doesn’t go as planned. As the lines start to blur between you and Sylus, you find yourself drifting. Away from what you thought you had under control, and toward something comforting. A sea breeze brings a new (old) face. Cracks in a carefully built foundation start to form.

content: non!mc reader, angst if you squint, isekai, love triangle(ish) coming! shady raf (he’s here!)

pt. 1 pt.2 pt.3

The knock on your door is soft, deliberate – just enough to pull you from your thoughts.

You open it to find Sylus standing there, a quiet urgency in his gaze.

“Come with me,” he says, voice low and direct.

You follow him through the dim corridors of the base, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. He leads you to his study, a room lined with dark wood shelves, scattered gadgets humming faintly beneath the warm glow of a desk lamp.

He closes the door behind you, gesturing toward the leather chair across from his desk.

You sit. He remains standing, arms crossed, eyes fixed on yours.

“You’ve been here long enough to know this base isn’t a place for idling,” he says. You nod slowly, unsure where he’s headed.

“I want to give you something to do.”

You blink. “I’m not sure I’m exactly qualified…”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We work well together. That fight with the Wanderer-”

“Was luck,” you interject, too quickly.

“No,” he says simply. “You reacted faster than I expected.”

You lower your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I’m offering something more than training,” Sylus continues. “You’d accompany me on business.”

You pause. “Business? Like Onychinus business?”

“For now,” he replies. “I know being stuck here isn’t what you asked for. But sitting around waiting for something to change must be… taxing.”

You stay quiet, heart beating faster.

“No pressure,” he adds. “But I thought I’d give you the choice.”

You hesitate. “Wouldn’t that make me a target? I thought the idea was to lay low?”

“We’ll keep things contained,” Sylus says. “Onychinus has its methods. You won’t be exposed more than you already are. I’ll make sure of it.”

That doesn’t fully settle your nerves, but it does something.

He steps forward, his voice quieter now.

“It’s also smart to keep you close.”

Your eyes meet his. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says. “But your appearance here still doesn’t make sense. And if someone is targeting you, it’s better we control the circumstances.”

You chew on that, the weight of it settling in your chest. You’re not entirely sure you believe it’s about protection.

But you nod. “Okay. That makes sense.”

A subtle exhale leaves him. “Good.”

You don’t say it, but part of you is relieved. You’re tired of watching the world from the sidelines.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The days blur together after that conversation. Long hours of training, missions in simulation rooms, instructions barked through comms, drills that leave your muscles aching. It’s a welcome kind of exhaustion. The kind that leaves no room for overthinking.

He gives you a comms device. Then a phone.

Your contact list is small: Sylus, Luke, Kieran. The twins send you memes you don’t fully understand, but you laugh anyway. Sylus messages you sporadically; updates on his location, what the chef’s making for dinner, the occasional reminder not to skip meals.

Something in your chest begins to settle. You’re not home. But you’re no longer floating.

One evening, you curl up on the lounge’s chaise with a book, half-lost in a chapter, when Sylus steps in.

“There’s a negotiation happening soon,” he says. “An arms deal. I want you to come.”

You lower your book. “Should I expect trouble?”

He tilts his head. “You should always expect trouble here. But it should go smoothly. This one’s mostly for you to observe.”

You nod. “Okay. I’ll go.”

“A seamstress will come by tomorrow. It’ll be held in a hotel, under the guise of a formal gala. You’ll need to look the part.”

He leaves before you can ask more. But your pulse skips anyway.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The night arrives faster than expected.

You sit at your vanity, adjusting your earrings, your reflection split between nervous anticipation and quiet resolve. The dress, delivered just hours ago, is almost too beautiful. Smoky silk drapes around your form, dark and iridescent – not black, not gray, but something ghostlike in between. A ripple of shadow made real.

You slip on your heels and step into the hallway, nerves humming under your skin.

Sylus waits for you in the common room, leaning against the wall with the quiet poise of someone who doesn’t need to say a word to command a room. His suit is sharp, gray with subtle pinstripes and a burgundy tie that draws your eye to his collarbone before you force yourself to look away.

He glances up – and lingers.

A second passes. Then another.

“You’ll blend in well,” he says, and there’s something clipped in his voice, something he doesn’t elaborate on.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Good.”

He looks away, but not before you catch the flicker in his expression. Approval? Restraint?

Whatever it is, you feel the weight of it as you walk beside him toward the elevator, toward the unknown.

Something flutters in your chest. You clip its wings before it fully takes off.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The hotel hosting the gala is nestled deep within a pocket of Linkon you hadn’t seen before. Opulent, polished, humming with old money and quiet danger. As you and Sylus step out of the sleek, nondescript car, your heels click softly against the marble entryway. You're immediately hit by the chilled air of the lobby, scented with faint citrus and something more artificial. Clean, but too clean. Like a cover-up.

Sylus offers his arm without a word.

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to take it, but because you’re hyperaware of the hundreds of tiny eyes in this place. Both mechanical and human.

Still, you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow. His suit is warm against your skin, and despite your practiced posture, your heartbeat betrays you with its speed.

He glances at you, brief and unreadable. His voice is low enough to be mistaken for nothing but a murmur.

“Relax. Tension draws attention.”

You press your lips together and nod once. You match his stride, walking through the lobby’s grand doors into a ballroom drenched in gold lighting and soft jazz. Crystal chandeliers hang low, glittering like cages. The room is full – men and women in extravagant attire, murmuring behind champagne glasses and false smiles.

You can’t tell who’s rich and who’s dangerous. Maybe they’re all both.

The walk from the door to the reserved meeting room feels longer than it should. You keep your head high. Eyes soft. Every movement deliberate, like Sylus taught you.

At the edge of the room, Sylus finally steers you toward a more private area, where the music fades and the air turns heavier.

You enter a smaller, curtained chamber just past the main hall. A private suite. Plush seating. A long, polished table. The kind of place where deals are signed. Or where people go missing.

The man waiting already reeks of money and malice. His suit fits too well. His smile is too tight.

Sylus releases your arm and steps forward with casual confidence. You follow, quieter, slipping into the role he carved out for you.

“Mr. S,” the man drawls. “Fashionably late.”

Sylus doesn’t flinch. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”

The man chuckles and gestures for you both to sit. You take the seat just beside Sylus, letting him take the lead.

A briefcase is set on the table. Two men in black flank the dealer like shadows.

“You have the Protocore?” Sylus asks, his tone crisp but unbothered.

The man nods toward his assistant, who places a sleek, rectangular case on the table and unlatches it. Inside, a glowing crystal – humming faintly, lit with a cold blue pulse.

It looks right.

But something about the way the man’s fingers tap on the briefcase makes your stomach knot.

Sylus doesn’t blink. “You tested it?”

“Of course,” the man says smoothly. “You’re welcome to run diagnostics yourself, but let’s not pretend we’re strangers to one another. This is my best piece.”

“Funny,” Sylus says, leaning back. “I’ve heard you say that before. The last one shattered in a week.”

The tension tightens like a rope around your chest.

You don’t move. You don't speak. You focus on your breathing. Count the seconds between Sylus’s words. Watch the guards for any twitch of impatience.

The man’s smile thins. “And yet you came back.”

“Maybe I’m feeling generous,” Sylus replies. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you'd try screwing me over a second time.”

A flicker of something cold flashes in the dealer’s eyes.

The room stills.

Then–he laughs. Loud, unconvincing.

“Let’s not turn this into a pissing contest, Sylus. You brought the money?”

Sylus glances at you.

You slide the compact tablet from your clutch. Encrypted, activated with his biometric code. He brushes his thumb across it and slides it across the table.

“Transfer will initiate when I confirm it’s real.”

The dealer gestures again. One of the guards steps forward with a device and starts running a scan on the Protocore. Blue lights flicker across the surface. Sylus watches with a hawk’s patience.

You feel it before you hear it – the subtle click of a safety being released.

Your eyes dart. One of the guards shifts, hand on his belt. Sylus doesn’t move, but his voice drops.

“Don’t,” he warns.

But it’s too late.

The room explodes into motion.

The first shot doesn’t come from Sylus.

It comes from the man on the right, the one who’d been pretending to check the Protocore.

You duck instinctively as the guard draws, the gun leaving its holster in one smooth, practiced motion. Sylus is already moving.

In the blur of motion, he kicks the chair back and slams the table up as a makeshift barrier, knocking the briefcase clean to the floor. The gunfire rips through the air just above your head. You cover your ears, heart pounding.

“Down!” Sylus orders, dragging you behind the heavy sideboard.

You barely register it as the second guard lunges forward – only for Sylus to meet him with a clean, brutal elbow to the throat. The man crumples against the wall.

You scramble to steady your breathing, hands flying to the holster at your thigh.

Sylus fires once, sharp, clean, and one of the attackers drops.

But more are coming.

The dealer himself is gone. Vanished behind the curtains, like a magician at the end of a failed trick.

“Of course he ran,” Sylus mutters.

You press your back to the wall, eyes wide, trying to orient yourself. “How many more?”

“Hard to say. Four. Maybe six.” He checks the clip. “More if they were smart enough to set up backup.”

Your hand shakes slightly as you pull your gun. He notices, of course he does, but doesn’t comment.

Instead, he reaches into his coat and passes you an extra clip.

“Eyes open,” he murmurs, gaze flicking toward the far door. “We’ll push through together.”

You nod. “Got it.”

The next few minutes feel like a blur.

You move with Sylus through the chaos. You cover each other in short bursts. He draws fire; you return it. He barks sharp commands. You follow without hesitation. Somewhere in the mess, you clip one of the attackers in the shoulder – a clean shot. Your ears are ringing, adrenaline surging.

But then it happens.

One of the guards, you hadn’t seen him, lunges from the side. You don’t have time to aim.

His elbow slams into your ribs, and you crumple back, gasping as the wind is knocked out of you. Your shoulder hits the wall hard, pain flaring sharp.

The gun slips from your hand and skitters across the floor.

A boot rises, aiming for your side.

And then he’s gone.

Sylus barrels into him with a ferocity you haven’t seen before. No words, no quips. Just a sharp, punishing blow to the jaw followed by a twist of the wrist that sends the guard crashing to the ground, limp.

He’s kneeling beside you in the next breath.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Where are you hit?”

You shake your head, trying to catch your breath. “I’m fine. Just winded.”

His eyes sweep over you anyway, quick and clinical, hands hovering like he isn’t sure where to touch.

“Your side–”

“Just bruised. I’ll live.” You force a tight smile. “Still breathing.”

His jaw tenses.

For a second, just a second, he looks furious.

Not at you.

At himself.

You shift, trying to sit up, but Sylus stops you with a hand against your shoulder. His voice drops.

“You don’t move until I say. Got it?”

There’s something in his expression that halts you. Something unguarded. Almost too raw.

You nod.

He exhales slowly, then stands and retrieves your gun, returning it to your hand without a word. When you rise this time, he doesn’t stop you, but he keeps close. Closer than before.

The fight is almost over. Backup from Onychinus is sweeping in through the back hall. You move with them, clearing the final rooms. The dealer, of course, is gone. So is the Protocore.

But you’re both alive.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The soft click of the study door echoes louder than it should.

You slip inside first, the weight of the evening still clinging to your shoulders. Sylus follows behind, closing the door with a quiet thud before flicking the lock. He doesn't say anything at first–just walks past you to the desk and begins peeling off his blazer, movements methodical.

You hover near the window, arms crossed, trying to slow the rapid beat of your heart.

"You're hurt," Sylus says without looking at you. His voice is steady again, not like in the chaos of the fight, but there’s a quiet strain underneath. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Your response is automatic. Too quick.

He glances at you, unconvinced. “You were grazed.”

You lower yourself into the armchair by the fireplace. Your hands rest on your lap, fingers laced tightly. “It barely nicked me. I didn’t even notice until it was over.”

Sylus moves to a cabinet and pulls out a slim medical kit. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. “You don’t notice until it’s too late.”

You don’t reply. You just watch him as he kneels in front of you, placing the kit beside your chair. He doesn’t ask for permission, just reaches out and takes your arm gently. You flinch, not from pain, but from how careful his touch is.

It startles you more than the fight did.

He’s silent while he cleans the wound. It’s shallow, just a clean slice from debris. Still, he handles it like it matters.

You look down at him. Really look. The set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. His hands are steady but his eyes are distant, somewhere far away from this room. The fire crackles behind him, casting a warm glow across his skin, softening the edges of someone you’ve only seen as sharp.

A flicker moves through your chest–something small and dangerous. You look away.

“It’s really not a big deal,” you say quietly. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Sylus says. His voice is lower now. “You shook when you reloaded your gun.”

You blink. “I was nervous. It’s different when you’re not in a simulation.” You look away. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“I notice everything.”

That silences you.

He tapes the bandage down and stands, putting distance between you again. “I should apologize.”

“For what?”

He sighs. “I told you things would go smoothly. The situation got out of hand, now you’re hurt. For that, I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his tone steals the words from your throat. You can’t do anything but stare at him.

Sylus picks up the first-aid kit, placing it back in the cabinet. His back is to you, but his shoulders are tense. Too tense.

He shouldn’t care this much. He knows that.

You're not her.

But you look at him like she used to. Before things got complicated. 

Before fate placed two flowers who bloom together in separate gardens.

He breathes out slowly, keeping his voice even.

“You did well tonight.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You stand to face him, unsure what to say. There’s something thick in the air now–something heavier than adrenaline or gunpowder.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Your eyes meet. You expect him to look away, but he doesn’t.

Neither of you speaks.

You think about what it would mean to cross the distance between you. Just one step.

Don’t.

You already know how that ends. Feelings don’t belong here. Not when your presence in this world is borrowed, fragile. Not when it could all collapse the second you stop being careful.

“I should go rest,” you say abruptly, retreating a step.

Sylus doesn't stop you. Just watches.

He tells himself it’s because you're so alike, you and her. That’s all. That’s why he feels this… shift. He’d do the same for her. He would’ve protected her just as fiercely.

It’s not different.

It can’t be different.

But he’s still standing there long after the door clicks shut behind you.

And for the first time in years, he feels something ancient crawl up his spine.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You’ve kept to yourself since the night of the gala.

Not coldly. You answer messages, show up to training, eat your meals. But you’ve become practiced at slipping out of rooms before Sylus enters them, or lingering just long enough to be polite, then vanishing before conversation starts.

If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

Until tonight.

You’re tucked into a corner of the lounge, fiddling with the screen of your comms device, pretending to read. You don’t hear him approach — just the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint smell of smoke and spice that always lingers around him.

“...You’ve been quiet,” Sylus says, stopping a few feet from your chair.

You glance up. “I’ve just been tired.”

He watches you for a moment. “That’s not it.”

You look back at your screen. “You and your noticing,” You huff.

“I pay attention.” His voice is mild, but direct. “Is that a crime?” He cracks a slight smile.

You sigh, then close the screen and set it down. “I’m fine, Sylus. Really.”

A pause. Then, quietly: “Lying isn’t your strong suit.”

That almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

You tilt your head back, looking toward the ceiling, eyes tracing the wood beams and dim lighting strips.

“There’s no sunlight here,” you murmur. “No stars. No real sky. I didn’t think it would get to me, but it has.”

Sylus doesn’t respond at first. You hear him shift slightly, like he’s leaning against the wall nearby.

You press your thumb to your lip. “In my world, it was summer when I left. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss the sun. Or the sound of waves. I just want to sit by the ocean…” You trail off. “Is that stupid?”

“Not stupid.” He murmurs.

“I have a safehouse in a coastal town,” he says, casually. “Not much. Quiet, secluded. Luke and Kieran could take you.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He nods. “You’d have privacy. And sunlight. You’d like it.”

You study his face, the nonchalance in his voice doesn’t quite mask the thought behind the offer. It feels deliberate, even if he’s pretending otherwise.

“That’s... kind,” you say carefully. “Thank you.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment, unreadable.

Then, lightly, “You could use a break.”

You smile faintly. “You too.”

He pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll let the twins know.”

You watch him leave, and for once, you don’t look away when he glances back at you over his shoulder.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ride starts off quiet, the hum of the cruiser and the occasional turn signal clicking beneath the low bass of music playing from Kieran’s phone.

“You always sit in the back like that?” he asks, glancing at you over the seat. “Knees up, arms crossed, like a cryptid?”

You lift an eyebrow. “I’m comfortable.”

“You look like you’re bracing for a crash.”

“With you driving,” you say, “maybe I am.”

Luke chuckles from the passenger's seat. “She packed like we’re dropping her behind enemy lines.”

“Hey,” Kieran grins, “I like it. Brings balance to the team. Luke forgets his socks half the time.”

“False,” Luke says mildly. “I forget one sock. Very different.”

You huff a small laugh and rest your cheek against the cool window. The city thins out as the cruiser climbs the highway, shadows giving way to hazy sunlight. The deeper into the journey you go, the more the air seems to breathe – cleaner, less metallic. For the first time in what feels like forever, you catch a glimpse of blue overhead.

You smile a little to yourself.

Luke twists around, passing you a bottle of water and a small bag of dried fruit. “Here. Rations.”

You blink. “Thanks?”

“You’ll thank me later when Kieran refuses to stop for food.”

“I never said I wouldn’t stop,” Kieran replies. “I said the last time we stopped for street noodles, someone got food poisoning.”

“One time!” Luke throws his hands up. “And you always bring it up!”

“You’re a liability,” Kieran says flatly.

You stifle a laugh behind your water bottle. “I feel very safe in this car.”

Kieran hums playfully. “You’re on thin ice.”

The cruiser curves around a bend, and then you feel it, salt in the air, distant and familiar. You glance up just as the ocean comes into view. The coastline stretches along the horizon, glittering in the mid-morning light.

Kieran lets out a whistle. “Man… Whitesand Bay. Haven’t been here in ages.”

“Feels weird seeing it again,” Luke murmurs. “Used to be our regular drop zone.”

Your heart jolts.

You keep your expression steady, but your pulse stutters.

Whitesand Bay.

Of course it’s here. Of course.

Of course it’s where he is.

You shift slightly in your seat, fingers curling around the fabric of your pants. They don’t notice – they’re still caught in the nostalgia, trading half-remembered stories about nearly botching deliveries and hiding from local security.

You tune them out for a moment, focusing on breathing slowly.

It’s fine. He stays in his studio.

It's on a private island. I won’t see him.

You press your knuckles gently against your lips.

You’ve been careful. You’ve stayed quiet. You’ve stayed hidden.

You have to believe that’s enough.

Kieran yawns and stretches in the passenger seat. “Man, I’m hitting the beach the second we get a free hour. Think we still have that hammock in the safehouse?”

Luke’s mouth twitches into a smile. “If the raccoons haven’t taken it over.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

You manage a faint laugh and look back toward the coastline.

The sea glitters, endless and open – and somewhere in the back of your mind, something ancient stirs.

You tell yourself not to listen.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You arrive at the safe house with the twins in tow, duffle bags slung over your shoulders and snacks tucked under your arms. Luke and Kieran immediately launch into a “grand tour,” flinging open doors and pointing things out like real estate agents on fast-forward.

Sylus’s words echo in your mind.

‘Not much’

You suppose that’s one way to put it.

The place is sparse, sure. White walls, high ceilings, clean lines – but there’s a quiet elegance in the way it's put together. Even stripped of excess, it still feels expensive. Like someone who wears plain clothes, but only the kind you’d need to take out a loan to afford.

You pick one of the guest rooms and start unpacking. It’s got big windows, a soft bed, and a faint scent of salt in the air.

Not long after, Luke and Kieran tumble in like overexcited kids.

“Hey, miss! We’re heading to the beach!” Luke grins, already halfway out of his shirt.

“You coming with?” Kieran adds, holding up a pair of mismatched flip-flops like they’re weapons.

You pause, halfway through setting your beach bag down. “It’s close by, right? I might explore a bit first and meet you there.”

It’s probably not the best plan, considering your whole “lay low and don’t attract attention” lifestyle, but the thought of wandering through a touristy beach town, just for a little while, is too tempting to ignore. You want normal. Just for a day. Maybe a seashell or a fridge magnet to pretend this was a real vacation.

Luke gives a dramatic salute. “Bring back something shiny!”

“I want a shark tooth,” Kieran says solemnly, like he’s placing an order at a deli.

You laugh as they disappear down the hall, already bickering about who packed the better sunscreen. Their masks stay on even in their swim trunks, a sight that would be absurd if it weren’t so completely them.

You grab your phone and sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little lighter. The sunlight filters through the curtains, warm and golden.

You step out into the coastal breeze, ready to lose yourself in tiny shops and meaningless souvenirs.

Ready to pretend, just for a little while, that you belong.

The air in Whitesand Bay is bright with salt and citrus, the kind of place that smells like postcards. Sunlight pours like syrup over stone streets, reflecting off turquoise waters and bleached rooftops. You meander through the market strip, alone. 

For the first time since arriving in this world, you feel almost… human again. The warmth on your skin, the sound of gulls overhead, the bustle of life without danger at every corner.

Still, you keep your head down.

You’re hyper-aware of who you might run into.

The thought of seeing him makes your stomach knot, but this place is busy. He rarely leaves his studio. You can blend in.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You round a corner and find yourself in front of a tucked-away shop. The kind that sells old trinkets and strange antiques, painted in pastel flaking paint with a curved glass window displaying everything from jewelry to jars of sand. The bell above the door jingles softly when you enter.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

From a shadowed balcony overlooking the winding streets of Whitesand Bay, someone watches.

The sunlight spills across the city like liquid gold, but his eyes stay locked on the figure weaving through the crowd below. She moves cautiously, blending in, but never enough to escape his notice.

A slow smile spreads across his lips. After all this time, finally... she’s here. 

Her steps falter as she nears a small shop nestled between a worn bookstore and a café with cracked umbrellas. 

She hesitates briefly before stepping inside.

His fingers tighten on the railing, a flicker of anticipation flashing in his gaze.

Soon, he thinks, you won’t be able to avoid me.

He steps back into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You step into the quaint shop, the scent of old wood and sea salt wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Shelves creak under the weight of curiosities–tiny glass bottles filled with shimmering sands, seashells polished smooth, delicate trinkets you don’t quite understand but somehow want to hold.

Lost in the quiet charm, you don’t notice the man moving quickly down the narrow aisle until he collides softly into you.

“Miss Bodyguard,” he says with a teasing smirk, though his eyes flicker with something more, something electric. “Careful where you wander.”

Shit.

Your heart skips. You find yourself looking up into eyes like twilight waves, a pull you didn’t expect, catching you off guard.

“Oh! Sorry,” you stammer, trying to steady yourself and your racing thoughts. “I…uh…I was just looking around.”

Dusky violet hair falls perfectly around his face, framing his eyes like a masterpiece. He’s dressed like he wandered in from a daydream: loose cream shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open, a pair of thin gold rings on his fingers catching the sun.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Whitesand,”

He smiles like it’s a secret.

“Did you miss me that badly?” he adds, stepping closer.

You fumble for words, mind racing. He’s calling you “Miss Bodyguard” —so he thinks you’re her. You can work with that. Probably.

“…It’s been a while,” you manage, voice higher than usual. “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew.”

He tilts his head. “So this was a solo trip? Not like you.”

You force a soft laugh. “Yeah, well… I wanted some air.”

He hums as he picks up a glass pendant from the counter, inspecting it idly. “Still no calls, though. Tsk. I was starting to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

Before you can come up with another half-truth, you try redirecting.

“Have you been painting lately?” you ask, hoping he’ll take the bait.

“I live in paint,” he murmurs with a grin. “But none of it’s as captivating as this sudden, silent ghost haunting Whitesand.”

Your breath catches as he glances at the phone in your hand, which you’d reflexively pulled out in your nerves.

Rafayel’s expression shifts slightly. A click behind his eyes. But the smile never fades.

“Oh?” he says. “You got a new phone? Is that why you haven’t been calling me, Miss Bodyguard?”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “Right. New number.”

“Let me fix that.”

Before you can object, he takes the phone smoothly from your hand, his fingers brushing yours like it was always meant to happen. He types in his number and sends a quick message to himself.

"There. Now I’ll know when you’re thinking of me."

You open your mouth–maybe to argue, maybe to explain–but he’s already stepping back, tucking his hands into his pockets.

He starts toward the door, the bell chiming behind him. But before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder, his grin wicked and soft at once.

“Remember to call me, cutie.”

Then he’s gone, the shop door shutting quietly behind him.

You stand there a moment longer, heart thudding.

You're not sure what just happened. He was flirtatious, sharp, like you remember from the game, but something about the way he looked at you. The way he didn’t react to your nervous fumbling.

It didn’t feel like meeting someone new.

It felt like being studied.

Does he really think I’m her? 

Sylus noticed right away, there’s no way you’ve grown that convincing in your time here. You don’t even know what she’s really like, beyond the constraints of the game. 

You shake your head.

He doesn’t sleep a lot, maybe he was too tired to notice the fine details.

Your eyes snap back to your phone, and your mind presses the most urgent matter.

He just got your number.

It’s only a matter of time before he finds out.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back at the base, Sylus sits alone in his office, the glow from his holopad casting long shadows on the wall. He opens a photo Luke sent a few hours ago. You and the twins, seated on sun-warmed rocks, colorful seashells piled high in your hands.

The twins are beaming behind their masks. You’re smiling too. But your eyes... your eyes look distant.

His fingers hover over the image. He knows that look. You’re somewhere else entirely – a world away, even when your feet are in the sand.

He feels it, a tug in his chest.

Is the trip not helping?

You said you missed the ocean. Missed the warmth of the sun. And yet, the waves couldn’t quiet whatever’s still echoing inside you.

He leans back in his chair, uncertain whether the ache he feels is frustration or concern.

A sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. He glances at the caller ID.

Kitten.

A wry smile touches his lips before he answers.

“Miss Hunter. What a rare surprise,” he drawls.

“Sylus,” her voice is brisk. “I’ve just been assigned a mission in Charon. A gang’s been smuggling Protocores. I need intel.”

Straight to the point.

He thinks back to the Zoion Hunt, to the fleeting moments when it felt like she was starting to look at him differently. Trust him, maybe.

It’s always like this. One step forward, two steps back.

Still, he says lightly, “Of course I can, sweetie. Send me the details.”

She hangs up after a quick “Thanks, Sylus.”

Nothing more.

He stares at the empty screen a beat longer than he means to.

A few minutes later, the mission file pings in. He scans it. The gang’s familiar, slippery but arrogant. He sends her a location.

“Meet me at their HQ in an hour.”

He closes the file and stands, slipping his holsters back on.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The two of them stand just beyond the crumbling exterior, silhouettes haloed in red light from a nearby neon sign that flickers with tired electricity.

Sylus glances sideways at her – sharp-eyed, focused, already drawing out a small scanner to detect Protocore signatures.

"Four heat signatures. Two posted near the crates," she murmurs.

He nods, Evol already humming under his skin like a fuse waiting for flame. But even as it stirs, something feels… dulled. The usual clarity he gets when she’s beside him, the intuitive flicker of her intentions before she even moves, isn’t quite there.

He tries to brush it off. Focus.

She gives the signal. They breach together.

The first few seconds go clean. She takes the left, sweeping low, quick shots disabling the nearest thug. Sylus vaults over a metal divider and disables the next.

But then the rhythm begins to stutter.

She shifts right too early – he’s a step behind. A warning flares in his mind too late, and she narrowly ducks a strike from a bat-wielding smuggler.

“Watch out,” he calls, more sharply than intended.

“I’ve got it,” she huffs, already retaliating.

He hurls an energy burst toward the rear crates, but it spreads wider than he anticipated. She slips around it just in time. He curses under his breath.

His energy usually wraps around her like instinct – bending with her presence, adapting to her movements. But right now, it moves like it’s guessing. Uncertain.

It happens again when she aims for the lead smuggler – he calls to her – ready to resonate. They do. But it’s weaker than usual.

Their abilities grind against each other instead of harmonizing.

This is supposed to be effortless.

Still, they push through. A few hits exchanged. One thug takes a grazing bullet to the leg, another is knocked unconscious by a joint strike — her elbow, his energy.

But it takes longer than it should. Too many near-misses. Coordination sloppy.

The final enemy flees. Sylus doesn’t chase. He lowers his fists, eyes scanning her as she wipes sweat from her brow.

“You alright?” he asks, more than just casually.

She nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine.” He holsters the gun. “But we were off.”

That earns him a glance. “We finished the job.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice is quiet now. “Your Evol – it wasn’t syncing with mine. Not like before.”

A pause. She doesn’t respond.

He studies her for a moment longer. The warehouse glows faintly behind them. Heat still clings to the air.

What changed?

Is it her?

Or is it him?

He doesn’t press the question. Instead, he hands off the case of recovered protocores and signals their exit.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The base is dead quiet at this hour. Just the faint hum of old ductwork and the occasional creak of settling metal. Shadows stretch long across the walls, and the bar lights cast everything in warm, smoky hues.

Sylus sits alone at the corner of the base’s modest bar. One elbow rests against the counter, his fingers loose around a short tumbler of something amber and sharp. He hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

The ice inside clinks softly as it melts.

He stares straight ahead, but his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Not the mission. Not the target. Not even the fight – though that part should’ve bothered him more.

It’s her.

Again.

He sighs once through his nose, sets the glass down with a soft tap, and folds his hands, thumb grazing the condensation off the rim.

Something was off.

He could feel it the moment they stepped into the warehouse.

Their movements were still sharp. She still had his back. But when he reached out with his Evol, reflexively, instinctively, there was static. Like trying to tune into a frequency that no longer responded.

Like it was rejecting him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

It reminded him too much of that first encounter.

Back when she landed in his world – confused, cornered, angry, defiant. The moment he tried to reach her, even with a flicker of power, she flinched. Not just physically. Deeply. Like something in her soul pulled back.

Back then, he told himself that she didn’t remember yet. But she would.

But now?

She still doesn’t remember. But she knows enough. She’s fought beside him. Laughed with him. Let him in – just a little.

And still…

He tips the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip. It burns. He lets it.

Was she pulling away again?

Why?

Nothing in her face had changed. She smiled, when she remembered to. She spoke gently. She still listened when he gave orders, still moved in rhythm with his steps.

But her Evol, the part of her that was finally starting to match his without hesitation, was colder. Fainter. Like it didn't trust him. Or no longer wanted to.

Sylus swirls the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid spiral.

He doesn’t want to ask the question, but it circles anyway.

Is she starting to see me the way she did at the beginning?

A threat. A monster.

Disgusting.

A man who dragged her into shadows she never asked to walk through.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

It shouldn’t get under his skin. It might not mean anything. Just an off day.

She doesn’t owe him anything – not her trust, not her warmth, not even her presence. That was never part of the deal.

It’s her choice. Always hers.

But that doesn’t make it sting any less.

a/n: he’s hereeeeee! was gonna end it at raf as a little cliffhanger but then the story possessed me and started writing itself. i hope this chapter doesn’t spoil what’s going on here but i’m sure some of u can guess🤫 anyways! thank u guys for the sweet comments, i’m so glad people are enjoying this! i hope i can do this concept justice

🏷️: @paper--angel @leftpoetrymoon @istolepeanuts @rjreins @freeprincesslove @3fg7 @mariahuchiha90 @beaconsxd @poptrim @hon3yydew @pinkpastelbabygirl @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @yannew @peachystea @cms399 @marinenox @cottagedumpling @nightmarewasteland @mitskunicheesecake @katyeongs @shadowypeachsweets @saybeyonce @napforalifetime @bubera974 @moonlight-inthe-sea @xvilluis @potania @antonneva @fairestofnrc

[gooseraider]

rewind

summary: you and ellie hit it off one night, come to find out she’s your brothers best friend.

part: one, two, three, four, five (here)

it’s been three months since you last spoke to ellie, you’d see her around or hear about her from your brother and social media. it seemed like she was living her best life, her and her girlfriend were still together, she was traveling, she hung out with her friends all the time. you hated it, hated how she just moved on while you were still hung up on her. everything reminded you of her, she was constantly on your mind. you couldn’t even get through your lectures without thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, if she’s actually happier and better off without you.

although it looked like ellie was doing great, she wasn’t. she was spiraling, since she walked out on you she hasn’t felt like herself. she thought that once you were out of her life she’d feel better, she’d forget about you and what she once felt for you. but it’s been the complete opposite, all she does is think about you, everything she does she wishes you were there. she wanted so badly to hear you laugh, to hold you in her arms, to apologize over and over until you forgave her.

she knew that saying sorry wasn’t enough, that you wouldn’t take her back overnight but she had to start somewhere. she sent you a simple text that read,

i’m sorry for hurting you, you still mean the world to me.

she hit send hoping you’d respond, she’d give anything just to talk to you again.

you saw the message and read it over and over again, you didn’t understand why she texted you. especially after three months, deciding not to respond you turn your phone over and lay back down.

days went by since she last sent that message, ellie didn’t expect you to respond but she still wanted to make sure you were doing alright. she sent you another message exactly a week later,

hey, i hope you’re doing okay, im here for you.

her most recent message made you upset, hating how she suddenly wanted to come back into your life after what she did.

you respond to her text,

please don’t text me like nothing happened, you hurt me and i don’t want someone like you back in my life.

please don’t contact me or talk to me, i need to move on and you should too.

when ellie got your message, her heart shattered. she obviously expected you to be mad at her but she didn’t think you’d cut her out of your life. she didn’t want to move on and she secretly didn’t want you to either. it’s selfish to think that but just wants one more chance with you.

she continues to message you against your wishes, she knows she should give it up but she can’t. she loves you and wants you to know it. you ignore her messages but she stays persistent.

“how dare she just text me like nothing happened, like she hasn’t ignored me for the past few months!” you say through the phone, bella was on the other line listing to your rant about ellie.

“no literally she’s so wrong for that, not even letting you try to move on.”

you lean back on your bed, “it’s making me so mad, i can’t even grieve in peace.”

bella laughs, “you should delete her number then she won’t be able to bother you.”

“wait i should totally do that.”

you don’t, you still keep her contact because you secretly like the messages she sends. you don’t want to admit it but you still love her. you’re still thinking about her all the time, every night you stare at her messages while holding the stuffed bear she won for you.

although you never respond to ellie’s messages, she hasn’t let up. always sending weekly messages making sure you’re okay. she goes through your instagram at least once a day to see what you’re doing. she feels terrible about how she treated you, every second of the day she imagines being able to see you and properly apologize to you.

the guilt of hurting you begins to eat her alive, she ends things with autumn soon after their six month anniversary because she knows that her heart still belongs to you. autumn doesn’t take it well, their breakup ending in ellie being cursed out. she knows she did the right thing, she doesn’t want to end up hurting autumn the way she hurt you. she feels terrible after the breakup, leaving her perfectly sweet girlfriend because she wants to make up with a girl who hates her guts.

after spending some time alone, she starts writing you letters. she uses the letters as a way to deal with her guilt, she never sends them though. they’re filled with things she never got a chance to tell you and things she wishes she could tell you now. a box full of the letters sit in the corner of her room, slowly becoming filled with things that remind her of you. a poster of the movie you like, a random trinket you’d think would be cute. she saved all of it in hopes that’s she’ll be able to give it to you.

the first time you two speak is on your birthday, you wake up to a bunch of happy birthday messages but one catches your eye,

happy birthday, i know we don’t talk anymore but i hope you have a great day.

it’s from ellie, you respond this time.

thank you, hope you’re doing well.

ellie’s heart flutters when she sees you responded, it’s a simple message but she doesn’t care. you finally texted her back and ellie takes it as a sign that you don’t hate her as much as she thought.

ellie continues writing you letters, they get more intense as she slowly comes to terms with her feelings for you. she catches herself wanting to call you and tell you she loves you for real, but she stops herself everytime because she knows that you need to move on from her, find someone who is deserving of you.

the rest of the school year goes by, you’re finally home for the summer again. since your birthday ellie hasn’t texted you, you were a little sad but maybe it was best. you two didn’t need to be in eachothers lives anymore.

that summer you moved on from ellie, or you tried to. no matter what you did you still thought about her, imagining her coming to you and finally apologizing. you missed her and you wished she’d just comeback to you, you knew she wouldn’t though. you told her you never wanted to speak to her again. after one particular drunk text she sent you, you told her to basically fuck off. knowing ellie she’d follow your wish, she was a lot of things but she always respected you and what you wanted.

sometimes you regret telling her that, not because you didn’t mean it but because you wanted her, you missed her even though you shouldn’t.

you see eachother face to face halfway through summer, you texted her asking if you could bring back her hoodie after finding it in your closet. now you’re at her front door, slightly sweating at the idea of having to see her. before you can talk yourself out of it you knock on her door, she opens it soon after.

“hey.” her voice is low.

“hi, here’s your hoodie.” you reach your arms out, handing her the hoodie.

“thanks.”

there’s an awkward silence between you two, you’re the one to break it.

“i - i’m gonna go now, it was nice seeing you ellie.”

“yeah, you too.”

that was the last conversation you had for the next month.

ellie doesn’t know how much longer she can hold out, everyday she wants to climb through your window and tell you how much she loves you and how sorry she is.

every time she hangs out with your brother she wants to ask him about you, what you’re doing, if you’re doing okay. she so desperately wants to be back in your life. the letters continue to pile up, each one more sappy than the next.

over summer, you don’t notice ellie. not until the gifts start. they started small, little things here and there.

you’d walk out to your car noticing a small bouquet of lilies sitting on your windshield. at first you didn’t know who did it, but one time ellie left a note near the bunch of flowers.

i’ve never been good at telling people how i feel but you make me want to try

- e ‹𝟹

the notes kept piling up, almost everyday there was a new note from ellie on your car. you didn’t want to admit it but the notes made you really happy.

you kept all the notes and flowers she gave you, having a giant vase full of lilies sitting in your room.

she’d drop off envelopes filled with sketches of you at your door. each sketch capturing every detail about you, you could tell she put a lot of thought into each drawing.

playlists titled different things such as i’m sorry, you’re beautiful, i never stopped thinking about you kept being sent to you. each playlist meticulously throughout with songs that portrayed unspoken feelings.

ellie spends the rest of the summer silently trying to show you that she still cares about you. she’s never been good at expressing her feelings, especially when it comes to people she loves. she starts writing songs about you, about how much she loves you, how sorry she is. she writes about every emotion she’s felt towards you, these songs would never see the light of day but she had deal with her feelings somehow.

summers end is near and ellie’s never been more anxious in her life, she promised herself she’d give you one of the letters she wrote before you two separate again. none of the letters she wrote to you felt right, they were either too desperate, too bland, too mean. none of them were good enough to convey how she felt, so she ended up writing one final letter to you on the last day of summer. she knew you were headed back to college the next morning so it was probably her last chance to tell you everything she’s been feeling.

ellie stays up most of the night writing and re-writing her letter to you, she wanted it to be perfect before she gave it to you. she reread the letter over and over until she felt like it was good enough to give to you. she went to bed that night sick to her stomach, scared of what will happen when she gives you her letter.

it’s early in the morning and you’re finishing the rest of your packing, while taking your things to your car you see another note slotted on your windshield. it’s bigger than the ones before, sealed in an envelope with small writing on the front. you take it and read the written words on the front, words i wish i had said is written at the top. you place the envelope in your bag, promising to read it once you’ve unpacked back at school.

your car is full of all your stuff, as your parents pull out of the driveway you catch a glimpse of ellie in her bedroom. you see her watching you drive away through the window. seeing her sparks something in you, taking the envelope out of your bag you decide to read it now. you knew ellie wrote it and it’s a long drive back to college, so what’s the harm in reading it now.

you carefully opened the envelope, eyes scanning over the piece of paper as you read it,

i want to start this letter off by saying i’m sorry. i know writing this won’t automatically heal the hurt i caused you but i need you to know how sorry i am. i’m truly sorry for how i hurt you, i wish i could take back my words and undo my actions but i can’t. all i can do is express my apologies and do better. i’m so so so sorry for everything, what i said to you that night eats me alive with guilt because you didn’t deserve to hear those words. i was projecting my own insecurities and doubts onto you and i wish everyday that i could take back those words. you’re not unlovable or desperate for love, you are so very worthy of love. you deserve to be loved, you deserve to be cherished because you are perfect, you are the sun that paints to skies a beautiful pink color, you are the light the shines even on the darkest days. your smile is the most radiant thing ever and it’s one of the reasons i fell in love with you.

i’m sorry for not being able to love you the way you deserved, that night on the beach when you told me you loved me was one of my favorite days. there’s no excuse or reason that could make what i did better but i want you to know that i love you. i’ve never told you and i regret it, i regret it everyday. i love you so much, i know it doesn’t mean much now but i love you and i’ve been in love with you. i love you so much it hurts, i cannot express how much i love you. the truth is i was scared, i know that’s a dumb reason but it’s true. i was scared of how much i love you, ive never been good at expressing my feelings but i’m going to change. i can’t continue running away from my feelings and avoiding them because that’s why i lost you. losing you is my biggest regret, i genuinely don’t know who i am without you. you brought out a part of me i didn’t know i had, you made me a better person and i thank you for that.

i want to apologize for my actions last year. ghosting you and ditching you for someone else was the worst thing i’ve done. i’m not going to write some excuse for why because that doesn’t matter, what matters is i hurt you. i was a coward for pushing my love for you away, i thought that ignoring my feeling would make them go away but that’s not true because my love for you runs deep, seeping into my bones and heart. i will never stop loving you, nothing in the world could take my love for you away.

in no way do i expect you to forgive me, i don’t expect you to ever speak to me again. if you want me to go away and leave you alone i will, if you want to call me and curse me out you can. whatever you want i’ll do it. this letter doesn’t make up for my wrong doings but i want you to know that i’m sorry. i’m writing this not because i want you to take me back, i want you to do what’s best for you. i’m writing this as closure for you. i’m laying my heart out to you because that’s what you deserve, you don’t deserve some half assed apology. i don’t want you to blame yourself for anything i did. i want you to know that you did nothing wrong, you’re perfect and i never want you to change. i want you to be happy, i want you to find the love that’s meant for you, whether that comes from me or someone else. whatever it is i’ll support you, even if it’s form the other side of the world, even if you’re not speaking to me and have taken me completely out of your life. i’ll always be thinking of you, i’ll always love you and support you. forever and always.

i love you so much, i always have loved you and i’ll always love you with my whole heart. forever and always.

- e ‹𝟹

once you reached the end of the page, tears were streaming down your face. crying silently as you tried not to disturb your family. you didn’t know how to feel, ellie’s letter brought out so many emotions. your heart ached, ellie loved you. you love her so much but you’ve thrown away your chance of getting to experience her love for you. you pushed her away, rightfully so. you told her you never wanted to see her again and to never speak to you. you knew ellie and you knew she’d take your request seriously, you knew she’d never speak to you again out of respect for you boundaries.

tears were stuck in your eyes the whole drive back to college, your heart felt heavy not knowing what to do. you wanted to call her and tell her you forgive her, that you want to make it work. you wanted it to work out so badly but you were scared, you didn’t want to get hurt again. you didn’t think your heart could handle another heartbreak, especially at the hands of ellie again.

a week has passed, you’ve unpacked and decorated your dorm, got started in your classes, and was beginning to adjust back to school. everyday ellie’s letter was on your mind, you’d go back and fourth debating on whether or not to reach out to her.

you did later week, just a simple text that showed you read her letter.

i read your letter, it was sweet, thank you.

when ellie received your message she froze, ever since she gave you the letter she has been so anxious. she read your text, a weight lifting off her chest. you read it, you thought it was sweet, you thanked her, does that mean she forgives me? ellie was confused but accepted your message as a good thing.

you don’t see eachother for another three months, both of you continuing on with your own lives at college. neither of you talked over those months but both of you were on eachothers minds. each day you’d think about eachother, both too afraid to reach out.

ellie would watch you through your social media, constantly checking your instagram to see what you were up to. you never left her mind, she’d often fantasize about being able to talk to you in person. everyday her heart ached for you, she was more than happy to find out you’d be back home over fall break.

the chances of actually getting to talk to you were very slim but she was still excited to see you in person, even if it was from afar.

she spends most of her break thinking about you, she’d sit near her bedroom window and watch you. she saw when you left, when you struggled to carry things inside, who you’d hangout with. she wishes she was the one you were spending your time with.

one afternoon she and jesse are sitting around playing video games when jesse brings up the idea of throwing a halloween party.

“why would we do that?” ellie asks, eyes glued to the screen.

“because it’s october and it’s almost halloween and-“

ellie cuts him off, “and you want an excuse to drink?”

jesse smirks, “exactlyyy.”

ellie and jesse recruit dina to help them throw their epic halloween party as jesse would call it.

“you should invite that girl that you won’t shut up about.” dina says, turning to ellie as hangs some decorations.

ellie sighs, “she doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“we know that, but if you get her to come, you can actually talk to her and talk things out.”

“she won’t come if she knows i’ll be there, let alone invite her.”

dina rolls her eyes, “well how else are you supposed to tell her your grand apology if you never speak to her?”

“i don’t know, i guess we’re destined to never speak again and i’ll die from my heart eventually giving out from heartbreak.”

jesse and dina both laugh, “jesus dude, you’re so dramatic, you’re not going to die if you never see her again.”

“i might, they say heartbreak can kill.” ellie shrugs.

“no one says that.”

“well i’m trademarking it.”

dina interrupts their silly banter, “if i invite her and she comes will you actually go and talk to her?”

“i mean yeah but she’s probably not going to come since i’ll be there.”

“easy, i’ll just tell her jesse’s hosting it and i wont even mention you.”

“you sure this will work?”

“hopefully.”

you’re laying in your bed with a book in hand, fall break for you has been rest and relaxation. school has been draining you, midterms were stressing you out heavily. you just wanted a break from it all, so when you got a text from dina asking if you wanted to come with her to a halloween party you were hesitant. you wanted to use this week as a break and just lay in bed all week. after thinking about whether or not you should go, you decided you’d go. it would be a fun way to let loose.

after telling dina you’d go, you scurried around trying to find a last minute costume. she said she’d pick you up later that night so you had to find something quick.

you decided to be a black cat, simple and cute. as you finished applying your last cat whisker dina texts you that she’s outside. not long after, you’re sitting in dina’s car. on the way there you both were catching eachother up on your lives. even though you and ellie don’t talk anymore, you still remained friends with dina and jesse.

“where’s the party again?” you ask.

“jesse’s house.”

“oh cool!”

you were impressed when you arrived at jesse’s, the house decked out in scary halloween decorations.

“wow this place looks like a haunted house.” you say to jesse after finding somewhere in the house.

“that was the goal” he winks.

you and dina end up caught in a game of beer pong, both of you a little drunk now.

you turn to dina mid game, “thanks for inviting me, this is so much fun.”

“of course, i know school is super stressful so what better way to deal with it then getting drunk.”

dina pulls her phone out to text ellie.

she’s here and is lowkey drunk so come talk to her before she’s too drunk to remember you.

when ellie receives dina’s text, she’s already moving throughout the house trying to find you. she finds you in the kitchen with dina, pouring yourself another drink.

ellie walks up to you, awkwardly tapping you on the shoulder. you turn around and are met with ellie dressed up as a ladybug, red shirt and ladybug antennas. you feel your blood run cold at the sight of ellie. ellie’s the first to say something.

“hey.”

“hi.”

“can we talk?”

“um sure - yeah okay.” you’re not thinking as clearly because sober you would’ve shut ellie down right away.

ellie leads you to a secluded area, the back porch. there’s only a couple of people outside but they’re all too drunk to pay attention to you two. both of you are sat on the bottom step of the porch, you don’t notice how close you are to her. your legs brushing against hers, you turn to her.

“so… what do you want to talk about?”

“i want to say im sorry, im sorry for everything. how i treated you, what i said to you, you didn’t deserve that.”

“you really hurt me ellie.” your voice is low.

“i know, and i know that anything i say can’t take that away. i can’t undo my actions but i want you to know how sorry i am.”

“i forgive you.”

ellie’s eyes widen, “what?”

“i forgive you, what you did was really shitty and i want to hate you for it but i can’t.”

“i’m sorry.”

you’re slightly crying now, “i really really want to hate you.”

“i don’t blame you.”

“i love you and that’s not going to change.”

“i love you too.”

“you do?”

“yeah, i’ve loved you for a while. i’m just really bad at expressing it.”

you laugh, “yeah, you are.”

you two sit in silence for a while, “i want to start over.” you say, breaking the silence.

“me too.”

“no like really start over, i want us to be friends and get to know eachother as friends.”

“i’m okay with that.”

“i mean it ellie, strictly friends. i don’t want you to think that i want to get back together, i’m already going out of my comfort zone to be friends again. i love you ellie and i always will but i can’t love you like that anymore. i want you to continue to be in my life even if we don’t speak as much.”

ellie sighs, “i get it, i support your decision. even thought i can’t be better for you in a relationship, i can promise i’ll be a better friend.”

“thank you ellie, i love you.” you lean in, giving her a hug.

“i love you too.” she says, voice muffled from the hug.

you felt so much better after your talk with ellie, the hangover from last night didn’t feel good but you did. you and ellie deciding to become friends lifted a weight off your chest, being able to forgive her and still have her in your life made you extremely happy.

ellie also felt happy at the progress between you two, she was so thankful that you found it in you to forgive her. she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t disappointed at the fact that you said that you’d never want to get back together. she can’t blame you though, she was the worst towards you.

at first the friendship was a little awkward, both of you navigating your relationship now that you weren’t together. weekly calls with eachother soon became routine, you’d talk about your weeks and all the crazy things that happened in your lives.

over the following months the awkwardness began to fade, both of you growing into a comfortable friendship. you two talked most days of the week, always keeping eachother updated on your lives. you’d visit ellie at school sometimes, begging her to take you around washington. she’d do it happily every time.

you could tell that ellie was changing for the better, you saw how she slowly worked towards being open about how she feels. she often came to you when her emotions would become too much, you helped her talk through whatever she was feeling.

after a year and a half of friendship, both of you became eachothers rock. always leaning on eachother during hard times, ellie was there for you when your dog died and you were right next to her when she didn’t get accepted into the art school she wanted. you didn’t expect for you and ellie to become as close as you were, but you were grateful nonetheless. you couldn’t image not having ellie in your life.

you started to realize that you wanted ellie as more than a friend, even though you told her you never wanted to get back together you couldn’t help but wish she was more than a friend. you didn’t know what caused these feelings all of the sudden, maybe it was when ellie gave you a scrapbook of your dog violet. it was filled with photos and drawings of violet, you nearly cried when ellie gave it to you. or maybe it was when ellie planned a whole trip for the two of you just to get you out of your house because your mean grandparents were staying over.

it was the little things ellie did for you to show that she cared, you knew she wasn’t just doing it to win you over because she knew that you didn’t want a relationship with her. everything she did was from the kindness of her heart, not just for you but for her friends and family. you saw how she cared deeply for her friends, doing little things for them here and there. you where there to help her plan a surprise party for dina, you watched her spend days looking for a vinyl of jesse’s favorite band to gift to him, you helped her countless of times cleaning out joel’s workshop so he didn’t have to worry about the mess. ellie’s care and love for people was something that you admired, it made you love her so much more.

after thinking about it for a while, you decided to ask ellie to be your girlfriend.

you two were sitting on a blanket near the pond, watching the ducks swim and occasionally feeding them. it was quiet outside, just the sounds of the water moving with the ducks.

you’re silently watching ellie, admiring how beautiful she looked.

“ellie?”

“mhm.”

“i’ve been thinking.”

she turns to you, “about…?”

“i don’t know, i just wanted to ask you something.”

she smiles, “ask away.”

“well, i’ve been thinking about me and you and i’ve come to realize that i like you more than a friend. i don’t want us to be friends anymore, i want you to be more than my friend. so ellie, will you be my girlfriend?”

your face is heating up the more you speak, ellie’s expression contorts into something unreadable. scared you messed up you begin to back track your words.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to ruin the moment, i just thought y’know that you might’ve like me back and im sorry for-“

ellie cuts you off, “hey, look at me, i’ll gladly be your girlfriend but i want to make sure that’s what you want. i know you said that you didn’t want to get back together and i want to make sure you thought this through.”

you move closer to her, “i’ve thought about it for a while, and i know what i want. i want you, i want you to be my girlfriend because i love you. i never stopped loving you to be honest.”

ellie’s face is now a bright pink, “i - okay, i love you too and yes i’d love to be your girlfriend.”

“really?”

ellie laughs at the shocked expression on your face, “yes, i love you so much and being your girlfriend would be the best thing ever.”

you lean in and kiss her, she cups your face and kisses you back.

“i love you so much girlfriend.” you say.

“i love you so much more girlfriend .” she says, leaning in to kiss you again.

a/n: welp it’s over and our babies are back together, alls well in the world. gays win again! lowkey i want to make a mini part six of them happily together for real. anyways, hope yall enjoyed!🪿

taglist: @lavenderseedling @iadorefineshyt @nattakasuperlesbian @pearlzxx @beanbagbitch @liasxeatt @liztreez @moonfloweredprincess @starlightles2 @beaflyy @oneinameliann @softqirls @vahnilla @jujueilish