#<- i think that counts?? he is technically one so...

[leriexoxo]

Missing Keycard

Seungmin x Tour Manager Reader

Tags: shy dom seungmin, one bed trope, sleep groping, nipple play, forbidden sex, power imbalance, choking, spanking, riding, oral, braless reader, touch starved reader, unprotected sex, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

Summary: You’re a tour manager for Stray Kids, just trying to survive another city. But when a drunk, keycard-less Seungmin knocks on your hotel door at 2AM, mistaking it for his own room, sleep is the last thing either of you get. What starts as an accident turns into tension that finally snaps — and Seungmin? He’s nothing like you expected.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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The Chicago stop was a blur of chaos.

A venue delay, a last-minute setlist change, a prop that went missing ten minutes before curtain—and somehow, you’d still managed to get everyone on stage, on time, and in one piece.

Barely.

By the time the show ended and the meet-and-greet cleared, you were running on fumes, your phone at 3% battery and your body running mostly on espresso and anger. You’d finalized hotel room keys, triple-checked the luggage manifest, made sure all the boys had post-show meals waiting.

And then—finally—freedom.

You could’ve joined them at the bar. Hell, Chan had even tugged your sleeve and offered you a shot before leaving the lobby with a slurred grin.

But your legs had already carried you into the elevator, eyes closing before the doors even shut.

All you wanted was a bed.

No bra. No briefs. No bullshit.

So you stripped the second your door clicked shut.

Your panties were soft and high-cut, practically invisible beneath the oversized T-shirt you’d planned to sleep in—until you peeled that off too and reached for the one thing lighter, cooler: a thin, cropped camisole you’d worn under your manager’s jacket earlier.

The fabric barely kissed the curve of your chest. No padding, no support, nothing to hide how worn-down and sensitive you felt.

But fuck it, you were on a private floor, not sharing a room with anyone. No one would see you.

You passed out across the bed in seconds, limbs loose, hair stuck to your cheek, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other kicked free.

You didn’t even register the first knock.

But the second—louder, clumsier—jerked you upright.

You blinked, dazed and crusty-eyed. The room was dark, the hallway light seeping in under the door like a spotlight.

Knock knock.

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to your chest and hauling yourself to your feet. You were half-asleep, brain fogged and skin warm from sleep, not thinking at all as you padded barefoot across the floor.

The camisole had ridden up.

Your panties clung high across your hips.

But none of that registered—not until you cracked the door open and saw him.

“Hyung?” Seungmin mumbled, brows furrowed, eyes red and shiny. “Is this your—wait.”

His voice dipped. His gaze dropped.

And then he froze.

“…Oh,” he said, small and stunned.

You blinked at him. “Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because his brain—tipsy as it was—had just realized two things in rapid succession:

1. This wasn’t Chan’s room.

2. You were very naked.

Not technically. But close enough.

Your bare thighs were on full display, the camisole barely grazing your belly button, your nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric. The hallway light behind him cast your silhouette against the room’s dark interior in dangerous clarity.

He swallowed.

You blinked, still not fully processing.

“Wait—why’re you here?”

“I—” he scratched his head, swaying slightly. “Lost my card. Everyone locked their doors. Thought this was—uh—Chan-hyung’s room. My bad. I’ll just—”

You stepped aside and yanked him inside.

Hard.

His shoulder hit your chest and your hand scrambled to slam the door shut before anyone saw. Your heart pounded.

“Are you insane? What if someone took a picture of you?!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice strangled. “I didn’t—fuck, I really thought—”

You turned to him, panting slightly from the adrenaline, your blanket long forgotten on the bed.

Only then did you realize.

You looked down.

Oh. Shit.

Full tits. Bare thighs. Tight panties.

Seungmin was right there—eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights, clearly trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on your body.

Too late. He’d seen.

And now he was actively malfunctioning.

“I—I didn’t mean to knock on yours,” he stammered. “I thought it was Hyung’s. I swear. You just—you opened and I saw and I—”

You covered your face with both hands.

He was still talking, tipsy and spiraling.

“—and I was gonna leave but then you pulled me in and now I’m here and you’re—you’re dressed like that—”

“Stop talking, Seungmin.”

Silence.

His mouth snapped shut.

You peeked between your fingers.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Which might’ve been cute—if you weren’t acutely aware that your nipples were still hard and your underwear left nothing to the imagination.

You dropped your hands with a sigh and crossed your arms under your chest, trying to ignore how that only pushed them up more.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling shakily. “You lost your card.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“No one else answered.”

“Correct.”

“And now you’re in my room.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Your heart was still thumping. His eyes flicked up to yours—then away again. Every few seconds they betrayed him, dropping back down, catching on your thighs, your waist, your chest before he forced them back up again.

His ears were flushed red.

He was trying so hard not to look—and failing.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or curiosity. Or the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, swaying slightly, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy caught in the wrong classroom.

You sighed, one hand dragging down your face, the other cradling the pillow against your chest again.

“Well,” you muttered. “You smell like you lost a drinking game.”

“I probably did,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

“Bathroom’s through there,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the door near the dresser. “Freshen up. We’ll figure out the room situation in the morning.”

Seungmin blinked at you, dazed.

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Well that’s a given,” you said. “I’m not about to throw a drunk idol into the hallway at 2AM. God knows what sasaeng would love that headline.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and practically scrambled toward the bathroom. You heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the water running.

Alone again, you exhaled sharply and looked down at yourself.

The camisole still clung to your chest, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. Your panties had shifted during your rush to the door, one hip strap riding higher than the other. The damage was already done—he’d seen you, fully—and suddenly, modesty felt stupid.

You weren’t thinking like a professional anymore. You were thinking like a tired woman who just wanted sleep and had, quite unfortunately, let a very drunk, very awkward, very cute Seungmin into her room.

Not ideal.

You crossed to the bed and slipped under the duvet, this time tugging it up to your neck like a shield, every inch of your body burrowing into the mattress. You didn’t even glance back when you heard the bathroom door open.

The room was small—modest compared to the suite-style ones booked for the boys—and there wasn’t much in the way of extra space. One armchair sat in the corner, low-backed and thin, its tiny matching ottoman clearly not meant for sleeping.

You could hear him hovering.

Fidgeting.

Shifting on his feet like he was trying to make himself disappear.

You kept your face to the wall.

More shuffling. A pause. Then a tiny sigh.

You rolled your eyes, still not turning.

“The bed’s big enough for two.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Are you sure?”

“I legally cannot let you sleep on the cold floor, Seungmin.”

“…Fair.”

The mattress dipped a few moments later. You felt the careful weight of him as he climbed in—slow, hesitant, like the bed might collapse under the guilt of it. He stayed close to the edge, not even rustling the duvet as he pulled it over his legs.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You could feel the silence settle in like warmth, like tension slipping between your shoulder blades. He smelled cleaner now—soap and mouthwash, the lingering sharpness of whatever cheap vodka the boys had probably downed earlier. But mostly soap.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Eventually, his voice came, hushed in the dark.

“…Thank you.”

You mumbled something in return, barely audible.

Another pause. Then, quieter—

“I didn’t mean to see. Before. I wasn’t trying to.”

You sighed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were surprised to realize you meant it.

Maybe because he wasn’t leering. Maybe because he was clearly still rattled. Maybe because your back was to him and your body had long since relaxed again.

But you were tired. He was tired.

And despite everything, the room felt soft again.

Safe.

You closed your eyes and whispered into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He swallowed, voice low and raw behind you.

“…Goodnight.”

And then—finally—stillness.

But neither of you slept just yet.

Because under the sheets, just inches away, your heart was beating too loud.

And Seungmin, with his flushed ears and twitchy fingers, was still trying not to picture what he’d already seen.

⸻

The room had gone colder.

At some point, maybe around 4AM, the air conditioning kicked into overdrive, and the soft hum of it stirred you from sleep.

You shifted under the duvet with a lazy frown, your body instinctively chasing warmth. And then—

You felt it.

Not the chill of the room, but the heat of someone behind you.

A slow, calm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Warm, steady.

Then the arm.

An arm wrapped around your waist. A hand splayed low, fingers spread wide and firm across your stomach, half tucked beneath the hem of your camisole.

Your breath hitched—eyes fluttering open as your senses slowly caught up to what was happening.

Seungmin.

He was pressed flush against your back now, close in a way that neither of you had planned. Your ass rested snugly against his hips, your legs curved toward your chest in a soft tuck, his body following the shape of yours like he’d been molded to it in sleep.

The realization hit like a slow, hot wave:

Somewhere between drifting off and now, you’d gravitated toward each other. Maybe it had started with a brush of knees. A shared pillow. Maybe he’d pulled you in. Maybe you had backed into him without thinking.

But now?

Now, you were wrapped in him.

And he was touching you.

That hand—broad and warm—shifted slightly, fingers flexing in his sleep. His knuckles grazed higher up your stomach, a slow, unconscious movement that felt more like a caress than a twitch.

Your skin prickled.

Your breath stuttered again.

And that was before you felt the subtle, unmistakable pressure against your ass.

He was hard. Not fully, not completely, but enough that the bulge was there—thick and lazy, tucked against the dip of your curves like it belonged there.

You froze.

Every nerve in your body suddenly wide awake.

It was still innocent enough. He was asleep. Dreaming. He wasn’t doing anything on purpose. But the heat that licked up your spine didn’t care about intentions. It cared about the weight of him behind you, the way his fingertips had curled slightly, like they liked the skin they’d found.

Your thighs pressed tighter.

Seungmin murmured something in his sleep. A sound low in his chest. And then—

His hips shifted.

Just a fraction. But enough.

He pressed into you.

Your lips parted, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs as his hips settled again, snug against the curve of your ass like he’d wanted to be closer. Like his sleeping body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

You stayed still, not daring to move. Not even blinking.

His fingers on your stomach moved again. Slow. Dragging higher. The edge of his pinky grazed the underside of your breast, just barely. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just enough to send a thrill zipping through your chest.

You swallowed.

Carefully, silently, you reached down and clutched the duvet a little tighter.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

You stayed frozen.

Not because you were scared. Not because you didn’t want it. But because the smallest twitch of movement might’ve broken the spell—and right now, with his hands on you, his body warming your back, and his breath soft and steady against your neck… you didn’t want it to stop.

Even if he didn’t mean it.

Even if he wasn’t fully awake.

Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your body didn’t care about reason. Your body cared about the ache that had been living under your skin for too long. The way your thighs clenched when his fingertips brushed just under the curve of your breast again. The way your stomach fluttered when he pulled you closer, unconsciously grinding that hardening length against the softness of your ass.

A soft sound slipped from his throat—barely a hum, muffled into your hair.

Then his hand moved again.

Slow. Searching. Sliding downward over your stomach, like he was touching something delicate in his dream—fingertips gliding beneath the hem of your camisole, callused pads grazing skin that hadn’t been touched in months.

You held your breath. Every muscle tensed, every inch of you begging for more and terrified of it all at once.

Then the other hand found your hip.

It gripped you there—fingers digging into the flesh, like he was holding on. Like he needed to.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His hips shifted again. His hard cock pressed tighter against your ass, no longer just a ghost of a touch but a full, heavy presence—throbbing through the fabric of his sweats, thick and real and there.

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

And then—God—his hands started moving.

The one on your stomach caressed upward, grazing the underside of your breast again with just the backs of his fingers. Not a grope. Not rough. But reverent. Careful. A sleeping man worshiping a dream he didn’t know was real.

The other stayed firm on your hip, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, as if guiding himself into the curve of your ass with slow, sleepy rolls of his hips.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Because your body… it betrayed you.

Your nipples hardened, tight and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of your cami. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, seeking friction. And heat pulsed low in your stomach—building with every moan that slipped from his lips. Tiny, broken little things. Like he didn’t even realize he was making them.

You’d never heard Seungmin make those kinds of sounds before.

And you weren’t even sure he was fully awake.

Your breath shook. Your hand fisted into the duvet. You didn’t move, not an inch—but God, you felt everything. And you wanted more.

You wanted to press back into him.

You wanted his hands higher. Lower.

You wanted—

“…Hnn…”

A little whimper escaped him—almost helpless.

And then—his fingers twitched again.

Dragged higher.

This time brushing—accidentally, devastatingly—over your nipple.

But then didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

Not in a way you could blame on sleep.

But the ache had settled too deep now, thick and warm in your belly, and the feel of his hands on your skin—soft and curious and a little desperate—was unraveling your last thread of willpower.

So you gave in.

Just a little.

A slow, subtle push of your hips back into him—just enough for your ass to press tighter into the hard length straining behind his sweats. Your breath caught in your throat, chest tightening as the hand on your stomach twitched in response… and then slid up.

His palm cupped your breast.

Full, warm, heavy in his hand.

You gasped—a soft, broken little sigh—because the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple again through your top, and it was too much, too sensitive, too good. Your back arched into it instinctively, the quietest sound escaping your lips, and you felt him—

Stilling.

Breathing.

Then freezing.

Seungmin’s body went stiff behind you.

Like a man pulled straight out of a dream and dropped into a nightmare.

His hand stopped moving. His hips locked. His breath caught like he’d choked on it—and then dragged in sharp and tight, like he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore.

“…fuck.”

The word was barely audible. Choked. Wrecked. He jerked his hand away from your breast like he’d been burned, stumbling backward out of the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, his body trembling with confusion and guilt and raw panic.

He stood there beside the bed in nothing but a loose tee and sweats, hair messy, eyes wide, lips parted, and face pale in the blue light bleeding through the hotel curtains.

“I—I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, hands raised like he’d accidentally committed a crime.

“I was dreaming,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know—fuck, I didn’t know it was you—”

You sat up slowly, duvet still pulled tight to your chest, your body flushed and your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, breathless, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Shit, I touched you, I—God, I’m so sorry.”

He backed away, visibly shaking. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You should’ve said something. Anything.

But you were still reeling—body buzzing, skin on fire, the ghost of his touch still etched into your chest.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Until he did—

You didn’t mean to stop him. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t think it through.

But the second he took a step back—panic all over his face, like he was ready to disappear and pretend this never happened—your voice came out, small and raw, right before you could even breathe it back.

“…Seungmin.”

He froze.

Turned slowly. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

You just looked at him—bare shoulders rising and falling beneath the duvet, hair tousled from sleep, lips parted, heart thudding behind your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“I…” you started, the words thick in your throat. “It’s okay.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“I didn’t stop you,” you said softly, eyes searching his. “Maybe… I didn’t want to.”

The room went silent.

And Seungmin—sweet, shy, brilliant Seungmin—stood there like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You—” He blinked hard, swallowing, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You didn’t want me to stop?”

“I should have,” you said, honestly. “But I didn’t.”

You sat up a little, the duvet sliding down with the motion—revealing the thin strap of your camisole slipping off your shoulder, and just the barest peek of soft skin beneath it. The hem had already ridden up, underboob visible, your thighs spread slightly beneath the covers, body warm and flushed and so real in the low light.

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

You caught the way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he snapped them away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his lean body tense.

“I’m your tour manager,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve sorted your room. I should’ve gone to the reception or called someone. I should’ve helped you.”

You looked down at your lap, voice quieter now. “Instead, you walked into my room. I was basically naked. And I let you into my bed.”

Seungmin stayed quiet. Still trembling. Still hard. You could see it—his sweats doing nothing to hide the thick, straining outline pressing forward. He wasn’t even drunk anymore. Just dazed. Wrecked. Fighting something inside him that was so clearly losing.

“And I didn’t stop you,” you finished, eyes lifting to meet his again. “Even when I should have. I let it happen. So…”

You took a breath.

“…you don’t have to go.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

And fuck, the look in them—like every wall he’d carefully built was cracking, like he was fighting to be good, to be professional, but his body was screaming something else entirely. Something raw. Something needy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

The duvet slipped lower when you shifted—bare thighs now visible. And Seungmin’s gaze flicked downward again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see how your cami clung to the swell of your chest, how it had ridden so high your round underboobs were visible, soft and tempting and so close.

You tilted your head, slow. Careful. Still quiet.

“…What if I do?”

That was it.

That was the moment.

Because Seungmin’s lips parted—eyes flicking back to yours, mouth pink and breath shallow, his cock visibly throbbing behind his sweats. The hunger was there now. He wasn’t just hard—he was wrecked by the sight of you, sprawled out like a dream he hadn’t meant to touch, and couldn’t resist anymore.

You were still his tour manager.

Still the professional. Still the one with authority.

But in that moment, with your hair a mess and your thighs spread and your lips barely parted in invitation—God, you looked so soft. So warm. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

And he had such a crush on you. Always had.

Maybe now he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring—like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. You, almost bare-chested and flushed, thighs pressed tight beneath you, nipples peaked and your chest rising with every slow breath. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and he swore under his breath, the tension in his throat thick enough to choke on.

When you didn’t move to cover yourself, he dragged his gaze back up to yours.

Like he was waiting for the world to stop him.

Like he was seconds away from burning.

You didn’t say anything. Just held his stare and reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his and guiding it to your face—pressing his palm to your cheek.

That’s when he cracked.

His hand tightened. His jaw flexed. And then he moved—fast and quiet, crawling onto the bed over you with one knee on either side, not touching you yet, just looking down like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he said hoarsely, voice thick. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because your body did—arching subtly, thighs parting slightly beneath him in silent invitation.

He bent down, mouth finding the slope of your neck like he’d been aching for it for years. You gasped, head tipping back, the heat of his breath dragging over your collarbone. Then his hands—those long, trembling fingers—finally reached your breasts. He cupped them like they were something sacred, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, reverent circles.

“God,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

His tongue found your nipple and you gasped, back arching under him. He was breathing harder now, grinding against your thigh through his sweatpants, restraint unraveling one touch at a time. His lips moved from one breast to the other, mouth open, hot and wet, tongue lapping and sucking until your thighs started to tremble beneath him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said against your skin, voice guttural.

You looked up at him, wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Then show me.”

Something in his expression darkened.

And just like that, he sat back, pulled the duvet the rest of the way down, and let his eyes roam over every inch of you. His chest heaved once. Twice.

Then he dragged your panties down your legs, slow, savoring it, watching the fabric slide off your body like it was the last thing tethering you to decency.

He swore under his breath again.

You shifted, but he stopped you with a firm hand on your hip.

“Don’t move.”

He stripped his sweatpants in one motion, cock heavy and flushed and hard as it slapped against his stomach. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He was beautiful, yes, but there was something feral now in his silence—something hungry and barely restrained.

You reached for him, and he let you. Let you wrap your fingers around him, let you guide him down to your mouth.

But just as you leaned in, he caught your wrist.

His voice dropped an octave.

“You do that and I’m not going to last.”

Your smirk faltered.

“You think I care?”

And before he could stop you again, you leaned down and took him into your mouth—hot, slow, tongue dragging along the underside as your lips slid down inch by inch. He let out a strangled sound, fists curling in the sheets on either side of him, chest rising fast.

“Shit—don’t stop—fuck—”

You didn’t. You moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock. Your fingers curled at the base, your pace teasing at first, and then faster—your lips slick, jaw flexing as you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned, head falling back, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fucking hell—how are you—” He choked, hips twitching. “You’re gonna make me—”

You pulled off with a gasp, a line of spit catching on your lip as you looked up at him, flushed and ruined.

Seungmin reached for you in a blur.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, dragging you up until your lips crashed into his. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you, like he wanted to devour you—and as he pushed you back against the mattress, the last trace of hesitation fell away from him.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured against your mouth. “But I’m not stopping.”

And then he pressed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it slow, teasing, watching your body react—watching your legs fall wider, your breath hitch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low and ruined. “Say it.”

“Yes, I want it.”

His cock nudged at your entrance—thick, hot, pulsing. You whimpered just from the feel of it pressing against you. Seungmin’s eyes locked on yours, blown wide, hair damp, jaw clenched so tight it ticked beneath his flushed skin.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But if I move right now, I’m gonna come.”

You bit your lip, your hips already rocking forward the slightest bit, aching for him.

“Please do it,” you whispered. “Slow. I want to feel every inch.”

He groaned like he was in pain and slid in—just the tip.

Then deeper.

And deeper.

You cried out when he bottomed out inside you, your walls stretching to take him, fluttering from the fullness. His head dropped to your shoulder as he trembled above you, trying so fucking hard to stay still.

“Fuck—” he rasped, breath hot on your neck. “You’re—Jesus, you’re tight. Warm. You feel so—fuck—I can’t—”

His hips rocked once, slow, thick drag of cock that pulled a breathless moan from your throat. He kissed your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he started fucking you in slow, careful thrusts.

Each one sent shocks through your spine—steady, deep, possessive. He groaned every time he sank back in, voice rough with disbelief, hips shuddering as he fought not to lose it.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

“You’re not what I expected,” you breathed, already gasping as he set a slow rhythm, grinding in circles that had your toes curling. “You’re so—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Just moaned, softly, “Oh Baby…”

The effect was instant.

Seungmin froze mid-thrust.

His eyes met yours—dark, blown wide, almost dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, low, like a growl from deep in his chest.

You blinked up at him, surprised, breathless. “…Baby.”

He snapped.

His mouth was on yours, desperate, tongue tasting every sound you made. Then he grabbed your hips and started fucking you with rougher, sharper thrusts—still deep, but now filled with urgency.

“You feel that?” he panted, hips snapping forward again. “That’s mine. You understand?”

You whimpered, clinging to him, head rolling back as he fucked you like he was trying to brand you.

“God, you’re so good,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this. Can’t believe I’m inside you like this.”

You barely heard him—you were too busy writhing, body twitching under him, orgasm crawling up your spine like wildfire.

But you wanted more. You wanted to see him break.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over and straddling him in one breathless motion. He let you, watching you like he was starved, lips parted as you lined him back up and sank down on him, slow and tight and trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, gripping the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You started riding him, steady at first—hips rolling, eyes locked on his, both of you completely lost in the sight of your bodies moving together.

But when you leaned forward, whispering “You like this?” into his ear—

—he moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed your throat, not choking, just holding—just owning. His other arm locked around your waist, and suddenly he was fucking up into you, lifting you off the bed with every brutal, delicious thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled. “Wanted to ride me, make me lose my fucking mind?”

You gasped, fingers flying to his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel him. His cock hit deeper like this, angled right against your sweet spot, and your thighs started to tremble from the sheer power of his pace.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

You did—and his face. God, his face. Eyes locked on yours like he was watching you fall apart just for him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna take it. All of it.”

Your orgasm was still crashing through your body when Seungmin moved again.

Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands manhandling you like you weighed nothing. You gasped into the sheets, dizzy from the sudden shift—but the moment your cheek hit the pillow, you felt him behind you again, kneeling between your thighs, gripping your hips like he was about to lose himself.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the arch of your back, your ass up high, your cunt slick and pulsing from how hard you’d just come. “You look like this and expect me to hold back?”

You whined into the sheets, pressing your hips up for him—begging without words.

He lined up.

And slammed into you.

You screamed.

It wasn’t pain—it was bliss. He was fucking deeper than before, harder, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly you could hear the wet slap echo in the room. You clawed the sheets. Your voice was a broken string of moans and gasps.

Every time he drove in, your ass bounced back against him, the sting of skin on skin turning into pure heat.

Then—smack.

His hand landed hard on your ass.

You cried out, back arching like a bow.

“Oh my god—Seungmin—!”

He did it again. And again. Spanked you until the skin burned and the sounds were too filthy to be real, and he was groaning behind you like a man possessed.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he gasped, watching the jiggle of your ass as he fucked you. “Touching you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand slid forward, fingers pinching one of your nipples, twisting it, tugging until you choked on a sob.

“Please—please—” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. “Begging already?”

You were shaking. Crying out for more. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and wild, and his rhythm got even more brutal—like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

“You want me to break you?” he whispered, thrusting deep and hard enough to push you forward.

“Yes—Seungmin—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you again, your body pliant and trembling as he pushed your knees up and apart, exposing you completely. He hovered over you, eyes wild, jaw slack, body covered in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, voice trembling from restraint, “and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

Then he sank back into you and started pounding again—deep, rough, so good you couldn’t breathe. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, tweaking your nipples, palming your throat just enough to make your head spin.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Say I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.”

“You are—fuck—you are—” you cried, losing yourself completely as another orgasm tore through you, clenching so tight around him that he finally let go.

He groaned—loud, raw—head thrown back as he spilled inside you, hips still moving like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

Even as he came, he kept fucking you.

Slow now. Deep. Letting it ride out as long as possible.

His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

⸻

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your shaky breathing. Your body was limp beneath him, boneless, skin slick with sweat and heat and everything he’d just poured into you. He was still inside, still twitching a little, as if even his cock didn’t want to leave your warmth.

But then Seungmin exhaled—shaky and slow—and pulled out of you with a soft hiss. He moved so carefully, hands trembling a bit as he reached for the discarded duvet to cover your body, his eyes wide and stunned, his lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You watched him sit back on his heels, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lashes low. The confidence—the filth—the devastating way he just fucked you… it was gone.

Now he looked shy.

Almost embarrassed.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, reaching for the tissues from the nightstand. His voice was soft again—barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be that rough. I just— I kind of lost it.”

You smiled, dazed and aching but full of warmth, watching as he carefully cleaned you up. He was so gentle, even shaking a little, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he didn’t know if he had the right.

You pushed yourself up slightly and cupped his jaw. “Seungmin.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” You leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, tasting the way his breath hitched in surprise. “You don’t have to be so scared. I wanted it. All of it.”

He let out a sigh, the kind that sounded more like relief than anything else.

When you broke the kiss, he hesitated, then bent to grab the shirt he’d worn earlier that night from the edge of the bed. “Here,” he murmured, helping you slip it over your head. It was soft and warm, and it smelled like him—clean laundry and sweat and the tiniest hint of cologne. He smoothed the hem over your hips gently, reverently, then looked up at you with those sweet, wrecked eyes.

“…I’ll shut up now.”

You laughed softly and dragged him into the bed beside you. He climbed in, curling behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling you into his chest, holding you so tight it was almost like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

And for a few minutes, it was just quiet. Breathing. His nose buried in your hair. Your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his knuckles where they rested over your stomach.

Then you whispered, “No one has to know, right?”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“But…” you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

Seungmin blinked. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean that?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “There’s no going back to pretending we’re just coworkers. Not after this.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “Because I don’t think I could look at you like that again. I want this. You. As much as you’ll let me have.”

And then he kissed your neck—so softly, so sweet—and whispered, “I’m yours if you want me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: The way Seungmin has been creeping up on me and wrecking me these days???? Then that cute abs reveal? Safe to say he’s stuck in my head and Ive been thinking about this scenario for a VERY long time🥹

Also, we’re almost at 2k guys! 😭😭😭😭 you guys are the best fr!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

[ggukivrse]

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[your-bait-and-swich]

Random Date Everything characters NSFW headcanons

Characters featured: Hector, Parker, Lux, Dunk

Ageless/minors DNI

Hector

His favorite part of sex is not actually the sex itself it's the foreplay before anything.

He loves to tease your body by gently moving his hands around your body, and soft kissing anywhere he can like it's some sort of worship. He tries his best to make you squirm and relishes it

This might be a surprise, but most times he doesn't like being a bottom yet he doesn't like to be a dominant top either. He's definitely a soft top wanting you taking the lead, and tell him how to please you

That's not to say that he minds being a bottom but he prefers to help you

Definitely not avoid to be kinky specially if his God wants it. He loves doing anything and everything he can to please you

Except for pain and degrading. He would never even let himself insult you let alone hurt you. the most he'll do is biting and very light choking. Phantom choking basically.

He's actually very silent during sex, and masturbating. The vents aren't really that private you know

Most you'll hear in sex is small panting, and whines but he'll give you more noise if you request

Probably goes without saying, but he loves when you're somewhat demanding. Don't be too cruel about it, but he does love someone that knows what they want

He also wants to know he's doing well. Please praise him for anything he does right for communication sake, and his praise kink

He love's adding temperature play anyway he can to your love making

If you were cold/hot he would make purposeful effort to make his body the opposite so when he touches you, you would feel all the more

Subtly raise the heat slowly forcing you to strip more and more

Occasionally when you're in the middle of sex he'll use the grate on his outfit to blow one thing of cold air to shock you

Aftercare is a must every time. He does not let himself rest until you are clean and taking care of

Lux

(Not sure where to put this but I did give them a dick despite them not having a confirmed sex I think so keep that in mind I guess. I'll keep from doing this in the future tho)

I hate them *proceeds to make these anyway*

When they said you guys only have sex when they wants to upload something on Fans Only they means it. It's hard to convince them when they're not in the mood especially so when they're in the middle of a stream

But if you convince them mostly by sucking up to then they'll end a stream like "I guess that's it for today's stream luxxies! Make sure to check Fans Only soon byeee!~"

Recordings, live and photos are a given.

And if you're lucky enough even outside of Fans Only "Don't count on it"

They're most definitely a grower. A absurdly nice grower bigger than you'd expect. Along with that they're very smooth not having any body hair.

They moans like a pornstar. It's unclear if it's for the recording or they're just like that

Very into exhibition. They don't mind anyone watching honestly they're into it frankly. If they're in the mood it's happening no matter what

Also slightly masochist very into hair pulling and one or two nice slap on the ass

Obviously mostly a bottom, but if they feeling particularly devilish they'll top

When they top they do it to prove a point/a punishment

Favorite "punishment" is you choking on their dick for sure

They love too cum on your face then lay their dick on your tongue. It just makes you so pretty for their Fans Only

They'll say stuff like "good girl/boy/slut" in a condescending way to you after taking these punishments

You will at least have to have a threesome once with some other person Lux choose

Parker Brandley

Good fucking luck buddy

First you got to win that love dice roll and now you need to somehow make board games sex related or it's not happening

Lucky for you strip poker does technically count. Maybe not a board game but it has clear rules and if Uno counts this can count to. He will not let you get away with using this all the time tho

Despite how stingy he can be with it he's very easy to work up. Just a little too much skin and/or touching a certain way can give him a boner instantly

He's quite nervous. Being awkward, and fidget quite a bit for your first time, but he quickly gets into the groove after a bit

When you finally get to the stage of actually doing something he's a feral animal with it

Massive switch! He doesn't really care what way it goes

Bottoming he's very noisy, and reacts very intensely. Unless you gag him the whole house is going to hear his semi screaming

Topping intense, and quick. Boy does not waste a second he acts like it's the end of the world as a plows into you speeding up.

Still a delightful mix of serious and a bit goofy during sex "Ohohoh~! Holy fucking shit!"

When he's more comfortable he'll probably confront you directly for his wants. "Whoever wins tops" he says putting a board game in front of you abruptly.

If you do cheat he will deny having sex outright tho

Nothing sexy like orgasm denial just straight up denying sex maybe for multiple days depending how pissed he is. You only get orgasm denial privileges when you play rightfully and you try to distract him in the game because it's only fair then

He's secretly not really so secretly a pervert his eyes widening cartoonously if you wear a skimpy outfit. Looking over your body secretly whenever he can (it's very obvious)

I feel in my heart of hearts that he is a thighs guy and he wants to be crushed by your thighs so badly

Dunk Shuttlecock

Let's just say it up front and right here you have to tell him if you want sex. He will not and won't catch on to hints or innuendos

His mentality on sports is similar to the mentality he has with sex. He just wants it to be enjoyable doesn't matter how fast, slow, intense, goofy, as long as your both having a great time

Tho if you ask him to give you it to you rough oh he sure will but the chance of you accidentally getting a bruise from it and him apologizing after is higher then maybe preferable(depending who you are) but it's a small risk for a unbelievably great time

However regularly he still has pretty good pace at least enough to make you a little weak after

His stamina is crazy willing to do like 3 to 4 rounds if you're up to it of course. He'll makes sure not to exhaust you too much taking decent breaks in between rounds to get yourself prepared

He's doesn't take sex not all too seriously grinning like a goof, and sometimes giggling

If you're the ticklish type he would definitely tickle you randomly during sex just to hear your laugh

He would be so into funny role play sex. Porno quality stuff as you both try to keep a straight face

Think of stuff you typical would expect like jock and cheerleader, jock and nerd, ect ect. Maybe even a pizza delivery thing too

He's not against a little exhibition. Sometimes grabbing you by the wrist to go somewhere more quiet

Something something shake weight joke

Eats pussy like a champ I know he does. That's not to say he's not good with a dick too [insert shuttlecock joke]

Naked yoga into sex. That's it

Quite a big fan of cockwarming while cuddling in between rounds or after sex

He's naturally a top and prefers being top too but if you ask him cute/sexually enough he'll gladly take the back seat

[starstickerzzz]

Ight bet hold on,

1: complicated but mostly no

2: my dying grandma I’m currently leaving the hospital for the night

3: y e s

4: y e s s s

5: TAKEN !!

6: dramatically

7: edible cookie dough from da hopital cafe

8: I’m really good at skateboarding hatchet throwing (won a contest actually) and shooting hoops surprisingly

9: yessss bruh I straight up tear my fingers apart

10: bout a month ago I believe

11: my gf of five years 😏💝

12: I have severe insomnia I’ve stayed up longer

13: oh fuck yes I do!! 😋✨‼️‼️‼️💥💥💥

14: yeah all my loved ones who keep dying lol

15: Yee!!! Quite a few in my house but the one that’s officially mine is my leopard gecko and technically the fatass weirdly smart hamster named adolf hamster is mine now too since I’m the only one who takes care of him and plays and holds him so mi hermano said he’s mine now 💀

16: frustrated and exausted as fuvk also OW OW OW OW CHRONIC PAIN WHAT THE FUCK

17: …mayyyybbeee…

18: nope! :3

19: YESSSS AAAGHHH unless the universe exploded idk

20: gfs house also I had to use Alexa to figure out wtf that meant lol it said “to kiss and cuddle” so I hope that what u meant by that :b

21: try to keep my gammy , great gammy and aunt from killing eachother or themselves and try not to lose my shit despite the horrrors

22: my n da waif have considered adopting children when we get married and comfortable together n shit (asa foster victim who is great with kids it would be good I think) also I have a lot of emotionally adopted kids lolz

23: I’ve got a vertical libret and have been stabbed if that counts LMAOOO

24: art, creative writing,phycology, and general science and English I’d say (when I was in school)

25: absolutely quiet a few people fs

26: Wendy’s borger 😔💔

27: romantically? Yes I’ve had to reject a lot of people (mostly men) cuz for sum reason people crush on me a lot and it sucks cuz I’m a very taken lesbian and hate having to make people sad but I’m pretty good at being nice about it. In general? Never on purpose but probably ig??? Idk I’ve been through a lot so idk maybe

28: nope! Been with the best wife in the whole universe since like middle school so :D

29: I sure hope not but you’d have to ask @skelebab ig ? (Mi Bonita Estrella 😼✨)

30: so fucking much but mostly having to be my family’s constant therapist and dealing with my ggma in the hospital and everyone have insane angst with eachother and it being my problem all the time cuz im the only one who can help :”)

31: yuh

32: sunset colors !!

33: maybe a lil yeah but not as bad as you’d think considering my past so that’s cool

34: fucked up distorted trauma nightmare don’t wanna talk to much abt it tbh 💀

35: my grandma Anne yesterday

36: sometimes if but not a whole lot idk

37: for me probably forget if I can but I usually can’t do either very well

38: welllll…maybe second best? First getting out of residential hell was the best Fs but now shit sucks again but it’s not as bad as before as every other year was literally just violent amounts of constant trauma 😭😭😭

39: idk i think it was elementary school though if that even counts if not then middle school with da waif

40: hell naw

41: ur mom- I MEAN UHHHH…sushi, ramen, or Wendy’s tbh but I have arfid so foods hard to eat or like most of the time either way 😔💔

42: it can feel like that sometimes ig but im very atheist so ehhh

43: I can’t even remember I just passed the fuck out at some point on the couch after not sleeping at all for like 3 days 💀

44: ???no tf???

45: nahhh I go pretty out of my way to be kind asf unless you really really really hurt me or a loved one first in which case veryyyy

46: lost count tbh but I don’t start fights I’ve just learned how to finish them after so much violent bs

47: not in a spiritual way but I would call my gf that fs

48: fall weather in general or aesthetic ass grey days

49: no not reallly but it’s good for photography

50: helllllllll yeah that’s the plan!

51: if my gf did id probably die a bright red melty mess

52: the few people I truly give a shit about anymore and my hyperfixations

53: I’ve done that to many times to do it again unless I ran away or some shit but I’d probably go back to jade if I did

54: no

55: tell they ass hell naw

56: yes actually I have 2

57: a really zesty gay nurse guy from da hopital he was really cool

58: gammy

59: naw

60: yes yea yea yes yes yes yes ye s yesusysysyys

(U messed up the numbers btw but it’s chill)

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii

[ilovemarvel97]

Written in Our Souls - Part 13

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Y/N and Wanda’s bond is stronger than ever—but beneath the warmth of their intimacy, unsettling questions arise.

Word Count: 5,272

Warnings: fluff, a little smut, (18+), use of strap (enchanted)

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

A few days had passed since the mission, and Y/N had been basking in the kind of peace that only came from being wrapped up in Wanda—physically, emotionally, soul-deep. But even with the warmth of their bond grounding her, something kept tugging at her attention.

Vision.

Despite everything—despite the clarity of the bond between Wanda and her—Vision had been sneaking out of the compound more and more. Quiet departures in the early morning, late returns after sunset. Y/N had caught glimpses of him once or twice, and each time, something about him seemed… different. Off.

She made her way down to Tony’s lab, hoping for insight.

Tony was hunched over a half-built suit and a cup of coffee, talking softly to himself when she walked in.

“Hey,” Y/N greeted, hands in her pockets.

Tony gave her a once-over, not looking away from his project. “Well, well. Look who came up for air.”

Y/N smirked. “Funny. I was actually here to ask about Vision.”

That earned a pause. Tony blinked, then set down his tools with a sigh. “Ah. Him.”

“What’s going on?” Y/N asked. “I’ve seen him leaving. At weird hours. Something’s not right.”

Tony leaned back against the workbench, arms crossing. “You’re not imagining it. FRIDAY flagged a few anomalies in the compound logs—Vision's been leaving without logging his destination, and encrypting his activity. Not that he has to report to me, technically… but it’s weird.”

“Weird how?” Y/N asked, concern creeping into her voice.

Tony shrugged. “He’s precise. Predictable. But lately? He’s being careful. Too careful. Covering his tracks, locking access, even shutting down surveillance feeds in sections of the lab when he’s working.”

Y/N frowned. “Do you know what he’s working on?”

“No clue,” Tony said. “He always closes the screen or cuts the connection when anyone walks in. Happened twice this week.”

Y/N looked down for a moment, processing. “You think it’s about Wanda?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t exactly been subtle about that obsession. But I can’t say for sure. He’s not talking. Just... off.”

Y/N nodded slowly, eyes distant.

Tony’s voice softened slightly. “I’ll keep an eye on it. Let me know if he says anything to you. Or if anything feels… wrong.”

Y/N nodded again. “Thanks, Tony.”

As she turned to leave, Tony added under his breath, “Weird behavior from a synthezoid usually means one of two things—an upgrade… or a problem.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

But the knot in her chest said she already knew which one it was.

---

Tony continue to monitor Vision’s behavior.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., where is Vision off to again?” he asked, sipping his coffee as he watched the surveillance feed.

“He has exited the compound through the east corridor,” the AI replied smoothly. “No scheduled mission or clearance filed.”

Tony narrowed his eyes at the screen as Vision walked with purpose across the perimeter and into the tree line, the same path he’d taken three times this week alone. Always around the same time. Always when no one was watching.

Or so he thought.

“Freakin’ sneaky toaster…” Tony muttered. “What the hell are you up to?”

He tapped a few keys, pulling up heat signatures and satellite imaging, watching Vision disappear into the woods again. No obvious rendezvous, no vehicles. Just… him, alone, disappearing deeper into some isolated location.

Tony leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “This is getting weirder by the day.”

With a sigh, he stood up and grabbed his tablet.

---

A Month Later

Gunfire echoed through the dim corridors of the Hydra base, lights flickering as red emergency alarms pulsed across the walls. The air reeked of gunpowder and scorched metal.

Y/N was a blur of motion.

She zipped between agents, disarming them before they could aim, dropping weapons to the floor with clatters that barely registered before she was already gone again. A round of bullets followed her—too slow. They hit empty wall as she reappeared behind the shooter and knocked him out cold with a swift elbow to the temple.

“Got eyes on the main server room,” Nat’s voice crackled over comms. “Cover me while I pull the drive.”

“Copy,” Y/N replied, turning toward the hallway where Nat had vanished.

More Hydra agents spilled into the corridor ahead, barking orders in German. Y/N dashed forward, skidding between them, her momentum sending two crashing into the wall as she swept their legs from under them. She ducked a stun baton, twisted, and delivered a lightning-quick jab to the agent’s solar plexus. He collapsed with a grunt.

“Wanda?” she called into the comms. “You good?”

“I’m surrounded,” Wanda’s voice came through, tight with strain. “Third corridor near the east wing—need backup now.”

Y/N's head snapped in that direction. "On my way, babe."

She shot forward in a blink, wind snapping around her as she dashed through the maze of halls. Along the way, she shoulder-checked a Hydra operative into a wall and vaulted over another, disarming him mid-air.

Sparks flew as she skidded to a stop near Wanda, who was holding her own—red magic lashing outward in brilliant waves. But more agents were closing in fast.

Y/N didn’t waste a second. “Heads down!” she shouted.

In a flurry of movement, she zoomed through the group, disarming, disabling, and knocking them flat in a matter of seconds. The last agent tried to run—Y/N appeared in front of him and sent him flying with a roundhouse kick before he could blink.

Wanda lowered her hands, panting, her red eyes glowing faintly.

Y/N grinned. “Miss me?”

Wanda smirked, stepping toward her. “Always.”

Behind them, another explosion shook the far wall. Nat’s voice came through again: “Got the data. Meet you at extraction in two.”

Y/N gave Wanda a quick wink before grabbing her hand. “C’mon, let’s finish this.”

---

The low hum of the Quinjet filled the cabin as they lifted off from the Hydra base, the engines steady beneath them. Y/N sat with her back against the cool metal wall, catching her breath, her suit smeared with soot and a cut above her eyebrow already beginning to close. Across from her, Wanda was watching her, arms crossed, eyes soft.

Nat was at the console, already decrypting the stolen files, while Clint piloted up front, focused but relaxed now that they were airborne.

“That was clean,” Clint called over his shoulder. “Almost too clean.”

“Speak for yourself,” Y/N muttered, wiping her forehead. “I think I ran enough to power this jet twice.”

Wanda chuckled softly and moved closer, settling beside Y/N. Her fingers gently found Y/N’s wrist and traced over her name, a quiet, grounding touch. “You didn’t hesitate when I called,” she said, voice low.

Y/N turned her head and smiled at her. “I’ll never hesitate for you.”

Nat looked up from the console with an amused eyebrow. “God, you two are worse than Barton and Laura.”

“I’m right here,” Clint said, though he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he was smiling.

Then, after a moment, he added, “Hey—before I forget. This weekend, it’s Nathaniel’s birthday. Laura already invited Nat, but I wanted to ask you two as well.”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Oh—really? You sure we wouldn’t be, you know… distracting?”

Clint chuckled. “Nah, Laura loves you both. And the kids are already obsessed with Wanda’s magic tricks and Y/N’s speed. You’re practically party entertainment at this point.”

Wanda grinned. “I’d love to come. It sounds wonderful.”

Y/N nodded. “Count us in. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Wanda leaned her head on Y/N’s shoulder, and Y/N instinctively pulled her closer, pressing a soft kiss to her hair.

“So,” Nat said, tone suddenly sly, “how long until we have to start making excuses to give you two alone time again?”

“Don’t start,” Y/N groaned. “We’re just… making up for lost time.”

Clint laughed. “That what the kids are calling it now?”

Nat smirked but said nothing more, returning her attention to decrypting.

Y/N glanced down at her wrist as Wanda’s touch lingered there. The mark hummed faintly, alive with warmth and peace. She smiled to herself and closed her eyes for a moment, just soaking in the closeness.

Even with the low buzz of tech and the hum of the Quinjet, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, everything finally felt… right.

Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was a heartbeat against hers.

---

Back in the Compound

****

A few hours later, their room was dimly lit by the golden hue of late afternoon sunlight seeping through the curtains. The air was heavy with warmth and intimacy, filled with soft gasps and the creak of the mattress.

Wanda was straddling Y/N, her palms pressed against Y/N’s stomach for balance. Her movements were slow, intense, each roll of her hips deliberate, driven by the quiet desperation in their bond. The enchanted strap they’d come to cherish pulsed with magic and connection, bridging the space between their bodies in a way that felt impossibly real.

Y/N’s hands held her waist firmly, guiding her but letting her lead. Her eyes never left Wanda’s face—flushed, lips parted, brows furrowed in pleasure. She looked like a dream. No, more than that—like something sacred.

“Wanda…” Y/N whispered, voice rough with emotion, not just desire.

Wanda leaned down slightly, one hand sliding up to Y/N’s chest for support, their foreheads nearly touching. “I feel everything,” she murmured, breath hitching. “Every inch of you… it’s overwhelming.”

Y/N cupped her face, pulling her in for a kiss as their rhythm deepened. Magic sparkled faintly around them, soft red wisps dancing at the edge of their joined bodies—resonating with every thrust, every gasp, every heartbeat they shared.

They weren’t just touching—they were fused in soul, in love, in something far greater than either of them could put into words.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Wanda’s movements grew faster, more desperate, her fingers digging lightly into Y/N’s stomach as she rode out the rising wave inside her. The bond between them crackled like a live current—magic and love entwined, tangible in every breath, every shared heartbeat.

Their moans filled the room, raw and unfiltered. Y/N’s grip on Wanda’s waist tightened as she thrust up to meet each movement, breath ragged, lips parted.

“Wanda—” she groaned, voice trembling with the effort to hold back.

Wanda leaned forward, one hand cradling Y/N’s face as her forehead rested against hers. “Detka…I’m so close” she whimpers, eyes locked on hers. “Come with me.”

As Wanda cried out, her body trembling through the high, the sensation and their bond sent Y/N over the edge with her. A low moan tore from her throat as she released, the enchanted toy responding with a soft pulse, responding to Y/N climax. Wanda gasped again as she felt it—warmth filling her, real and undeniable—and her lips found Y/N’s in a kiss that was everything: hungry, tender, grateful.

Their bodies stilled, but their connection pulsed stronger than ever. Wanda stayed close, resting her forehead against Y/N’s, both of them breathing hard, tangled together in the soft afterglow.

****

“I’ll never get over this,” Wanda murmured.

Y/N smiled, brushing back a strand of hair from Wanda’s face. “Good. Because I’m never letting you go.”

Wanda lay on top of her, chest rising and falling against Y/N’s, still intimately connected. Her cheek rested against Y/N’s shoulder, the warmth between them steady and comforting. The room was quiet now, save for their slowing breaths and the occasional hum of their bond, soft and pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Y/N lazily trailed her fingers up and down Wanda’s spine. “You know, we really need to stop breaking the bedframes,” she said with a sleepy grin.

Wanda chuckled, her lips brushing against Y/N’s skin. “Maybe you should stop making me lose control, then.”

Y/N smirked. “That would mean denying you. And I’m just not that strong.”

Wanda hummed in satisfaction, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “I like when you’re weak for me.”

“You’re dangerous when you know your power,” Y/N teased.

There was a quiet pause, filled only by the shared rhythm of their breath, before Wanda murmured, “What do you think Clint’s kid wants for their birthday?”

Y/N laughed, the sound low and full of affection. “You just rode me like a woman possessed and now we’re talking about birthday gifts?”

“I’m a multitasker,” Wanda replied smugly. “Also, I want them to like me.”

“They already do. You helped Lila with her math homework, remember? You’re basically her favorite Avenger now.”

Wanda smiled against her skin. “You think so?”

Y/N wrapped her arms around her, holding her tighter. “I know so!”

They lay there like that a little longer, basking in the quiet afterglow, their hearts calm, their souls at peace. Wanda was mid-sentence about birthday gifts when Y/N suddenly shifted, flipping them both over in one fluid motion.

Wanda let out a surprised laugh that turned into a soft gasp as Y/N settled between her thighs, still inside her, deeper now.

“My turn,” Y/N growled playfully, her eyes dark with renewed desire.

Wanda’s breath hitched, her legs instinctively wrapping around Y/N’s waist as a fresh wave of anticipation rushed through her. “Then take it,” she whispered, voice trembling with need.

Y/N didn’t need to be told twice. She rolled her hips forward, slow at first, drawing a moan from both of them, and then again—deeper, firmer. The room once more filled with the sounds of their love, their bond sparking like wildfire between every breath, every kiss, every movement.

And just like that, round two began—hungry, heated, and absolutely theirs.

---

The city buzzed around them with late afternoon life—horns honking, people laughing, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a nearby cart. Wanda’s fingers were laced with Y/N’s as they walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, both of them in sunglasses and low-key clothes. Still, they had a glow that made people look twice—two women in love, completely immersed in each other.

“Okay,” Wanda said, glancing at the small list she had open on her phone. “Clint said Nathaniel’s been obsessed with dinosaurs lately.”

“Dinosaurs?” Y/N grinned. “Then we’re getting the biggest, loudest, most annoying toy we can find. If it roars, stomps, and maybe breathes fake fire—perfect.”

Wanda laughed, leaning into her. “You really want to get uninvited next year?”

“Absolutely not. I just want Clint to suffer a little. He did make me babysit the gremlins during that mission debrief last month.”

They ducked into a bright toy store a moment later, the kind with spinning mobiles, bright shelves, and too much cheerful music playing in the background. Y/N made a beeline for a massive animatronic T-Rex while Wanda wandered through the science kits and puzzles, already thinking of what Laura might appreciate too.

Eventually, they met in the middle—Y/N triumphantly holding the roaring T-Rex box, and Wanda with a neatly wrapped educational kit about fossils.

“We get him both?” Y/N asked, already knowing the answer.

Wanda nodded with a smirk. “Chaos and balance. Very us.”

As they stepped back outside, bags in hand and the sun beginning to dip lower in the sky, Y/N pulled Wanda into her side and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“This is nice,” Y/N said softly.

Wanda tilted her head up and kissed her. “It is.”

They didn’t rush home. They strolled, stealing kisses at red lights, sharing a street pretzel, and laughing like no one was watching—just a couple in love, picking out dinosaur toys for a kid’s birthday and living a piece of the normal life they'd fought hard for.

---

The Birthday Weekend

The Barton farm was alive with energy—kids darting across the yard with superhero masks and foam swords, music drifting from the porch speakers, and the scent of grilled food in the air. A bright dinosaur-shaped bounce house roared intermittently, thanks to a little button Nathaniel couldn’t stop pressing.

“Why does that thing growl every five seconds?” Laura asked with a chuckle, joining Wanda and Nat under the shade of the big oak tree with drinks in hand.

“Because Y/N showed Nate how to do it,” Nat replied dryly, sipping from her cup. “She’s enabling him. Chaos recognizing chaos.”

Wanda laughed softly, but her attention remained fixed on Y/N. Across the yard, Y/N was dramatically pretending to be a captured villain, wrapped in streamers as Nathaniel and Cooper shouted about locking her up. She stumbled back with exaggerated groans, fell onto the grass with flair, and made the kids burst into delighted laughter.

“She’s good with them,” Laura said, watching the scene unfold with a fond smile.

“She is,” Wanda agreed, her voice quiet, full of something deeper. Her gaze never wavered from Y/N, who now had Nathaniel perched on her back like a tiny superhero riding into battle.

Laura noticed the way Wanda’s fingers brushed absently over the inside of her wrist, where Y/N’s name was marked—her soulmate. Y/N immediately raise her head with a smile she only gives to Wanda, feeling her own wrist tingle. And Wanda just smiles back.

“You two talk about the future yet? Marriage, kids?” Laura ask seeing their interaction.

Wanda flushed slightly but nodded. “We’ve started. Not everything, not yet. But we know what we want. And we want it with each other.”

“That’s the bond,” Laura said knowingly, lifting her own wrist and brushing her fingers over Clint’s name. “When it’s real, when it’s right, you don’t need everything figured out. You just know.”

Wanda glanced at her with a soft smile, then at Nat, who remained suspiciously quiet.

“She’s already yours,” Nat said teasingly, nudging her shoulder. “Even if you weren’t soulmates, the way she looks at you would give it away.”

Wanda’s gaze drifted back to Y/N just as she scooped Nathaniel up and spun him in a wide circle. The boy shrieked with glee, arms outstretched, completely trusting her. Wanda’s heart clenched, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded into the background. All she could see was Y/N—laughing, loving, alive.

“Being with her feels like breathing,” Wanda murmured. “Like I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until we found each other.”

Laura smiled warmly. “That’s how I felt with Clint. It’s soul-deep. Hard to explain, but impossible to ignore.”

“And now,” Nat added, “you two are in the honeymoon stage. Might be stuck in it for a while.”

“Forever sounds fine with me,” Wanda said without hesitation, a dreamy smile playing at her lips.

And as they stood together, watching Y/N collapse onto the grass with Nathaniel giggling in her lap, Wanda knew—with her whole heart and soul—that this was only the beginning of the future they would build. Together.

---

The Barton farmhouse quieted as the evening rolled in, soft laughter still echoing from the kitchen where Clint and Laura were cleaning up. The kids had finally crashed after hours of games, cake, and chaos. Nat had taken one of the smaller rooms, grateful for the quiet. Wanda and Y/N were shown to the guest room upstairs—cozy, with a big window overlooking the back pasture, and a bed that was just the right amount of creaky.

Wanda entered first, kicking off her shoes, her body still buzzing from the joy of the day. Y/N closed the door behind them, flipping the small lamp on. The warm yellow light painted the room in soft golds and browns.

“They really wore Nathaniel out,” Wanda said, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and letting it fall around her shoulders.

“They wore me out,” Y/N said with a playful groan as she stretched, cracking her back. “I think I pulled something when I was pretending to be a villain in the treehouse battle.”

Wanda turned, smiling. “You looked like you were having the time of your life.”

“I was. With you watching? Always.”

Y/N crossed the room, her arms circling Wanda’s waist, and she buried her face in the crook of her neck. Wanda wrapped her arms around her, holding her close, grounding herself in the warmth and scent of her soulmate.

“Today was perfect,” Wanda whispered. “I could do this with you forever.”

Y/N leaned back slightly to look into her eyes. “Then let’s.”

They shared a soft kiss—no rush, no fire, just intimacy and affection and the quiet promise of forever. When they broke apart, Y/N pulled her shirt over her head, and Wanda followed suit, both settling into bed under the thick quilt.

Wanda curled into Y/N’s side, fingers tracing over her chest, then down to her wrist, where her name was etched in elegant script. “It still feels like a dream,” she murmured. “That you’re mine.”

Y/N kissed her temple. “And you’re mine. For good.”

They lay in silence for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the house, the sound of crickets outside. Wanda sighed in contentment and nuzzled in closer.

“Let’s have this one day,” she said, eyes fluttering shut. “And all the days after.”

Y/N smiled, pulling her in tighter. “You got it, baby. Every one of them.”

And wrapped in each other’s arms, they drifted off—soulmates safe, together, and finally at peace.

---

The days rolled by in a quiet rhythm of love, missions, laughter, and stolen moments. Somewhere between early morning coffee kisses and late-night whispers under shared blankets, time slipped past like sand between fingers, and when they realize it was already six months since Wanda stopped rejecting.

“Six months,” she murmured aloud, her fingers brushing over the date circled in red. The day they finally stopped denying the bond. The day she chose Y/N fully, without fear or guilt.

She found Y/N in the training room, sweat glistening on her brow, cheeks flushed from sparring. Wanda just stood in the doorway for a second, watching her—her soulmate. Her partner in everything. The woman who had taught her that love didn’t have to hurt.

When Y/N caught her staring, she grinned. “Hey, babe. You okay?”

Wanda walked over, wrapping her arms around Y/N’s waist from behind and resting her cheek between her shoulder blades.

“Did you know it’s been almost six months?” she whispered.

Y/N paused, her hands settling on Wanda’s. “Really?” She turned around, smiling softly. “Feels like yesterday. Feels like forever.”

Wanda leaned up to kiss her. “It’s everything.”

They sat down on the edge of the mat, Y/N pulling Wanda into her lap as she ran her fingers through her hair. “We’ve been through a lot in less than a year,” she said quietly. “But I wouldn’t trade a second of it.”

“Even the messy ones?” Wanda teased, resting her forehead against Y/N’s.

“Especially the messy ones. That’s how I knew it was real.”

Wanda kissed her again—slow, reverent, full of everything words couldn’t say.

Y/N deepen the kiss making Wanda moan slightly into her mouth. And when they break the kiss Y/N murmur “Do you wanna go eat somewhere with me tonight?”

Wanda smiled against Y/N’s lips, her fingers still tangled in the hem of her shirt. “Hmm… is this a date?”

Y/N grinned, her nose brushing Wanda’s. “Of course it’s a date. You think I’d let six months go by without taking my girl out to celebrate properly?”

Wanda’s eyes lit up, the way they always did when Y/N called her that—my girl. She bit her bottom lip, nodding.

“I’d love that.”

Y/N leaned back just enough to catch her breath, her heart still pounding from the kiss—and the look Wanda gave her. “Alright, then. You shower, I’ll shower, and let’s get dressed up. Somewhere nice.”

Wanda raised a brow, teasing, “Nice as in candlelight and violins? Or nice as in greasy fries and milkshakes?”

Y/N pretended to think it over. “Hmm… maybe both. Fries first, violins after.”

Wanda laughed softly, the sound warming the air between them. “That’s why I love you.”

Y/N blinked, heart skipping a beat. Wanda had said it so casually, so confidently—but it landed like thunder in her chest. She smiled.

“Good,” she whispered, brushing a soft kiss to Wanda’s cheek. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m crazy about you.”

“Pretty sure?”

“Hopelessly.”

They kissed once more—gentle and full of promise—before Y/N stood and offered her hand.

“Come on, Maximoff. Let’s celebrate almost-six-months with something that isn’t leftover pizza.”

Wanda took her hand, rising to her feet. “Only if you let me wear the red dress you like.”

Y/N smirked. “Deal. But fair warning, I might not make it through dinner if you do.”

Wanda leaned in with a sly look. “Then we’ll just have dessert at home.”

---

The night started perfectly.

Wanda looked stunning in the red dress Y/N loved—elegant, effortless, and entirely captivating. Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off her, and Wanda couldn’t stop smiling at the way her soulmate kept sneaking glances like she was seeing her for the first time all over again.

They were seated at a cozy corner table, low candlelight flickering between them, the clinking of glasses and quiet hum of conversation creating an intimate backdrop. They held hands over the table, sipped wine, laughed at old mission stories, and toasted to ten months of love, chaos, and finding peace in each other.

But as the food arrived—plated beautifully, rich in aroma—Wanda’s expression changed.

Her smile faltered.

She blinked a few times, then pressed a hand lightly to her stomach. “Sorry, I—I don’t know what’s wrong. I suddenly feel…”

Her voice trailed off. She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with panic.

“Wanda?” Y/N asked, concerned, already rising from her seat.

Wanda didn’t answer. She bolted from the table, heels clicking in a rush across the floor, and disappeared into the women’s restroom.

Y/N followed without hesitation, ignoring the startled looks from a couple of nearby diners. When she pushed through the restroom door, she found Wanda in the far stall, retching violently.

Y/N’s heart sank. She closed the stall door behind her and crouched beside her, holding her hair back and rubbing gentle circles on her back. “I’m here, baby. Just breathe. It’s okay.”

Wanda didn’t speak for a while, just coughed and heaved until her stomach was empty. When it was finally over, she sagged against the stall wall, panting and pale.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t know what happened. The smell hit me and then—just everything turned.”

“Shh, don’t apologize,” Y/N said, brushing strands of hair from her forehead. “You’re okay. We’ll get you home.”

Wanda nodded weakly, allowing Y/N to help her to her feet. She rinsed her mouth and splashed cold water on her face at the sink, still visibly shaken but grateful.

“I ruined our night,” she muttered, still not quite meeting Y/N’s eyes.

Y/N turned her gently by the shoulders and looked at her. “You didn’t ruin anything. You scared me, sure. But we’ll try dinner again some other time. Right now, I just want to get you somewhere comfy.”

Wanda managed a small smile as Y/N kissed her temple and wrapped an arm around her. She leaned into the touch, letting the familiar warmth of her soulmate steady the trembling in her limbs.

They exited the restaurant quietly, with Y/N flagging down a car rather than using her speed—Wanda looked too shaken to be swept off her feet like usual. The ride back to the compound was silent, but not uncomfortable. Wanda rested her head on Y/N’s shoulder, eyes closed, breathing slow. Y/N held her hand the whole way.

Once inside their room, Y/N helped her out of her dress, letting her change into one of her oversized T-shirts and a pair of soft shorts. Wanda moved slowly, still a little off balance, and Y/N noticed—really noticed—how pale she looked under the warm lighting.

“You want some water? Or tea?” Y/N offered, brushing Wanda’s hair back.

Wanda shook her head. “Just… lie with me?”

Y/N didn’t need to be asked twice. She climbed into bed and opened her arms, and Wanda curled into her side without hesitation. The bond between them pulsed softly, a gentle hum that grounded them both.

Y/N held her close, the steady beat of Wanda’s heart under her palm both a relief and a concern. She pressed a soft kiss to Wanda’s forehead and whispered, “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve never gotten sick like that before. Maybe it’s a bug? Or something you ate?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away. Her fingers toyed with the hem of Y/N’s shirt, a nervous habit, and her eyes stayed trained on some distant point on the ceiling. Finally, after a beat of silence, she said softly, “I’m fine.”

Y/N frowned, gently tilting Wanda’s chin so their eyes met. “Wands. That wasn’t nothing. You nearly collapsed in the restaurant.”

“I know,” Wanda said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin tonight.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Y/N said firmly. “But you’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”

Wanda’s throat worked as she swallowed, and for a moment, it looked like she might say something more. But instead, she shook her head and snuggled in closer, burying her face in Y/N’s neck.

“I promise I’m okay,” she murmured. “I just needed to be with you. That’s all.”

Y/N didn’t push, not yet. She tightened her arms around her and let out a slow breath, choosing trust over worry—at least for now. But her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Wanda was rarely this quiet when something was off. And that look in her eyes earlier—that wasn’t just discomfort.

It was fear.

Still, Wanda was resting now. Her breathing had slowed, evening out against Y/N’s chest. Y/N stroked her back in soft, repetitive motions, whispering small reassurances even as her gut twisted with unease.

She was lying. Not about being fine, but about something.

She just didn’t know what yet.

And that scared her more than anything.

Y/N held Wanda a little tighter, her hand resting gently on the back of her head. The rhythm of her fingers slowed against Wanda’s hair as a quiet thought surfaced—last time she got sick like this...

Her mind flicked back to a memory she’d tried not to dwell on too much. It had been months ago, back when everything was still tense and raw. Back when Wanda was still living in the other room. Back when she was still engaged to Vision, when he tried to be intimate with her…

Y/N sighed, her breath slow and heavy, and looked down at the love of her life resting in her arms. Wanda’s brow was still faintly creased in discomfort, lips parted as she breathed softly through her mouth, eyes shut but restless. She looked so vulnerable. So human.

Y/N wanted to ask. Wanted to say “Are you feeling like that again? Did something bring it back? Did Vision try to do something?”

But she didn’t.

Not tonight.

She brushed a kiss to Wanda’s forehead and whispered into her hair, “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about anything. Just rest, baby.”

Wanda let out a barely-there hum, nuzzling into her chest. But Y/N felt the tension still lingering in her spine, like her body hadn’t fully let go yet.

She rubbed soft circles into Wanda’s back and closed her eyes, trying to ground herself in the feel of Wanda in her arms. The bond between them was steady but quiet, like it too was waiting—watching—holding its breath.

Y/N swallowed the unease rising in her throat and tucked it deep down.

Let it pass, she told herself. Let her breathe. Let her feel safe.

Tomorrow, if Wanda was ready, they’d talk. But tonight… Y/N would simply hold her through the storm.

---

Let me know your thoughts in the comment!

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (31 - Paradise Calling)

Chapter Summary: After several weeks of looking for her, you do eventually find Wanda Maximoff after she leaves Westview, but not in any way you ever imagined.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: violence, mention of blood and injury

A/N: The story continues in the aftermath of Wanda’s release of Westview. I’m still debating whether to stick with the canon concept of Billy and Tommy’s souls being real but bodiless since I started this story long before Agatha All Along entered the picture. Also, there might not be an update next week as I'll be out of town. Thanks to everyone who still continues to follow this story :) You guys are awesome. P.S. can you guess which mutant attacked y/n? :P // More author's notes here. // gif

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The Hex dissolves completely at midnight.

By then, more and more of Westview have become accessible, its walls shrinking like the last breath of a dying storm. Throughout the wait, Monica’s order remains ironclad, which is that no one who isn’t a Westview resident is to step across the boundary.

It turns out to be the right call. Letting Wanda end it on her own terms—without pressure, or interference—is the last mercy anyone can offer. So they wait at the edge of town, in the solemn dark, while those inside slowly begin to come back to themselves.

And when the last of it winds down, Monica gives the signal. The military moves in, not with weapons this time, but with medics in tow. People stumble into the streets, dazed and hollow-eyed, like toys winding themselves up after years on a shelf. Some of them rush to scoop their children into their arms, while others just stand there, holding each other, staring at their hands like they’ve only just remembered what it means to move on their own.

It’s harder than anyone on the rescue team expected. Because how do you assess damage like this? These people aren’t injured in any conventional way. Their minds weren’t broken so much as hijacked. Puppeted. Made to smile and speak and move without their consent. It’s not madness, and it’s definitely not grief that they are experiencing. 

It’s something more…alienating. Locked in the backseat of your own body, watching your hands move and your mouth speak, knowing none of it is you. It’s the kind of trauma that leaves even seasoned therapists unsure where to begin. So the medics do what they can. Blankets for the cold, water for the dry-mouthed, and a hand on the shoulder for those who can’t seem to stop shaking. 

And you—you stay rooted at the edge of the ground where Wanda’s house once stood, silently taking in the aftermath. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at the lot you bought on a whim five years ago. It feels larger than you remembered, and standing here now, it stirs more regret than pride.

“There’s no sign of her,” Clint says as he approaches. He glances between you, Monica, and Darcy. “She’s gone.”

Monica exhales sharply. “Of course she is,” she mutters.

Agent Woo’s already packed up and gone too, reassigned mid-crisis to another urgent matter. Those left behind are burdened to help pick up the pieces.

“I guess she escaped?” Darcy offers.

You wince. “Don’t say ‘escaped.’ She didn’t—” The sentence stalls, the logic collapsing halfway out of your mouth.

Monica catches it and shrugs. “Yeah, maybe ‘escaping’ wasn’t her plan.” Then, more pointedly, “But what did you think was gonna happen? That she’d stick around? Turn herself in? Like you did, Y/N?”

Right. You’re still technically a prisoner. Still walking around on borrowed time, under a conditional release that’s quickly running out, especially now that Wanda’s vanished, and no one has a clue where she went.

You’d been hoping for a moment—just one—to talk to Wanda alone. And now, you’re starting to think your presence never mattered at all. The other you, her you, was the one who got through to her, who helped her bring down the Hex.

All you’ve ever done here was make it harder for Wanda.

“And her children?” you ask quietly, turning to Clint, your voice stripped down to worry.

Clint just shakes his head. “No sign of them. Or your copy.”

Everyone’s face falls at that. They’d all felt so real, the idea that they simply blinked out of existence is hard to swallow even if the theory always seemed to suggest that direction.

Darcy breaks the spell. “Shame, really. I kinda liked that Y/N.” She shoots you an apologetic grin. “No offense to the original, it’s just... we never got our moment.”

You manage a weak smile. “None taken.”

Monica claps her hands together. “Well, I guess… that’s it.” 

You turn to her slowly, frowning. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

Monica’s hands drop to her sides. “I mean… she’s gone. The Hex is down. Everyone who was trapped is free. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Clint gives a weary shrug. “Sometimes disappearing’s the only thing a person has left.” You shoot him a glare, but he honestly seems oblivious that his words just struck you straight on.

Before you can argue further, a young S.W.O.R.D. tech jogs up, tablet in hand.

“Uh, Director?” He gestures vaguely at Monica. “We found a vehicle just outside the old perimeter. Abandoned. Figured you’d want to take a look.”

Monica glances between you and Clint. “Yours?”

You shake your head no.

“Color?” Clint asks.

“Deep maroon,” the tech says. “Old Volvo wagon. New Jersey plates.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “That’s Wanda’s.”

You’re already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth.

“Y/N—” Monica calls after you, but you don’t look back.

Clint mutters a curse and follows. Monica and Darcy hang back, letting you go.

You’re desperate for any sign of Wanda, anything that might tell you where she went. You haven’t run this far or this fast in years, and your lungs are burning from the effort. But the thought of her out there, alone and possibly hurt, keeps your legs moving, pushing through the ache.

Soon, just past the edge of the boundary, you spot the Volvo.

You slow as you approach, heart thudding in your chest.

Clint catches up beside you. “That’s definitely hers.”

You nod, already reaching for the handle. It shouldn’t open, but it does. The door gives with a soft click, swinging open without resistance. You slide into the driver’s seat and glance around. 

“She didn’t even lock it,” you murmur.

“The keys?” Clint asks.

You check the ignition. Nothing. Then the cupholders, under the seat, the center console. Still nothing.

“Glove box,” Clint says, leaning in through the open door.

You press the latch. The compartment drops with a soft thunk, and something slides forward: a single manila folder, edges crisp, your name penned in Wanda’s looping cursive across the tab. Your breath catches. Carefully, almost like it might break in your hands, you lift it. It feels like it holds everything you’ve been chasing.

Inside, everything is heartbreakingly familiar. The property deed you mailed Clint weeks ago. Photographs you never had the courage to burn when you first became convinced that Wanda wasn’t coming back. Letters and notes you randomly wrote to Wanda throughout the years she was gone. 

And resting on top of it all, catching the faint moonlight—

Your wedding ring. The one you gave her. The match to the one you still wear around your neck.

With trembling fingers, you turn the band over between thumb and forefinger; it’s still warm, as if she’d only just set it down.

“She left this car here,” you whisper. “Because she wanted me to find this.”

Clint drifts a few steps back, giving you space but not leaving. He folds his arms and waits, giving you time to come to terms with Wanda’s clear response at having found out you lied to her. And it’s not pretty.

After a long, brittle silence, he clears his throat. “So… what are you going to do now?”

It’s the same question everyone’s thrown at you all day, and you still don’t have an answer.

Instead of answering, you whisper, “Did I make a mistake, Clint? Walking away back then, leaving her to sort through the rubble alone, was that when everything started to fall apart?”

He exhales and lowers himself onto the curb beside the car. “We all made mistakes,” he says, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckles. “But no one could have known it would lead to this. We were careless, sure, maybe blind to how much she was really hurting. But this,” he says, nodding at the folder in your lap, “this was Wanda’s pain. Her choice. Not something you could have predicted.”

“I should’ve seen her slipping. I asked you to look after her and—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “And I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t there for her like you asked. I was drowning in my own mess, trying to keep my family together once we got them back… I missed the signs.”

You nod slowly and slip the ring into your pocket. Then, flat and quiet, you say, “I’ve still got about a decade of my sentence to serve.”

“I can buy you more time,” Clint offers. “Tell them Wanda escaped. Technically, this whole thing isn’t over.”

You huff a humorless breath. “It won’t matter. I don’t want to go back.”

Clint studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed. “You mean that?”

You nod again. “The second I saw her… I wanted to take it all back. The deal. The surrender. All those years I spent trying to convince myself that moving on was the right call.”

He sits with that for a while, then says, quiet and honest, “You know I can’t turn myself in either.”

You glance over at him. “I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ve got my family back,” he says. “I’m rebuilding. I can’t walk away from that.”

“I know,” you reply. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “Then what are you thinking? You planning to go back on the run? Because you remember what it was like after the Accords, right? We didn’t end up in the Raft, but we weren’t free either. We were always looking over our shoulders.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Wanda was with me back then.”

He raises a brow, watching you carefully.

“And somehow,” you add, voice soft, almost to yourself, “that made all of it bearable.”

After a long lull, Clint asks, “What were you hoping for, Y/N? When she saw you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit with a shrug. “Maybe that… that she’d recognize me, at least.”

“She probably did,” Clint says. “That might be why she destroyed the Hex herself.”

You shake your head, hard, unwilling to accept that. “I doubt it was that simple.” 

The idea feels impossible. You remember the look on Wanda’s face: hurt, disappointment, the unmistakable sting of betrayal. You have put that look there before, but this time it was different. This time, that betrayal caused her this guilt she now carries with her for something she’d done out of her mourning you—

When she never should have had to mourn at all.

—

With Clint’s quiet blessing, you slip into the night, becoming a fugitive once again, determined to reach Wanda before the authorities do. It isn’t enough that Wanda released the town willingly; the damage is already done. Westview’s residents remain traumatized and disoriented, and dissolving the Hex doesn't absolve her actions. This is exactly what Tony always fought for—the idea that even heroes, even Avengers, must answer to laws meant for everyone, not just hide behind the duty of saving the world.

You don’t blame them for hunting her. You just don’t trust them to understand her.

So you go first.

You swap your jacket for a plain coat, leave your comms behind, and start reaching out to contacts you haven’t spoken to in years. A woman like Wanda can’t move without leaving a ripple, and eventually, you learn to follow a pattern: unexplained power surges in rural areas upwards north. Clint checks in with you every now and then, but you don’t expect anything more. He’s busy these days—a civilian fully occupied with being a father. 

The first few weeks blur together. Deep down, you keep hoping Wanda will be the one to find you—not because she misses you or wants to forgive, but because she finally wants answers. Isn’t there at least one question she needs to ask? Maybe she hates you too much to bother. Maybe she hates you enough to stop caring about your reasons altogether.

That thought hurts more than you’d like to admit. Still, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve put her through. You don’t know how you’ll face her when the time comes. All you know is that she’s hurting—and a hurting Wanda Maximoff isn’t just a danger to the world. She’s a danger to herself.

Late one evening, while tracking rumors of strange sightings in the forested mountains of Vermont, you feel unease settle in your gut. The trees grow denser, their branches knitting overhead, and the pale yellow moon offers little light. Shadows slither and shift across the narrow trail. You stop, breath misting in the cold air, certain now that you’re not alone.

You hold still and listen. Over the thud of your own unsteady pulse comes a faint rustle in the undergrowth. It’s too careful, too deliberate to be wind or wildlife.

“Who’s there?” Your voice is brittle, an uncertain challenge.

In the dark forest, you know you shouldn’t make a sound. But if it’s Wanda—

A low growl answers, so deep and guttural it sends a chill racing down your spine. You spin, eyes straining through the gloom, just as a shadow barrels toward you. The movement is fast, smooth, and completely inhuman.

It slams into you with brutal force, all muscle and claws—definitely not Wanda—knocking you hard to the ground.

You scramble to your feet, breath ragged, eyes sweeping the darkness in search of your attacker. The figure rises slowly, towering and hunched, its skin a sick, mottled gray. Its limbs are grotesquely stretched, ending in claws slick with fresh blood (yours).

Its face—

No. That can’t be right. Tony’s snap wiped out all of Thanos’ army. This thing shouldn’t exist. So how is it standing here? How did it survive?

“What the—” you gasp, stumbling back.

It lunges again, jaws gaping open with teeth glinting sharp and savage. You swing your arm wildly, and your fist connects with its jaw. The impact jars painfully up your arm, but the creature barely reacts, snarling viciously as it swings one massive clawed hand toward your face. You dodge by inches, claws slicing the air with a sharp hiss.

You stagger back again, trying to regain your footing. Your breath comes out in uneven bursts of fogged air. The creature circles slowly, blocking any clear route of escape. You study it, desperately searching for a weakness, but its movements remain erratic, unpredictable. 

Your combat skills are still there, but you’ve aged some, and it’s not as easy to fall back into your old rhythm and speed, especially when facing such an aggressive foe.

“Stay back,” you warn weakly, your voice trembling despite your attempt at bravado.

It snarls louder, head twitching, neck muscles spasming unnaturally as it stalks closer. You backpedal and your foot slips on wet leaves, throwing you off-balance. You hit the ground hard, skull cracking sharply against something hidden beneath the foliage. Stars burst in your vision.

As you struggle to sit upright, the beast approaches slowly, enjoying this, you realize sickeningly. It flexes its claws, taking its time.

“Wait,” you choke out, tasting copper as blood fills your mouth.

It stalks towards you leisurely as if hearing nothing. It snarls again, lips peeling back to reveal teeth sharp as blades. It raises a hand for the final blow, claws poised high—

And all you can think is how ironic it is. That this is what you craved, once.

Back when you were Ronin.

When death felt like the only honest language left, and violence was the only thing that could answer it.

You spent five years chasing this moment. And now? Now, with Wanda back in the universe. Now, when for the first time in years, you actually want to live.

Now is when death decides to show up?

Of course it is.

You laugh, or try to, but it comes out as a choked breath through blood. The creature roars, the sound tearing through the trees. And as the snow drifts down and your vision begins to fade, you manage one last word, soft as a prayer.

“…Wanda.”

—

You wake slowly to warmth, a fire crackling nearby. Every part of you feels bruised, sliced open, and carefully stitched back together. Bandages wind tight around your ribs, your shoulders, your arms. Your throat burns dry, but you're breathing. Miraculously. 

You push yourself upright, careful and slow. The world sways around you as the blanket slips from your shoulders.

Blinking up at the slanted ceiling overhead—wooden, rough-hewn, beams exposed, nothing familiar about it—you realize you’re still in the forest. The earthy, damp scent of pine needles teases your nose. There’s no electricity, just lanterns, candles, heat from flame and old wood. The furniture is simple, hand-built, and worn from use.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet sinking into a rug so soft it draws a quiet sigh from your lips. You have no idea how long you’ve been unconscious—hours, maybe even days.

Unsteady, you find the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance. You pass a small kitchen, simple but well-stocked. A kettle rests near the fire, still warm, like it was used not long ago.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the front door slightly ajar, a narrow strip of gray light slicing into the room, dust suspended in its path.

You drift closer.

Outside, there’s Wanda.

She sits on the porch steps, wrapped in a thick sweater, her back to you. Her hair falls in loose, tangled waves, longer than you remember. Despite the biting cold, she’s barefoot, her arms draped over her knees as she stares into the woods.

You stop at the doorway, saying nothing at first. 

She looks so… peaceful. 

“Wanda,” you say at last, barely above a breath.

She doesn’t move.

You try again. “Wanda.”

Still nothing. You can’t tell if she’s ignoring you, or if your voice is simply too weak for her to hear.

Of course it was her who found you. Of course it doesn’t mean anything’s been forgiven. You take a step back, and the door eases shut behind you with a quiet creak.

You head deeper into the cabin. It’s not large, but in your condition, it feels like a maze.

At the end of a narrow hallway, you find a door left slightly open.

Something pulses beyond it—low and red and constant. Your fingers graze the frame as you nudge it open. 

The hair on your arms rises.

Wanda’s there, too.

She’s floating a few inches off the ground, legs crossed. Her eyes don’t blink. They don’t move. Just glowing red, unwavering and endless.

She’s reading. The book in her hands is anything but ordinary. Its pages shift and shimmer, symbols rearranging themselves the moment you try to make sense of them.

You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come. You’re frozen.

Slowly, like she already knew you were standing there, she lifts her head.

Her gaze locks onto yours.

The book snaps shut.

[ninjakittenarmy]

“Oh I have. Mostly about whether it technically makes them insects.”

The cat-girl cocked her head. “Eh?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was an understandable reaction, but the actual subject matter was so dumb that I was dreading explaining it.

“Since insects have six limbs, and so do centaurs, and these people were only ever taught that six legs equals insect, they ask centaurs if they count as insects.”

She was silent for a moment, staring at me in disbelief.

“But that’s so DUMB!”

“I know, right? A buddy of mine I’ve known since high school’s a centaur and he actually gets asked that a lot.”

“They don’t even have exoskeletons!”

“Yeah, and you have to have evolved in the class Insecta. It’s not just looks.”

She sighed. “I thought it was just us but I guess everyone gets dumb questions.”

“Sorry I brought it up” I said. “Didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.”

She shrugged. “It’s not too big a deal, I’m just not sure why so many people fixate on it. It’s really not that strange. The amount of times I’ve been asked why I have four sets of ears instead of big cat ears wrapped around the side of my head is mind boggling.”

I’ll admit I was having a hard time imagining that.

“In any case, the reason we were engineered like that is because cat ears and human ears don’t hear the same auditory spectrum, yeah? I don’t really know the details but the ear shape has a lot to do with it. With eyes, it’s easy, you just add all the color cones from cats and humans. With ears it’s tricky to make one that hears all the sounds cats and humans can pick up.”

“So they just give you a set of each.”

“Exactly!” she said, glad I was getting it so easily.

The waiter briefly interrupted us to bring our sushi platters. Her eyes turned into saucers.

“Oh my God that looks so good!”

“Right? This place has amazing sushi.”

She ate the platter with astonishing speed. She was done before I could even finish half of mine.

“Wow. You must’ve been starving.”

She nodded enthusiastically, then swallowed the last California roll.

“Oh yeah. Haven’t eaten in a few hours at least! We felinids gotta eat lots of meat.”

“For the eyesight, right?”

“Among lots and lots of other stuff yeah but our eyes need a type of protein that you can only get from meat. There’s a lot of stuff we can only get from meat actually. Having to explain that to the vegetarians is NOT fun.”

“Oof” I winced, already being familiar with the sort of vegetarian she was talking about.

“I think most of them get that we can’t eat like them, but some of them are just nuts. Complete zealots. Like, no, Makeighlyn, I can’t just eat soy. I know there’s protein in soy. It’s not the right kind.”

I chuckled at her name suggestion.

“There’s this one vegan lady who’s still mad at me for ah, ‘stealing’ her cat.”

She grinned mischievously.

“Ooh, do tell!”

“Right so I was cat sitting for her and I realized that Mittens wasn’t looking so hot. I couldn’t find any cat food around so I asked if she was out.”

“Oh brother” she said, already seeing where this was going.

“She says that she eats this veggie and tofu purée in the fridge. Now I already knew that this was bad. But I looked at this Tupperware and it was full of just, the foulest slop I have ever seen in my life. Like if you fed this to inmates in Texas, YOU would get the death penalty.”

She snorted, choking on laughter.

“So then you stole the cat?”

“Well here’s the thing, I didn’t steal anything! I called the police to see if the city’s animal cruelty laws covered this and wouldn’t you know it, they did. So we have this whole court battle and she throws a fit right in the courtroom about how the government was only punishing her because they were in the pocket of the meat industry.”

“Oh God.”

I laughed. “Yeah she said some of the wildest conspiracy theory bullshit I ever heard. She thinks that all animals-“ I cut myself off laughing” “That ALL animals naturally only eat plants and that we humans taught carnivores to eat meat.”

“Did ‘em a favor” she said.

I chuckled. “Does time for animal cruelty AND contempt of court. And obviously loses the cat. So I took her in and got her some actual, edible food. Edible for her I mean. Though it’s probably safer for human consumption than whatever that puree was.”

We continued talking for a while about various things. Biology, videogames, the anime that lead to her species’ creation, that sort of thing. A couple hours, a few orders of seafood dishes, and an expensive bill later, and we were ready to go. As we were packing up, she said something that caught me off guard.

“So… if you’re not busy later tonight, could I maybe drop by your place?”

I was taken aback and immediately flustered. I could feel the heat rising on my face.

“O-oh! I uh-I don’t really do that sort of thing” I said. I’m asexual you see.

Her face turned beet red at the implication she apparently just realized. “Oh no, I know! I saw you wearing that pride pin aways back! I ah, don’t really like that stuff either, truth be told.”

“Oh” I said, relieved. “So why ah, why this all of a sudden?”

She smiled bashfully, averting her eyes.

“I was kinda hoping I could… maybe meet your cat? I love cats.”

"Why do people find the 'four ears' thing to be so weird?" The cat-girl flicked her top pair back in annoyance. "Centaurs have six limbs and I've never seen anyone ask one of them about it."

[stillalivebydemand893]

That night,That Lie,That fucking kiss

Part 2

(so sorry my loves for the delay this degree is humping my ass)

A road trip with Erik you'll never forget

18+ very romantic i was in my feels

You were both left breathless on the kitchen floor,half-naked, half what the actual fuck just happened.

Erik was still buried inside you, still cockwarming you like you were the last warmth on Earth. His grip on your waist tightened, like if you moved even an inch, he might combust,or worse, feel too much.

“Did we just fuck everything up?” you whispered, hand brushing his cheek, fingers trembling.

You’d prayed for this moment more times than you could count,fantasized about it like a goddamn sinner. You’d imagined what it’d feel like to finally have your best friend between your thighs, moaning your name like it meant something. And now?

It didn’t feel wrong. Not even a little.

Which made the spiral even worse.

Every cell in your body was screaming SHAME like you were the village whore in a medieval drama. Somewhere in the back of your brain, there was a nun with a bell shouting, “SHAME! TO THE ONES WHO STARVE FOR DICK!”

You were losing your goddamn mind.

Erik bit your collarbone, hard.

Your gasp punched straight through the fog.

“Okay, technically yeah, we definitely fucked” he said, smirking like the devil reincarnated. “But hey,60% of accidents happen in the kitchen. We just made the best out of it.”

“You made that shit up,” you laughed, swatting his arm.

It felt insane. Hysterical. Like you hadn’t just been screaming at each other two hours ago. Like he hadn’t ripped you apart and then kissed you back together.

“You’re still dripping on my dick, Peach,” he said, like it was a compliment, like it was a fact.

Then he took your breast in his tattooed hand and sucked your nipple into his hot mouth like he was trying to undo you all over again.

You moaned,because of course you did. Like you’d just woken the devil from a nap and he was starving.

“Can we move to the couch?” you panted, tugging his hair. “My knees are fucked and I’d like to avoid arthritis before I turn 30.”

His mouth stayed where it was, hands still reverent on your chest like your tits were the eighth and ninth wonders of the world.

“I need those knees working, Sweets. You ride me like I owe you rent.”

He kissed your neck, dragging his teeth just enough to make your legs twitch.

You groaned. “Come on, stupid.”

You both stood,instantly missing the feeling of being tangled together.

You lasted maybe five seconds before your knees buckled again.

Erik caught you around the waist like he knew it was coming.

“Jesus, Peach, give a guy a warning. We’re gonna end up crippled and unfucked at this rate.”

He swept you into his arms like you weighed nothing and started walking toward your bedroom.

“We’ll get Alzheimer’s one day and think we’re having sex for the first time every week,” you muttered against his chest.

“What a fucking blessing,” he smirked.

You didn’t say it, but the thought of growing old with him,of getting old and still doing this messy dance with him,settled in your chest like comfort.

Like home.

You collapsed onto the bed side by side, skin still humming, bodies wrecked in that perfect way.

“Remember two years ago?” he said suddenly, voice a little hoarse. “When we said we’d just drive around the States? Like Thelma and Louise, but hotter and with less felony murder?”

You turned your head toward him, snorting. “We had the playlist ready. Crime podcasts saved. Snacks planned. But someone-” you jabbed his bicep, hard “-decided to stick his tongue down her throat and settle down .”

“Ow,” he winced. “Unnecessary violence.”

“Say her name and I’ll commit actual violence.”

You ran a hand over your face like that would erase the memory. The image of them kissing in the studio burned behind your eyelids like an old scar that wouldn’t fade.

Erik turned to you, serious now.

“She came by when I was leaving,” he said quietly. “Started crying. Kissed me out of nowhere. I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t want it. There’s nothing between us, Peach. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

He exhaled like he was praying you’d believe him.

But your brain was a locked room, and belief didn’t come easy.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said, getting up and reaching for his pants on the kitchen chair. “Just pack your bags.”

“What?” You blinked, confused. “Where the fuck are you going?”

He looked at you, half-dressed and completely serious.

“We’re doing it. The roadtrip.”

“Erik. You’re not making any sense.Where would we even go?”

“Twilight. Twin Peaks. Buttfuck Nowhere. I don’t care. Just us. We’ll figure it out.”

He came back over, dropped a kiss to your lips like it was muscle memory.

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”

He walked out the door, tossing an “I love you” like it was something he’d been saying every day for a hundred years.

Your heart hit the floor.

“Love you too,” you whispered, dazed.

Then, louder:

“Asshole.”

You stared at the window.

Maybe if you jumped out, he’d catch you.

A good trust exercise for whatever the hell this relationship was now.

Whatever it was becoming.

You threw four pairs of underwear, one hoodie, and a bottle of dry shampoo into your duffel like that counted as packing.

You yanked on your sluttiest tank top ,the one that made your boobs look like a renaissance painting and your shoulders scream “I have secrets and bad decisions to offer” and stared at yourself like you were suiting up for war.

Because you were.

War with your brain.

With your thighs.

With Erik and the cursed magic of his dick.

And with the highway of consequences which, unlike Erik, was reliable.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Jeep honked outside .

You opened the door.

Erik was there, leaning against the driver’s side he was auditioning to play “Emotionally Damaged Yet Inexplicably Hot Roadtrip Love Interest” in the A24 version of your breakdown.

Sunglasses.

Sweatshirt sleeve pushed up just enough to show off that one tattoo you used to trace with your fingers like it was braille for "Please make out with me."

Music blasting , something aggressive, chaotic, definitely featured in a trailer for a movie where someone robs a bank shirtless.

“You’re late,” he said, without looking.

“You left me post-sex and emotionally obliterated with no warning.”

He turned. Smirked. That fuckboy smirk. The one that made you wanna throw your panties in one direction and your pride in the other.

“So... on time, then.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in another dimension.

“Where are we going,Kiki?”

He shrugged. “South? East? Hell?”

You tossed your duffel in the backseat and slid into the passenger seat.

“Perfect. I’ve always wanted to get fingered in Satan’s backyard.”

He choked on his Red Bull.

"Driver’s Seat" by Sniff 'n' the Tears was blasting through the speakers, and for a second, you and Erik felt like you were eighteen again. Back when he first got his license and you’d spent days driving aimlessly through LA, just the two of you, windows down, singing like your hearts didn’t already belong to each other.

“She always smiled for the people she’d meet,” Erik sang in a gloriously off-key tone.

“On trouble and strife,” you joined in, tone equally chaotic.

“She had another way of looking at life-” you both finished in perfect sync before disolving into laughter, giggling like you weren’t two people stitched together by unresolved trauma and explosive chemistry.

He reached over, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles so softly it made something in your chest break open. Like you were made of sugar.

You melted right there in the passenger seat.

“I love you too,” you murmured , barely audible. But he heard it. His smile said everything.

He kissed your palm this time, slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Then he turned the music down with a smirk that should be illegal in three states.

“Come on, Peach. Be more romantic. Pick a song. Show me how much you love me,” he teased, voice low and cocky.

“Oh don’t try me, Campbell,” you shot back, already grabbing your phone.

He leaned back in his seat like he was watching a show.

And then the playlist appeared on the Jeep’s touchscreen.

“how can I stop loving you without fucking this up”

Erik blinked. His smirk grew.

“Peach…” he said slowly, dragging the word out like he was tasting it. “Do you have a playlist for me?”

“Not for you,” you muttered, already turning red. “About you.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Even better. Show me what you got, Sweets.”

You hit play.

And then:

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you…

His face changed.

That song.

That song.

You didn’t have to look to know he recognized it. Wicked Game. The first one he ever played for you in that beat-up Corolla with the broken aux cord, his hand resting on your thigh like it meant nothing,when it meant everything.

You started singing along. Soft. A little shaky.

It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do…

You glanced at him, embarrassed, it felt like you were cracking your chest open and pouring your whole stupid, lovesick soul into the car.

Because that’s what this playlist was. This wasn’t just a collection of songs , it was every moment you’d spent together. Every late night. Every “fuck, I think I love him” thought you pretended wasn’t real.

And this song? This one made you feel like you had memories in a life you hadn’t lived. Like you were someone else’s heartbreak. Someone’s wife in New Orleans. A forest witch with Erik’s name carved into a tree. Like you’d loved him in every lifetime and failed every time.

You felt a tear slide down your cheek before you could stop it.

Erik didn’t say a word. Just pulled into a gas station, parked, and didn’t turn the song off. He let it play , the hum of the guitar bleeding into the quiet night, just the two of you in the soft glow of fluorescent lights, your soul spilling into his passenger seat.

He reached out and gently swept the tear from your face with his thumb.

His voice was hoarse.

“I already fell in love with you, Peach.”

That was it.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and landed in his lap, knees on either side of him. Your mouth was already on his before he could finish breathing.

And god, the kiss.

It was everything ,soft and hungry and hot and heartbreaking. Your moans caught in his mouth like confessions. Your tears mixed with his breath. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, closer, like he couldn’t bear one more inch of space between you.

You ground down on his lap, and he groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips like he was seconds away from losing his mind.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips. “You’re gonna make me come in the front seat of my own car.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you panted. “Maybe I like ruining you in small spaces.”

“You have ruined me,” he growled, pressing kisses along your jaw, your throat. “I can’t even think straight when you’re on top of me like this.”

“Good,” you whispered, hips rolling slow and deliberate against his hard length beneath his jeans. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before ghosting the girl who made you a goddamn playlist.”

He cursed under his breath, dragging his hands under your hoodie, fingertips brushing skin, making you shiver.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he rasped.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you said, grinding down harder.

You kissed again ,deeper, wetter, like your bodies were trying to say everything your words couldn’t.

The song played on.

No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you…

Too late.

You were already in freefall.

And this time?

You weren’t falling alone.

You were still in his lap.

Still breathing like you’d just been kissed back to life.

Wicked Game faded into silence, and Erik was staring at you like you were made of constellations and he had just memorized every single one.

Your hands rested on his chest. His heart was pounding.

You didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the fact that you’d just emotionally roundhouse kicked each other in a gas station parking lot with a Chris Isaak song.

Maybe both.

You reached up, touched his cheek with your thumb, and whispered:

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t dodge like he usually did when shit got too real.

He just nodded,slow. Like he knew. Like he felt it too. Like he’d already tried.

“I don’t think I want you to,” he said.

Your throat burned.

“Erik…”

“I know, Peach,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours. “I know.”

You stayed like that for a long moment,just holding each other in a car that smelled like gas station coffee, bad decisions, and the start of something holy.

You shifted your hips a little and felt him still hard underneath you.

“God,” you whispered, smirking. “Still?”

He gave you a look that could’ve set the dashboard on fire.

“You climbed into my lap singing Wicked Game, cried a little, told me you loved me, and then started grinding like we weren’t in public, Peach. You think I’m made of stone?”

You giggled.

Actually giggled.

Like an idiot.

He pulled you tighter, arms locking around your waist.

“Let’s get outta here,” he murmured. “I wanna take you somewhere where I can love you properly.”

That made your whole chest ache.

“You love me?” you teased, trying to lighten the weight pressing down on your lungs.

He tilted his head, lips brushing yours.

“I love you in every language I don’t speak. In every song I’ve ever skipped because it reminded me of you. In every version of this fucked-up life where I don’t get to kiss you like this.”

You blinked. “You’re making me crazy love.”

He kissed your nose. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“I love you in the dumbass way I don’t say it right, but show it every time I look at you like you hung the fucking moon.”

“Erik-”

“And I love you in the annoying way that means I’ll never be able to let you go without burning something down.”

You swallowed.

Your brain was a blur of what did I do to deserve this, and your heart was crawling into his hoodie like it finally found a place to live.

“Take me somewhere,” you whispered.

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Just drive. I don’t care. I’ll love you in every zip code.”

His lips twitched into a soft, crooked smile.

“Damn, Peach,” he muttered, kissing your forehead. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“You started it.”

He chuckled.

“You ready?”

You kissed him again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like you were making a promise you couldn’t take back.

“Yeah,” you said against his lips. “Let’s go fall in love on the road like two idiots with a death wish.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

You put on another song,this one soft, nostalgic, something that made your eyes sting without knowing why.

Outside, the stars were starting to come out.

Inside, you were glowing.

You leaned your head against the window, hand in his, and whispered:

“If we crash and die tonight, I just want god to know I died horny and in love.”

Erik snorted.

“Romantic and deranged. My dream girl.”

You smiled.

And somewhere between one exit sign and the next town, he looked at you like you were the only destination that mattered.

You didn’t know where Erik was driving. Didn’t care.

The road spilled in front of you like a ribbon made of second chances, and the air felt different - heavier, maybe, or sacred. The way it does right before a storm, or a kiss that’ll change everything.

You were quiet now. Just music humming low through the speakers and Erik’s hand warm on your thigh like he didn’t ever want to let go.

Outside, the sky had darkened into that deep indigo, stars beginning to scatter like someone spilled glitter across the universe.

“You tired?” he asked softly, glancing over.

You shook your head. “No. Just… floating.”

He smirked. “You always get philosophical after orgasms and playlists.”

You elbowed him, but didn’t deny it.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off into a field , open, wide, nothing but grass and sky and the kind of silence that makes you feel like the only two people left in the world.

The engine cut. The stars blinked brighter.

You both got out, and you climbed onto the hood of the car like it was something you’d done a thousand times , because maybe, in some other life, you had.

He joined you. Laid back, arms folded behind his head.

“God,” you whispered. “We’re so fucking cliché.”

“Hot people doing cliché things. It’s allowed,” he said, smirking up at the sky.

You laid next to him. Close. Barely touching.

“I almost told you I loved you,” you murmured. “Last year. Remember that night at the lake? When you fell asleep on my lap after three beers and a panic attack?”

He blinked. Turned to look at you.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“I was gonna say it. You were mumbling in your sleep. Said my name like it hurt.”

He swallowed.

“I remember that too.”

You were silent for a long second.

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to be another thing you had to survive.”

He turned on his side. Eyes locked on yours.

“You’ve never been something I survived, Peach,” he said. “You’re the reason I’m still fucking breathing.”

The air left your lungs.

And then, from the car speakers, a soft Sinatra song started to play. Erik had turned the volume up from his phone.

He held out a hand.

You stared.

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly,” he said. “Get up here and dance with me, Peach.”

“We’re in the middle of a field, Erik.”

“So?”

“No one dances to Sinatra in an open field under a full moon like they’re in a goddamn perfume commercial-”

“I do.”

You snorted, but he was already climbing off the hood, standing under the stars, hand still outstretched like he knew you’d come to him.

You always did.

You hopped down.

“Try anything horny and I’m headbutting you.”

“No promises.”

You slipped your hand into his.

And suddenly, he was pulling you into his chest, one hand on your back, the other twined in your fingers. Your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces that had been aching to fit.

He started to sway. Slowly.

You bit your lip.

“This is so fucking stupid.”

“I know,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

“But I love you anyway.”

Your knees went weak.

His grip tightened.

“I love you like it’s ruining me,” he said. “And I don’t even care.”

You closed your eyes. Breathed him in.

“I love you like it’s always been you.”

And you swayed.

There. In the middle of nowhere. With the stars overhead and the world asleep and your entire chest cracked wide open like maybe this time… maybe it was safe to be soft.

He dipped you.

You screamed.

He laughed.

You shoved him back and he caught you around the waist, spun you once, then kissed you like it was the grand finale of a love story no one thought would survive the first chapter.

“Promise me something,” you said, breathless.

“Anything.”

“When this roadtrip ends… don’t stop choosing me.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I never stopped.”

The moment the dance ended, you didn’t even realize who moved first.

Maybe it was you.

Maybe it was him.

But your back hit the car door and Erik’s mouth was on yours, hot and starving, and his hands were everywhere at once , cupping your face, sliding down your waist, gripping your ass like he’d waited years to do it in open air.

You moaned against his mouth, fingers in his hair, dragging him down until his hips pressed to yours and there was no doubt how hard he was.

“This is insane,” you gasped as he kissed down your neck, teeth grazing your throat.

“Then call me fucking crazy,” he growled, fumbling to open the back door with one hand while the other slipped under your shirt, thumbs dragging over bare skin.

The car door opened and you both fell inside, tangled limbs, breathless gasps, the weight of everything crashing down in the form of pure, desperate need.

You landed in the backseat, Erik’s body caging you in, heat radiating off him like he was made of fire.

He kissed you again , deeper now, slower, but with a tension that could snap bones. Tongue against yours, hands everywhere, so much skin and not enough time.

Your shirt was gone first.

Then his hoodie.

Then your bra.

He pulled back, just to look.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful it makes me crazy.”

“Then do something about it,” you breathed, hips rolling up into his.

That broke him.

He dove back in, mouth on your chest, licking, sucking, biting , one hand gripping your thigh, the other squeezing your breast like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You dragged your fingers down his stomach, over the trail of hair that led to his waistband, and undid his belt with shaking hands.

He hissed when your palm brushed his cock.

“You gonna tease me again?” you smirked, already knowing the answer.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and wild.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

He yanked your jeans down , impatient, messy , and hooked your legs over his shoulders like he was prepping for battle.

Then , his tongue was on you.

You cried out, back arching into the seat, hands clawing at the upholstery as he devoured you like a man possessed.

“Erik-fuck-”

He moaned into you, like the taste of you wrecked him, tongue curling just right, fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open like this was his purpose.

You were shaking already.

“Please,” you gasped, body strung tight. “I need you -please.”

He pulled back just long enough to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand and say:

“You want it, Peach? Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you moaned. “Now. Here. I don’t care. Just-now.”

His mouth was back on yours instantly, wet and hot and filthy.

You felt him line up against your entrance, his cock thick and hot, already leaking against your skin.

Then, one deep thrust , and he was inside.

You gasped , loud. Body bowing into him.

He groaned like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he choked out, pulling back and slamming into you again.

The car shook.

Your moan turned into a scream.

He set a brutal rhythm , hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the tiny space, the windows fogging so fast it looked like a scene out of a horror movie ,except this was the most alive you’d ever felt.

You clawed at his back, his shoulders, dragged your nails down his spine just to feel him shiver.

“Erik, I—oh my god—”

“I know,” he panted, biting down on your shoulder. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling just right.

You lost it.

Your whole body clenched, legs tightening around him, scream caught in your throat as you came hard, the kind of orgasm that wrecked memory and rewrote religion.

He cursed, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum,” he growled. “Where do you-”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Inside. I need it.”

That’s all it took.

He buried himself deep, let out a broken moan, and came with a shudder so intense it felt like an earthquake inside your chest.

You stayed like that, panting, tangled, skin slick and burning, his face pressed into your neck, breath ghosting over your skin like an apology.

You were both trembling.

Both ruined.

And still - he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just whispered into your skin:

“You’re my home, Peach. Always have been.”

You pressed a kiss to his hair, still catching your breath.

“And you’re the disaster I’d choose every time.”

THE NEXT MORNING:

You woke up with your leg over the center console, your face smushed into Erik’s bare chest, and a single french fry stuck to your arm like it had gone to war with you.

The car windows were fogged.

Erik was dead asleep under the hoodie you both fought over. His mouth was slightly open, hair a complete mess, and he looked like an angel who’d gotten in a bar fight with a raccoon.

You shifted, winced, and whispered:

“Oh my God… my spine’s filing for divorce.”

“Same,” Erik muttered without opening his eyes. “Pretty sure I left one of my vertebrae under your ass.”

You sat up. Everything hurt. Everything smelled like… regret, sex, and possibly Funyuns.

“I think I gave you a hickey the size of Rhode Island.”

He smirked, eyes still closed.

“You think?”

You shoved him gently, and the car creaked in protest like it too had seen some shit last night.

ONE HOUR LATER: SMALL TOWN DINER, BIG TIME SHAME

You stumbled into a local diner looking like two feral raccoons who’d just discovered what love and backseat sex felt like.

Erik’s hoodie was stretched out in weird places. Your shorts were inside out,and Erik’s neck looked like it had been claimed by a vampire with emotional issues.

The waitress didn’t even blink.

“Booth or bar?”

“Booth,” you both croaked in unison like cursed dolls.

You slid into the booth, hissing as your thighs met the cold leather.

“God, I am fucking wrecked.”

“Same,” Erik muttered, flopping in across from you. “Pretty sure I dislocated a hip.”

You both opened your menus in silence.

Then a sweet old woman from the next booth leaned over and, with the voice of someone who had absolutely zero boundaries, said:

“Well. Someone had fun last night.”

You froze.

Erik blinked.

“Sorry?” you said, attempting politeness but radiating shame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, sipping her black coffee. “I know that walk. And those bruises.”

You reached for your ice water like it might help you evaporate.

Erik, of course, grinned like a feral golden retriever.

“Ma’am, if I could high-five you for that, I would.”

She did high-five him.

You nearly died on the spot.

“I’m Shirley,” she added. “Used to be a gymnast. Your form looked impressive.”

“Shirley. Please.”

Erik was beaming. “Shirley, you’re a legend.”

“I still got it,” she winked at him. “But you got it more, sweetheart.”

You slammed your menu down. “I will walk into oncoming traffic.”

After Shirley left (but not before sliding Erik a handwritten note that may or may not have been her number), you finally got your coffee, your pancakes, and a moment of peace.

Erik looked across the table, eyes softer now.

“You ever think about what this would be like every day?” he asked.

You blinked, halfway through drowning your plate in syrup.

“What, sex in a car and old women heckling us?”

“No. I mean-” he ran a hand through his hair, suddenly shy, “us. Waking up together. Mornings. Diners. Fighting over who used the last of the toothpaste.”

Your heart did something horrible and fluttery.

You tried to play it cool.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your coffee. “I’m just in it for the hickeys and public humiliation.”

He reached across the table and stole your bacon with zero remorse.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m in it for your ass in my hoodie and your voice when you sing ‘Wicked Game’ at midnight.”

You blushed.

He smiled.

And that was it.

You were screwed.

Like, emotionally.

Later, back in the car:

You climbed into the passenger seat, pulled down the mirror, and caught sight of your hair.

“Jesus. I look like I got into a fight with a leaf blower and lost.”

Erik leaned over and kissed your cheek.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you looked hot doing it.”

You groaned, leaned your head back, and muttered:

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, starting the car. “You love me.”

You didn’t answer.

Just reached over, laced your fingers through his, and whispered,

“Yeah. I really fucking do.”

And as the Jeep pulled back onto the road, Shirley waved at you from the diner parking lot.

Winked at Erik.

Blew him a kiss.

You screamed into the hoodie.

He laughed until he almost ran a stop sign.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

SHANE'S GIRL ➵ D. DIXON [14]

Part Fourteen | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh & Merle Dixon are the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, story follows the show but dialogue and events are paraphrased, abusive behavior, a very slow burn

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Alright. I'm back after a work induced hiatus. I have missed this story deeply and even though this isn't the most eventful chapter, I'm excited for what it's setting up. I've also updated the playlist on Spotify if any of you want to give it a listen — I think it encapsulates our two favorite apocalypse idiots very well. As always, let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

attack seems to have shaken everyone; however, for Daryl, it’s different. He’s dealt with plenty of walkers during his various hunts after the world’s end, but this wasn’t just one or two stragglers in the woods that he could sneak up on before they noticed him. No, this time they were too close to home, and they managed to get the jump on him. He almost died. The realization almost made him sick to his stomach. It’s not that Daryl fears death. He’d come to terms with his own demise long before the dead started walking. Hell, he always assumed he’d die young anyway. The fear that settled deep into Daryl’s bones last night was not for himself, but for the woman softly snoring into his shoulder: you.

You saved his life. And the terror in your eyes afterwards, as you stared at the bloody knife in your hands, will haunt him for the rest of his days. Because it’s his fault. You killed to save him. And maybe it’s not his place, but Daryl was hoping to shield you from the horrors of this world for as long as possible. He knows the toll that taking another life does to a person — the guilt and pain that lingers in the back of his mind every day. He knows that it doesn’t matter that they’re technically already dead — that walker was still a human being once. He didn’t want that burden on your shoulders, but now it’s too late.

The sun is just cresting over the horizon when Rick’s voice slices through the thick silence that settled over the quarry camp, officially ending the longest night that Daryl has ever experienced.

“I know we’re all running on fumes, but we need to bury our dead.”

Rick’s voice is quiet, but there’s an urgency to his tone as his eyes shift from Daryl to T-Dog and Glenn. The two men had hunkered down near the RV once the chaos had settled and exhaustion consumed the camp for just a few hours. Even though he hasn’t spoken to either of them since you’ve all gotten back from Atlanta, Daryl’s grateful that they stuck close to both of you. Now, more than ever, Daryl believes that there is safety in numbers. Still, he couldn’t sleep. Even though his shoulders sag due to the weight of the last twenty-four hours, the warmth of your body keeps him up. A constant reminder of what he has to protect — of what he could have lost last night amidst the devastation. So, even though every single fiber of Daryl’s being yearns to stay by your side, he nods at Rick’s words.

“Not you, Daryl.”

Daryl’s brow furrows, and he's not the only one confused by his words. Both Glenn and T-Dog look skeptically at Rick until they follow his gaze. Rick Grimes is watching you peacefully sleep against the camp’s, so-called, notorious brute. Daryl suddenly feels uncomfortable and shifts slightly under the weight of their attention. The movement causes you to stir in your sleep and he fights off a smile at the content sigh that escapes your lips as you press your face further into his shoulder. Rick raises a brow at you both before continuing.

“You’re busy. I haven’t seen her get a good night’s sleep since I’ve gotten back.”

He’s right. Daryl’s not sure if you’ve truly rested at all since he’s met you. And a part of him believes that has more to do with Shane Walsh than the end of the world. After all, it’s probably hard to relax when the most dangerous threat to your well-being is lurking in your tent. So, Daryl simply gives Rick a firm nod.

“Man, why does Dixon always get to play bodyguard?”

Glenn’s eyes immediately widen, and he elbows T-Dog in the side. T-Dog’s eyes land on Glenn before following his gaze to Daryl. He raises his hands up in defeat as the archer glares daggers at them both.

“I’m just kidding, man.”

“You better be.”

Rick huffs out a laugh before placing himself between the men. He gives Daryl a momentary, warning glance before turning to T-Dog.

“You best get to work or else you might need a bodyguard.”

T-Dog’s eyes shift from Rick to Daryl. Daryl juts his chin up at the man. He doesn’t want to fight — not when you look so peaceful right now — but he’s not one to back down. Luckily, T-Dog sighs defeatedly before walking off with Glenn in tow. Rick watches them walk away for several moments before turning back to Daryl. He raises a brow at the youngest Dixon brother before collapsing into the lawn chair T-Dog had been lounging in. Daryl watches as Rick roughly runs his hands over his face — it looks like he got about as much sleep as Daryl did last night.

“Listen, I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

Daryl scoffs at Rick’s words. Off on the wrong foot seems like an understatement. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Rick had a gun pointed at him in Atlanta. But he’s important to you, so Daryl bites his tongue and lets him continue.

“But I know her.”

Rick’s gaze drops down to you, and Daryl’s eyes follow.

“And she trusts you.”

Daryl tears his eyes away from you at that admission. He expects to find confusion or judgment on Rick’s face, but instead, he’s looking at you with the tenderness of a loving brother. And when Rick looks back up at him, there’s a sadness in his eyes that he cannot place.

“I don’t know what happened while I was gone, but I know you looked out for her. Thank you.”

The earnestness in his tone surprises Daryl, but he gives the man a firm nod. In all honesty, he doesn’t need his thanks. It has never been a burden to look out for you, and he’s certainly not trying to pass off the responsibility onto someone else. No, Daryl Dixon has begrudgingly come to terms with the fact that he cares about you. The two men sit in comfortable silence together until another muffled sob escapes Andrea, who is still clutching Amy’s limp hand in hers.

“What are we gonna do about that?”

Daryl motions towards the sisters with his free arm, and Rick glances towards them before letting out a deep sigh. He rakes a hand through his hair, and Daryl almost feels bad for asking. After all, Rick never asked to become the de facto leader of this group. But someone has to call the shots, and Daryl sure as hell doesn’t want it to be Shane.

“I already talked to her. She said she’ll take the shot — but only after she turns.”

A sudden rage courses through Daryl’s veins. Waiting for Amy to turn into one of those monsters endangers everyone in this camp. Rick knows the risk, and yet he’s still allowing it to happen. Daryl isn’t in charge — he doesn’t want to be — but he will not risk your life for the convenience of others. Maybe it’s selfish, but he really doesn’t give a shit.

“You can’t be serious. That girl’s a time bomb and you know it.”

Rick’s face hardens, and his jaw clenches.

“What do you suggest?”

“Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

You mumble the words into Daryl’s shoulder, just loud enough for both men to hear. Your face scrunches up immediately once you open your eyes. A groan escapes your lips as you try to adjust to the morning sunlight.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Rick snorts, which causes you to peel yourself away from Daryl so you can shoot the sheriff a playful glare. For a moment, Daryl is disappointed by the loss of contact, but then he spots the blush that’s creeping across your cheeks due to the nickname he’s given you. It tumbled off Daryl’s lips before he could think twice about it. He meant it as a lighthearted jab — understanding the way your eyes meet the rising sun with nothing but disdain. After all, he didn’t become a morning person until the world fell apart. He recalls the nickname rolling off his mother’s lips on the mornings she remembered to wake him up for elementary school. And the groan that escaped you reminds him of the ones he’d let out as Merle would exclaim that nickname in the kitchen when Daryl finally stumbled out of his room late in the afternoon with an intense headache due to the hangover he had from the eventful night before. But honestly, in Daryl’s heart, it’s less of a nickname and more a term of endearment — one he could find himself using more as long as you keep letting him.

“What’s so funny, Grimes?”

“Nothin’. It’s good, sunshine. Fitting, even. Just wish I’d thought of it myself.”

You roll your eyes at the sheriff before shifting your eyes back to Daryl. Your playful expression suddenly turns serious as you regard him.

“I’m serious, Daryl. Let her be. She needs to do this her way.”

Daryl studies you for a moment. And Rick watches as you both seem to have an entire conversation without speaking. The interaction confuses him deeply, and he desperately needs to sit down with you to catch up on everything he’s seemingly missed. To his surprise, Daryl shifts on his feet slightly before giving you a nod.

“‘Lright.”

You give him a small smile — a silent thank you to him for trusting your intuition. Daryl’s eyes shift from you to where T-Dog and Glenn are burying the dead. Even though he knows it’s not his responsibility, he suddenly feels guilty that he’s not helping. You follow his gaze and put the pieces together. You know how hard it is for Daryl to stay still, especially when he knows there’s something else he can be doing. You reach out, grabbing his forearm to get his attention. His focus is immediately on you — his expression brimming with concern as his eyes check you over.

“Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got Rick. Go.”

Daryl’s eyes shift to the sheriff before finding their way back to you once more. You understand how he feels. After last night — after watching that walker almost tear into his flesh — you don’t want Daryl out of your sight right now. But you’ve both got things to do and there will always be responsibilities that will pull you away from one another. Finally, Daryl seems to relent.

“You need anything, you come get me. ‘Lright?”

You nod at his request and watch as he slings his crossbow over his shoulder after getting up. He looks down at you one last time before walking off towards Glenn and T-Dog. Your eyes follow Daryl for longer than you care to admit, and once you finally peel your gaze away from him, you’re met with an incredibly perplexed Rick Grimes. He looks like your protective older brother — arms crossed tightly across his chest and brow raised in confusion.

“I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

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[t4kalcvr]

THE GIRL WHO MADE THE CAKE

𝐊𝐄𝐍 “𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍” 𝐑𝐘𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐉𝐈 word count :: ( 10,924 ) genre :: fluffyyy, romance, pinch angst content contains :: emma and drakens situationship, takemichi’s wedding!! no we are NOT (technically) home-wrecking !!

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the soft clang of metal echoed in the empty garage as draken leaned over the frame of a half-built bike, grease staining the curve of his wrist. it was quiet, save for the faint hiss of cooling metal and the low hum of a fan in the corner. the kind of quiet that made you think too much.

he reached for his phone without meaning to — just muscle memory by now. his fingers hovered over the screen, slow, hesitant, like they already knew what he was about to do.

emma sano.

still saved in his contacts, like she’d never left.

they hadn’t defined anything. not lately. just… late-night conversations when one of them couldn’t sleep. coffee in silence that still felt warmer than most things. accidental hand brushes that neither of them pulled away from.

draken had told himself he was fine with it. that it was enough.

but takemichi’s wedding was this weekend. and standing in a crowd of familiar faces, watching two people say forever, that felt like the kind of moment you either show up with someone you care about — or you don’t show up at all.

he exhaled through his nose and typed, thumb gliding over the screen with more weight than he’d ever admit:

“you free saturday? takemichi’s wedding. thought it might be nice to go together.”

he stared at the message.

then pressed send before he could talk himself out of it.

the screen stayed bright for a few seconds. no reply. no read receipt. nothing but that tiny, uncertain silence.

he pocketed the phone, wiped his hands off on a rag, and tried to tell himself he didn’t care either way.

he wasn’t very convincing.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

emma was sitting on the floor of hinata’s bedroom, surrounded by bobby pins, an open makeup bag, and a half-eaten bowl of instant ramen. wedding planning had slowly taken over hinata’s apartment — shoes lined up under the window, garment bags everywhere, florals taped to the fridge.

hinata sat across from her on the floor, still in sweats, scrolling through a seating chart on her ipad. her hair was clipped up in a messy bun, and her face looked exhausted but happy — the way only brides-to-be looked.

emma’s phone buzzed once.

she picked it up without thinking, brushing a noodle off her hoodie. the message lit up the screen:

ken:

“you free saturday? takemichi’s wedding. thought it might be nice to go together.”

she stared at it.

her lips parted, but no sound came out. her thumb hovered, heart fluttering in a way it hadn’t in a long time. not since him.

he asked.

he actually asked.

a smile crept up before she could stop it. it bloomed slowly, softly — the kind of smile that lived in her eyes, not just her mouth.

she typed:

“i’d love to.”

then she let out a sharp little breath and looked up.

“hinata?”

hinata glanced up from her phone. “hm?”

“i need a dress.”

“you don’t have a dress for the rehearsal dinner?”

“no,” emma said, her smile turning sheepish. “not for that. i need a dress for your wedding.”

hinata blinked. “emma. you’re already invited.”

“i know. but… ken just asked me to go. with him.”

hinata’s eyes widened, mouth falling open. “wait—as a date?”

emma nodded, the tiniest bit flustered. “i think so? i don’t know. maybe. but… it felt different. it felt like he meant it.”

hinata squealed, nearly knocking over the ipad. “okay. okay. we’re finding you something gorgeous. like dangerous levels of gorgeous.”

emma grinned, cheeks warm. “i want something that says… ‘i might be over you, but not really.’”

“say less,” hinata said, already reaching for her laptop. “black or red?”

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the sun was starting to set when emma stepped out of her room, heels on the hardwood floors, smoothing her hands nervously over the silk clinging to her sides.

the dress was deep red — soft and almost impossibly fluid, the way it caught the light and draped against her like it had been sewn just for her. spaghetti straps. low back. a slit that threatened mischief but kept it elegant. she had twisted her hair up into something loose and effortless, a few strands falling around her face in soft waves.

it was a little bold. a little risky.

but tonight felt like a moment that needed something brave.

she took a shaky breath and turned toward the door the second she heard the knock.

when she opened it, there was ken — standing in a dark charcoal suit, a single black ring on his finger, his hair pushed back but still messy at the edges. he looked freshly shaven, like he’d tried without trying. his tie was half loose like he couldn’t be bothered to do the final knot.

he blinked when he saw her. just stood there.

his mouth parted like he was about to say something — anything — but the words got caught somewhere in his throat. his eyes dragged from her heels all the way to the dip in her collarbone and then to her eyes, lingering there like he didn’t want to blink and miss it.

emma smiled softly, cheeks warming under his gaze.

“hi,” she said.

“…hey,” he finally breathed.

she stepped aside to let him in. he hesitated just a second before walking past her, his shoulder brushing hers lightly as he moved inside.

“you look…” he started, glancing over his shoulder, eyes lingering again.

“yeah?” she teased, heart hammering.

he nodded once. slowly. “like trouble.”

she laughed. “good.”

he stood in her apartment — clean and quiet, soft lamplight casting shadows on the walls — and watched her reach for her purse.

and just as she was slipping on her earrings, her phone started to ring.

emma froze.

the name on the screen made her heart drop to her stomach.

she picked it up, voice uncertain. “hello?”

draken watched her face carefully. her smile disappeared, but her brows pulled together in that way she always did when she was trying to calculate something fast.

“wait, now?” she asked, turning toward the kitchen counter, pressing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she reached for her glass of water. “like, right now?”

a pause. her eyes darted toward him.

draken didn’t say anything.

she didn’t either.

just a look — long and quiet.

she wasn’t sure what she was asking for in that second.

permission? forgiveness?

he met her eyes and, without blinking, gave her the smallest nod.

go.

emma’s breath hitched, and she whispered something into the phone — she would be there. she could make it. she’d be there soon.

as soon as the call ended, she stood there for a beat, her chest rising and falling with something that wasn’t quite regret but wasn’t peace either.

“i’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

“don’t be,” he replied, voice calm. unreadable. maybe even proud.

she gave him a quick, fleeting smile — the kind you give someone who matters. someone who understands.

and then she ran.

into her room. heels off. hair falling down. fingers already undoing the zipper of her dress as she vanished behind the door.

draken stood alone in her living room, glancing once at the place where she’d just been.

when he stepped outside, mikey was already waiting near the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, dressed in a sharp black suit like some rebellious little prince.

“where’s emma?” mikey asked, swinging his head up casually.

draken didn’t look back at the building.

“work,” he said simply.

mikey didn’t press. just nodded and fell into step beside him.

and together, they walked toward the wedding.

toward something quieter. something that didn’t quite feel like loss… but didn’t feel like having her, either.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the ceremony had been beautiful — all soft pink florals and string lights woven through the rafters, vows that made even the toughest guys clear their throats a little too often. takemichi had cried. hinata had tried not to. everyone smiled through it.

now, the reception was in full swing.

music drifted through the venue — not too loud, just enough for the bass to ripple through the floor. glasses clinked, heels clicked against hardwood, and somewhere near the back, someone was definitely crying over the open bar.

draken stood near the edge of the room, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, a barely touched drink in hand. mikey leaned beside him, tie undone completely, hair slightly windswept from one too many fast spins with the bride on the dance floor.

they stood in companionable silence for a while, watching the people they used to ride into fights with now slow dancing and laughing like they’d never broken bones before.

“you okay?” mikey asked, not looking directly at him.

draken gave a quiet shrug. “yeah.”

mikey turned just a little. “emma?”

draken let out a breath. not quite a sigh. “she got a call. job thing. had to go.”

mikey nodded like he already knew.

“you still want it to work with her?” he asked.

draken took a long sip of whatever was in his glass before answering. “i don’t know, man. i think maybe it’s time to stop waiting.”

mikey raised a brow, clearly surprised. “you? giving up?”

“not giving up,” draken said, voice low, calm. “just… maybe i’m not meant for it. relationships. love. all that.”

mikey stared at him. “you’re not serious.”

“i am.”

“you’re gonna die old and cranky in your garage with a half-finished bike and nobody to nag you about leaving your tools everywhere?”

draken smirked. “sounds peaceful, honestly.”

but then — before mikey could push back — something shifted in the air. like the volume of the world turned down just a little. like something tugged his focus.

draken’s eyes drifted across the room.

and then he saw her.

you.

you were standing just beneath one of the overhead lights, laughing at something one of your friends said. your hand wrapped around a drink, your other gesturing mid-story. you were in a dress that wasn’t trying too hard, but the way it moved with you made it impossible not to look.

you hadn’t noticed him yet.

he took you in slowly — the way you tilted your head when you smiled, the faint line of worry in your brows when you were listening, the way you touched people gently on the arm when you spoke to them. like you meant it.

and then — as if something in the universe cracked just slightly — you looked up.

your eyes met his.

you didn’t falter. didn’t look away or shy from the weight of his stare.

you just… smiled.

slow. genuine. a little surprised, like you hadn’t expected him either, but now that he was here — maybe you weren’t in such a rush to leave.

mikey glanced over and caught the look. his smirk was immediate.

“yeah,” he said, “real peaceful.”

draken didn’t answer.

he couldn’t.

not when you were still looking at him like that.

draken didn’t move right away.

he stood there for a few moments longer, glass warm in his hand, pretending he hadn’t just felt that strange, low pull in his chest. it had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that — calm. curious. completely unbothered by the rough edges.

then, quietly, he started toward you.

you were leaning against a table near the edge of the dance floor, laughing with someone before they walked off to grab another drink. you spotted him the second he started walking over, and instead of freezing up or acting coy, you just grinned — like you were amused by the idea of it.

he stopped just a few feet away, one hand casually shoved in his pocket.

“so,” you said, arms crossed lightly, “are you here to ask me to dance?”

he looked past you at the people swaying under the lights, then back to you. “absolutely not.”

you laughed. “good. because i only dance when i’ve had at least three glasses of champagne or when there’s a serious cash prize involved.”

“you missed the cash prize round,” he said, deadpan.

you snapped your fingers. “damn. i was gonna bust out my interpretive worm.”

he couldn’t help it — he laughed. a real, low laugh, the kind that surprised even him.

you gestured to the empty chair beside you. “well, if you’re not gonna embarrass yourself on the dance floor, you might as well sit.”

he did. the chair creaked a little under his weight, and for a second, the music filled the space between you.

“so,” he asked, “you here alone?”

you took a slow sip from your glass. “define ‘alone.’ emotionally? romantically? physically?”

he smirked. “romantically.”

“yes,” you said. “i came with expectations and left them somewhere near the chicken skewers.”

he raised a brow. “tough date?”

you shrugged. “no date. just me. i figured if i was gonna cry at a wedding, i might as well look hot doing it.”

he leaned back in his chair a little. “bold move.”

“and you?” you asked. “you strike me as the type who claims he hates weddings, but still shows up looking like a half-unbuttoned heartbreak.”

he snorted. “i came with someone. she got called into work.”

you winced. “ouch.”

“yeah.”

“so, you planning to find a replacement?”

he looked at you, eyes narrowing with amusement. “why? volunteering?”

“absolutely not,” you said, smiling as you leaned your elbow on the table, chin in hand. “i mean, look at you. tattoos, slicked-back hair, that whole brooding ‘i fix motorcycles but can’t fix myself’ vibe. i definitely know better.”

his grin curled up on one side. “i wasn’t gonna ask you to come home with me.”

you lifted your glass to him in mock salute. “good. because i definitely wasn’t going to.”

“your loss,” he muttered into his drink.

you both laughed again, easy and unexpected.

then, after a pause, you tilted your head. “you know what?”

“what?”

“let’s not ruin this.”

he raised a brow. “this?”

“this,” you echoed. “this whole thing. the vibe. the not-knowing. let’s not turn it into something heavy.”

he looked at you, intrigued now.

“let’s give each other fake names,” you said. “no contact info. no social media. no ‘call me sometime.’ just tonight.”

“fake names,” he repeated, amused. “alright. what’s yours?”

you glanced up, scanning the room for anything you could steal a name from — and then, suddenly, it came to you. you looked back at him and smiled.

“sundrop.”

“…sundrop?”

you shrugged. “don’t question it. it’s got personality.”

he chuckled. “alright, sundrop.”

“and you?”

he thought about it for a second, then leaned in a little and said, “dragon.”

you stared. “seriously?”

“you picked a flower. i’m picking a beast. balance.”

you laughed, louder this time — a soft, rolling sound that made his eyes warm.

“fine, dragon,” you said. “let’s make a deal. we don’t know each other after tonight.”

“no numbers?”

“nope.”

“no goodbyes?”

“just one night. and we leave it at that.”

he clinked his glass against yours. “deal.”

and for a moment, under the fading lights of someone else’s forever, two strangers decided to exist only in the present.

no past.

no future.

just here.

just now.

the clink of your glasses still hung in the air when you leaned back in your seat, eyes bright with mischief, that sundrop smile still lingering on your lips.

“so,” you said, “what now?”

“we enjoy the night,” he replied, stretching out his legs a little. “eat, drink, mock slow dancers.”

you opened your mouth to agree, but—

“yo, draken!”

you both turned at the same time.

mikey was weaving through the tables, a plate already in his hand, the tiniest smear of red bean paste at the corner of his mouth. his suit jacket was long gone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie missing entirely.

“they just put out the dorayaki,” he grinned, waving the plate like it was a holy relic. “you better hurry or i’m eating yours too, draken. i swear—draken—draken, they’re still warm, bro!”

and just like that, he disappeared again into the crowd of dessert-loving guests.

you turned back to the man beside you slowly, your eyes narrowed and your smile threatening to break. “…draken?”

he held your gaze, his mouth twitching with guilt and amusement. “yep.”

“as in… your actual name is draken?”

he shrugged, palms up in surrender. “nickname, technically.”

“mikey blew your cover fast.”

“he really did.”

you tilted your head, teasing. “so what’s the damage? how much did he ruin our sacred no-names pact?”

“just the top half.”

“well, in the spirit of fairness…” you extended your hand as if meeting him for the first time. “i’m y/n.”

he shook your hand gently, still grinning. “nice to meet you, y/n.”

you nodded. “but no last names.”

“agreed.”

“i mean it,” you warned, eyes narrowed.

“same,” he said, still holding your hand for a beat too long.

you stared at each other — the champagne buzz softening the room around you, the music playing like it had been written to soundtrack this exact conversation.

“alright,” you said finally, “we adjust the rules. first names allowed. everything else? off limits.”

he smirked. “no childhood trauma dumps?”

“not unless you bring snacks.”

he chuckled, sitting back again. “deal.”

and just like that, even with names known, the moment held its magic — two almost-strangers choosing, very deliberately, to stay right here.

the band had just started a cover of something slow and vintage when you nudged draken with your elbow.

“alright,” you said, voice playful. “show me your moves.”

he glanced at you, brow raised. “moves?”

“you know,” you grinned. “how you get the girl.”

he leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk pulling at his mouth. “you asking for a demonstration?”

“i’m asking for entertainment,” you teased. “don’t tell me you’ve got nothing in your arsenal.”

he held your gaze for a beat longer, then stood up without a word. you watched as he walked straight toward the bar, that same slow, confident swagger in every step, like the world never rushed him.

he came back with a full bottle of wine under one arm and two elegant glasses swinging lazily from his fingers.

he held them up. “step one: wine.”

you laughed, standing to meet him. “classic. not bad. smooth, but safe.”

“don’t underestimate the basics,” he said, pouring two glasses like he’d done this a thousand times — and somehow made it look new.

as you took your first sip, your eyes flicked to the head table.

“you know…” you said slowly, glancing toward the bouquet resting near hinata’s seat, “we should really do the single ladies a favor.”

“how’s that?”

“we steal the bouquet,” you said with a smirk. “save them the humiliation of diving for it.”

he looked over at the head table, then at you. “you’re dangerous.”

“no,” you said, sipping your wine, “i’m fun.”

he chuckled and glanced around the room, eyes scanning for opportunity.

then he turned back to you and gave the smallest nod — “watch this.”

he stepped forward, lifted one of the wine glasses, and gently tapped the rim with his ring.

ting ting ting

“kiss! kiss! kiss!” he chanted.

you joined in, grinning. “kiss! kiss! kiss!”

within seconds, the room caught on. laughter burst out across the tables as everyone turned toward the blushing couple. takemichi looked panicked; hinata rolled her eyes affectionately and kissed him as guests whooped and clapped around them.

every head turned.

“now,” you whispered, already slipping off your heels.

you moved in sync — draken swept the bouquet under his arm with the ease of someone who’d done far riskier things in his past, and you ducked behind him as the two of you bolted down a hallway, hidden by applause and chaos.

your laughter echoed quietly in the corridor as he pushed open an unmarked door and motioned you inside.

the room was warm and still — an empty space left untouched by the reception. a grand piano sat in one corner, glossy under the soft spill of moonlight through tall, arched windows. velvet curtains swayed gently as the air shifted.

you leaned against the door, breathless. “i can’t believe that worked.”

he held up the bouquet like a prize. “still got it.”

“not bad, dragon,” you said, crossing the room barefoot as your dress swept the floor. “you’ve got moves after all.”

“just getting started,” he muttered, half to himself.

you turned to him, eyes glinting. “well then… impress me.”

he stepped closer, the wine bottle still in his hand, eyes never leaving yours.

and just like that, the game shifted.

not louder. not flashier.

but real. subtle.

the kind of move you don’t even realize is happening until your heart skips.

draken wandered over to the piano, running his fingers across the keys like he wasn’t sure if he should — and then, with a quiet smirk, he sat down and started to play.

the sound that came out wasn’t soft or romantic.

nope.

it was funky.

bouncy.

ridiculous.

you blinked once, then laughed — not because it was bad, but because it was so good and so completely unexpected from a guy like him. it sounded like something you’d hear in a 70s spy movie montage — dramatic flourishes, syncopated rhythm, total chaos.

you looked at him.

he nodded at the empty space in front of the piano bench. “your move, sundrop.”

you raised your brows. “oh, we’re doing this?”

he kept playing, clearly unbothered. “better make it count.”

you stepped into the light with the dramatic flair of someone who knew full well they had no clue what they were doing — which, to be fair, was the point.

you started with a cha-cha that somehow turned into finger guns, threw in a painfully awkward body roll, then added a full spin that almost tripped you off your feet — but you landed it with confidence like it had all been on purpose. your finale? a full-on jazz hands explosion in his face.

“ta-da!” you declared, out of breath and fully committed.

draken’s fingers stumbled on the last chord as he burst out laughing.

“wow,” he said, deadpan through a grin. “i mean… that was something.”

you put a hand on your chest. “be honest. life-changing?”

“you just invented four new dance styles and a lawsuit.”

you laughed as you flopped down next to him on the piano bench, cheeks warm and smile wide. your thighs barely touched, just a few inches of space between you and the wine bottle still rolling gently on the floor nearby.

“okay,” you admitted, catching your breath, “i have no idea how to dance.”

he turned to you slowly, brow raised. “you don’t say.”

“not even a little bit.”

“you really fooled me back there,” he said, eyes mock-wide with awe. “the part where you almost broke your ankle? inspired.”

you snorted, leaning slightly against the piano as you both laughed again — the kind of laughter that came easy and unfiltered, the kind that stayed behind in the corners of your mouth even when the moment passed.

outside, the music of the wedding pulsed faintly. but here — in this quiet little room, in a stolen piece of the night — it was just you and him.

and the tiniest, growing feeling that maybe this wasn’t just fun.

maybe this was starting to matter.

you were still catching your breath from laughing, curled sideways on the bench beside him, your knee almost brushing his. the glow from the moonlight softened the edges of everything — your hair, the curve of his shoulders, the space between you.

he glanced at you, eyes glinting. “you know, it’s kind of a shame.”

you turned your head, playful. “what is?”

“that you’re not getting some tonight.”

your jaw dropped, mock offended. “excuse me?”

he shrugged, lips curling. “just saying. a woman steals a bouquet, does jazz hands in heels, risks arrest… seems like she should get rewarded.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “i could get some tonight.”

his brow lifted. “oh?”

you leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like you were making a point — like this was evidence in your favor. “you’re a guy.”

“correct,” he said, unblinking.

“you’re here.”

“still tracking.”

“you’re a guy i could get some from if i wanted to.”

he didn’t miss a beat. “absolutely.”

you broke into a laugh that doubled you forward, hands braced on your knees.

he grinned at your reaction, clearly proud of himself. “what, am i wrong?”

“no, it’s the way you said it! like—zero hesitation. so matter-of-fact.”

“i’m just agreeing with you,” he said, mock-innocent.

your laughter faded slowly, leaving the two of you sitting there in that in-between silence — the kind that isn’t awkward, just full.

you met his eyes again. and this time, you didn’t look away right away.

neither did he.

his expression softened — the edges of his mouth twitching slightly, like he wanted to say something else. or maybe lean in.

your heart beat louder than the music outside.

his eyes flicked down — just once. barely.

and that was your cue.

“we are not gonna kiss,” you blurted, pointing at him.

draken dropped his hand dramatically onto the piano, letting it crash into a chaotic jumble of keys.

ba-donnnng.

you burst into laughter again. “i’m serious!”

he just looked at you, eyes narrow. “why not?”

“because if we kiss,” you said, “then it becomes real. and this is not real. this is wine and a piano and fake names and me doing the interpretive worm.”

“so you’re saying… a kiss ruins it?”

“yes. because a kiss makes it mean something.”

he tilted his head slightly. “not if it’s a bad kiss.”

“you saying you’re a bad kisser?”

“not at all,” he said, leaning his elbow on the piano, watching you closely now. “but if you’re scared…”

“i’m not scared,” you snapped back, eyes narrowing.

“then what’s the problem?”

“i just don’t trust you.”

“to kiss you?”

“no,” you said dramatically, “to not use too much tongue.”

he raised both brows. “you think i’d use too much tongue?”

you pointed to his mouth. “you look like a guy who gets cocky with tongue.”

he leaned a little closer, voice low but playful. “i’ll have you know i use exactly the right amount of tongue.”

you rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “okay, mathematician.”

“balanced. measured. tailored to your face.”

you laughed again — a sharp, bright sound that filled the quiet room.

your laughter faded slowly, and what remained between you wasn’t quite silence — it was breath. thick and warm and close. his knees were still turned toward you, your legs brushing just enough to notice, and the piano’s last clumsy chord still echoed somewhere in the wooden floorboards.

he was watching you — really watching you now. eyes dark but soft, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here, in this little forgotten room with you, but now that he was… he didn’t want to leave it.

you tilted your head slightly, biting the inside of your cheek.

then, quiet and thoughtful, you said, “how about this.”

his brow rose.

you leaned forward a little, chin propped in your hand. “the drum roll.”

he blinked once. “drum roll?”

you nodded, explaining with a little grin, like you were letting him in on a very serious secret.

“you know how every kiss has a drum roll? the part right before it happens — the lean in, the pause, that… build-up. like the universe is holding its breath?”

he nodded slowly, watching you with interest now.

“that’s the best part,” you said, voice soft but certain. “it’s better than the kiss itself, sometimes.”

he tilted his head. “so… you’re saying…”

“we stop there,” you said. “we only do the drum roll.”

“just the lead-up.”

“just the lead-up,” you echoed, smiling. “no kiss. no tongue. no consequences.”

he blinked at you again, then let out a low chuckle. “you’re something else.”

you shrugged. “you in or not?”

he didn’t answer with words.

instead, he turned slightly on the bench, slowly — deliberately — and waited for you to do the same.

you did.

and then it began — the drum roll.

you both leaned in, carefully, like something fragile was held between you. his eyes flicked to your mouth once, then back up to your eyes. your breath hitched slightly, and you felt his fan across your cheek, warm and steady.

you were so close now. so close you could see the faintest scar near his temple. so close you could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose. so close your knees touched fully now, no space left.

but neither of you moved the final inch.

you just… stayed there.

hovering.

breathing.

letting the weight of almost settle around you like smoke.

you closed your eyes for a beat. just to feel it.

and he didn’t pull away.

not yet.

not until a few seconds passed and the silence deepened into something warm and impossible.

then you both leaned back at the same time, slowly, like surfacing from water. and when your eyes met again, there was no teasing in them — just understanding.

you’d shared something.

something small.

but impossibly big.

no kiss.

no contact.

just the best part of it.

the drum roll.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

“…the drum roll?” mitsuya repeated, brows raised.

draken nodded once. “yep.”

mikey looked up, blinking slowly. “that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

mikey blinked again. “you didn’t kiss her?”

“no.”

“you didn’t ask for her number?”

“nope.”

“you didn’t even find out her last name?”

“i didn’t.”

“bro,” mikey groaned, slumping even further into his bowl. “are you actually stupid or just emotionally constipated?”

“i don’t think those are mutually exclusive,” mitsuya muttered.

draken gave them both a look. “it wasn’t like that.”

“it sounds exactly like that,” mitsuya said, finally lifting his chopsticks. “you met someone who clearly made you soft in the head and the heart, and then you just let her vanish like it was some poetic side-quest.”

“it wasn’t about closing the deal,” draken said, a little quieter now. “it was—i don’t know. it was perfect. she was perfect. we just… connected. for real.”

mikey frowned. “so then why not actually do something about it?”

draken leaned forward, elbows on the table, looking at the warped reflection of his glass of water. “because we weren’t supposed to. that was the deal. one night. no names. no kiss. and it worked. we ended it before we ruined it.”

“draken,” mitsuya said slowly, like he was breaking bad news, “you already ruined it by not following up.”

“it’s not like i’ll see her again,” draken muttered, voice low. “we left it exactly how it started — like a story you don’t finish.”

the ramen shop settled into a quiet stretch.

mikey picked up his tea. mitsuya took another bite of his egg.

draken sat there, still — jaw set, shoulders stiff. until—

“…damn it.”

he shoved his hands down on the table and stood up, the stool screeching under him.

“damn it, i have to see her again.”

mikey nearly choked on his tea. “finally.”

“took you long enough,” mitsuya added, but there was a grin in his voice now.

draken ran a hand through his hair, looking half-crazed and entirely alive. “i don’t even know where to start—she said her name was sundrop.”

mikey blinked. “like the flower?”

“or a soda?” mitsuya offered.

“no idea.”

“that’s the dumbest fake name i’ve ever heard,” mikey said.

“i know,” draken muttered, already pulling his phone out. “but it’s mine now.”

and just like that, the drum roll wasn’t over.

it was just beginning again.

draken was still standing, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping his phone like it might start ringing on its own. his brows were pulled tight, mind racing.

mikey and mitsuya stared at him from the booth, both half-finished with their ramen now, interest fully redirected to the drama unfolding.

“okay, wait,” mitsuya said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “you said her real name was…”

“y/n,” draken said, nodding once. “that’s all i got. no last name. no number. no workplace. just ‘y/n’ and that stupid fake name she gave me.”

mikey furrowed his brows. “sunlight?”

“sundrop,” draken corrected, sighing like the name actually hurt now.

“sundrop,” mitsuya repeated, squinting. “that’s so unserious of her.”

“and yet here we are,” draken muttered, staring at the name in his recent calls. “i can’t stop thinking about her.”

“okay, but listen,” mitsuya said, glancing at mikey. “didn’t y/n hang out with hinata at the reception?”

mikey blinked. “wait. yeah. they were definitely talking by the photo wall.”

“boom,” mitsuya said, gesturing with both hands. “there’s your link.”

“hinata,” draken echoed, eyes lighting up. “hinata would know who she is.”

there was a pause.

and then mikey frowned.

“…they’re on their honeymoon, bro.”

draken’s hand froze mid-dial.

“they just left for two weeks,” mikey continued, now slurping noodles again. “remember? takemichi said something about beaches and zero cell service. and ‘not even god is allowed to call us.’ direct quote.”

mitsuya nodded. “you should definitely wait until they’re back.”

draken slowly set the phone face down on the table. “…yeah. yeah, i’ll wait.”

a pause.

“you’re calling her right now, aren’t you?” mikey said flatly.

“yeah i’m calling her right now,” draken said, flipping the phone over again.

“don’t do it!” mikey exclaimed, pointing at him with his chopsticks. “don’t ruin their honeymoon!”

“you think she’s actually gonna answer?” mitsuya added, mouth half-full. “what’s your plan? leave a desperate voicemail?”

draken didn’t answer — just scrolled through his contacts like a man possessed.

mikey groaned and dropped his forehead dramatically into his bowl. “you’re the worst. they’re probably on a boat somewhere.”

“just one question,” draken muttered, holding the phone to his ear.

“draken—” mitsuya started.

“—and i swear i’ll be respectful—”

as the line started to ring, mikey leaned over to whisper urgently, “ask her about the cake.”

draken blinked. “what?”

“ask her where they got the cake,” mikey repeated, deadly serious. “it was so soft. like clouds. and the frosting wasn’t even too sweet.”

mitsuya nodded solemnly. “respectfully, i second this.”

draken rolled his eyes — but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

he wasn’t calling for the cake.

he was calling for her.

the line rang once.

twice.

a third time—

“hello?” a familiar voice chirped.

draken’s eyes widened. “…hinata?”

“draken?” she replied, equal parts surprised and suspicious.

he cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound casual. “heyyy hinata.”

mikey and mitsuya were already mouthing what is he doing? from the booth.

“i just—uh—wanted to say the wedding was so beautiful,” draken said, pacing in a slow circle now. “like… stunning. perfect weather. great venue. amazing speeches. and that dress? you? radiant.”

there was a pause.

“thank you…?” hinata replied slowly.

“also! how’s the honeymoon?” he asked quickly.

but before she could even open her mouth, draken steamrolled ahead.

“so i kinda met this girl at the reception and i was wondering if—”

“ohhh you have got to be kidding me!” hinata exploded.

“here we go,” takemichi’s voice groaned in the background.

“draken, twenty-four hours ago, you were inviting emma to the wedding—like, making a whole scene in the kitchen about how it’s ‘important’ and ‘we’re figuring things out’—and now you’re just suddenly over her?!”

draken winced. “i’ve… moved on?”

hinata let out a long, dramatic sigh — one that probably echoed across the entire island they were honeymooning on.

“what’s her name,” hinata asked finally. “and if it’s my fat cousin kaski, don’t lie. she has beautiful eyes and a killer personality.”

“it’s not kaski,” draken muttered quickly. “her name was y/n.”

“full name?”

“…just y/n.”

another pause. and then—

“well,” hinata said brightly, “you’re in luck!”

draken’s spine straightened. “really?”

“yep! lucky for you, i have my guest list memorized forwards and backwards.”

mikey gave a triumphant thumbs-up from his seat. mitsuya mouthed clutch.

draken exhaled, shoulders dropping. “thank god. i thought—”

“unlucky for you,” hinata cut in, her tone shifting instantly, “there was no ‘y/n’ on my guest list.”

draken froze. “…wait, what?”

“no y/n,” she repeated. “no y-n. no y period n period. no guest nicknamed sundrop. nada. zip.”

“what? that can’t be—”

“draken,” hinata said flatly, “i love you, but we’re on a boat. and takemichi just figured out how sunscreen works. goodbye.”

click.

the line went dead.

draken stood there for a full five seconds, phone still to his ear.

the silence in the ramen shop was deafening.

“…so?” mitsuya asked finally.

draken slowly turned back toward them, stunned.

“she wasn’t on the guest list,” he muttered.

mikey blinked. “you got ghosted by a phantom guest.”

draken dropped into the booth again, hands on his head.

“she’s not real,” he whispered.

mitsuya handed him the bottle of soy sauce like it was a shot of whiskey.

mikey leaned in, totally unfazed. “…did she say anything about the cake?”

“she wasn’t on the guest list,” draken repeated, still stunned, still reeling.

“so she crashed the wedding,” mitsuya said, piecing it together out loud.

“ohh,” mikey said, grinning now. “she’s good. she’s very good.”

mitsuya leaned back in the booth, nodding slowly. “maybe… maybe she gave a second fake name. like, for the rsvp.”

“a decoy fake name,” mikey said, eyes wide with admiration. “damn. she’s a pro.”

“i told you she was impressive,” draken muttered.

mitsuya, eyes suddenly distant, shifted gears again. “wait. what if… she didn’t want to kiss you because she was… a ghost.”

mikey sat up. “wait, yeah! and if you’d kissed her, your lips would’ve gone right through her and it would’ve felt really cold for a second!”

he slapped the table once. “yo. that’d make such a good screenplay.”

draken blinked at both of them. “guys.”

“she only appears under moonlight,” mitsuya added seriously. “only after bouquet tosses and ill-advised wine heists—”

“guys,” draken said louder, waving his hands. “she’s not a ghost.”

“you sure?” mikey asked, resting his chin in his hand.

“yeah. because she picked up the bouquet. solid object interaction. corporeal form. this isn’t ‘sixth sense,’ man.” mitsuya joked.

draken face-palmed.

“wait,” mitsuya said suddenly, sitting forward. “she was sitting across a few bridesmaids during the speeches, wasn’t she?”

“yeah!” draken snapped his fingers. “she was!”

mikey leaned back again. “okay, cool, cool — and how exactly are we supposed to get in touch with any of them?”

there was a pause.

draken looked at his phone.

then he grinned.

“i’m calling hakkai.”

mitsuya’s eyes widened. “you think—?”

“his brother definitely hooked up with one of the bridesmaids,” draken said, already dialing. “maybe she knows who y/n is.”

“that’s such a weird chain of people,” mikey muttered.

the line rang twice before hakkai answered, voice groggy and suspicious.

“…hello?”

“hakkai,” draken said, no time for pleasantries. “your brother hooked up with one of the bridesmaids, right?”

there was a beat of silence.

“…draken, what the hell—”

“i just need her number,” he said quickly. “i’m trying to find someone who might not even exist.”

“uh, no? i’m not getting involved with whatever bizarre scavenger hunt this is,” hakkai said immediately.

draken groaned. “come on.”

“hakkai,” mitsuya said suddenly, grabbing the phone and flipping the switch. “it’s me. listen. it’s romantic. it’s tragic. it’s maybe fate. you want to be the guy who stood in the way of that?”

silence.

then a sigh.

“…give me five minutes. if this girl blocks me, i’m blaming you.”

“deal,” mitsuya said, grinning as he handed the phone back to draken.

mikey blinked. “did you just romance-speech hakkai?”

“it works,” mitsuya shrugged. “i’m terrifying when i’m heartfelt.”

draken stared at the phone like it might unlock all the answers in the world.

and for the first time in hours…

he actually had a lead.

the phone was now on speaker, lying flat on the table between draken, mitsuya, and mikey — all leaning in like detectives on the edge of a breakthrough. on the other end, hakkai’s voice sounded deeply unamused.

“okay,” hakkai sighed. “she’s on the line. but i need more than ‘mysterious girl with a pretty face and a fake name.’ does anyone remember anything else about her?”

“what was she wearing?” the bridesmaid’s voice crackled faintly through the speaker.

hakkai repeated the question. “draken. clothes. anything stick?”

mikey scoffed. “he’s a guy. no way he can even remember her shoes.”

“actually,” draken said, sitting up straighter, “i do.”

mitsuya and mikey blinked in unison.

“wait, seriously?” mikey asked.

“yeah. they were silver — strappy, but with that thin heel, and glittery. like… obnoxiously glittery.”

mitsuya nodded, impressed. “okay cinderella detail, go on.”

“when we left the reception room,” draken said, leaning forward slightly, “i asked her, like, what’s the first thing she wanted to do after the wedding ended. and she said…”

he grinned a little at the memory.

“…she said, ‘take off these damn shoes,’ handed them to me, and then did a full cartwheel across the courtyard. like — no warning. just boom.”

there was a stunned pause.

mikey looked like he’d just seen god. “…you watched a woman do a cartwheel in a formal gown and didn’t immediately propose?”

hakkai’s voice came back, dry. “i relayed the info.”

from the other end, the bridesmaid’s voice lit up. “awww, that’s kind of adorable. they sound cute.”

“yep,” hakkai said, with all the energy of a man in hour seven of being emotionally held hostage. “real fairytale stuff.”

“does that ring any bells?” he asked, hopefully.

a beat.

then:

“nope! sorry,” the bridesmaid said. “but hey — you trying to hook up?”

hakkai deadpanned, “wrong brother,” and immediately hung up.

the line clicked off.

a long silence followed in the ramen shop.

draken leaned back in his seat, rubbing his temples.

“well, that’s that.”

“we tried,” mitsuya said with a sigh.

“you guys owe me,” hakkai’s voice came through one final time — a text, not a call.

mitsuya raised his soda in solemn respect. “legend.”

mikey, still clearly focused on the cartwheel part, muttered, “if i don’t get that at my wedding, i’m not signing the papers.”

draken slumped deeper into the booth.

back to square one.

the silence after hakkai’s hang-up sat heavy over the booth.

draken leaned back, arms crossed, staring at the condensation running down his glass of water like it held answers. mitsuya sipped slowly from his soda. mikey twirled his noodles with exaggerated effort, clearly unbothered by the existential crisis unfolding next to him.

after a few quiet beats, mitsuya finally said, “hey. don’t lose hope.”

draken didn’t answer.

“she could’ve been staying at the hotel where the wedding was, right?” mitsuya offered, voice calm but hopeful. “we could call them. ask if anyone checked in under the name y/n. or maybe just ‘y’ or ‘n.’”

draken raised an eyebrow.

mikey slurped loudly. “or sundrop.”

both mitsuya and draken turned to look at him.

mikey froze, chopsticks in mid-air. “…okay, maybe not sundrop.”

draken shook his head and exhaled, leaning forward with both arms on the table.

“you know what?” he said, voice steady now — not defeated, but resolved. “this is fate.”

mitsuya frowned. “what?”

“i was never supposed to see this girl again,” draken said. “that was the whole point of the night. no names. no contact. no kiss. just that one perfect moment.”

he reached for his drink and stared down at the swirling ice.

“and maybe this is the universe keeping it clean. keeping it beautiful. maybe i’m just being saved from myself.”

mikey blinked. “you being serious right now?”

“dead serious,” draken muttered. “i mean, we’ve wasted half our ramen. it’s cold now.”

“so we just let her go?” mitsuya asked, still not convinced.

“we let her go,” draken said, nodding. “and we don’t talk about her again.”

mikey raised his bowl. “to wasting food and emotional suppression.”

“cheers,” draken said dryly.

the three of them dug into their mostly-forgotten bowls. the clinking of chopsticks replaced the chaos of a few moments ago.

but even as he ate, even as he told himself it was done, draken knew one thing for sure.

he was not done.

not by a long shot.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

evening settled over the sano house like a blanket — quiet, soft, almost too still.

mikey had just dropped face-first onto his bed, stomach full of ramen, brain full of half-formed theories about cartwheels, ghosts, and unexplainable connections. he was drifting between consciousness and a very necessary nap when—

knock knock.

his eyes cracked open.

“…what,” he groaned toward the door.

“it’s me,” came emma’s voice on the other side.

he rolled over and forced himself up, still groggy, then padded across the room and opened it.

emma stood there, already halfway through pulling her cardigan sleeves down, looking a little flushed but smiling.

“what do you want?” he asked, rubbing one eye.

“just came to tell you something,” she said. “i got the job.”

his eyes lit up a little despite himself. “oh shoot. really?”

“mmhm.”

he leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “look at you. big boss manager lady.”

emma laughed lightly. “it’s not that big of a deal.”

“no, it is,” he said honestly. “that’s huge.”

her smile faltered a little — just a flicker — and she glanced down at her hands. “i still feel bad, though. for flaking on draken. right before the wedding.”

mikey tilted his head. “don’t.”

“i told him i’d go and then didn’t,” she said softly. “he didn’t say anything, but… i still feel like i let him down.”

mikey took a deep breath and stepped back, motioning for her to come in.

“you didn’t,” he said. “and actually… you’re not even ready for this.”

“what do you mean?”

he flopped onto his bed again, head propped on a pillow, one arm behind it. “i’m about to tell you the wildest story. sit.”

she did — crossing her legs at the foot of his bed, eyebrows knit.

“so,” mikey began, “in fact… you flaking might’ve been the best thing that could’ve happened to him.”

and then he told her everything.

from draken getting stood up at the wedding entrance

to the silky dress

to the bouquet heist

to the drum roll

to the ramen shop

to the ghost theory

to hakkai’s wrong-brother hookup connection

to the cartwheel

to the dead end.

he told it with his usual dramatic flair, hands moving with every name drop, every twist, every dumb decision.

by the time he finished, emma’s expression had gone completely still.

“…and so now,” mikey said, “he’s pretending it’s fate, but we all know he’s lying to himself. dude’s down bad.”

emma didn’t say anything.

she just kept staring at him — not shocked, not confused — but something else.

heartbroken.

“…what?” mikey asked finally, sitting up.

her voice was barely above a whisper.

“i know who she is.”

mikey sat up straighter, eyebrows pulled together.

“wait, how do you know who she is? you weren’t even at the wedding!”

emma looked down for a second, then lifted her eyes again, steady this time.

“actually…” she said quietly, “i kinda was.”

“what?”

“i didn’t plan to be,” she started. “i had my interview that afternoon, and once it ended, i was feeling so good — so excited. and i just… i don’t know. i wanted to tell draken in person. to surprise him. so i went to the reception.”

mikey blinked.

“i got there late, right after the ceremony ended. no one noticed me sneak in. and that’s when i saw them.”

she paused, and mikey saw her swallow — like the memory still stung.

“they were in this side room. not completely closed off, but kinda hidden. there was a piano. and they were sitting there. on the bench. really close. laughing.”

she looked away.

“and it hit me. like, actually hit me. how he was looking at her.”

mikey sat there, stunned.

“so i ducked out and went to the bathroom. ladies’ room near the back hallway.”

emma’s voice got quieter, breathier now, almost like she was back there again.

“i went into the last stall. sat down. and just started sobbing. quietly at first. and then full-on snot-level crying. like… embarrassing.”

she gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “i kept whispering, ‘oh, damn it. come on. stop it. stop it. what the hell are you doing?’”

“it wasn’t even technically anything. not a kiss. not a confession. but it felt like something. and it made me feel so stupid.”

mikey’s face softened. he didn’t say anything.

emma wiped under her eyes again, even now.

“i’m still sitting there blowing my nose into cheap toilet paper when i hear this voice.”

she straightened a little. “‘hello? you okay in there?’”

mikey raised his brows.

“i panicked,” emma said. “so i went, ‘uhhh… yeah! i’m fine! um… just allergies or something!’”

and then she smiled, a little — but it was fragile.

“i looked down. and i saw her shoes under the stall door.”

mikey froze. “the shoes?”

emma nodded. “silver. strappy. thin-heeled. obnoxiously glittery.”

mikey blinked again, piecing it together.

“i was still crying,” she continued. “and she goes, ‘listen… do you wanna come and cry out here? i’ve been told i’m an excellent hugger.’”

“you’re kidding,” mikey muttered.

“i said no thanks. told her i don’t cry in front of people. or at all. but then i blew my nose again and said, ‘oh man, this is so gross. does everyone snot up this much when they cry?’”

emma laughed softly. “and she goes, ‘hey, you’re speaking to a fellow snotter!’”

that part made mikey laugh too — just a little.

“she was funny. and nice. and she wasn’t trying to pry.”

emma’s face sobered again.

“but then… she asked me. ‘so why ya crying?’”

silence filled the room like heavy fog.

mikey sat back, arms crossed, eyes still locked on his sister.

then he nodded once and said, deadpan:

“because you have feelings for draken.”

emma stared at the floor, arms folded over her chest.

“i don’t know,” she said softly. “maybe?”

mikey’s jaw dropped. his arms shot out like he was trying to stop invisible traffic.

“okay, what is wrong with the two of you!? seriously?!!”

emma blinked, startled.

“you like him! he likes you! just be together already!” mikey threw his arms up again, spinning in a tiny circle. “jeez louise, happiness is not that difficult!”

“oh, listen,” emma said, getting to her feet now, flustered. “yes, i cried in the bathroom. and yes, that was weird!”

she began gesturing wildly. “but that doesn’t mean i’m in love with the guy!”

“really?” mikey shot back.

“yes! the fact is, i don’t know how i feel!”

mikey stepped forward, pointing dramatically. “yes, you do!”

emma stopped mid-motion.

“seeing him with someone else and crying about it? guess what?! that’s how you feel! that is nothing but how you feel!”

the room went still.

they stood across from each other — both breathing a little heavier now, the tension having finally caught up with them.

emma swallowed.

“okay, fine,” she snapped. “i have feelings for him. happy?!”

mikey grinned. “kind of, yeah.”

emma rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. she let out a long, frustrated breath.

“but it doesn’t change anything,” she said, calmer now, quieter. “i still want commitment. and he’s still draken.”

mikey’s smile faded just slightly. “yeah…”

emma turned to the door, but stopped herself. she took a deep breath.

“what i should do is tell him who victoria is. so he can be happy.”

mikey threw up his hands again. “or you could tell him you’re into him, and then you could both be happy!”

they locked eyes again — less heated now, but still intense. the kind of silence that isn’t uncomfortable… just waiting.

then emma nodded, almost to herself.

“i’m gonna go find him.”

she turned toward the hallway, steps already picking up pace—

“wait.”

she stopped in the doorway.

turned back.

mikey tilted his head. “which one are you gonna tell him?”

emma looked down at the floor.

at her hands.

at the door again.

“…i have no idea.”

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the ramen shop buzzed with soft noise — the clink of chopsticks, the steady slurp of noodles, laughter bubbling up from booth to booth.

in the back corner sat draken, mitsuya, and nahoya, crammed into their usual booth, the remains of their meal scattered in front of them. nahoya was halfway through reenacting some wild interaction from earlier that day — something about a lady with a parrot in her bag yelling at a vending machine — and both draken and mitsuya were laughing hard enough that nahoya had to pause to wipe his eyes.

“bro, she threw a can of ginger ale at me like it owed her money!” nahoya wheezed.

“i swear, you live in a sitcom,” mitsuya said, shaking his head.

draken was just about to wipe his mouth when the bell above the door jingled.

“hey guys,” came a voice.

they all turned to see emma standing in the entrance, a little hesitant but wearing a half-smile.

“emma,” nahoya grinned. “yo.”

“hey,” mitsuya greeted warmly.

draken straightened, surprised but glad. “hey.”

emma shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward him. “um, hey draken. can i talk to you outside for a second?”

draken blinked. “uh—yeah, sure.”

he stood, wiping his hands on a napkin as he cleared his throat. “what’s up?”

but just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

emma opened her mouth again. “i have to tell you something.”

he glanced down at the screen. “um…?”

emma nodded, understanding. “go ahead. pick it up.”

draken answered and held the phone to his ear. “hello?”

“draken, it’s me. takemichi.”

draken smiled faintly. “yo.”

“my lovely bride would like to say something to you,” takemichi added with a chuckle, before handing the phone off.

“draaaakeeeeen,” came hinata’s voice, dripping in sarcasm.

he could already hear airport chaos in the background.

“i’m sorry i hung up on you earlier,” she slurred just slightly, “but my new husband and this vodka cranberry, which by the way cost ten dollars and fifty cents at the airport bar,” — a pause as she shouted in the distance — “when is this plane going to board?!”

a faint, calming “sweet pea” from takemichi followed, trying to gently reel her back.

hinata cleared her throat. “anyway. i realized that sometimes i can act like a crazy person. and i don’t want my new husband thinking i’m a crazy person.”

draken chuckled. “it’s fine, hinata. seriously. don’t worry about it.”

in the booth, mitsuya gestured wildly, pantomiming eating — shoveling invisible forkfuls into his mouth.

“oh,” draken added into the phone, “and the guys were wondering where you got that cake.”

“cake?” hinata asked, confused for a second.

but behind him, emma had gone still.

the noise faded into a dull hum around her as a memory resurfaced — sudden and vivid.

she was in the bathroom stall, sniffling, red-eyed and emotionally wrecked. and then came that soft voice:

“why don’t you take this?”

a bouquet slid under the stall wall.

emma blinked, reached down, and pulled it toward her.

“sounds like you could use it,” the girl had said from the other side.

emma’s voice had cracked. “thank you. you’re very sweet.”

and then: “so are you a friend of the bride or groom?”

a pause.

“actually… neither.”

emma’s heart picked up as the flash faded and she blinked back into the present.

on the other end of the phone, hinata finally answered draken’s question.

“we got it from this bakery downtown,” she said. “it’s called—”

“sundrop sweets,” emma whispered.

draken’s head turned sharply toward her, stunned.

“sundrop sweets,” hinata repeated. “you should go there sometime. amazing frosting.”

draken’s hand slowly lowered the phone from his ear, hanging up without another word.

his eyes widened as it clicked.

he turned to mitsuya, voice low but electric with realization.

“she made the cake.”

draken was pacing now, eyes wild, voice climbing in pitch.

“she wasn’t on the guest list because she wasn’t a guest!!” he turned to mitsuya, pointing like a man possessed. “she made the cake!”

mitsuya blinked hard, like something in his soul had just clicked.

“she made that cake.” he stood slowly. “draken. this is the girl.”

draken stared at him.

“you gotta marry her. today.”

“what—?”

“no, listen to me,” mitsuya said, suddenly intense, gripping draken’s shoulders. “she’s gotta move in with us. do you understand me? this woman bakes.”

“i’m going down to that bakery,” draken declared, spinning on his heel, already halfway out the booth.

but mikey jumped up, grabbing him by the arm and whipping him back around. “no no no. don’t do it!”

mitsuya’s voice shot up an octave. “what are you talking about?!”

draken pointed at mikey, arms flailing now. “yeah! all day long you’ve been busting my apple bag about finding this girl!”

“i know, i know!” mikey said, sweating. “but maybe she’s just… not that into you.”

draken’s expression froze.

mikey hesitated, then added, eyes darting to emma, “and… and maybe that’s why she didn’t give you her number.”

he turned, slowly, dramatically.

“emma? care to chime in with anything?”

all eyes on her.

emma stood frozen, eyes locked with draken’s.

“…yes, draken.”

everyone held their breath.

emma exhaled, quietly but firmly.

“go get her.”

draken’s face lit up like a firework. “going!! getting!!!”

he rushed toward the door—only for nahoya to dramatically slide in front of him like a basketball defense move.

“oh my gosh i love this moment!” nahoya said, giddy, bouncing on his heels. “you know why? because i’m gonna say it. and this time, you’re gonna say yes.”

draken blinked. “nahoya not now—”

“ready?” nahoya rubbed his hands together. “are ya ready to say yes??”

he took a deep, theatrical breath.

“draken… it’s time to get a perm.”

draken, adrenaline pumping, fist in the air: “YES!!”

nahoya threw his arms up in triumph.

then draken paused. blinked.

“…no.”

“oh come on!!” nahoya whined, tossing a napkin at him.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

the city glided past the windows in a blur of neon and brake lights, muted under the low hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of a ramen wrapper in the backseat.

draken sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed out the window, but he wasn’t seeing anything out there.

he was seeing her.

the piano room had faded behind them, and they stepped back into the reception hall.

it was empty.

no lights strung up. no laughing voices. no cake crumbs on plates.

just silence and the leftover sparkle of a party that had already come and gone.

“guess we were gone a while,” she said, glancing around.

draken chuckled. “did we miss the entire party?”

“entire,” she confirmed.

they both laughed, quietly — not the big kind, but the soft, breathy kind that stays with you.

and then she pouted, just a little.

“kinda wanted one dance.”

draken looked at her.

then held out a hand.

“then let’s dance.”

they moved together slowly, no music, just the hush of the empty room.

his hands were steady. hers were light on his shoulders.

her dress rustled gently when she swayed.

it was the kind of dance that made time feel embarrassed for ever trying to pass.

“sundrop sweets! this is it.”

mikey’s voice pulled draken sharply out of his head.

they pulled up to a little corner bakery, pastel-painted and glowing from the inside like it had its own sun.

mitsuya leaned forward, giving draken a firm pat on the shoulder. “good luck, dude. grab me a cupcake.”

draken didn’t move.

he just sat there, fingers tapping against his knee, staring at the front doors like he wasn’t sure what he’d see on the other side — or if he even deserved to see it.

“draken?” nahoya said carefully. “you still with us?”

their dance slowed to a stop.

they looked at each other.

and leaned in.

but just before their lips met, she pulled away — not cold, not apologetic, just… gentle.

a breath away from something real.

“there’s one flaw with tonight,” draken had said, his voice low.

she looked up at him. “what?”

he smiled softly. “i’m gonna have to feel the pain of seeing you walk out the door.”

she tilted her head. thought for a moment. then reached up and touched his chest lightly.

“then don’t watch me go.”

he blinked.

“close your eyes,” she said. “and count to five.”

he hesitated.

but did it anyway.

“one…”

“two…”

“three…”

he could hear her breathing.

“four…”

and then—

“five.”

he opened his eyes.

she was gone.

draken still hadn’t moved.

the guys were quiet now — even mikey — watching him carefully like the wrong word might tip him over.

he stared at the glowing bakery sign ahead.

sundrop sweets.

his jaw was tight. eyes stormy.

“maybe we both need that,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

mikey turned slightly. “need what?”

“this,” draken said softly, nodding toward the bakery. “to stay exactly what it is. a perfect night. no real names. no regrets.”

mitsuya blinked slowly. nahoya was chewing his gum like it was making him nervous.

draken exhaled, long and heavy.

“i mean, so many things go wrong in life. you plan, you build, you fight for things—” he looked down at his hands. “and still, it all falls apart.”

silence.

“but this… this is the one thing that never will.”

his voice dropped, like he was afraid to jinx it.

“it’ll always, always be pure, unadulterated, awesome.”

he turned toward the window, not quite looking in yet.

“if i walk in there,” he said slowly, “i’m robbing both of us of what could be. of what stayed perfect.”

nahoya squinted, leaned forward between the seats.

“dude, the meter’s running,” he said flatly. “crap or get off the pot.”

draken snapped his head around. “what?”

“i’m serious. i will not pay a dime over this.”

“yeah, yeah, i’m going,” draken muttered, pushing open the door.

the city air hit him first — cool, sharp, stirring the ends of his jacket.

he took a deep breath.

then turned toward the bakery.

he slowed as he walked past the big front window.

and there she was.

behind the glass, under warm lights and surrounded by colors and sugar and laughter he couldn’t hear — she was frosting cupcakes.

a small tray balanced on her arm. her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. she was smoothing the top of a swirl, the back of her hand dotted with flour.

she looked so real.

so un-magical in the most magical way.

no red dress. no fancy lights. no soft music playing.

just her. still that girl. but here, in the world, in her element.

his heart thudded.

draken opened the bakery door.

the bell above it chimed, light and bright.

cold air curled in behind him.

and the scent hit him hard — frosting, sugar, maybe a little almond. something citrusy. vanilla in the walls.

his boots touched tile, and everything in him stopped moving.

but in front of him, she didn’t look up yet.

she was still frosting, lost in the rhythm.

just as he’d been, not long ago, lost in the memory.

(..◜ᴗ◝..)

you finish smoothing the last swirl of frosting with a careful flick of your wrist, setting the cupcake down in the display tray with a quiet satisfaction.

your fingers are still a little sticky with sugar when the doorbell chimes.

you don’t look up right away — the sound of the bell is familiar, background noise most days — but something feels different this time.

heavier.

weighted.

you glance toward the door.

and there he is.

standing just inside the shop, like he doesn’t know what to do next.

hair a little messier. jacket half-zipped. eyes locked on you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

your breath catches.

your heart flips over.

and before you even realize you’re moving—

“oh thank god,” you say, voice breathless with relief.

and then you run.

you round the counter without hesitation and close the distance between you and draken like you’ve been waiting forever.

his arms barely open before you crash into him — arms wrapping tight around his neck, face tilted up, and your lips meet his in a kiss that feels like catching up on everything you lost the second you let go that night.

he kisses you back instantly.

it’s not delicate. it’s not rehearsed. it’s not even perfect.

but it’s real.

and it tastes like sugar.

and you never, not for one second, want to pull away.

his hands settle on your waist, grounding you.

you don’t speak. you don’t need to.

the kiss says it all — the missed chances, the “what ifs,” the five-second countdown, and every second since.

when you finally part, it’s just an inch — just enough to breathe the same air and rest your forehead against his.

you smile. he does too.

and outside the bakery window…

“WHOOOOO!!!”

nahoya’s face is pressed to the glass like a kid in a candy store — fittingly.

mikey’s hands are cupped around his eyes as he leans in, squinting. “they’re kissing!! they’re literally kissing right now!!”

mitsuya is behind them, grinning from ear to ear, arms in the air like he just scored a goal.

“HE FOUND HER!! BAKER GIRL IS REAL!!!”

a passerby slows down, staring at the spectacle.

“are they okay?” someone mumbles.

“NO,” nahoya shouts through the glass. “THEY’RE IN LOVE!!”

inside, draken groans softly, his forehead still resting against yours.

“i swear,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, “they follow me everywhere.”

you laugh.

and suddenly — this moment, this shop, this chaos — ends the most perfect night you’ve ever had.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, this came directly out of how i met your mother season 1 episode 13 😭😭 i absolutely love this episode !!! ANYWAYS ENJOYYYY HUNNIESSSS !!!

permanent 🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew

[3dmanswhore]

just checking in | y. itadori

word count: 1.1k

content: fluff, friends to (lovers?), suggested romantic feelings but technically nothing that’s explicitly romantic kind of idk, lowkey a set-up for a part two but i’m so lazy and inconsistent it might not happen mb

summary: your best friend yuuji is having trouble sleeping after having a nightmare about you so he sneaks into your room to check up on you

a/n: he’s literally so freaking underrated it’s lowkey making me mad that there’s so few fics of him so i’m determined to just make them myself. i already have some ideas for a part two but it’ll have to wait until exams are over for me until i can really focus on writing a worthy pt. 2 so i proooomise to try and write one but sorry in advance if i end up abandoning it

also why the heck do like all of my fics take place in a bedroom??? i think it’s a sign i need to leave my house

you were awoken to a loud thud coming from your bedroom window slamming open.

immediately sitting up, you squint through foggy eyes, blinking rapidly as your heart races while you watch a figure struggle to climb through your window.

the sound of a familiar voice groaning as he falls onto your hardwood floors, just barely catching himself, eases you as you realize it’s not a burglar or cursed spirit.

“yuuji?” your voice comes out groggy and slightly whiny as you rub your eyes, leaning over the foot of your bed to look at the boy kneeling in front of your window.

“sorry, didn’t mean to wake you”, he says calmly as he stands up and dusts his pyjama pants.

you blink slowly, what did you mean to do?

“what are you doing, yuuji?”, you groan, leaning on your wall as you glare at him, trying to hold onto the last bits of sleepiness.

“your door was locked”, he shrugs, his eyes scanning your room as he walks towards your bookcase, taking one of the books and skimming through it as he sits down on the edge of your bed, his back facing you.

you nudge him with your foot slightly but he just ignores you, “have you read this?” he asks as he flashes the book to you, so quickly you couldn’t even make out the title.

“yuuji.“

he lets out an exasperated sigh, leaning backwards against your calves as he places the book on the floor. “can’t a guy just come over to check on his best friend?”

“not at, like, 3 in the morning. but if it’s so important: i’m doing great, yuuj’. can you go back to your room now?”, you ask as you sway your knees slightly, causing him to move along with the movement.

he stays quiet, pushing his head through your knees as he now lays on your stomach, his arms loosely wrapped around your thighs like those handles on rollercoaster rides. “can i sleep here?” his voice is soft as he leans his head back slightly to catch your eyes with that innocent puppy-dog look on his face.

you let out an overdramatic groan, whining out his name in annoyance as he just gives you a sheepish smile. “i really need a good night of sleep”, you plead as you mindlessly brush fingers through his soft locks.

“i won’t bother you, i promise”, he says in a muffled tone as he’s turned to lay on his stomach, his chin resting painfully on your abdomen.

“you’re already bothering me”, you roll your eyes, trying to ignore the tingles you felt from his voice vibrating against your stomach.

he stays quiet, turning his head sideways as he lightly picks at your waist with his fingers, probably assuming if he just falls asleep right here and now you’ll have no choice but to fold and let him stay.

“you’re not sleeping here, yuuji”, you flick the back of his head, adjusting your position to try and push him off politely.

he gets up awkwardly, grabbing a pillow from your bed and setting it down on the floor, “look, i’ll just sleep on the floor. please?”

“no, yuuji! and that’s my favorite pillow, you can’t just take it”

“okay then give me the other one”

“it’s also my favorite…”

“then i’ll sleep without one. please, y/n, i had a nightmare. i don’t wanna be in my room”, he finally admits, and you’re sure you’d see red covering his face in embarrassment if the room was lit up enough.

you let out a sigh, throwing yourself back to lie in bed, turning to face the wall as you mumble out a “fine.”

“here, take your pillow”, you feel the object nudge your back.

“no, keep it”, you say quietly, already falling back into a deep slumber.

he lets out a gasp, “you’re giving me your favorite pillow?”

“i don’t have a favorite pillow, yuuji.”

he lets out a disappointed ‘oh’ before wishing you a good night and going to sleep himself.

or, i guess, trying to.

you listen to him restlessly move around and shuffle for at least ten minutes. you turn to face him, your eyes closed, just because the position is more comfortable.

and the shuffling stops, so you inch your eyes open to check if he’s finally fallen asleep, but nearly scream out of shock from the sight.

he’s practically sitting, only leaning on his elbows as he stares at you with furrowed eyebrows.

you jerk back, causing him to stumble too as he quickly lays back down, pretending to be asleep.

“yuuji, why the hell are you watching me sleep!?” you practically scream and he just yells out a ‘sorry!’ without explanation.

you lie in silence, questioning the universe what it was you did in a past life that was so horrible you were now stuck with this weirdo with no sense of boundaries or personal space.

but then you scoot closer to the wall, patting the space next to you, “come.” you call out like to a dog and following a brief pause he stumbles into your bed, grinning happily as his shoulder rubs against your own. “was your nightmare about me?”

you feel him freeze up slightly as he nods quietly.

you purse your lips, “do you wanna talk about it?”

he shakes his head.

“did i… die or something?”

you were well aware of the types of horrific nightmares that tend to haunt sorcerers. you had them, too.

he doesn’t respond but his silence is an answer enough.

you lean on your left elbow, facing him as he silently watches you reach for his hand resting on his stomach and lead it to the left side of your chest, pressing his palm against your ribcage engulfing your beating heart which now thumps slightly faster than usual.

“alive and well”, you say with a soft smile, dropping your hand from his but his stays put, then travels up your neck, then your hot cheek - grazing it softly as he pushes your hair back, his eyes never leaving the area he’s inspecting as if he’s making sure you’re real and you’re fine.

your eyes close as you ease into his touch, lying on your side as your head sinks into the overly soft pillow while his fingers still brush through your hair.

you don’t even realize the moment his touch puts you to sleep, or the moment he leaves the next morning. you only notice the void he’s left in your bed, and the want for him to cup your face again and graze your cheeks, chin, nose, lips, with his calloused fingers once more.

the next day he’s acting normal, and it’s not like he shouldn’t be. after all, nothing weird happened last night, nothing to directly ruin your friendship or stir things.

but it managed to stir you. and you realize you can no longer be friends with yuuji.

[n3ptoonz]

'All That Jazz'

Pairing: Professor!Bucky/Professor!F!Reader

Fandom: MCU

Warnings/tags: Smut; Explicit, reader is older - as in like "same age" as him (like mid to late thirties), reader is a foreign theatre teacher; speaks a different language (unspecified), reader is like the complete opposite of bucky, guys i had so much fun writing this, plot, subtle tension, technically public sx, HEELS, freaked out lover boy, body worship, yes he's wearing the suit like in the picture above, light masochism- DAMN - not proofreading allat.

Word count: 3.7k+ ... hahaha 😅

i'm trying out aesthetics/decorated posts, don't mind me🙂‍↕️

italicize text in quotations means a different language is being spoken - pictures used are not depictions

did i get this idea when i saw that quote from sebastian saying when he saw women wear heels sometimes he'd think about what she looks like only wearing heels...? don't even worry bout that bruh-

Bucky has been teaching AP US History at NYU for about five years now and has never worked up the courage to talk to you for more than just a conversation about grades or the occasional gossip about students or staff. You were extroverted and smiley. It's taken a while to get used to people calling him James instead of Bucky, but he kind of looked forward to hearing you say it in your sweet, honey-like voice. Everyday since he's gotten the job and seen you in the halls, you've worn a different color/patterned hat and stylish outfit that hugged your form just right, often tied together with a scarf around the neck. It drove him a little crazy to say the least.

Sometimes his students would tease him and tell him to just go for it already, to which he just brushes off and playfully glares at them. And there was that one time he saw you strutting towards the elevator in a blazer and pencil skirt brought together by a pair of red pumps. For the rest of that day he could only think about how you looked with only those heels on...But anyway!

Today was a slow day of grading essays before the midterm. He was knee deep in assignments and just wanted to get it over with.

You are former broadway show runner that hailed from a different country and took up teaching a decade ago in New York City. You were always so sweet and kind to everyone you've met. Theatrical and eccentric in a good way. Your hair was always uniquely styled, a few gray strands that you wore proudly. Your accent was rich as the fabrics you wore and your smile was to die for. You took particular interest in the introverted James Bucky Barnes, as you had never met someone like him before. But you found that to be a good thing.

It wasn't abnormal for you to frequently visit his classroom whether he was teaching or not. Your students often teased you too about how often you went out of your way to go to a whole floor below yours just to see him.

Three light knocks came to the door of his classroom before you popped your head in. You beamed your typical smile at him with a small wave.

"Hello, James," you chimed. "I hope I am not intruding on your grading process?" you asked, still standing at the door.

Bucky looked up from the stack of essays he had been grading, slightly startled but pleased to see you standing at the doorway. He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, offering you a small smile in return. "Hey, ah, no, not at all. I could use a break from these essays," he replied, gesturing to the pile on his desk. "What brings you in?"

"I was just thinking about the upcoming midterm and wanted to bounce some ideas off you," you explained, stepping further into the classroom. "But now that I said it out loud, it sounds...boring." you added and turned to him. "Perhaps an evening at the jazz bar down the road isn't too big of an ask?"

You looked at him with those bright, expressive eyes, your smile still playing at the corners of your lips. It was clear you had taken a liking to the reserved history professor, appreciating his quiet intensity and sharp mind. The students' teasing remarks about your frequent visits to his classroom only served to encourage you, showing you that your interest in him was not unnoticed or unwelcome.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at your suggestion, a hint of surprise flickering across his face before a slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "An evening at the bar, huh? That does sound more interesting than grading these essays," he mused, glancing back at the stack of papers on his desk.

He folded his arms across his chest, leaning casually against the edge of his desk as he considered your offer. "I suppose I could stand to take a break from the academic world for a little while. There are a few things I've been wanting to discuss with you as well," he admitted, his blue eyes meeting yours.

Bucky knew he should probably keep things professional, but there was something about your open mindedness for life and eccentric charm that made him want to let his guard down, even if only a little.

"Tell you what, why don't we meet there around 7? I can finish up here and then join you for a drink and a chat," he proposed, already looking forward to spending more time in your company.

"Sounds perfect! I should be able to get a good amount of grading done in an hour and a half. Good call." you nodded and sauntered over to the door. "Goodbye for now. And don't even be a minute late." you playfully narrowed your eyes and pointed at him before you chuckled and left out the door; the sound of your heels receding down the hallway.

Bucky watched as you sauntered out of his classroom, your playful warning and the sound of her heels echoing in his ears. He couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself but also mutter something not-so-appropriate under his breath. He ran his hands over his face and scratched his beard in thought. Thoughts of you and wondering if he just completely missed that you essentially asked him out on a date after work. Huh.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the clock was at 6:50. Bucky gathered up the graded essays and put them away in a drawer, straightening his tie and grabbing his coat--burnt orange, like his suit--before heading out of the classroom. After the short elevator ride to the ground floor, he exited the building and spotted the bar just a short distance away.

You were already at the bar with a glass of wine and swaying to the music when he walked in and spotted you. You glanced in his direction as he approached, that familiar smile flashing at him again.

"James!" you chimed and gestured for him to sit down. "Thought you might stand me up." you added in a teasing way given that he was definitely a minute late.

"Wouldn't dream of it." he said as he sat down, ordering for himself before looking back at you. "So, what did you want to discuss about the upcoming midterm?" he asked in a genuinely curious tone. He figured he play it safe, but he couldn't help but notice now that you look a little different than earlier. You weren't wearing a hat or scarf, your dress shirt was three buttons loose at the top and your lipstick was touched up. You appeared more...laidback; inviting.

You hummed and swirled the wine in the glass after taking a sip. "This is a little embarrassing," you said with a small chuckle. "I was really just finding an excuse to come talk to you. My midterms are very different from other curricula as it pertains to materials and...well, I guess I didn't want to sound too forward inviting you out for drinks on a school night." you added as you took another sip of wine.

Bucky nodded and laughed to himself. So he was correct in assuming this was like a date. Noted.

He took a sip of his whiskey as it arrived, the smooth burn familiar and welcome. "Well, I'm glad you found an excuse to invite me out for drinks," he replied, his voice deep and sincere. "Doesn't bother me at all."

Bucky allowed his gaze to linger on you for a moment, taking in the sight of you with the top few buttons of your shirt undone and your lips touched with a fresh coat of lipstick. The look was inviting, alluring, and he found himself clouded once again. All the possibilities laid bare in his mind with you sitting right in front of him. Seldom an ounce of shame.

"We could make this like a regular thing." he continued. The words left his lips before he could process the proposition but you didn't look put off by it. Not even a little bit. Instead, you gave a considering look.

"Sounds like a plan." you said, cheers-ing with his glass and finishing your drink. You leaned on the counter and just looked at him, admiring his features.

"So what does free time usually look like for Professor Barnes?" you asked as you tapped the rim of the glass in idle rhythm. Bucky took another swig of liquid courage before answering.

"Well, as you can probably imagine, my free time is usually spent in the pursuit of knowledge and learning," he began, a hint of playful weariness in his voice. "But I enjoy just sitting in the quiet sometimes. Going for walks to clear the mess that is my mind for a while, some reading, all that jazz."

He paused before continuing, realizing his answer might've been dry or a downer. "Though I must admit, lately my free time has been taken over by thoughts of a certain charming professor from upstairs," he added, his pretty blue eyes locked with yours as a slow smile spread across his face.

Good save, Barnes.

You gave him a look of 'Oh, really?' written all over your face, no words needed as you finished the last of your wine before standing up and holding out your hand.

"Would you like to dance?" you proposed. Your tone was one of why the hell not? What do we have to lose? Bucky stared for a moment, chuckling to himself. He hasn't danced since 1943, it feels like. He wasn't one for the activity, let alone has he ever had the chance to share it like this with a beautiful, talented woman such as yourself. He followed suit and finished his glass before standing up and taking your hand, a small embarrassed smirk on his face. Your heart fluttered at the sight of his eyes crinkling with joy.

"Why the hell not?" he said, letting you lead the way to the floor littered with people dancing together to the song You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To sung live. In a strange way, it brought Bucky back. To a time he thought long forgotten. A time he wanted to forget. Yet being here with you was game changer for sure.

"I have to warn you, though. It's been a while and I'm not as light on my feet as I used to be." he continued with a sheepish laugh under his breath. You waved it off and held both of his hands.

"Not a problem. Let's start steady, just follow me." you said, moving with every other beat so it wasn't too fast for him. He caught on faster than he thought. He matched your moves and rhythm in record time. This was the first time in a while he genuinely smiled. His grin was so wide and his grip on your hands was grounding.

"Someone's a fast learner!" you chirped. "'Been a while' my ass."

Bucky laughed and twirled you in his hand, taking your hands again and letting the song take him over.

"What can I say? I finally have a proper partner." he said, spinning you again. His heart stopped for a second at his own words. Did he just say that?

This time you ended up pulled flush to his chest. Bucky looked down at you with light pink cheeks as he cleared his throat. Just realizing his palm was resting comfortably on the small of your back.

"I didn't- I meant like-"

"I know what you meant." you said with a head tilt and lightly patted his chest in reassurance. You were both panting from the surge of energy that suddenly hit you both during the song. His lips pulled into a short knowing smile. As the song was coming to an end, something clicked in his brain, like he was teleported back to 1942. He held you tighter and dipped you, his face hovering over yours as if it was just you two in the room. Your gasp wasn't missed when you clutched onto his shoulders. You looked up at him like he was crazy, but not in a bad way.

When he slowly brought you back up, he saw a bright young woman in her twenties. A girl he wanted to impress, maybe get some ice cream with later. A girl he just wanted to walk around the city and hold hands with. He would be in uniform and try to sound as cool as possible with soldier talk.

Nobody else dancing around them mattered. And he knew it couldn't be the one glass of whiskey he ordered because he can't get drunk. It was you.

Maybe it was always you.

Neither one of you has uttered a word in the last sixty seconds. Just staring and holding each other. He wanted to say something first but his mouth had gone dry. He blinked and he was brought back to the present. A woman that looked around his age giving him the same look he was probably giving her.

"We should head back." you said. You saw him blink a few more times, as if to snap out of his own thoughts before he reluctantly let you go. He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured towards the exit. He didn't have anything else to say, really. This kind of thing--all of it--was lost on him. It's not like he's never been in love before, but damn it he truly thought he forgot what that felt like. What it was. What it meant to him and what it would mean for anyone he might fall for again.

Perhaps he's being a little dramatic, right? That was your job!

It was a quiet walk back to school. The university building in immediate distance yet it felt a mile away. Bucky felt awkward. Like maybe he messed up somehow with his lover boy bullshit. He had hoped he didn't. And if he did, he'd do anything in his power to fix it.

You, on the other hand, were trying to compose yourself. The attraction you felt towards him was suffocating. The tension between you two given any time you were together could be sliced in half. Now? You couldn't breathe. And the faint cologne on his collar was never a help.

The elevator ride was no better. Close yet so far. You two could barely make eye contact.

Once at his classroom, you haven't a clue why you walked in. You stopped at the door, gripping the knob for dear life. Your muscles contracted with something you haven't felt in years. That familiar sensation in your chest that spread to the rest of your body. You watched him awkwardly walk over to his desk and move some papers around like he was reading something. You could tell now that he thought he did something wrong.

Bucky ran his hand over his beard and sighed before turning to you. "I, uh," he started, taking a few steps towards you with his hand in his pocket. "If I came on too strong..."

He was still talking when you closed the door behind you and walked over to him, a finger to his lips as you pushed him backwards to the whiteboard. He looked at you with a bit of surprise. Shocked at your boldness but also that you made it clear he didn't mistake anything.

You slid your finger from his lips to his jaw, urging him to lean forward to meet your lips. You gave him a simple kiss. You wanted to pull back and maybe make a witty remark about how nervous he was, but he was activated now. You only invited him in and he's moving like he owns the place.

His hands slid around your back to hold you closer than ever. His strong arms unyielding but safe. He even made sure his metal arm wasn't using as much pressure as his flesh one.

It didn't take long for the kiss to get heated. The wine on your tongue nearly as sweet as you. The whiskey on his almost just as intoxicating. You could feel his arousal pressing against your thigh through your skirt, practically screaming to be released from its confines. The serum running through his veins allowed him hold his breath longer than the average person. However, Earth to Bucky, she can't breathe!

He backed away with a soft pant. His eyes half-lidded while the sound of you catching your breath filled this corner of the classroom. He could only think about how you looked with only those heels on...

"You're beautiful." he said, the back of his hand caressing your cheekbone. His gaze by itself was consuming you whole. Part of your focus was your smeared lipstick on his lips and his arms holding you like you were married for years in every timeline.

Bucky kissed you again as he lifted you by your hips to carry you to his desk. Once you were sat down he started to undo your buttons with fervor. There went your shirt in three seconds tops. Then your skirt, which took longer because he loved how it looked sliding down those thighs along with your panties. He sucked marks onto your neck as the skirt hit the floor, leaving you completely bare after he unclipped your bra without missing a beat.

He didn't bother with your shoes and you wondered why. So, when you went to remove them he stopped you, looking you dead in the eyes.

"These stay on." he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckle. He crouched down before you and started to tail kisses up your legs--tip of the shoe first. "Tell me about your favorite play." he whispered against your foot and kept kissing. You shuddered and gripped his desk. The sight before you almost too much to bear.

You started on about your favorite play, when you saw it, where you saw it, how it made you feel. Occasionally pausing in between thoughts so you didn't lose them due to this man worshipping every inch of your body. Bucky gave a longer kiss to a birthmark, smiling to himself when you softly gasped.

Once he reached your thighs, he slowly pried them open but his eyes were on your face. Watching what he's doing right. The most bizarre thing was that he was still fully clothed. His bulge the most obvious thing in the room against those tight ass pants--that did wonders for his ass, by the way.

In the blink of in eye, your lips meet again, your legs wrap around him, and he's inside of you. He groaned and cursed like he took a bite from his favorite food of all time.

You could get lost in the pools of his irises. They were just so blue. James Barnes, akin to a siren without uttering a word.

He wanted to set a slow pace, he really did, but damn it girl he nearly slipped out several times because of how wet you were from him just admiring your legs and you looked butt ass naked in only heels. This wasn't some shit you'd get back home so definitely weren't going back anytime soon.

When your heel scraped his back a little bit, he moaned into your shoulder. Your eyes widened just a tad. Bucky was tucked securely inside of you, thrusting and humping you like he'd die if he stopped. You were half hazy, trying to keep down your own sounds of pleasure but you were aware enough to lift your leg and drag your heel on his clothed back again. He moaned louder, gripping your hips tighter.

"Please," he whispered desperately. "Oh, baby, I'm not ready to be a father."

You twitched underneath him and ran your fingers through his hair, the other hand scratching his back to hold yourself back. That unraveling feeling was rapidly approaching you were seeing stars. Your breaths irregular and your walls clamping down on him. Almost like you were telling him it was okay.

"Shit-" he hissed in response as his hand slid up your waist so he wouldn't lose his grip. The pace increased in an instant and his climax was drawing near too. You felt so good against him. Your skin. Your lips. Your silky walls. The messy, squelching sound that echoed off the walls was a song he'd have on repeat. He made love to you with everything he had. Everything that was mildly irritating him today went into every stroke.

Your heel scraped against him one more time, just a little harder by accident and he was gone. His limbs weakened but he pulled out in time. Quiet, weak whimpers coming from him. Something...Something about that alone got him so excited. Maybe it really felt like he was in the 40s again. It was like sneaking into somewhere he wasn't supposed to be and fucking where he wasn't supposed to with a dame he wasn't sure he was taking home.

Your climax hit you two seconds after; an array of praises and filthy words flying out of your mouth under your breath and in your native tongue. Your back arched upwards and your feet pointed, making the heel dig into his side for a second. You clenched your jaw so a string of moans didn't wake up the entire social studies department.

Bucky huffed a heavy breath and stood up straight. His hand taking yours and pulling you up to meet him chest to chest. Holding you once again so you wouldn't fall over. He kissed you on the forehead and rubbed your back in the places that the desk definitely left marks, but you didn't look tired though. You carefully pried him off of you and pushed him backwards towards his desk chair with just your index finger, sitting him down before crawling into his lap.

"The suit stays on."

[kurapikaspookie]

⋆˚࿔ Somethin’ Stupid | x ness  𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨ৎ obsessed!ness x reader fic, 1.1k word/20k words, ongoing.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

A boy with big cheeks and a sheepish smile seems to be bent on making you work harder than you should.

 

It’s been hours under the harsh, German sun, hours running laps with him by your side, always keeping up, even though you’re a fast paced runner. He cheers you on, tells you there’s ‘only one more drill!’ although one always turns into two, and then into another round of hurried breaths because Ness can’t count. The two-hour session is over. Has been, technically.

 

Training to be a midfielder was not for the weak. Your father – Noel Noa – decided he needed to hone your skills. Apparently, he had ‘hired a professional footballer’ with ‘years of experience’, someone he knew personally. Of course, you had never expected the professional footballer to be a boy your age, not even taller than you, with bright eyes and an easy-going smile.

 

That same boy was standing in front of you, still managing to stay upright, even after the long lap the two of you completed. But you didn’t miss the way sweat made his hair stick to his forehead. Didn’t miss the way his chest was subtly rising and falling, hinting at his own fatigue.

 

“Good run, right?” Ness huffed, hands on his hips, his eyes wide and bearing into yours. “What next? Should we home your aim? That cross was a little off-“

 

You blink. “We’re… still doing this?”

 

“You said you wanted to improve,” he says, too sweet. “And I’m still technically on the clock.”

 

Except he’s not. His session ended fifteen minutes ago. And you’re pretty sure you saw him glance at his phone right before ignoring it.

 

“Wait, ‘m tired…” you groaned, stretching your arms behind your back. “Isn’t two hours enough? We’ve passed the time already…”

 

Ness’ eyes widen, as if he hadn’t realized how much time had passed. His hands immedeately sprung up, a light blush appearing on his cheeks, as if he’d just been caught in a heinous act. “Ah, sorry! Time really does fly by… I lost track of the time!”

 

This is the third time this week he’s “lost track of the time.”

 

You nod, smiling at him, still grateful somewhat. You said you wanted to push yourself today. “Don’t apologise, was just exhausted, that’s all.” You pause for a second, recalling his words, your eyebrows raising. “Hey, you said my pass was a little ott, right? I can’t leave without correcting something like <em> that </em>.”

 

Ness nodded, the sparkle returning to his eyes. He picked a ball up off the hard floor, throwing it up and down twice, eyes still intense on you. “Well, it was really just your form. You were leaning back, see? That would to an overfit, not ideal for your strikers. You wanna open up your hips and torso so you can see both the ball and your targets.”

 

Ness dropped the ball in front of you, before walking over behind you, the ball rolling in front of your feet, at a slight angle.

 

Ness clears his throat. “Is it okay if I-“

 

You nod, looking over to the side, catching a glimpse of his sweet, innocent, awkward smile.

 

“I don’t mind.” You respond, facing front again. You feel Ness’ hands on you, his breathing seemingly heavier. He seems close, his chin almost above your shoulder, his chest brushing against your back. His hands slide down to your hips as he angles them.

 

“So… uh… try and engage your core.” Ness’ voice is a quiet, calm and level like it always has been, contrasting his loud breaths.

 

Ness places a hand on your shoulder, pushing them down. “Normally, when I deliver cross paths, all I can think about is how cool I’ll look…” Ness’ voice trailed off, as if he said something he wasn’t meant to.

 

“Really?” You chuckle softly. “That’s the best advice I’ve heard in a while, honestly.”

 

Ness laughs as well, still slightly adjusting your posture, his touch soft and careful. He guides your body to the right position, concentration reflecting in the tense air. His hair smells nice, you realize. A soft, vanilla scent,, something you know you would grow to associate with him.

 

You nod, but it’s hard to focus with the way his breath ghosts over the back of your neck.

 

You clear your throat. “You always get this handsy when you train people?”

 

He startles, pulling back just slightly, cheeks instantly pink.

 

“I—uh—I’m sorry. It’s just the fastest way to correct posture, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

(You shouldn’t like how warm his hand felt. You do.)

 

Ness watches you try again, serious now, nodding as you follow his instruction. And when you finally get the angle right, when the ball arcs cleanly, smoothly… he beams, clapping his hands once with genuine excitement.

 

“That was it!” he says. “That’s exactly what I was trying to show you—see, I knew you’d get it!”

 

You’re flushed from the heat, but something else stirs in your chest. The way he looks at you, like you just won a match, like you’re the only person on the pitch, it’s… a lot.

 

“So…” Ness starts. “Time goes really fast during these lessons, doesn’t it?”

 

You nod, trying to gauge where he was going with this. “Sure does.” You mutter sarcastically, because no, time - in fact - did not go fast. “Why?”

 

Ness chuckled again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should… I should give you a gift or something. Because of the extra time. Sorry about that.”

 

Ness gave you a wide, turtle smile, to which you nodded, your heart melting ever so slightly. “Do you want to… I don’t know… go out today? To a restaurant or something. My treat.”

 

You chuckled, giving him a small nod. “Yeah, sure. I can never turn down free food.”

 

__

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(A/N: small draft to make sure I’m on the right track! I am so snowed down with exams and results and my own personal book, so I will probably finish this during summer, expect like 20k words or so! Comments are SO motivating and appreciated!)

[heylavellan]

rivalmancing anders as a mage fuels me, not because i think he's wrong or hate mages. its because i can make a hawke gaslight anders into thinking he's wrong only for hawke to choose him and the mages at the end. the breakdown that anders has after is astronomical.

also, a few fave lines from the (gay) rivalmance:

"don't threaten me boy" (hot)

"and since yours is the only head here, and i don't want to rip it off, i should stop." (also hot)

"i will not give up this fight hawke. know this now." (very hot)

"i confess, i wasn't sure you'd share my outrage. i'm glad i can count on this much."

"let us hope he is a fool as well as a bastard." (eat ser alrik alive anders!)

"why is it you can say nothing without me wanting to wring your neck?" (super hot)

"no, i like it. you just... surprised me."

"you defy the circle yourself, yet condemn the rest of your kind to it!" (apostate 2 apostate convo LMAO)

"i will make you see! i swear, if i convince no one else, at least i'll have you at my side before this is done." (hot desperation)

"i swear. i don't know whether to kiss or kill you. you're everything i hate."

"but i can't stop thinking about you. for years i've told myself there's nothing there, but i can feel it smouldering between us."

"i will never understand how you can be so antagonistic by day and so passionate by night."

"every time i don't think you understand, you turn around and do something like this."

"did i tell you about the dream i had where the grand cleric was completely naked except for her mitre? and there was this giant glowing cheese wheel..." (I NEED TO KNOW MORE)

"you cannot care for me and despise what i stand for." (correct king)

"i told you. i'm a liar. i'm a monster. i never claimed i would do anything but hurt you."

"you have given in to sloth. you would stand by while mages are abducted and tortured." (technically justice, but it counts)

anyway, rivalmance is fun.

[spatialwave]

V's All That

Chapter 6 || The Lab

➥ Summary: Jayce Talis, the school's golden boy and a guaranteed pick for Prom King, seems to have it all—looks, charm, and popularity. However, when Kino presents him with the opportunity to win back Mel, his ex-girlfriend and the one who got away, Jayce jumps at the chance. The challenge? To transform Viktor, a snarky outcast who is as far from popular as possible, into Prom King instead. Jayce takes the bait, but he may have taken on more than he can handle. ➥ Word Count: 3.7k ➥ Pairing: Jayce Talis x Viktor || Arcane

🧡 beta'd by @spxllcxstxr 🩷 art by @wapimostosis 🧡 available on ao3

<- part 5.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Caitlyn’s voice cracked through weights slamming, and distant chattering in the gym. With her knees bent on the leg press, her eyes snapped over to Jayce, who stood beside her with a lost look in his eyes, pleading for any form of advice. “You lied to him and then kissed him?”

Jayce’s eyes danced to the other people in the gym, who were far from paying attention, and hissed back, “Keep your voice down.”

“No one can hear us,” she snapped, inhaling a sharp breath and shutting her eyes. “Let me think for a minute.”

The older boy leaned against the weight machine, hands running down his face in exasperation after revealing everything to Caitlyn. The bet that started with Kino, which sparked the unlikely friendship with Viktor, was making its rounds amongst the students of Piltover High. Although only two – now three – people knew of the animosity behind the friendship. Though to Jayce, there wasn’t any. Not anymore, at least.

Jayce didn’t like to think of himself as a monster, but the way Caitlyn couldn’t look him in the eye was telling.

With a heavy sigh, he broke, “Listen, I know I’m a piece of shit for this, alright? I’m telling you because I need your help unfucking this mess.”

“A mess you made,” Caitlyn reminded, her eyes opening to meet his. Surprisingly, they were soft. It was Jayce; she was biased. “But… I can tell you like him. More than a friend.”

Jayce’s cheeks burned a deep red, the colour staining over his tanned skin as those bright hazel eyes danced around the gym. He didn’t want to think about it. The feelings he had for Viktor. The confusion that came with liking another man. It was—a lot.

It was unlike anything he had felt before. He hadn’t thought about Mel in days. All he could think of was Viktor. The kiss. His smile. Those amber eyes. It was embarrassing to him.

“Don’t look so sad,” Caitlyn breathed, her laughter relieving his stress, “No one is going to judge you, Jayce. It’s a very normal feeling.”

He scoffed, meeting her eyes and raising a brow.

“Okay,” she backtracked, “No one you care about will judge you. Better?”

“A little,” he mumbled, but he didn’t believe her. She didn’t know Kino. She didn’t know his other friends as well as he did. Being different wasn’t often considered a great way to propel yourself to the top of the social ladder. It was the very reason this bet took place.

Viktor was different, and Kino didn’t like that.

“Jayce,” her voice was so gentle, and he jumped in place when he realized that she was standing in front of him. Two hands rested over his bare shoulders, finger pads pressed into his muscles, “You need to be truthful with him. That is the only way to keep him in your life. It’ll be difficult, and he might need his space, but coming clean and being honest is the only thing you can do to make it right.”

“Technically, he’s already in my life—”

“Don’t be an ass, you know what I mean,” she hissed. He winced at a heavy smack on his shoulder.

“I hear you,” Jayce groaned. Coming clean wasn’t easy, nor did he expect Viktor to ever look at him the same way if he told him. Why couldn’t it be simpler? Why couldn’t Jayce just shove the truth deep and far into the ground, and forget it ever existed? Why did he have to bring Caitlyn into the loop?

✦︎

“Am I kissable?”

The question had come out of left field. Sky was sitting at the library table in the very back, where Viktor preferred to sit. Her nose was buried into a textbook as they analyzed their final biology project together. Sitting up straight, the girl pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose as she looked at her best friend.

He was slouched over, his chin in his hand as he stared at a blank page in his notebook. The hangover was killing him, but not as much as the lingering anxiety and depression that came after nights of drinking. 

“I don’t think I’m equipped to answer that,” Sky spoke, raising a curious eyebrow as she closed her textbook. She stared at Viktor with thinned lips, having been waiting to ask about what happened the night before. 

If Sky was anything with him, it was patient. 

A soft sigh escaped her lips as Viktor refused to look up or further his question. “What happened?”

Viktor shifted, albeit very slightly. The headache that penetrated deep into his skull was making him nauseous, and he wished he had cancelled his plans to stay in bed. Though when he flickered his eyes up and met with Sky’s, he felt comfort wash through him. 

“I fucked up.” He muttered quietly, and his mind jumped straight to the kiss. The one that lasted all of three seconds before he puked up the greasy dinner he indulged in at Powder’s. With a heavy sigh, that one might call dramatic, he collapsed his face into his arms that crossed over the table.

“Oh, Viktor,” Sky sighed quietly. A gentle hand stretched outward across the table and rested over his slender arm covered by the white long-sleeved shirt he layered under a black band tee. Her thumb rubbed against the fabric, a simple ministration that calmed him. “Tell me. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“I kissed Jayce,” he mumbled, his voice strained from his mouth resting against his arm. “I kissed him at the end of the night, and once we did, I threw up, and he took me home, and he hasn’t even tried calling me.” He was silent for a few beats, sitting up and speaking again before Sky could interject. “And I hate the way I sound right now. I shouldn’t be worried about my kissability, or why some stupid man isn’t calling me—”

Sky could see the panic in his eyes. A panic he hadn’t shown since Orianna was first put in the hospital when they were finishing sophomore year.

It was rare for him to break down like this or overwork himself beyond his limits. Viktor prided himself on his fierce independence.

“Why are you smiling?” He flashed a look of annoyance at Sky, his eyes wide.

“Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in love before.” She grinned, pulling her hand away before Viktor could even attempt to swat at her. 

“Love is egregiously advanced for what I am feeling, Sky,” Viktor said adamantly, scoffing. His sunken, pale cheeks had been dusted with a soft pink colour, and he refused to look at her. Instead, he found a row of books beyond them much more interesting.

“Okay, let me reiterate. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you have a crush on someone who wasn’t Orlando Bloom or John Stamos—”

“I told you those in confidence.”

“Viktor,” she laughed, the smile reaching her eyes, “Just let me talk, okay?”

Viktor clenched his jaw tight, leaning back in his chair as he stared her down. She was too happy, too invested in this. Too optimistic. “Fine,” he muttered, fingers finding his pencil to toy with as he listened.

“What I want to say is that what you are feeling is very normal,” She explained, hands moving as she spoke, “I’ve had my fair share of crushes on boys, and your mind doesn’t work right when you’re caught up in them. You overthink, you worry, you are scared that you’ll mess everything up!” 

Viktor looked back at her, chewing on his lip. Well, that was one way to put it.

“Jayce hasn’t called because he’s probably thinking the same thing,” she offered the input with a shrug. “He may think he messed things up by taking it too far… or maybe he’s just not sure what to say. Boys aren’t the best at communication. Yes, that includes you.”

“Thanks,” Viktor snorted a bitter laugh. After a moment to reel in her words, he shook his head, “I just can’t help but think something is underlying in… whatever I have going on with him. Why me?”

“Or maybe you’re just not used to good things happening to you?” Sky leaned forward, chin in both hands, as she smiled, “If I were you, I’d talk to him tomorrow. I’ve never seen you quite as happy as you are with him, Vik.”

Viktor scrunched his nose in forced disgust, “Okay, yeah. Whatever. I’ll talk to him.” He mumbled, as if it wasn’t the best advice he had received in a long time. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled, biting her tongue and deciding against asking what the kiss was like. She’d find out in due time.

✦︎

When Monday rolled around, both boys had no intention of taking the advice they’d been given. First period came and went, then lunch. Time ticked on quickly for a dreary, overcast Monday, and they became experts in avoidance—even in class. What had become a bad habit of stolen glances and shared notes torn from corners of notebooks turned into cold shoulders.

It wasn’t out of hatred. No. It was the very opposite that drove them away.

Viktor had grown to hate how his stomach churned anytime he set eyes on Jayce, how his gap-tooth smile made him want to scream into a pillow. Or better yet, kiss the smile off his face.

Jayce had stepped into chemistry class seconds before the bell rang, and much to his chagrin, the only available seat was next to Viktor. He had been staring ahead in class, bored and watching as the teacher wrote on the chalkboard the upcoming assignment.

It wasn’t until the sound of the stool next to him shifted on the laminate flooring that he was pulled from his thoughts. With a glance, he expected to see Sky, but his eyes widened when they landed on Jayce.

Shit, shit, shit.

Swallowing down a thick lump in his throat, he snapped his gaze forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted how Jayce slowly unpacked his books, obviously not planning on attempting to go anywhere else. Welp.

“Okay, class,” Mr. Heimerdinger said, looking out towards the students who all looked bored out of their minds, apart from a select few. “We’re going to do an exercise in class today because it appears that many of you do not understand how to neutralize acids after last week’s demonstration and pop quiz.”

There was a chorus of groans.

Mr. Heimerdinger puffed out his chest, clearing his throat, “You will work with who you are sitting with. Please flip to Page 135 and follow the instructions there. I have kindly provided you with all the materials you will need at your desk—”

The instructions, by this point, had gone in through one ear and out the other from both Viktor and Jayce. Neither of them had much trouble in chemistry, nor did they fail either the pop quiz or the hands-on demonstration given last week.

Without speaking, both boys had jumped into the assignment. Viktor had taken the task of pipetting acid into the flask, while Jayce put together the burette and filled it with a base. Minutes had passed, and both boys wore their safety goggles and lab coats in silence, working together seamlessly as if they were lab partners in another life.

“How’re you feeling today?”

Jayce’s voice cracked right through Viktor’s concentration as he scribbled down notes onto the paper given to them to fill out as they worked on the neutralization process. Looking over, he sighed and pushed his goggles up until his hair was pushed back.

“Okay, I guess. Tired.” Viktor shrugged in response, hating the way his heart ached as he watched Jayce study the burette. Making sure there was enough neutralizer, and that the stopcock was perpendicular and keeping any fluid from dropping out. “You?”

“I’m good,” Jayce murmured. He straightened up, breaking his concentration and glancing at Viktor. Even just a glance, it set his heart on fire. He looked cute, with his hair splayed in every which direction because of the goggles. It brought a smile to his face, one that warmed Viktor’s insides. “I don’t want to go to practice tonight. I could use another night lazing around.”

“Ah,” Viktor responded. He returned the goggles over his eyes. “Do you want to swirl the flask or drip the neutralizer?”

“I can swirl the flask. It’s fun,” Jayce replied, smiling to himself as he eased into the conversation better than he had worried about all night.

“Of course you’d think it’s fun,” Viktor chided playfully. He leaned forward, scooting on his stool a bit closer to Jayce as they coordinated their movements.

With his eyes fixed on the liquid being swirled in the flask, Viktor began to drop the neutralizer slowly.

“This might be a personal question,” Jayce’s voice was soft, too quiet for anyone else to hear as they focused. “But when I was at your house, I saw a picture on your wall… You and Dr. Reveck and—”

“Orianna,” Viktor spoke, his voice sharply cutting off Jayce’s. “Stop swirling.”

Jayce did as told. He ceased his movements, and just like clockwork, the liquid in the flask turned a faint pink colour. Neutralized.

Returning to the paper, Viktor began to scribble down more notes of their session, writing so fast that Mr. Heimerdinger would surely have a difficult time attempting to decipher the notes. 

“Is she your sister?”

Viktor paused his writing, out of the corner of his eye, seeing Jayce turn towards him completely, with a gentle look in his eyes. He wanted to berate him for asking something that was none of his business, but he figured, after kissing him, he had the right to want to learn more about him. Viktor wasn’t exactly known for being an open book, and although he preferred to keep it that way, it wasn’t out of necessity more than it was preference—an easy way to shut people out.

He hadn’t wanted to shut Jayce out.

“No, she’s Dr. Reveck’s daughter,” Viktor said after clearing his throat a couple of times. A beat passed, then two. He huffed, turning to face Jayce and once again pushing his goggles back as their knees knocked together. “I’m a foster kid.”

Jayce’s eyes widened just enough for Viktor to notice—a reaction he wasn’t keen on receiving. Yet another thing to be so different about. 

“I see,” Jayce murmured, watching as Viktor returned to the paper. He watched silently as he scribbled notes down, swinging a leg absently as he racked his brain for something else to say. “Is he a good foster dad? Dr. Reveck.”

“He was a lot better before Orianna got sick,” he muttered, squeezing his hand tight around his pencil as he temporarily lost momentum in his writing. A sudden jarring weakness, he fought through until his pencil no longer felt like it was going to rip through the paper.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” Viktor mumbled, writing his name at the top of the paper. He slid it over the tabletop to Jayce, fingers brushing as he took the pencil from his finger and signed his name right beside. 

“I just meant, I’m sorry for not asking sooner. So, I can be there for you if you need it.”

Christ. Why did he have to be so goddamned kind?

Viktor’s eyes softened, a rush of emotion swirling through him. This was the first time in a long time he had found a friend, especially in someone as unlikely as Jayce. Who knew—maybe something more. He forgot what it felt like. 

“Dork,” Viktor smirked, rolling his eyes playfully. For someone as nosy as Jayce, Viktor found himself quite forgiving of that fact. He, unfortunately, had developed a soft spot for him. “I should apologize for the other night. The kiss—” his voice dropped low, almost too low for Jayce to catch it. He heard.

“It’s okay,” Jayce perked up, following suit and pushing back his goggles. Viktor hadn’t looked over at him; instead, he was now focused on cleaning, and he was thankful for that. His bright red skin was a telltale sign that the kiss still had quite the effect on him.

It kept him up for hours Saturday night. And the night before. The only reason he had been dragging his feet all day and would rather go home instead of practice. It took over his entire being. Made him wonder what it would be like if Viktor hadn’t turned away, if they took it to the car. Maybe to a bed.

“You were drunk,” Jayce clawed his way out of his thoughts, fingers tapping the surface of the table. “I didn’t mind—”

“Let’s just forget about it,” Viktor spoke, crinkling his nose slightly as he settled his attention on Jayce. “Okay?”

Both fell silent, mulling it over.

“Yeah, okay,” Jayce nodded and smiled, relief flooding through him. Then, a growing sense of disappointment. For the sake of the bet and their friendship, he decided to go with whatever flow Viktor put forward. If that meant forgetting about it, then forget about it he would—even if it pained him.

Viktor, too, felt growing regret in his stomach, but he persevered past it. There was nothing good to come from pursuing the electrifying spark that had grown between them. Nothing good ever came from love. Look what happened to Dr. Reveck.

He didn’t want the disappointment that came with the only guarantee of their relationship: an end.

“Go hand this in,” Viktor shoved the paper to Jayce over the tabletop. Amber eyes settled on the mess of words, drifting up to meet those golden hazel orbs that caused a spike in his heart rate. Within seconds, he felt his hands grow clammy. Mouth dry.

Jayce smiled. That goddamned toothy smile that would surely make anyone’s knees weak.

“You’re bossy today,” the taller boy remarked as he easily slid from his stool to turn in the paper. Viktor, instead, ignored every sparking nerve in his body and cleaned up faster than anyone else ever had.

The sound of the bell rang, signifying the end of the day. A joyous reprieve from the torture that was Piltover High, and the students rushed to their lockers as Jayce and Viktor slowly pushed through the crowds side by side. 

“Hey, Jayce,” a junior girl spoke up as she passed by the duo, her blue eyes landing on Viktor. “Oh, hey, Viktor!” She beamed, and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

As they walked down the wide hallway, Viktor’s eyes flickered around the chaos of students. He’d been so good at ignoring anyone who wasn’t Sky that he hadn’t noticed how every single person who greeted Jayce had offered him one, too. He perked up slightly, hand tighter around his cane that tapped against the worn tiling.

Students were noticing him—and not being Grade A Douchebags about it. They were kind. Too kind.

“Viktor!” A girl perked up as she held her textbooks to her chest, chocolate brown hair curling perfectly around her sharp features. She grinned, stopping Jayce and Viktor in their tracks, who had hardly made it more than three classrooms' lengths away from the chemistry lab.

He blinked, eyes focusing on the girl. Someone who ran around in Jayce’s circle—a close friend to Mel and part of the cheerleading team. 

“Lest,” Viktor murmured, crinkling his nose when he realized he’d never properly introduced himself to her. Would she find it weird that he knew her name?

While his mind ran rampant, the girl grinned. Her smile was cat-like.

“You really should come to another party this weekend,” she said, eyes not even once looking over at Jayce. Invites were a thing of his past—oftentimes, he was just expected to show up. “Everyone wants to get to know you. Jayce can bring you…” she trailed off, giving him a slight nod before she brushed past him.

Viktor blinked a few times, looking up at Jayce. He was rightly shut up.

Again, that stupid smile and laugh. A deathly combo.

“You’re getting popular,” Jayce spoke through gentle laughter. Perhaps he took it a bit too far, but he couldn’t stop the way his arm latched over Viktor’s slender shoulders and had begun to tug him forward, “She’s right, you totally should come. Don’t go crawling back inside your shell after such a good weekend, dude.”

Viktor stumbled on his footing, but managed to stay upright as he followed next to Jayce. All he could do was nod.

He should’ve said no. He should’ve told Jayce that this was it and that whatever was going on needed to stop and that he wanted to go back to the way it was—but he didn’t. He said yes to the party, and yes to the ride home.

And that’s how he found himself sitting on the empty bleachers as the football team practiced, waiting for Jayce to finish so he could drive him home.

A bony hand held a pencil to a page, scribbling down notes from an earlier class he needed to jot down before they left his mind. Then, on another page, ideas for the next game they were planning for this upcoming week.

The sound of a whistle startled him from his deep thoughts, and he looked up. Squinting his eyes to work past the somewhat blurred vision that could really use a visit to the optometrist.

His eyes landed on Jayce, and his heart stopped.

The quarterback tore off his helmet, tongue slipping out from between his lips to lick at the blue mouth guard on his upper teeth. His hair was wet, sticking to his forehead, and he smiled—god, he smiled. The stupid mouthguard made his grin lopsided, and he looked oh-so beautiful as his eyes drifted towards the bleachers and landed right on Viktor.

Jayce beamed, his arm lifting and shifting the shoulder plates he wore as he waved at Viktor, who watched as Jayce’s jersey rode up his bicep, muscles flexing. 

Viktor watched, and he smiled. A smile that reached his eyes.

He gave back an awkward half-wave and decided then, albeit stupidly, that he was going to ignore the flashing warning signs that he had put up in his mind. He tore them down, threw them away and allowed his heart to soar wildly—all because of him.

A/N - Wow, thank you for your patience. It was a long time coming, and a huge thank you if you are still sticking around and reading this. I can't promise that this will wrap up quickly, but I'll do my best. :)