#>coffee

[logosbot-tm]

Pro tip! Don't drink coffee when manic? I just did and I drank a lot than I should have, and now I'm Speedy™️

Btw I'm fine I'm w friends but in retrospect it wasn't the best idea

However! When I come down from the coffee high I will actually be able to sleep, so that's a plus

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I��ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[thepencilnerd]

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

[rainintheevening]

They're his children of course. Richard still recognizes them; it's only been two years.

And yet...

Peter is a man. Still six months shy of his draft papers, but he stands, walks, sounds like a man. He always has a pocket knife, he tips his hat to all the females, he sings in a baritone that will only get deeper and richer. The tea he makes is decent, but sometimes he drinks coffee now. He talks about horses and crops and reads Augustine. He can drive a car. He gives orders, and expects them to be followed.

They all look to him, to Peter. Helen calls him to open a jar, Susan questions how her hair looks, Lucy runs to him in tears. As for Edmund, he and Peter are curiously joined, they turn to each other with their laughter, their thoughts, their books and newspapers and letters. As often as his family swirls around him, Richard sees them swirl around Peter, a habit, he knows, born of necessity, but that doesn't prevent it from being strange. Even painful.

Peter moves to take the head of table, catches himself. They both start to say grace, stop, glance at each other. Peter takes the newspaper over breakfast, and is a page in before he remembers. And every time he apologises. Each time he smiles at his father, and it is warm, glad, even benevolent.

One of the first nights, shortly after Christmas, Peter finds him sitting in his old armchair, staring into the fire, after everyone else has gone up to bed. "Dad?" comes the question, and he looks up blinking at the tall man, lamplight crowning him in gold, blue eyes deep and dark with knowledge and certainty.

"I'm not who I was," Richard says, a confession, the kind a father shouldn't burden his son with he thinks immediately, but then Peter is down on one knee, reaching for the mangled hand, tender with the three fingers as he clasps strong calloused palms around them.

"Neither am I, Dad. None of us are." Peter's gaze is earnest, bright. "But you are still my father. And I will always be your son. I am forever grateful for that."

It is as if a great burden rolls off of his shoulders, and he finds no shame in leaning on Peter's hand to rise.

When the holidays end, and the four go back to school, Peter says I love you to each of them at the station.

If Peter is a man now, Susan is a lady.

She sits straight, she walks gracefully, she can cook anything as well or better than her mother. She reads the newspapers with Peter, she scolds Lucy for coming home with twigs in her hair and a tear in her stocking and wet shoes.

She talks less than her father remembers, and there is a woman's sadness in her gazing out the window or into the fire. She is also very admiring of the boys in uniforms, and Richard requests her arm on the way out of church with a father's righteous sense of protection.

But she is also gentler than he recalls, she does not shy away from his injured hand, she takes care of him without making him feel as if he needs care. She sits on a cushion by his feet as she braids her hair in the evenings, leans on his knee as she reads aloud, and Richard thinks, Not my little princess, but a queen now.

At the train station, she kisses him goodbye, and he hugs her close, and there are tears in her eyes as she says I love you.

Edmund is the closest to unrecognizable, the once-obvious four year span between he and Peter seemingly halved. He greets his father wordlessly, all shining eyes and bright smile, and his face is so close to Richard's own it makes his heart break a little.

Ed is no more little boy, he is tall, slim, oddly graceful, but his handclasp is strong. He holds himself the same way Peter does, with squared shoulders and lifted head, but he wears that nobility in a quieter fashion. He's quick to see, quick to hear, quick with a wisecrack that makes Peter laugh out loud. He plays the violin now. He returns the family Bible to the living room with an apology for having kept it since the summer holidays. He reads Agatha Christie as a personal challenge, whispers to Susan in French, and his chess games with Peter are fierce battles of strategy that Richard cannot keep pace with.

In discussions of the war and its movements, he is sober and considerate, he meets each of Peter's moods with a balancing counter, he has a way of phrasing questions that pull out stories Richard had never planned to tell.

A few nights before the children return to school, Richard sits up in bed, certain he has heard a faint cry, and he slips away from his exhausted wife to check on his children, remembering how Edmund had suffered from night terrors as a child, imagining little Lucy inflicted with some dark dream.

But all he finds is shadows in the boys' room, and quiet whispers—Peter's apologies, Edmund's reassurance, and allusions to things Richard has no context for. He lingers by the door, an outsider in his home, until silence falls, and he returns with morning light to find them curled together in Peter's bed, Pete with an arm over Ed, and the father's love is bittersweet.

They have fought their own battle over here, on the home ground, Richard reminds himself. In their own way they have each faced terror and learned to conquer or be conquered, but perhaps he can meet them somewhere in between. Only time will tell.

On the train platform, Ed hugs his father tightly, gives him a smile, tells him to keep out of trouble.

Lucy is the least changed, though she too is taller and stronger, and her eyes are deeper. She still sings, still dances, still tries to make friends with all the animals, still smiles and speaks kind and stares dreaming at the Christmas tree.

She still gives fierce hugs, still climbs into her father's lap, though her head comes up higher on his chest, on his shoulder.

But then he finds gaps in his library, and Lucy returns the medical books with a winsome apology, she asks questions about his practices in the field, she winces but does not shy away from the blood and broken things he speaks of.

Then she recites long poems, words spinning off her tongue until they become half song; she dances swift and graceful, she and Peter laughing and stepping and clapping and spinning in intricate patterns to the swing song on the radio; and it is she who, breathless, quotes Byron: "On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined!"

Her comfort is both generous and thoughtful, and she strokes her father's hair with a motherly hand that makes his eyes sting, and he kisses her fingers, looks up at her to whisper, "Don't- don't grow up quite so fast, my darling."

When she hugs him on the platform, Susan waiting for her, the boys already gone, she doesn't want to let go, and there are tears on her cheek, that he wipes away gently. "Be careful, Daddy," she whispers. "Get strong. Take care of Mummy."

"Yes, little mother," he smiles back.

And then they are all gone, and he takes a cab home, weary of his still-recovering body.

He will have to learn his children all over again, he thinks. But he is proud of them still. That has not changed.

[fawnnlvr]

IMAGINE THIS spencer reid x academicrival!reader

summary: a timeline of spencer reid and his academic rival turned girlfriend in the span of a twelve years.

author's note: this layout is so different from my others but i am just going to keep it up. this is also inspired by the big bang theory and young sheldon and all the clips of it i watched on tiktok because i did not watch the show. that one scene with sheldon and that little blonde girl who is in every show and movie as a child prodigy. i hope you guys now what i am talking about but that inspired this entire thing. ♥︎

the two of you were born child prodigies with incredible minds that had the powers to rule the world.

spencer was used to being the youngest and the smartest until you showed up in his college classes being just a few months younger than him, yet sharing the same space he inhabited.

your joyful personality irked him to no ends as you treated education and learning like it was just a hobby while it was his life. he wasn't sure how it started but the two of you, at age thirteen, were competing to be the top of the class.

all the other college students simply gave up when it came to trying to outdo the two of you. the two of you were front row and center at every lecture due to the heights and late growth spurts.

unfortunately, the two of you were in many of the same classes despite being different majors. as the years flew by, the rivalry only grew stronger as the two of you competed by peer review when the professors grew tired of choosing favorites. who can write the best report paper to whose research was more useful, even to who had the best coffee order— everything under the sun was competition.

"i decided to get a doctorate" spencer told you one day and you almost dropped your papers, "just so everytime we meet, you will have to refer to me as doctor."

"no chance in hell reid. if you're doing that then so am i. suck it." you told him with a strong fire of determination in your eyes. the two of you were seventeen.

at age eighteen is when things took a turn. spencer had temporarily left to visit his mom in las vegas and get her help, and you unfortunately tagged along because you couldn't do airplanes but needed to get to vegas to visit your sister. meeting at the airport and unfortunately getting assigned seats right by each other, new perspectives were unlocked.

despite gaining an understanding for one another due to all the changes occurring, one thing that stayed constant was the rivalry. in a way, this one constant was a thing that saved the both of you.

you both knew that you were adults and it was childish, but you basically grew up with one another. he was there for you when you were harassed by college frat boys when you turned of age and you were there when he was ridiculed by the same frat boys for being a scrawny nerd.

there were many encounters were you only had each other to lean on and despite claiming to hate each other, you and him always showed up when needed. something that no one else can claim in their involvement in your lives.

now the two of you were there for each other as you each started another chapter of life.

"fbi?" you laughed, "there is no way you are passing the physical tests, spencer." the two of you were now twenty one and both went by doctor.

"h-hey! i can do it. the training will last for 16 weeks. i can improve by then." he puffed his chest out, straightening his posture.

"it will take a miracle or many exceptions, all of which you would need to be extraordinary to get."

"i am extraordinary. i quite literally have a doctorate in chemistry and working on another one — and i have a bachelor's in psychology. all at the age of twenty-one. i would like the see the fbi find someone better than me."

"you're forgetting that i exist." you reminded with a sly smile and you saw him freeze.

"i thought you're aiming for nasa!"

"i am but i might just have to apply for the fbi academy to prove just how much better than you i am." you shrugged and spencer felt even more determined.

"don't even joke about it. i have had to see you on this campus for the past nine years, i might loose my mind if i have to deal with you again for the rest of my life."

"how hurtful." you huffed, crossing your arms as you sipped on your overpriced coffee that you made spencer pay for. "i don't want to see you more than i have to as well." a bit ironic since you were on a small coffee get together with him.

"glad we can agree to something." he stated, taking a sip of his overpriced coffee as well.

"well since we are already at it. do you think we can agree that this meal definitely deserves a slice of that strawberry shortcake—"

at twenty two, it was finally time for the two of you to say goodbye. at least that is what you both thought. spencer was going to the fbi academy at quantico, virginia and you had suddenly gotten a job offer at the nasa headquarters in washington d.c, virginia.

"nineteen dollars for two coffees." he interupted and you closed your mouth. broke people should never talk, as that one saying went that spencer made up the last time he was forced to pay ridiculous priced food.

a dramatic goodbye, turned into a twisted fate of ill-fortune. your letter had came in the day spencer was to leave and a dramatic departure speech unsued for a good ten minutes full of the sweetest things spencer and you wanted to get off your chest before this was goodbye.

you opened the letter before he did his entire goodbye speech and you didn't feel like interrupting him. once you revealed the truth, spencer went all red and felt like fainting but instead had opted to grab his luggage and walk out the door and try to flag down a cab.

it was hard to stop yourself laughter after the small giggle slipped out due to how red he got and you had to chase him down your apartment building. he couldn't even look you in the eyes, averting his vision to the clouds above. taking your hand, you grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.

"spencer, please don't be mad. that was honestly the sweetest thing you — actually anyone, in thst matter has said to me."

"no— it wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to end—"

"i don't want it to end." you told him, honesty clear in your voice as he finally had the courage to look at you in the eye, "i like us— i mean this. what we have now is something i truly cherish and i don't want that to vanish. i don't want to be apart from you."

spencer furrowed his eyebrows.

"for too long i mean!" you quickly added in, "i mean gosh ew, nerd. you will have fbi money soon so that means it will be in my best interest to keep you around—"

you couldn't continue your tangent because he had pulled you into a hug. yes, the germaphobe spencer had pulled you into a hug. this was the first hug he ever initiated and it was the first time you had noticed simply how gentle his touch was as he held you in his arms. you wrapped your arms around his chest without a second thought.

then a sniffle. spencer sort of flinched back, trying to pull away but you clasped your hands behind his back, making it impossible. "are you... crying?"

another sniffle. "no." the croak in your voice gave it away, "allergies."

"you little liar. you totally will miss me and that's why your accepting the position in virginia and not california where your favorite actors are."

"shut up spencer."

"you'll see me in five months. it'll be fine and when i become an agent and i get my first pay check, we can go to that seafood place you really wanted to go but only has a few locations nationwide."

"they have it in virginia?"

"i already checked." he admitted and you raised your head from his shirt to look up at him, teary eyed but your eyes held a skeptical look. then, a smile.

"you were already planning for me to be there weren't you."

spencer pushed you off of him and he didn't respond.

"you know doctor reid, if i didn't know any better i would say that you are deeply in love with me."

"in your dreams. bye liar." spencer waved down a cab who pulled up within seconds.

"see you at the captial." you cheekily stated, hands clasped behind your back as you smiled at spencer getting into the cab.

"not looking forward to it."

"liar!"

he shut the door.

at twenty three, the two of you somehow ended up being roommates and sharing an apartment together. weighing the pros and cons, you both decided that this act would be very beneficial since the rent would be cheaper, the location was in between both of your guys' work places, and it would be more comfortable to live with a familiar presence.

at twenty four, a drunken night had led to drunken kisses. as the saying goes, "drunken words are sober thoughts". thoughts of consequences were thrown out the window as soon as the clothes were thrown on the floor. waking up, the two of you screamed in horror before having a talk about all the unresolved tension and words that needed to be said that one day the two of you were exchanging goodbye messages.

finally at twenty six, you went by mrs. reid.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。MEET UGLY — GOJO SATORU. (rich boy! au)

contents. college au!, rich boy! gojo, first meets, slight meet ugly but mainly he’s just annoying, established relationship in second scene, banter + fluff, kissies for da princess boy <3

dating gojo has always been, and will always be, the biggest unforeseen plot twist of your life.

the first time you encounter gojo satoru, it’s in literature class. he laughs with that dark haired friend of his a bit too loudly in the back while you try to share your thoughts on the reading from last night—it’s not that you particularly care for the class, but you’re trying to get the participation points, and you don’t want some slacking jackass to ruin that for you.

you throw him a glare over your shoulder, making him pause and blink before he shoots you a cheshire grin. you swear you hear a chuckle from the distance as you turn and continue speaking.

the second time you stumble across him is in line at the campus coffee shop. it’s the first day of the semester, and you have class in fifteen minutes across campus, but you’re tired. incredibly so—working shifts back to back late into the night is not doing you any favors, but you have to afford gas money and textbooks somehow.

you need caffeine, and you need it quick so you can make it to class on time.

except the tall, snow-haired stranger in front of you is making that very difficult as he takes forever and lists his wildly long list of syrups and add ons for his drink—seriously, who can even stomach a drink like that? you crinkle your nose as you imagine how sweet it must be. what irritates you more is that he pays for his ridiculously expensive drink that’s far too sweet for eight am with a black card. you glare daggers into the back of his head, wishing you could crack his skull in two with your stare alone.

and then he turns, raises a brow as he stares at you calculatingly—and then his lips turn into a grin as he seems to recognize you. great, you think.

“hey, weren’t you in lit class with me last semester?” he asks, making you sigh as you purse your lips.

“yes. now please move, i need to order and get to class.”

“she curved that final exam pretty generously, i thought i was going to fail—”

“i’ll take a large double shot,” you mumble, ignoring him as you place your order. you can feel his stare from the side as you pay.

“that’s pretty strong, don’t you think?” he asks, making you throw a glare at him from over your shoulder, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

it only seems to amuse him more, making you grit your teeth—how irritating could someone even manage to be? there’s got to be some sort of record he’s holding for most nerves he’s ticked off within the span of two meets.

“well, assuming from the fact that you’re a college student with a black credit card,” you huff, “you probably haven’t had to work a single night shift in your life.”

you put away your own card as you speak—one that’s not black, and one that’s going to have a very high bill due soon from the textbooks you’ll have to purchase.

“i like you,” he grins, “you’re funny. how about i—”

you cut him off again, done interacting for the morning. “have a nice day,” you say curtly, walking over to the wait area for your drink.

he seems entirely amused by your attitude—which only pisses you off more. does everything seem to make his lips quirk into that annoying smirk of his? and why is it so handsome? what a waste of such a gorgeous face to be paired with such an insufferable personality. and, because the universe hates you, he waits around for you even after he gets his drink, following you out the door when you grab yours and leave.

“how about i take you out for coffee tomorrow?” he grins, “i’ll pay with that black card you like so much.”

what an asshole—you hope he gets hit by a car and loses a few teeth.

“no.”

“c’mon, it’ll be fun—”

“no.”

“okay,” he chuckles, “feisty. i like it.”

and then, as you turn the corner, he turns with you, walking leisurely behind you as he sips that disgustingly sugary drink of his.

“what the fuck,” you hiss, “why are you following me?”

“i’m not,” he says innocently, “why are you following me?”

where are all the cars in the streets when you need them? and why haven’t they hit him yet?

“i’m walking ahead of you jackass,” you huff, “how can i be following you?”

“oh yeah?” he takes a few strides with those abnormally long legs of his, walking ahead of you as he shoots you an amused grin over his shoulder. “now you’re following me. does that mean you changed your mind about that date?”

“you wish,” you seethe.

a few more steps, and he walks into the same building as you. great—you’ll likely be running into him every morning then. a few more steps and he’s turning the hall to the same hall as you. wonderful—you’ll probably have to deal with him to the walk to class too. a few more steps, and then you realize he’s entering the same class that you’re entering.

fucking fantastic. just what you needed. absolutely divine luck—the universe has really handed you the largest pair of clown shoes it could find.

of course he of all people would be in class with you for another semester—and he seems to brighten considerably when he realizes he’s in your class too, because his grin widens even more.

“well, look at that,” he says brightly, “you followed me all the way to class. we might as well be seatmates.”

“don’t even think about sitting near me,” you warn, “i’m going to go that way. you go that way.”

he does not go the way you point—instead, he chuckles and plops down right beside you. how on earth could someone be so easy to despise? of all the empty seats in the entirety of the lecture hall, he just has to choose the seat right next to you.

for a moment, you contemplate skipping this class entirely and trying to teach yourself everything before the tests just so you don’t have to see him—you’ve done that enough times, it shouldn’t be too hard. but then you remember that this course is notorious for having a semester long paired project that weighs for a hefty amount of your final grade—skipping is not an option.

so, with veins ready to pop any second, and an oncoming migraine, you sit through all of lecture trying to ignore the absolute worst guy you’ve ever met. not only is he rude and obnoxious and overly confident to a fault—but he’s also rich and spoiled and privileged to live in a realm entirely separate from your reality.

you think you might just hate him.

you’re broken from your thoughts when you hear your name as the professor lists the pairs she’s already made from the roster for the semester’s project. this is great, you think, she’ll call someone’s name, and you’ll have that as an excuse to sit with them and avoid the nuisance sat beside you.

everything is fine. you’ll be free in just a few moments. it’ll all be over soon.

“gojo satoru,” she calls, “if you could raise your hand so your partner knows who to find after class.”

then, as if in slow motion, the very same guy who ruined your morning raises his hand, looking over at you absolutely enthused as his eyes sparkle through the top of his sunglasses—which, only an asshole would wear sunglasses indoors.

“hey partner,” he chuckles, “how about coffee tomorrow to discuss our project?”

—————

satoru likes to think that even with his unfortunate start with you on the wrong foot, he’s managed a steady relationship with you.

you don’t tell him to get hit by a car anymore—instead, now you kiss his forehead before bed every night, hold his hand and swing his arm with yours when you’re out, cuddle him after long days and talk about life, and sometimes—when he’s been extra good, you might even do other activities with him that include a whole lot of intimacy and exclude a whole lot of clothing.

he likes to think you’re pretty in love with him—and he’s proud to claim himself as your adorable, sweet, very handsome and extremely funny boyfriend. although, you don’t really ever call him all that, but he’s fairly confident you think it, and that’s close enough.

“baby,” gojo pokes your arm from his spot on your lap, “on a scale of one to ten, how cute would you say i am?”

“an eleven when you shut up and let me work,” you mumble, stroking his hair with one hand and doing calculus problems with the other.

he pouts, huffing in disbelief.

“you know, if you keep taking me for granted, you might lose me,” he says petulantly.

it earns a snort from you as you give him an amused look.

“toru, i think your mom would pay me to get back together with you if we ever broke up.”

“she would not,” he gasps, watching as you bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“remember our first fight? you practically starved yourself in your room,” you giggle, “she had to beg me to come talk to you so you’d eat.”

“that’s not true! i had kitkats and coke zero in my room,” he defends himself, crossing his arms as he sits up. “i was fine.”

“you definitely cried yourself to sleep,” you snicker, “you’re hopeless without me.”

“i am just fine without you,” he lies through his teeth, turning away from you as he tilts his head up indignantly.

“remember when you couldn’t even last a week without me while i was studying for finals? and then your mom had to call and beg me again to spend time with you?”

“that’s not—”

“admit it, toru,” you grin cheekily, pinching his nose as you chuckle, “you’d probably die if we ever broke up.”

“and you’d be fine?” he asks incredulously—he’s almost distressed at the idea, staring at you in slight hurt that makes you laugh before setting your calculus homework aside.

you grab his arm and pull him into your side, kissing his head as he slumps onto your chest.

“i don’t know, i don’t think i’d mind watching a mopey satoru beg me to take him back.”

“you don’t deserve me,” he grumbles, “i deserve to be loved and cherished. i’m a catch.”

“i bet you’d make that ugly face of yours when you cry,” you tease, making him look up at you with an offended gasp.

“i’ll have you know i’m exceptionally pretty when i cry. the waterworks have gotten me loads of things from my mom—i’m irresistible.”

“you’d probably be on your knees in seconds,” you continue to poke fun at him, “please take me back. i’m nothing without you, baby,” you mock his voice, giggling as he glares at you unimpressed.

“now you’re just being a bully. do you even love me?”

“i do,” you grin softly, pecking his cheek, “i love you a ton. you know that.”

“you don’t act like it,” he grumbles.

you laugh, hugging him tighter as your fingers slip into his hair again. sometimes, you think you should be shocked you’re here—laying in bed with gojo satoru and kissing his cheeks as he pouts. you of the past might just kill you of the present if you saw yourself now….but something about gojo is charming enough that you can overlook the very annoying first impression you had.

enough that maybe….well, maybe you might also be a bit hopeless without him—but you’ll never tell him that.

something tells you he knows, though, when he wraps a strong arm around you and pulls you impossibly closer, kissing the corner of your lips as he grins.

“what about that time you got soooo jealous?” he grins, “we weren’t even together yet. and remember that time you begged my mom to take home baby pictures of me? you’re obsessed,” he says proudly, “i would be too. i’m adorable.”

“you’re a pain is what you are,” you mutter.

“i love you too,” he chuckles, burying his head into your shoulder.

you grin, the curves of your lips painted with love as they find his forehead, pressing delicate kisses to the skin. maybe being paired for a semester long project with the annoying rich boy in your class wasn’t so bad—maybe you owe finding the softest love you’ve ever had to the strict and unpleasant professor who gave you an A- when you definitely deserved an A.

“and how are you so sure i love you?” you ask playfully. he rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers with his.

“because you haven’t hit me with your car yet,” he bites back, making you laugh brightly.

plssss i want him so bad i cannot take it anymore every day without him feels like pins and needles in my skin it’s utter agony i feel like my life’s meaning has been stripped from me i feel like my lungs and heart both burn from the lack of oxygen i feel like i am but an empty shell with no soul lost and wandering the planet searching for a reason to go on

ps. if you have been reading along w rb! gojo i hope you caught some of the references to old drabbles ;)

[solarstranger]

omg your game sounds so fun!!!! may i submit for your consideration: shouto + offer

andie pants!!!! thank you for joining and for the versatile prompt. took me a while to decide how i wanted to go about the word offer, but ultimately settled with this after some thought. i hope the grown ass adults sitting behind me right now in the coffee shop didn't see the word sex on my google doc lmfao.

todoroki shouto + offer

c.w. minors dni. mentions of nsfw themes but nothing explicit. some cussing.

there were many things in your life that you could honestly say you are proud of.

your education. your passions. the amount of time and energy you’ve put into working on yourself and becoming a decent human being who tries to do something worthwhile with your life despite the strong gravitational pull your bed—and shouto—had on you every single morning without fail.

what isn’t one of them is the sheer number of hours you spend on your phone—scrolling through countless attention-span-killing reels—reels that are too damn funny or sexy or relatable for their, or your, own good. so much so that you wouldn’t have noticed the loud thump that resonated from your bathroom just now—drowning in a remix of justin bieber’s baby—if it weren’t for a pained hiss that could only come from your boyfriend’s mouth.

you shoot up at the sound—alarmed—head craned toward the source. “shouto?”

“…yeah?”

“you okay?”

“yeah,” he says again, the edge from earlier now making way for his usual soft-spokenness. “i’m alright. just—cut myself.”

at that, you hurriedly crawl out of bed, phone long forgotten on your newly washed sheets, before padding your way towards the smaller room. you didn’t know what you were expecting to see purely based on what he just said, but relief washes over you anyway when a seemingly okay shouto comes into view, a smidge of what looks like fresh blood staining the side of his chin.

he shoots you a sheepish look, razor in hand.

you shake your head, stepping slightly towards him and taking his jaw in your hand to examine the damage. “i thought i told you to be careful when shaving.”

“i was,” he claims, putting down the blade by the sink before placing his big hands on your hips where he once seriously, albeit drunkenly, insisted they belonged.

“well, you weren’t careful enough,” you quip, reaching for the overhead cabinet for a cotton pad and alcohol.

shouto doesn’t say anything to that, only watching you as you soak the material with disinfectant, quietly hissing once again when you turn back towards him to dab it on his small wound.

you try not to focus on how he’s staring at you the entire time.

or the fact that he’s kinda…sort of…topless right now.

“thank you, love,” he offers when you step back to throw the soiled fiber in the bin, and it takes everything within you not to playfully roll your eyes at the subtle yet somehow palpable lilt in his voice—the lilt that never fails to show up whenever he’s feeling affectionate.

particularly, when he feels affectionately babied by you.

“don’t start, sho,” you warn, peering at your reflection (partly to avoid his gaze or his abs) as you smooth down the invisible wrinkles on your burgundy dress. “you’re not even dressed, for fuck’s sake.”

“yeah, well, about that…”

you whip to look at him. “no.”

“wha—”

“we’re not bailing on your father, shouto.”

“who said we were bailing on him?”

“you think i don’t know how your propositions end up?” you shake your head, turning on your heel so you can march back to your shared bedroom.

“you know,” he’s trailing behind you now, dressed in nothing but his trousers, “you keep on using that word, but it’s incorrect. i’m nothing but subtle.”

“sure, big guy.”

“i’m serious,” he presses, circling your king-sized bed and planting himself right in front of you so that you’ve got no choice but to look at him.

“we’ll be quick,” shouto promises, a hint of a smile fighting to tug on his annoyingly—seemingly perpetually moisturized—lips.

you huff, before twisting back to stubbornly rummage through your purse. for what, you don’t know. “that’s what you always say.”

“and that’s how i always intend for things to go when i say that,” he alleges, leaning in to your side so he’s still all up in your face. “it’s just that…things usually don’t go as planned.”

at that, you can’t help but snort. “yet another reason why we shouldn’t have sex before we go.”

and when he doesn’t say anything, you finally give in and spare a glance at him, only to be met with a pouting shouto.

you frown. “don’t give me that look.”

if anything, shouto only pouts even more, although you can tell he’s trying hard not to grin.

you bristle.

“it’s working, isn’t it?”

"fucking—”

a/n. offer (v.) to put forward for consideration, to make oneself available. anywho, i'm still new to writing shouto, but if there's anything i learned about his characterization from you, andie, it's that he's a mischievous little shit deep down lmfao. i hope you enjoyed this <3

send me a character + word and i'll write a short drabble. ✍🏼

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Fractured Light

Summary: In this emotional slow-burn romance, you, Steve Rogers’ best friend, find yourself homeless and jobless, seeking refuge in the Brooklyn apartment he shares with Bucky Barnes. While Steve welcomes you with open arms, Bucky is wary, his distrust rooted in a painful past tied to a silver ring from the 1940s.

📎Genre:

➤ Romance | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Domestic/Fluff

⚠️ Warnings:

→ Depictions of Abuse → Trauma and PTSD → Violence → Heavy Emotional Content → Mature Themes

Word Count: ~30k+ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Platonic Steve Rogers x Reader

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

The New York apartment was a patchwork of contradictions, cozy yet cluttered, modern yet stuck in time. Exposed brick walls stretched toward a high ceiling, their rough texture softened by the golden glow of a single floor lamp. The living room smelled of strong coffee, courtesy of Steve Rogers’ morning ritual, and a faint tang of motor oil from Bucky Barnes’ habit of tinkering with motorcycle parts on a tarp in the corner. A sagging couch sat against one wall, its cushions worn from years of use, and the small kitchen was a jumble of mismatched mugs and a perpetually dripping faucet. For two super-soldiers trying to reclaim a sliver of normalcy after decades of war and loss, it was home.

You stood in the doorway, your fingers white-knuckled around the strap of a worn duffel bag, the weight of your situation pressing against your chest. The hallway behind you was dim, the fluorescent lights flickering like they were as tired as you felt. Your best friend, Steve Rogers, stood before you, his broad shoulders blocking out the world, his blue eyes warm with concern but shadowed with worry. He’d insisted you come here after you’d called him in tears, your voice cracking as you admitted you’d lost your job, your apartment, and nearly all your savings in the span of a month.

“Y/N, you’re staying here,” Steve said, his voice firm but gentle, the kind of tone that made you believe he could fix anything. “No arguments. We’ve got the space, and you’re not imposing.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “I can’t thank you enough, Steve. This is temporary, I swear. I’ve got applications out, shops, offices, even that diner on 5th. I’m not here to mooch. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”

Steve’s smile was soft, the kind that had always anchored you, even back in high school when he was still the scrawny kid with a sketchbook and a stubborn heart. “You’re not a burden, Y/N. You’re family. Stay as long as you need. We’ll figure it out together.”

Behind him, Bucky Barnes leaned against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the vibranium of his left arm glinting faintly under the overhead light. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and his jaw was set in a hard line, his expression unreadable but radiating tension. The Winter Soldier, even in a faded Henley and sweatpants, was an imposing figure, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor, but the weight of his disapproval was palpable.

You shifted uncomfortably, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, or at least try to. “Bucky, I know this isn’t ideal,” you said, your voice steady despite the nerves twisting in your stomach. “I’ll do my part. I can clean, cook, whatever you need. I don’t want to be a freeloader.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, not quite a sneer but close enough to make your heart sink. “Don’t need a maid,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “Just don’t touch my stuff.”

The words stung, sharp and cold, but you kept your chin up. You weren’t here to beg for his approval. Pride was a luxury you couldn’t afford right now, but dignity was something you clung to. “I’ll stay out of your way,” you said firmly. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment, a flash of something, annoyance, maybe, or something deeper—before he looked away again. “Fine,” he said, pushing off the counter and heading toward his room. The door closed with a soft click, but it felt louder than a slam in the heavy silence that followed.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, his expression caught between frustration and apology. “He’ll come around, Y/N. He’s just… Bucky. He’s been through a lot, and he’s not great with change. Give him time.”

You nodded, but the weight of Bucky’s disdain settled over you like a cold fog. You hadn’t known him long, only a handful of encounters since his return from Wakanda, but somehow, his silence cut deeper than any words could. Steve, though… Steve you’d come to know over the years, your bond forged not in childhood but in the quiet aftermath of battles, in shared convictions and late-night conversations about a world that no longer felt like home. You’d admired him long before you met him, before he stepped out of history and into your life. But Bucky? He was a stranger, his past a shadow he wore like armor, and clearly, he wanted nothing to do with you.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, forcing a smile for Steve’s sake. “Just show me where I’m sleeping.”

Steve led you to a small guest room at the end of the hall, barely bigger than a closet but clean and functional. A twin bed with a faded quilt, a narrow dresser, and a single window overlooking a fire escape. It wasn’t much, but it was more than you’d had in weeks. You set your duffel bag on the floor, the zipper’s rasp echoing in the quiet.

“You need anything, you let me know,” Steve said, lingering in the doorway. “Food, blankets, anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” you said, your voice softer now. “Thanks, Steve. Really.”

He nodded, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read the cracks in your composure. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

When he left, you sank onto the bed, the springs creaking under your weight. The room was cold, the city’s hum filtering through the window, but it was the silence inside you that felt heaviest. You’d hit rock bottom, and now you were in a stranger’s home, tolerated by one man and despised by another. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to focus on the future, on job applications, on saving money, on getting out. But Bucky’s words echoed in your mind: Don’t touch my stuff. A warning, a boundary, a reminder that you didn’t belong.

You unpacked your bag slowly, folding your clothes with care, as if order could tame the chaos of your life. A photo slipped out from between a pair of jeans, a faded picture of you and Steve, grinning at a county fair, cotton candy smeared on your faces. You smiled faintly, tracing the edge of the photo. Steve was your anchor, always had been. But Bucky… Bucky was a storm you didn’t know how to weather.

As you drifted to sleep that night, the city’s lights flickering outside, you made a silent promise to yourself, you’d prove you weren’t a burden. You’d earn your keep, find a job, and leave. And you’d do it without ever crossing Bucky Barnes’ path.

The first week in the apartment was like navigating a minefield blindfolded. You woke before dawn, slipping out to job interviews while the city was still cloaked in gray. You’d applied everywhere, retail stores, coffee shops, even a temp agency that promised “flexible opportunities” but delivered nothing but rejections. Each “we’ll call you” felt like a door slamming shut, but you kept moving, kept trying, because stopping meant admitting defeat. When you weren’t pounding the pavement, you were back at the apartment, scrubbing counters, folding laundry, and prepping meals to prove you weren’t a freeloader. It was your way of paying rent, of earning the space Steve had given you.

Bucky, though, was a ghost. He moved through the apartment like a shadow, silent and elusive. No eye contact, no words, just the occasional creak of floorboards or the soft clink of a mug in the sink. You adjusted quickly, learning his routines, when he’d leave for his morning run, when he’d tinker with his motorcycle parts, when he’d retreat to his room with a book or a glass of whiskey. You mirrored his avoidance, keeping your head down, your presence small. It was an unspoken agreement, you didn’t exist in his space, and he didn’t exist in yours.

But it wasn’t easy. Bucky’s presence was magnetic, even in his silence. You’d catch glimpses of him, his broad shoulders as he leaned over the kitchen table, his vibranium arm catching the light, the way his brow furrowed when he thought no one was watching. He was a man haunted, carrying a century of pain in his eyes, and part of you wanted to understand him. But every time you considered reaching out, you remembered his cold dismissal "Don’t need a maid" and you shut the impulse down.

One evening, you were folding laundry in the living room, the TV murmuring softly in the background with some old sitcom Steve loved. The pile of clothes was a mix of yours, Steve’s, and Bucky’s, socks, T-shirts, a few of Steve’s button-downs that smelled faintly of his cologne. You were careful with Bucky’s things, folding his black hoodies and jeans with precision, as if neatness could prove your innocence in his eyes.

Bucky walked in, a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from a shower. The scent of cedarwood soap trailed behind him, mingling with the apartment’s usual coffee-and-oil aroma. He paused, his eyes landing on the neatly folded stack of his clothes. For a moment, you thought he might say something, but he just stood there, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said finally, his voice gruff, like he’d dragged the words out against his will.

You didn’t look up, keeping your focus on a pair of Steve’s socks. “It’s fine. I want to help.”

He lingered, his boots scuffing against the floor. You could feel his gaze, heavy and searching, but you refused to meet it. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, until he muttered, “Suit yourself,” and headed to the kitchen.

It wasn’t much, but it was the most he’d said to you since you’d arrived. You tucked the memory away, a small victory in the quiet war of coexistence. You finished folding, stacking the clothes in neat piles, and carried Bucky’s to his room, leaving them just inside the door. You didn’t step further, his space felt like a fortress, and you weren’t about to breach it.

Later that night, Steve came home from a SHIELD briefing, his jacket slung over his arm, his hair slightly mussed from the wind. He dropped onto the couch beside you, his presence warm and familiar. “You don’t have to do all this, you know,” he said, gesturing to the spotless kitchen and the basket of folded laundry. “You’re not our housekeeper.”

“I know,” you said, offering a small smile. “But it makes me feel less… useless. I’m trying, Steve. I really am.”

His eyes softened, and he reached over, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re not useless, Y/N. You’re tougher than anyone I know. You’ll find something soon. I believe in you.”

You nodded, but doubt gnawed at you. Every rejection letter, every unanswered application, felt like a step closer to failure. “Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now. “I just don’t want to let you down. Or… him.”

Steve glanced toward Bucky’s room, his expression tightening. “Bucky’s not used to this, having someone else here. He’s been through hell, Y/N. He doesn’t trust easily, but that’s not about you. It’s about him.”

“I get it,” you said, though you weren’t sure you did. “I just wish he didn’t look at me like I’m… I don’t know, an invader.”

“He doesn’t,” Steve said, but his tone lacked conviction. “Give it time. He’ll see who you are.”

You wanted to believe him, but Bucky’s silence was louder than words. It was a wall you didn’t know how to climb, and every day, it grew higher.

As the week wore on, you settled into a routine. Mornings were for job hunting, afternoons for chores, evenings for quiet moments with Steve when he wasn’t off saving the world. Bucky remained a specter, always on the periphery, his presence a constant reminder of your precarious place here. You cooked dinners, simple things like spaghetti or roasted chicken, and left plates for him, but he never thanked you, never acknowledged the effort. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you were doing this for Steve, for yourself.

But late at night, when the apartment was quiet and the city’s hum was your only company, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were fighting a losing battle. Not just for a job, or a place to live, but for a sense of belonging in a space where half the occupants didn’t want you there.

The rain had been falling all day, a relentless gray curtain that turned New York into a watercolor blur. Inside the apartment, the air was thick with the scent of lemon cleaner and the faint hum of the radiator struggling against the chill. You’d been up since dawn, tackling the endless list of chores that had become your lifeline. Cleaning gave you purpose, a way to silence the gnawing anxiety of another rejection email or a missed callback from a job interview. You’d applied to over thirty places now, cafes, bookstores, even a warehouse job that promised grueling hours but steady pay. Nothing had panned out, and each “no” chipped away at your resolve.

Today, you were cleaning Bucky’s room, a task you approached with the caution of a soldier navigating a minefield. It was part of the deal you’d made with Steve to earn your keep, and while Bucky hadn’t explicitly agreed, he hadn’t protested either. His room was sparse, almost monastic, a single bed with tightly tucked gray sheets, a nightstand with a chipped lamp, and a small wooden box on the dresser, its surface worn smooth by time. You never touched the box, some instincts didn’t need explaining. You dusted the surfaces, vacuumed under the bed, and wiped down the windowsill, careful to leave no trace of your presence beyond a faint sheen of cleanliness.

You were halfway through wiping the windowsill, the rag damp in your hand, when the door flew open with a bang. Bucky stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his vibranium arm glinting under the dim light. His eyes were wild, a storm of anger and something deeper, something raw and wounded. He held up a clenched fist, his knuckles white, and his voice was a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

You froze, the rag slipping slightly in your grip. “Where’s what?”

“My ring,” he snapped, taking a step forward. His voice was sharp enough to cut, laced with a venom you’d never heard from him before. “It was in that box.” He pointed to the wooden box on the dresser, its lid slightly ajar. “I checked this morning, and now it’s gone. You were in here, weren’t you?”

Your heart plummeted, a sickening lurch like stepping off a cliff. “Bucky, I didn’t take anything,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “I was just cleaning—”

“Don’t lie to me!” His shout made you flinch, the rag falling to the floor with a soft thud. He took another step closer, his presence overwhelming, the air between you crackling with tension. “You’ve been poking around my stuff, haven’t you? Think you can just waltz in here, live rent-free, and help yourself to whatever you want?”

The accusation hit like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You’d spent weeks bending over backward to prove you weren’t a burden, scrubbing floors until your hands were raw, cooking meals you barely ate yourself, all to earn a place in this apartment. And now this, a thief’s brand you didn’t deserve. “I didn’t steal anything,” you said, your voice rising to match his, though it shook with the effort to hold back tears. “I’ve been cleaning your room because I’m trying to contribute. I don’t even know what ring you’re talking about!”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his jaw so tight you could see the muscle ticking. “It’s a silver ring, from the ‘40s,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “It’s all I have left of—” He stopped, his breath hitching, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in his eyes, pain, raw and unguarded. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by cold fury. “You’re telling me you didn’t see it? You expect me to believe that?”

“I’m not a thief!” you shot back, anger surging to meet his. You stepped forward, closing the distance between you, your hands balled into fists at your sides. “I’ve been killing myself to find a job, to get out of here so you don’t have to deal with me. I’m not some freeloader living like a princess, Bucky. I’m trying to survive!”

“Survive?” he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. “By taking what’s mine? You think you’re the only one with problems? You have no idea what I’ve lost.”

The words cut deeper than you expected, slicing through your defenses. You wanted to scream that you knew loss too, your job, your home, your dignity, but his pain was a wall you couldn’t breach. “I didn’t take your ring, Bucky,” you said, your voice breaking. “I swear on my life.”

He stared at you, his blue eyes cold and unyielding, searching for a crack in your story. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until he finally spoke, his voice low and final. “Get out,” he said. “I don’t want you in my space.”

Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You grabbed your cleaning supplies, the bucket clattering as you shoved rags and sprays inside. “Fine,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m gone.”

You brushed past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, and the contact felt like a spark that burned. You were halfway down the hall when the front door opened, and Steve walked in, his jacket damp from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. He froze, his eyes darting between you and Bucky, who stood in the doorway of his room, his expression still thunderous.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, his voice laced with concern. He dropped his jacket on the couch, his gaze settling on you. “Y/N, you okay?”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. The weight of Bucky’s accusation, the weeks of rejection, the constant fight to prove yourself, it all crashed down at once. Tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable, and you clutched the bucket tighter to keep your hands from shaking. “I’m leaving,” you blurted, your voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Y/N, wait—” Steve started, stepping toward you, but you shook your head, backing away.

“Bucky thinks I stole something,” you said, the words tasting bitter. “A ring. I didn’t, Steve, but he won’t listen. I can’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

Steve’s eyes widened, and he turned to Bucky, his expression hardening. “Buck, what the hell? You accused her of stealing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t back down. “It was in my box, Steve. She was in my room. You do the math.”

“I didn’t take it!” you shouted, your voice echoing in the small apartment. “I’ve done nothing but try to make this work, and all I get is suspicion? I’m done.”

You stormed to your room, slamming the door behind you. The sound reverberated, a final punctuation to the fight. Your hands trembled as you yanked your duffel bag from under the bed, shoving clothes inside with no care for order. Socks, shirts, a worn paperback you hadn’t had time to read, it all went in, a chaotic pile that mirrored your thoughts. You couldn’t stay here, not with Bucky’s accusation hanging over you, not with the constant reminder that you were an outsider.

Steve knocked softly, his voice muffled through the door. “Y/N, please. Talk to me. What happened?”

You didn’t open the door, afraid he’d see the tears streaming down your face. “It’s like I said, Steve. Bucky thinks I stole his ring. I didn’t, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t live like this.”

“Where will you go?” His voice was thick with worry, and you could picture him standing there, his hands braced against the doorframe, his brow furrowed. “You don’t have anywhere else.”

The truth was a knife in your gut. You had nowhere, no friends to crash with, no family to call, no money for a motel. The only option was one you’d sworn never to return to, Daniel, your ex. He’d been abusive, his words sharp enough to cut, his hands heavy enough to bruise. You’d left him a year ago, vowing never to go back, but desperation was a cruel master. You couldn’t tell Steve that, though. He’d never let you leave if he knew.

“I got a job,” you lied, zipping up your bag with a sharp tug. “And a place. I’ll be fine.”

“Y/N, you don’t have to lie to me,” Steve said, his voice softer now, pleading. “Let me help you. We can sort this out.”

You opened the door, forcing a smile that felt like a mask. “I’m not lying,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I’ve got this. Thanks for everything, Steve. I mean it.”

He studied you, his blue eyes searching for the truth, and for a moment, you thought he’d call your bluff. But he didn’t. “At least let me drive you,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation.

You shook your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. “I’ll walk. I need the air.”

He hesitated, then pulled you into a hug, his arms strong and warm. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, his voice muffled against your hair. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you whispered, knowing it was a lie. You couldn’t drag Steve into the mess you were about to walk into.

As you left the apartment, the rain soaked through your jacket, chilling you to the bone. You didn’t look back, but you could feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze, even through the walls. His accusation echoed in your mind, a brand you couldn’t shake. You weren’t a thief, but you felt like one, carrying the shame of his distrust into the storm.

The rain was merciless, turning the streets into rivers of gray, the city lights smearing into blurry halos. You walked with your head down, your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, its weight pulling at your already aching body. The lie you’d told Steve burned in your chest, a bitter reminder of how far you’d fallen. A job, a place, you had neither, and the truth was a jagged pill you couldn’t swallow. The only place you could go was back to Daniel, a choice that felt like trading one prison for another.

The walk to his apartment was long, each step heavier than the last. You’d left him a year ago, after one too many nights of shouting, of bruises blooming on your arms, of his voice telling you you’d never be enough. You’d sworn you’d never go back, but the world had a way of breaking promises. Your savings were gone, your job prospects dead, and Bucky’s accusation had been the final push. You couldn’t stay where you weren’t wanted, where every glance felt like a judgment.

Daniel’s building loomed ahead, a crumbling brick structure in a part of the city that smelled of stale beer and regret. The buzzer was broken, as always, so you waited until someone exited, slipping inside with a nod to a stranger who didn’t meet your eyes. The stairwell was dim, the air thick with mildew, and each step felt like a descent into a past you’d fought to escape.

When you knocked on Daniel’s door, your heart pounded so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. The door swung open, and there he was, tall, broad, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes narrowing as they landed on you. “Well, look who’s back,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl that hid the edge you knew too well. “Missed me, huh?”

You forced yourself to stand straight, though every instinct screamed to run. “I need a place to stay,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “Just for a little while. I’ll pay you back.”

He leaned against the doorframe, his smirk growing. “Pay me back? With what? You’re broke, Y/N. Always were.” He stepped aside, gesturing you in. “But sure, come on in. Mi casa es tu casa.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling like lead in your stomach. But the rain was cold, and you had nowhere else to go. You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you like a trap snapping closed.

Back at the apartment, Bucky stood in his room, staring at the wooden box on his dresser. The ring was gone, a simple silver band, engraved with the name Margaret in delicate script. It was the last piece of her he had, the woman he’d loved before the war, before Hydra, before the world turned him into a weapon. Margaret had been soft where he was hard, her laughter a light in the dark of the 1940s. The ring was a promise they’d made, one broken by time and loss.

Steve leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. “You sure she took it, Buck?” he asked, his voice calm but pointed. “Y/N’s not like that. You know her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “She was in here, Steve. The ring was in that box this morning, and now it’s gone.”

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s time to let it go,” he said quietly. “That ring… it’s holding you to a past that’s gone. You’re not that guy anymore, Buck.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Don’t tell me who I am, Steve,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “That ring is all I have left of her. You don’t get it. You got to say goodbye to Peggy. I didn’t get that with Margaret.”

Steve’s expression softened, but his voice held firm. “I get it, Buck. I do. But accusing Y/N without proof? That’s not you. You know what it’s like to be blamed for something you didn’t do. You’ve been on the other side of that.”

Bucky flinched, Steve’s words hitting a nerve. He’d spent years as the Winter Soldier, carrying the weight of crimes he didn’t choose, accusations he couldn’t refute. The memory of that helplessness clawed at him, but he pushed it down, focusing on the anger instead. “She’s gone now,” he said, turning away to stare out the window at the rain. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. Steve watched him, his heart heavy. “It matters, Buck. She’s my friend, and you just drove her out into the rain with nowhere to go. You really think she’d steal from you?”

Bucky didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the blurred city lights. Doubt crept in, a quiet whisper he couldn’t ignore. What if Steve was right? What if he’d been wrong? But the ring was gone, and the loss was a fresh wound, too raw to think past.

Steve stepped closer, his voice softer now. “Find the ring, Buck. And then find her. You owe her an apology.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but Steve’s words lingered, a seed planted in the cracks of his resolve. He spent the rest of the night searching his room, tearing through drawers, checking under furniture, hoping to find the ring and silence the guilt gnawing at him. But it was nowhere to be found, and with every empty corner, the weight of his mistake grew heavier.

The days after you left Steve and Bucky’s apartment blurred into a haze of survival, each one bleeding into the next like ink on wet paper. Daniel’s apartment was a cage disguised as a home, a cramped one-bedroom in a part of Brooklyn where the streetlights flickered and the air carried the sour tang of garbage and despair. The walls were thin, stained with years of neglect, and the furniture was a mismatched collection of thrift store rejects: a sagging couch, a table with a wobbly leg, a mattress that creaked with every movement. You slept on the couch, your duffel bag tucked under it like a secret, your few possessions a reminder of how little you had left.

Daniel hadn’t changed. If anything, he was worse. The first week, it was just his words, sharp, cutting, designed to chip away at your resolve. “You’re nothing without me,” he’d say, leaning back in his chair, a beer in hand, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. You bit your tongue, swallowing the retorts that burned in your throat. You needed a roof over your head, and this was the only one you had.

You’d been lucky enough to find a job at a corner store, a dingy place with flickering fluorescent lights and shelves stocked with dusty cans and cheap snacks. The pay was barely above minimum wage, enough for a few groceries but nowhere near enough for rent or a deposit on a new place. You worked long shifts, your feet aching from standing, your hands smelling of bleach from cleaning the countertops. Every dollar went to necessities, food, toothpaste, a bar of soap, leaving nothing for escape. You told yourself it was temporary, that you’d save enough, find something better, but each rejection from a job application felt like another lock on your prison.

Daniel’s abuse escalated slowly, like a storm gathering strength. It started with verbal jabs, mocking your job, your clothes, the way you flinched when he raised his voice. Then came the physical, his hand gripping your arm too tightly, leaving bruises that bloomed like dark flowers under your skin. You learned to hide them, wearing long sleeves and oversized hoodies even in the sticky heat of late summer. You kept your head down, your movements small, trying to avoid his triggers, but Daniel’s anger was a wildfire, unpredictable and all-consuming.

One night, after a particularly bad shift at the store, you came home to find him drunk, sprawled on the couch with empty bottles scattered around him. You tried to slip past, but his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. “Where you been?” he slurred, his grip tightening. “Out whoring around, huh?”

“I was at work,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear curling in your gut. “You know that.”

He yanked you closer, his breath sour with alcohol. “Don’t lie to me, Y/N. You think I’m stupid?” His fingers dug into your skin, and you winced, but you didn’t pull away. You’d learned that fighting back only made it worse.

“I’m not lying,” you said, keeping your eyes on the floor. “I’m just trying to get by.”

He laughed, a harsh sound that grated against your nerves. “Get by? You’re pathetic. Always were.” He let go, shoving you back, and you stumbled, catching yourself against the wall. “Go make dinner. I’m hungry.”

You obeyed, your hands trembling as you chopped vegetables, the knife slipping in your grip. You thought of Steve, of the warmth of his apartment, of the meals you’d cooked for him and Bucky. You thought of Bucky’s cold eyes, his accusation that had driven you here. The memory stung, but it was a distant pain, overshadowed by the immediate threat of Daniel’s temper.

Back at the apartment, Bucky’s life continued in a gray monotony. He went through the motions, runs with Steve, late-night motorcycle repairs, missions with SHIELD when they called. But the absence of the ring gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his loss and his mistake. He searched his room obsessively, checking every drawer, every corner, hoping to prove himself wrong. The wooden box sat empty on his dresser, a silent accusation of its own.

Steve noticed the change in him, the way Bucky’s silences grew heavier, his eyes more haunted. “You’re not yourself, Buck,” Steve said one evening, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cooling between his hands. “You need to let this go.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. “I can’t, Steve. That ring was all I had left of her. Of who I was.”

Steve leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re not that guy anymore, Buck. And that’s okay. Margaret wouldn’t want you to be stuck in the past. She’d want you to live.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, a spark of anger breaking through his stoicism. “Don’t tell me what she’d want. You don’t know.”

Steve didn’t flinch. “I know you, Buck. And I know Y/N didn’t take that ring. You pushed her out, and now she’s gone. You really think she’s living some perfect life out there? She’s struggling, and you made it worse.”

The words hit like a punch, and Bucky looked away, his hands clenching into fists. He wanted to argue, to hold onto his anger, but doubt had taken root, growing with every empty search. What if Steve was right? What if he’d driven you away for nothing?

Months passed, each one a slow grind. For you, life with Daniel became a nightmare you couldn’t wake from. The abuse grew worse, punches that left you gasping, nights locked in the bathroom to escape his rage. You stopped looking in mirrors, afraid of the stranger staring back, her eyes hollow, her face bruised. You thought of calling Steve, but shame held you back. You’d told him you were fine, that you had a job, a place. Admitting the truth felt like admitting you’d failed, not just yourself but him too.

For Bucky, the turning point came on a quiet afternoon, three months after you’d left. He was moving furniture to fix a loose floorboard, his frustration mounting with every creak. As he shoved the dresser aside, something glinted in the dust, a small, silver ring, its surface worn but unmistakable. He froze, his heart lurching as he picked it up, the engraved name Margaret catching the light.

Relief flooded him, followed by a tidal wave of guilt. He’d been wrong. Horribly, unforgivably wrong. You hadn’t taken the ring, and he’d accused you, driven you out into a city that offered no mercy. He clutched the ring, his vibranium hand trembling, and went to Steve.

“I found it,” he said, his voice hoarse as he held up the ring. “Under the dresser. She didn’t take it, Steve. I need to find her. I need to apologize.”

Steve’s face fell, his eyes shadowed with worry. “I don’t know where she is, Buck. She hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. I thought she was mad at us, but now…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “She’s out there somewhere, and we don’t even know if she’s okay.”

Bucky’s chest constricted, the weight of his mistake crushing him. He’d been accused of crimes he didn’t commit, branded a monster for years. He knew the pain of that, and he’d inflicted it on you. “We’ll find her,” he said, his voice firm despite the guilt clawing at him. “We have to.”

The public market was a chaotic symphony of noise and color, vendors shouting over each other, their voices mingling with the chatter of shoppers and the clatter of coins. The air smelled of fresh bread, overripe fruit, and the faint tang of fish from a stall at the far end. You moved through the crowd, your oversized hoodie pulled tight, the hood covering your head to hide the bruise under your eye. It was a fresh one, courtesy of Daniel’s temper two nights ago, when you’d dared to argue about the grocery budget. Makeup couldn’t fully conceal it, so you kept your head down, your focus on the vegetables you were inspecting, a few potatoes, a bunch of carrots, anything to stretch your meager paycheck.

You were weighing a head of cabbage, calculating whether you could afford it, when a familiar voice cut through the din. “Y/N!”

Your heart stopped, your fingers tightening around the cabbage until it nearly slipped from your grasp. Steve. You turned, instinct urging you to run, but the crowd was too thick, and your legs felt like lead. Before you could move, he was there, his arms wrapping around you in a hug that was both comforting and suffocating. His familiar scent, clean, like soap and pine, brought a rush of memories, late-night talks, shared laughter, the safety of his apartment.

“Y/N, it’s so good to see you,” Steve said, his voice warm, his arms strong around you. But then he pulled back, his eyes scanning your face, and his smile vanished. The bruise under your eye, poorly concealed by cheap foundation, was impossible to miss. His expression shifted to one of worry, his brows knitting together. “What happened?”

You yanked your hood tighter, your heart racing. “It’s nothing,” you said, your voice too quick, too defensive. “I’m fine.”

Bucky stood a few steps behind Steve, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on you. The sight of him stirred a storm of emotions, anger, hurt, shame. His accusation had been the final push that sent you back to Daniel, and now here he was, looking at you like he cared. “Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice low, a quiet intensity that made your skin prickle.

You met his gaze, your anger flaring despite the exhaustion weighing you down. “None of your business,” you snapped, turning back to Steve. “I have to go.”

“Y/N, please,” Steve said, his voice breaking. He reached for your arm, gentle but firm, and you froze, torn between running and collapsing into his embrace. “Talk to us. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

You shook your head, stepping back, the cabbage forgotten in your hands. “I’m fine,” you lied, the words tasting like ash. “I’ve got a job, a place. I’m okay.”

Steve’s eyes searched yours, and you knew he didn’t believe you. But before he could press, you turned and darted into the crowd, weaving through bodies until you were lost in the chaos. Your heart pounded, your breath ragged, as you slipped into an alley and leaned against a brick wall, the cold seeping through your hoodie. You’d wanted to tell Steve everything, to let him pull you back to safety, but the shame was too heavy. You’d lied to him, told him you were fine, and now you had to live with it.

Back at the market, Steve stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists. “That was her,” he said, his voice tight with anger and worry. “She’s not okay, Buck. Did you see her face?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his eyes still fixed on the spot where you’d disappeared. The bruise on your face had been a punch to his gut, a confirmation of the guilt he’d been carrying since he found the ring. “We need to find her,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “This is my fault.”

Steve turned to him, his eyes narrowing. “Your fault? Buck, you didn’t do that to her.”

“I drove her away,” Bucky said, his voice raw. “I accused her, made her feel like she didn’t belong. If I hadn’t…” He trailed off, the words too heavy to finish. He could still see your face, the anger in your eyes, the way you’d flinched when Steve hugged you. He’d seen that kind of fear before, in his own reflection during his darkest days.

Steve’s expression softened, but his voice was firm. “Then we fix it. We find her, and we bring her home.”

That night, Steve sat at the kitchen table, his laptop open, his fingers flying across the keys as he searched for any trace of you. He remembered your ex, Daniel, when you’d confessed to the abuse you’d escaped. The memory had been a fleeting one, overshadowed by your determination to move forward, but now it was a lifeline. “If she’s not answering her phone, there’s only one place she’d go,” Steve said, his voice grim. “Daniel’s.”

Bucky’s blood ran cold at the name. He’d never met the man, but the way Steve’s jaw tightened told him everything he needed to know. “Where is he?” Bucky asked, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it.

“I don’t know yet,” Steve admitted, scrolling through public records. “But I’ll find him. She’s not safe, Buck. We need to get her out.”

Bucky nodded, his hands clenching into fists, the vibranium whirring softly. He thought of the ring, now back in its box, and the guilt that had settled in his chest. He’d been wrong about you, and now you were paying the price for his mistake. He didn’t know if you’d forgive him, but he’d do whatever it took to make this right.

The morning sun barely penetrated the thick clouds hanging over Brooklyn, casting a dull gray light over the city’s cracked sidewalks and sagging buildings. Steve and Bucky moved with purpose through the streets, their breaths visible in the chilly air, their footsteps echoing in the quiet of early dawn. Steve had spent the night digging through public records, old contacts, and SHIELD’s database, piecing together an address for Daniel, your ex. The realization that you’d likely returned to him had ignited a fire in Steve’s chest, but for Bucky, it was a different kind of burn, guilt, raw and relentless, that clawed at him with every step.

Bucky’s vibranium hand flexed at his side, the soft whir of its mechanisms a counterpoint to the storm raging inside him. The silver ring, now back in its wooden box on his dresser, was a constant weight in his mind. He’d found it under the dresser, a careless oversight that had cost you everything. He’d accused you, branded you a thief, driven you out into a city that offered no mercy. And now, the image of your bruised face at the market haunted him, a purple shadow under your eye, your hood pulled tight like a shield. He’d seen that kind of fear before, in his own reflection during his days as the Winter Soldier, and the thought that he’d pushed you into that kind of pain was unbearable.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asked, glancing at him as they approached Daniel’s building, a rundown brick structure with peeling paint and a broken buzzer. Steve’s voice was steady, but his eyes were dark with worry, his jaw set in a way that promised retribution.

Bucky shook his head, his voice low and rough. “This is on me, Steve. I did this. If I hadn’t accused her, she wouldn’t be here.”

Steve stopped, turning to face him, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You made a mistake, Buck. But you didn’t put those bruises on her. Daniel did. Focus on getting her out. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

Bucky nodded, but the guilt didn’t loosen its grip. He thought of Margaret, the woman the ring belonged to, her soft smile and gentle touch. She’d been his anchor in the 1940s, a promise of a future that Hydra had stolen. Losing the ring had felt like losing her all over again, but accusing you had been a betrayal of everything she’d loved about him—his fairness, his loyalty. He’d failed her memory, and he’d failed you.

As they reached Daniel’s apartment, the air grew heavy with the scent of mildew and stale beer. The hallway was dim, the walls stained with years of neglect, and the sound of muffled shouting stopped them cold. It was your voice, high and desperate, pleading. “Daniel, please, stop!”

Bucky’s blood ran cold, his heart pounding in his chest. Before Steve could react, another voice roared through the door, sharp and vicious. “I’m going to kill you, Y/N!”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. His vibranium fist slammed into the door, splintering the wood like it was kindling. The lock gave way, and he barreled inside, Steve close behind. The apartment was a wreck, broken glass on the floor, a toppled chair, the air thick with the sour stench of alcohol. And there, on a rickety kitchen table, was you, pinned down by Daniel’s hand around your throat, his other hand raised with a knife glinting in the dim light. Your face was streaked with tears, your eyes wide with terror, your hands clawing weakly at his grip.

“Get off her!” Steve roared, tackling Daniel to the ground in a blur of motion. The knife clattered across the floor, skidding under the couch. Daniel struggled, cursing, but Steve’s strength was unrelenting, pinning him with ease.

Bucky rushed to you, his hands gentle but trembling as he helped you sit up. Your breathing was ragged, your face pale, a fresh bruise blooming across your cheekbone. “Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

You collapsed against him, your body shaking with sobs, your fingers clutching his jacket like a lifeline. He held you tightly, his vibranium arm steady around your shoulders, his other hand brushing your hair back from your face. The sight of you, broken, bruised, terrified, tore at him, each sob a knife in his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This is my fault. I never should’ve—”

You didn’t respond, your cries drowning out his words. He led you outside, away from the chaos, wrapping his jacket around your trembling shoulders. The cold air hit you like a slap, but Bucky’s warmth anchored you as he guided you to their car parked across the street. Steve stayed behind, restraining Daniel until the police arrived, his eyes burning with a rage Bucky hadn’t seen in years.

In the car, you curled into the passenger seat, your knees drawn up, your face buried in your hands. Bucky sat beside you, his hands hovering, unsure how to comfort you without making it worse. “Y/N,” he said softly, “we’re taking you to the hospital. You’re gonna be okay.”

You nodded, but your eyes were distant, glazed with shock. The silence between you was heavy, filled with everything unsaid, his accusation, your pain, the months of abuse you’d endured. Bucky’s guilt was a living thing, twisting inside him, whispering that he’d done this, that his words had driven you back to this monster.

At the hospital, the sterile lights and antiseptic smell were a stark contrast to the chaos of Daniel’s apartment. Bucky sat by your side as the doctors examined you, his heart sinking with every new injury they cataloged: broken ribs, internal bleeding, signs of prolonged physical and sexual abuse. The doctor’s voice was clinical, but each word was a blow to Bucky’s already fractured resolve. He thought of Margaret, of how he’d vowed to protect her, and how he’d failed you in the same way. The guilt was suffocating, a weight he couldn’t shake.

When Steve arrived, his knuckles bruised from handling Daniel, Bucky met him in the hallway, his voice low and urgent. “She’s been through hell, Steve,” he said, his eyes haunted. “Broken bones, internal bleeding… and worse. For months. Because of me.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists. “I should’ve killed him,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I should’ve ended him right there.”

Bucky shook his head, his vibranium hand flexing. “This isn’t on you. It’s on me. I accused her, Steve. I pushed her out. If I hadn’t…” He trailed off, his throat tight with emotion.

Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm but grounding. “You made a mistake, Buck. But you’re here now. You can’t change the past, but you can help her heal. Start there.”

Bucky nodded, but the guilt didn’t ease. He thought of the ring, of Margaret’s memory, and how he’d let it blind him to the person in front of him. You weren’t a thief, weren’t an intruder. You were someone who’d fought to survive, and he’d failed you. He vowed, then and there, to make it right, no matter how long it took.

The hospital discharged you after two days, with strict instructions to rest and a stack of prescriptions you couldn’t afford. Steve didn’t hesitate, insisting you return to their apartment. “You’re not going anywhere else,” he said, his voice firm but warm, his arm around your shoulders as he guided you to the car. “You’re staying with us. No arguments.”

You were too tired to protest, your body aching with every movement, your mind a fog of pain and shame. The bruises on your face and arms were fading, but the deeper wounds, the ones Daniel had carved into your psyche, felt raw, exposed. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

Bucky was silent during the drive, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel. The guilt hadn’t left him since the rescue, a constant shadow that darkened his every thought. He’d sat by your hospital bed while you slept, watching the rise and fall of your chest, counting each breath like a prayer. He’d replayed his accusation over and over, the memory of your hurt eyes at the market, the sound of your sobs in Daniel’s apartment. He’d been wrong, and the cost of that mistake was written in your bruises, your silence, your brokenness.

Back at the apartment, Steve took charge with a protectiveness that bordered on obsession. He set up the guest room with fresh sheets, a stack of pillows, and a tray of essentials, water, snacks, your medications. He cooked hearty meals, hovering over you like a mother hen, his blue eyes soft with concern. “You need to eat, Y/N,” he’d say, setting a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of you. “You’re healing. You need strength.”

You tried to smile, to thank him, but the effort felt hollow. Steve’s care was a lifeline, but it couldn’t erase the months of abuse, the nights you’d spent curled up on Daniel’s couch, praying for a way out. You ate what you could, took the pills, and let Steve fuss, but your eyes kept drifting to Bucky, who lingered on the edges of every moment, his presence quiet but heavy.

Bucky’s guilt was a living thing, a beast that clawed at him day and night. He brought you tea, sat with you during the nightmares that woke you screaming, but he kept his distance, unsure how to bridge the gap he’d created. He’d apologized at the hospital, his voice raw with regret, but your silence had been deafening. You didn’t hate him, at least, he hoped you didn’t, but the hurt was there, a wall he didn’t know how to climb.

One evening, you were on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, a book open but unread in your lap. Steve sat beside you, his arm slung casually over the back of the couch, his laughter filling the room as he recounted a story from his SHIELD days. “So, Sam’s trying to impress this new recruit, right? And he goes for this fancy maneuver with the wings, only to crash into a dumpster. Swear to God, he smelled like garbage for a week.” You laughed, a soft, tentative sound that lit up Steve’s face.

Bucky watched from the sidelines, his jealousy a quiet ache he didn’t fully understand. He’d see you smile at Steve, your laughter soft but genuine, and his chest would tighten, a pang of longing he couldn’t shake. He wanted to be the one making you laugh, the one you turned to when the nightmares came. But Steve’s ease with you, his effortless warmth, made Bucky feel like an outsider, a shadow in his own home. He’d catch himself staring, his vibranium hand flexing, and force himself to look away, to focus on the small ways he could help—refilling your tea, fixing a squeaky door, leaving a blanket on the couch when you fell asleep reading.

Steve noticed the shift, a knowing smile playing on his lips. One night, as he and Bucky cleaned the kitchen after dinner, he clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “You fell for her, didn't you?” he said, his voice teasing but warm.

Bucky’s cheeks flushed, a rare vulnerability. “Is it that obvious?”

Steve laughed, a sound that filled the room. “Only to anyone with eyes. I’m happy for you, Buck. She’s good for you. And you’re good for her.”

Bucky’s jealousy eased, replaced by a quiet determination to prove himself. He wasn’t competing with Steve anymore. He was fighting for you, for a chance to be the man you deserved. And as you smiled at him across the table, your eyes meeting his with a warmth you hadn’t shown before, he felt a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

One night, as you sat alone on the fire escape, the city’s lights stretching out below, Bucky joined you, his presence hesitant. “Can I sit?” he asked, his voice soft.

You nodded, scooting over to make room. He sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, but not so close as to crowd you. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words, until he spoke again, his voice softer now. “I don’t know how to fix this, Y/N. I keep replaying that day—the ring, what I said. I was wrong, and I hate that it cost you so much.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face. His apologies were familiar now, a litany of regret that you’d heard in the hospital, on the fire escape, in the quiet moments when Steve wasn’t around. But this time, there was something different—a vulnerability that made your chest tighten. “You didn’t know, Bucky,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” he said, his jaw tightening. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together as if to keep them from shaking. “I accused you of something I knew, deep down, you’d never do. I was so caught up in my own pain, my own past, I didn’t see you. And now…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to the faint bruise on your cheek, his expression crumpling. “I see what it did to you, and it’s killing me.”

Your heart skipped, his words sinking in slowly, like rain soaking into dry earth. “Bucky, I…” You paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t hate you. I was hurt, but I understand why you held onto that ring. I just… I wanted to be someone worth seeing, you know? Not just Steve’s friend, not just a burden.”

“You were never a burden,” he said, his voice fierce. “And you’re worth seeing, Y/N. More than you know. I’m in love with you, and it’s not because you’re a stand-in for anyone else. It’s because you’re you—strong, kind, stubborn as hell. I don’t deserve you, but I want to.”

The confession stole your breath, your hands tightening around the blanket. You’d dreamed of love like this, fierce and unwavering, but Daniel had made you believe it was impossible. Now, here was Bucky, his eyes pleading, his heart laid bare. “I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “After everything, I don’t know if I can trust this—trust you.”

He nodded, his expression pained but resolute. “I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. But I’m here, Y/N. I’ll keep being here, as long as it takes.”

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t pull away either. The silence that followed was different, softer, a tentative bridge between two broken souls. Bucky stayed, his presence steady, and for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of his care, even if you weren’t ready to accept it fully.

One afternoon, you were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup you’d insisted on making. Steve was at a SHIELD briefing, leaving you and Bucky alone. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but it wasn’t hostile anymore, just fragile, like a newly formed sheet of ice. Bucky leaned against the counter, watching you chop carrots with a precision that spoke of practice.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his voice soft. “The cooking, I mean. You’re not our maid.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I know. But it feels good to do something normal. Something I can control.”

He nodded, understanding more than he could say. Control was a rare commodity for him too, something he’d fought for after years as Hydra’s puppet. “You’re good at it,” he said, gesturing to the pot. “Smells better than anything Steve’s ever made.”

You laughed, a sound that caught him off guard, light and unguarded. “Don’t tell him that. He’ll challenge me to a cook-off.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, a rare smile breaking through. “I’d pay to see that. My money’s on you.”

The moment was small, but it was a start. You felt the shift, a crack in the wall you’d built around yourself. Bucky’s presence was no longer a reminder of pain but a quiet promise of something more. You weren’t ready to forgive him fully, but you were starting to see him—not the Winter Soldier, not the man who’d accused you, but Bucky, flawed and trying.

That night, you woke from a nightmare, your breath ragged, your skin clammy with sweat. Daniel’s face had been there, his hands around your throat, his voice promising pain. You stumbled to the living room, curling up on the couch, your heart racing. Bucky appeared moments later, his hair mussed from sleep, his eyes soft with concern.

“Hey,” he said, crouching in front of you. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

You nodded, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable. He hesitated, then sat beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “I’m here,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You leaned into him, just slightly, and he didn’t pull away. It was a small step, but it felt like a leap across a chasm.

The Brooklyn apartment had become a haven, its familiar creaks and smells, coffee, motor oil, and now the faint lavender of the candles you’d started lighting in the evenings, a testament to the life you were rebuilding. The guest room was no longer just a temporary shelter; it was yours, filled with small touches of your presence: a stack of books on the nightstand, a knitted throw blanket draped over the chair, a photo of you and Steve from high school pinned to the wall. The bruises on your body had faded completely, and the pain in your ribs was a distant memory, but the emotional scars lingered, a quiet ache that surfaced in the stillness of night.

Bucky had become a constant in your days, his presence no longer a shadow but a steady light. His guilt still lingered, you saw it in the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his vibranium hand hesitated before touching you, as if afraid he’d break you further. But his efforts to make amends were unwavering. He’d fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen, leave your favorite pastries on the counter, and sit with you through the nightmares that still woke you, his voice a low murmur that anchored you back to reality. His confession on the fire escape had been a turning point, a crack in the wall you’d built around your heart, and with each passing day, you felt it crumble a little more.

Steve remained a pillar of support, his laughter and warmth a balm to your wounds. But Bucky’s jealousy, though quieter now, still flickered in moments when Steve’s arm slung casually around your shoulders or when you shared an inside joke that left Bucky on the outside. He’d watch, his jaw tight, his eyes betraying a longing he didn’t voice. It wasn’t anger, not anymore, just a quiet wish to be the one you turned to first.

One crisp autumn evening, the three of you were in the living room, the windows open to let in the cool breeze. Steve was sprawled on the couch, sketching in his notebook, while you and Bucky played a card game at the coffee table, a rare moment of lightness. The radio played soft jazz, a nod to your shared love for the old records you’d found in a thrift store. You laughed as Bucky fumbled a card, his vibranium fingers less deft than he’d like, and the sound made his heart skip.

“You’re cheating,” he said, his voice teasing, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “No way you’re this good at gin rummy.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile playful. “Maybe you’re just bad at it, Barnes. Ever think of that?”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that filled the room. Steve glanced up from his sketch, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “She’s got you there, Buck. You’re terrible at cards.”

Bucky shot him a mock glare, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. “Watch it, Rogers. I’ll challenge you next, and then we’ll see who’s terrible.”

You laughed again, and Bucky’s gaze softened, lingering on you. The moment was small, but it was everything, a glimpse of what life could be, free from the shadows of Daniel’s abuse and Bucky’s guilt. As the game ended, Steve excused himself to make a call, leaving you and Bucky alone. The jazz record spun on, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice weaving through the air, and you felt a pull, a need to bridge the gap that still lingered between you.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice soft, “can we talk?”

He nodded, setting the cards aside, his expression shifting to something serious, almost nervous. “Yeah. Always.”

You took a deep breath, your hands twisting in your lap. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—on the fire escape. About… loving me. I didn’t know how to process it then. I was scared, after everything with Daniel, after feeling like I’d never be enough for anyone. But I see you now, Bucky. I see how hard you’re trying, how much you care. And I’m starting to feel it too.”

His breath caught, his eyes searching yours, raw and hopeful. “Y/N, I meant every word. You’re not a rebound, not a replacement for Margaret or anyone else. I love you for you—your strength, your stubbornness, the way you make this place feel like home. I don’t deserve you, but I’m selfish enough to want you anyway.”

The words hit you like a wave, warm and overwhelming. You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his vibranium ones, cool and steady. “I’m still scared,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “But I want this, Bucky. I want us.”

He moved closer, his hand turning to clasp yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your skin. “I’ll wait as long as you need,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I’ll prove it to you, every day, that you’re enough. More than enough.”

You leaned forward, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was soft, tentative, a question and an answer all at once. His lips were warm, his kiss gentle but fierce, like he was pouring every unspoken promise into it. When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

“I will,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “I’m yours too.”

The weeks that followed were a slow blossoming. You and Bucky moved carefully, learning each other’s rhythms, the way he’d hum along to jazz records, the way you’d curl up with a book on rainy days. Steve watched with a knowing smile, his role shifting from protector to cheerleader. “You two are disgusting,” he’d tease, but his eyes were warm, happy to see his best friend find something real.

Bucky’s jealousy faded, replaced by a quiet confidence as you chose him, day after day. He’d catch you smiling at him across the breakfast table, or feel your hand slip into his during a walk in the park, and the guilt that had once consumed him began to ease. He wasn’t replacing Margaret; he was building something new, something just as true.

One night, under a sky full of stars, you stood on the roof of the apartment building, the city sprawling below. Bucky wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Marry me,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “I want to build a life with you, Y/N. A real one.”

You turned in his arms, your eyes shining. “Yes,” you said, your voice breaking with joy. “Yes, Bucky.”

The wedding was small, held in a quiet Brooklyn park under a canopy of autumn leaves. Steve stood as Bucky’s best man, his grin wide enough to light up the city, while a handful of friends. Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, and a few SHIELD agents who’d become family, filled the chairs. You wore a simple white dress, the kind that flowed like water, and Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you, his breath catching as you walked toward him. He wore a dark suit, the silver ring—Margaret’s ring—tucked safely in his pocket, no longer a tether to the past but a reminder of how far he’d come.

“I love you,” he said during his vows, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “You showed me I could be more than my past, Y/N. You’re my home, my future, and I’ll spend every day proving I’m worthy of you.”

Your vows were softer, your hands trembling as you held his. “You saw me when I felt invisible,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “You gave me a reason to believe in love again, Bucky. I’m yours, always.”

The kiss that followed was fierce, a promise sealed under the golden light of dusk. Steve’s cheer was the loudest, his applause echoing through the park, and Sam’s teasing whistle made you laugh against Bucky’s lips. The reception was a small affair at a local diner, with greasy burgers and milkshakes, the jukebox playing jazz that had you and Bucky swaying in the middle of the room.

Life as a married couple settled into a rhythm that felt both new and timeless. You moved into Bucky’s room, the wooden box with Margaret’s ring now a keepsake rather than a shrine. You found a job at a bookstore, a small victory that felt like a reclaiming of your dreams, and Bucky took on fewer SHIELD missions, choosing to stay close to you. The apartment was filled with new memories, lazy Sundays with coffee and newspapers, late-night talks about the future, the soft clink of dishes as you cooked together.

When you found out you were pregnant, the news hit like a comet, bright and overwhelming. Bucky’s reaction was a mix of awe and fear, his hands trembling as he touched your still-flat stomach. “A kid,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this, Y/N. What if I mess it up?”

You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “You won’t,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re not your past, Bucky. You’re going to be an amazing father.”

Your son, James Steven Barnes, was born on a stormy spring night, his cries loud enough to rival the thunder outside. Bucky held him first, his vibranium arm steady as he cradled the tiny bundle, his eyes shining with tears. “He’s perfect,” he whispered, looking at you with a love so fierce it stole your breath.

Two years later, your daughter, Margaret Rose, arrived, her name a nod to Bucky’s past but a symbol of your future. She had your smile, Bucky’s blue eyes, and a laugh that filled the apartment with light. Bucky was a devoted father, his guilt and jealousy replaced by a quiet pride as he watched his children grow. He’d read bedtime stories with exaggerated voices, build pillow forts in the living room, and teach James how to throw a baseball with his vibranium arm.

The years slipped by like pages in a well-loved book, each one worn at the edges but filled with moments that glowed in memory. The Brooklyn apartment had long been traded for a small house on the outskirts of the city, a two-story with a wraparound porch and a backyard where wildflowers grew in unruly patches. The scent of coffee and motor oil had been replaced by the warmth of cinnamon from your baking, the tang of fresh paint from Bucky’s endless home improvement projects, and the faint sweetness of lavender from the bushes you’d planted with your children. It was a home built on love, stitched together by years of laughter, tears, and quiet promises kept.

Your son, James Steven Barnes, was now a lanky teenager, his dark hair and blue eyes a mirror of his father’s, though his smile was all yours. He was sixteen, all sharp wit and restless energy, spending his days sketching like his Uncle Steve or tinkering with gadgets in the garage with Bucky. Margaret Rose, your daughter, was fourteen, her auburn curls bouncing as she danced through the house, her laughter a melody that could coax a smile from even Bucky’s grumpiest days. She had your stubborn streak, your love for stories, and a fierce protectiveness that reminded you of Bucky’s quiet strength.

Bucky had aged gracefully, his dark hair now streaked with silver, his vibranium arm still gleaming but worn at the edges from years of use, not in battle, but in lifting his children, building treehouses, and holding you close on cold nights. The guilt that had once defined him had faded, softened by the life you’d built together, though it never fully left. You’d see it sometimes, in the way his eyes lingered on the silver ring in its wooden box, now kept on a shelf in your shared bedroom, a relic of a past he’d made peace with but never forgot.

Your life was a tapestry of small joys. Sunday mornings with Bucky’s pancakes, James’s sketches pinned to the fridge, Margaret’s ballet recitals where you and Bucky sat in the front row, his hand squeezing yours as she twirled across the stage. There were harder moments too, James’s teenage rebellions, Margaret’s first heartbreak, the quiet nights when your old fears resurfaced, whispering that you weren’t enough, that Bucky’s love was a shadow of what he’d felt for Margaret. But each time, Bucky was there, his arms around you, his voice steady as he reminded you that you were his home, his heart, his everything.

One autumn evening, as the leaves turned gold and the air carried the crisp promise of winter, you sat on the porch swing, a knitted blanket draped over your lap. The sky was a watercolor of pinks and purples, the stars just beginning to peek through. Bucky joined you, his steps slower now, his vibranium arm whirring softly as he settled beside you. He was sixty in body but carried a century of life in his eyes, their blue still as piercing as the day you’d met.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, his voice low and warm, his hand finding yours under the blanket. “What’s on your mind?”

You smiled, but it was tinged with a melancholy you couldn’t shake. The years had been kind, but they’d also been relentless, each one bringing you closer to a future you weren’t ready to face. “Just thinking about us,” you said, your voice soft. “How far we’ve come. Sometimes it feels like a dream, like I’ll wake up and be back in that apartment, fighting to prove I belong.”

Bucky’s grip tightened, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. “You always belonged, Y/N. From the moment you walked in, you were home. I was just too damn stubborn to see it.”

You laughed, a soft, watery sound, and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You were pretty stubborn. But you made up for it.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Took me long enough.” He paused, his eyes distant, fixed on the horizon. “I still think about that day—the ring, what I said. I’ll never forgive myself for pushing you away, for sending you back to him.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “Bucky, stop. You’ve carried that guilt long enough. You saved me. You loved me when I didn’t think I could be loved. That’s what matters.”

His eyes softened, but the weight of his past was still there, a quiet shadow. “I love you, Y/N,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “Not as a replacement, not as anything but you. You’re my heart, my kids’ mother, my everything. I need you to know that.”

Tears stung your eyes, but they were tears of love, of relief. You’d spent years wondering if you could ever fill the space Margaret had left, if Bucky’s love for you was as true as what he’d felt for her. But now, sitting here under the stars, his hand in yours, you knew. His love was yours, fierce and unwavering, built on years of shared moments, not borrowed from a past you couldn’t touch.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I love you too, Bucky. Always.”

He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips warm against yours, a promise sealed in the quiet of the night. The swing creaked beneath you, the world fading until it was just the two of you, bound by a love that had weathered storms and emerged stronger.

The years rolled on, each one a gift. James went to college, studying engineering, his sketches now digital designs that made Bucky beam with pride. Margaret became a writer, her stories filled with the magic of the books you’d read to her as a child. You and Bucky grew older, your hair graying, your steps slower, but your love only deepened, a fire that never dimmed.

As age took its toll, you and Bucky faced it together, hand in hand. You’d sit on the porch swing, wrapped in the same quilt, watching the peonies bloom each spring. Your health faded first, a quiet decline that left you tired but unafraid, Bucky’s presence a constant comfort. He followed soon after, his heart tethered to yours, unwilling to linger in a world without you. You passed within days of each other, in the bedroom you’d shared for decades, your hands clasped, your love the last thing you felt. It was peaceful, a gentle fading like the stars at dawn, surrounded by the scent of lavender and the echoes of your children’s laughter.

The funeral was small, held in the backyard under the peony bushes, where Steve, now stooped with age, spoke of your love with tears in his eyes. “They were each other’s home,” he said, his voice breaking, his sketchbook filled with drawings of you and Bucky—laughing in the park, swaying on the porch swing, holding your children. Sam and Natasha stood beside him, their own families a testament to the Avengers’ legacy, their grief softened by stories of your life.

Years later, on a crisp autumn afternoon, James and Margaret returned to the cemetery, a quiet place where wild daisies grew between the stones. Your graves stood side by side, simple markers engraved with your names and the words “Forever in Love.” James, now in his forties, carried a bouquet of peonies, their petals soft against the stone, while Margaret, her curls streaked with gray, held a notebook filled with new stories. Their children trailed behind, giggling as they chased each other through the grass, their voices a bright echo of your own.

“Remember when Mom taught us to make daisy chains?” James said, kneeling to place the peonies on your grave, his voice warm with memory. “She’d sit in the backyard, weaving them into crowns, telling us we were royalty.”

Margaret laughed, settling beside him, her notebook open on her lap. “And Dad would pretend to be the royal guard, chasing us with that goofy grin. God, they were so in love. I used to catch them dancing in the kitchen, thinking we weren’t watching.”

James chuckled, his eyes misty. “I found one of Dad’s notes in an old book last week. ‘Thinking of you, always.’ He never stopped writing them for her.”

Margaret nodded, her fingers tracing the engraving on your stone. “I wrote a story about them, you know. A hero who finds his heart in the woman who never gave up on him. My daughter says it’s her favorite.” She paused, smiling through tears. “They’d miss us, but they’d love this—us here, laughing, keeping them alive.”

Their children ran up, plopping down with flowers they’d picked, their laughter filling the air. “Tell us about the swing, Grandma!” Margaret’s daughter said, her eyes wide, a peony tucked behind her ear.

Margaret grinned, pulling her close. “Your great-grandma and grandpa had a swing on their porch,” she said, her voice soft. “They’d sit there every night, talking, dreaming. It’s where they fell in love, where they grew up, where they taught us what forever means.”

The sun dipped low, casting golden light over the graves, the peonies glowing like embers. James and Margaret stayed, sharing stories of your jazz nights, your stubborn fights, the way Bucky’s eyes lit up when you smiled. Their laughter mingled with the breeze, a melody that carried your love into the years, a legacy that would never fade.

And somewhere, in the spaces between stars and wildflowers, you and Bucky were there, swaying on the porch swing, your hands clasped, your love eternal. The world would miss you, your strength, your laughter, the love that had carried a broken soldier through a century to a life of valor. But your children carried you forward, their stories and laughter a testament to a love that bloomed forever.

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[littlelovelunette]

Catching Up

Mother!Ambessa Medarda x Childhood Friend!Reader

Concept.

Sex with actual plot, praising, strap, dacryphillia if you squint, Ambessa has a bush, implied aftercare, not proof read im sorry.

It was a silly crush, you told yourself. But was it really? You dreamt of being her woman. You dreamt of being her queen, to serve as the General's trophy wife would even suffice. But your heart broke into a million tiny pieces when you heard the news that she got pregnant with Mel. She'd once again slept with a guy, and this was the symbol of it, and although you didn't resent her for it— the heartbreak in your chest lingered.

Ambessa questioned you, "Why are you leaving Noxus all of a sudden? We grew up here!"

You sighed, eyes downcast, "I'm sorry, 'Bessa."

Ambessa wanted to yell at you, urge you to stay but she knew she didn't have that authority nor right over you. So instead she placed a hand over your shoulder, "Let me know if you ever need anything."

You looked up at her finally, "And you take care of yourself," your voice was choked from the sob building in your throat, your eyes shifted to her baby bump, "And your baby."

With your entire family on board with the decision, you left Noxus and moved into Piltover. It barely helped with the heartbreak but being away from Noxus... You slowly started to move on from Ambessa. But oh the woman that she was— strong, powerful, the right bit of feminine and she always knew whatever she wanted. The only person who knew about your feelings was your elder sister, Rosette.

"I still can't believe she settled for a daughter." Rosette said, pouring you a mug of coffee, "With a man," she snorted in disgust.

"Yeah... Men." You mumbled, taking the coffee with a silent 'thanks' before tossing two pieces of bread in the toaster. "Still bummed out. You'd think I gave her all the hints a lesbian can possibly give."

"Not your fault, sis," Rosette sighed, "Well, hey, maybe you can fall in love with the enforcers here instead, you seem to have a thing for those kinda people," she teasingly nudged your shoulder.

"Are you suggesting I'm a badge bunny?" You rolled your eyes with a scoff, "The enforcers here look like dogshit. Well, at least in my opinion."

"I get that," Rosette sat down opposite you, peeling an orange, "Well, you better finish up breakfast fast if you want to go for work."

"Mhm," you hummed, taking a mouthful of coffee and taking the toast out of the toaster gingerly. They were very hot.

"Hey, sweethearts," your mother emerged downstairs, setting down the newspaper she held in her hands, "Did you know Ambessa is coming to Piltover? Her daughter Mel has also grown so much, I've heard she's a Councilor."

You spat out your coffee. "What!?" Your eyebrows furrowed and you ripped the paper away from your mother's hand, reading it over and over. The one line that said that Ambessa was rumoured to come to the Piltover for... Confidential reasons.

"Do you want to go meet her?" Rosette asked, "I could always call your boss and tell him you're at bedrest and sick."

You looked at Rosette and then back at the paper. "I... I wanna catch up with her. It's been years... And thanks."

You slowly put the paper down and abandoned the cup of coffee there on the table. Your appetite was suddenly gone, worry replacing your guts. You didn't know if this was a good idea or not. After all, you did have feelings for the woman. Dulled but still there. Even over the span of time that had passed, Ambessa Medarda wouldn't ever leave your heart.

"is she gonna be okay?" Your mother took a seat at the dining table and looked at Rosette.

"I hope." She stared after you as you disappeared into the confines of your room, isolating yourself from your family.

The thoughts in your head were far too loud for your liking and you didn't know how to set this up. Ambessa was the great warlord of Noxus, feared by all and even though you both grew up together— the stark difference of your position as a minimum wage worker Piltovian and hers as a Noxian warlord rubbed you the wrong way.

The shower turned off, and you stepped outside with a towel wrapped around your body. Your eyes hooked on the dress that hung from the hanger limply. It was a mini dress with puff sleeves and a square neckline, adorned with floral designs. Nothing too fancy and nothing too simple.

"You look beautiful." Ambessa said, offering her hand as she led you into the fine dining space she'd asked you to join her for lunch at.

"So do you," you sat opposite her, smiling as you leaned over the desk, "So, how's maternal life treating you?"

"Challenging, but I wouldn't trade it for the world," Ambessa examined the wine in her glass before she sipped it with a very judgemental look in her golden eyes.

You giggled, "I see, still rising to the challenge. You must be very proud of Mel."

Ambessa's jaw set tight and you knew this was a sensitive topic so you didn't press further. Her silence was enough for the both to you to get the gist— it was time to change conversation topic.

"I'm surprised you're not married and settled down already," Ambessa said, glancing at you, "Why's that?"

"I guess my standards are pretty high," you muttered, nervously playing with the ring on your finger, "And... I want someone who cares and cherishes their family as much as I do."

Ambessa's eyebrow raised, but you went on.

"I want someone to really put effort into keeping our future family safe given all the wars and conflicts surrounding us," you rested your head in your hand. "But I guess it's hard to trust people now a days."

Ambessa smirked slightly, taking a slow sip of her wine. "I see."

"So much has happened since I left Noxus," you crossed your legs and giggled, shaking your head, "I never could've imagined how hard it could've been, moving into a place where I knew nobody."

"I always questioned why you left," Ambessa said solemnly before smiling, "I guess, I still question it from time to time."

You wanted to tell her the truth. How it hurt you when you heard she was once again sleeping with a man. You wanted to be the one she'd be with. The one she'd give her time to. You were happy for her. But you weren't happy for you. And it was selfish, so you didn't find the courage to tell her so. You didn't before...

"Do you still... I don't know, hate me for it?" You asked, looking at her through your lashes.

Ambessa chuckled, the sound deep and rich but it held some sort of pain you couldn't place. "Yeah, sometimes."

You reached your hand forward, holding hers. Your thumb rubbed against her knuckles. "'Bessa... There's something I haven't told you all these years, not in letters or in person. I've never... Known how to phrase it and now it's getting harder and harder to contain it..."

"What is it?" Ambessa's eyebrows furrowed, contorting in confusion as she braced herself mentally for whatever bomb you might drop.

"I actually used to like you." You grinned in a giddy way, looking down at your lap, "I used to absolutely fancy you. And it hurt me so much that you were seeing men," you sighed, "But I knew I should've been happy for you, you were so cheerful after you got pregnant with Mel, that's the happiest I'd ever seen you."

Ambessa still didn't say anything so you continued.

"I know, I know. You deserve a better friend. That's why, I decided I'd move away from Noxus so my feelings didn't get in the way of our friendship. And I'm sorry if I hurt you by doing that." You didn't say anything further, staring at her to gauge her response.

"Do you still feel that way?" Ambessa asked, her voice quieter this time. This tone was always only reserved for you. You looked down, not meeting her eyes. Ambessa didn't want to assume, her hand holding your tighter now, she pressed on, "Please, tell me."

You looked at her, blushing immensely. You could practically feel the heat radiating off of your own face before you gave her a subtle, shy nod.

Ambessa gave you a triumphant smile, pouring herself more wine, "I guess, we can take this to the bed chambers then."

You gave her an eyebrow raise, "Is that right?" Your tone took a suggestive edge.

Ambessa's hands were all over you by the time you both made it last the bed chambers. You giggled as she palmed your breasts like a starved animal, nipping at your neck needily. Her big hands encircled around you as she pushed you onto the bed.

"What are you gonna do to me?" You asked, watching as she got up, and started removing each article of her clothing.

"That depends on what you want me to do to you, love." Ambessa answered, reaching to gently unzip your dress, pulling it off your body. You were in a white lingerie underneath. With the way Ambessa gawked at you, as if this was the most shocking sight in the world, you blushed.

"Don't stare..." You giggled shyly and tried to cover yourself. Ambessa blocked your arms from doing so.

"Don't. You're beautiful," she took a breath, "I'm just mesmerized."

You smiled a little, eyes fixed on her gorgeous muscular body. She leaned down and pulled a big red strap from the bedside drawer, putting it on herself.

"'Bessa that's really big," you muttered.

"You'll still take it for me, doll, no?" Ambessa smirked a little and lined the strap against your slit.

"Mhm, I'll take every inch," you said, gasping when the first few inches of the strap slipped into your pussy.

You were no stranger to sex, but the feeling something penetrating you after years of not being touched properly... It was sure interesting. You moaned softly, head tossing to the sight as you tried to take it without breaking a sweat. Ambessa noticed the way you tensed up, her hand resting on the bulge her huge cock produced on your stomach.

"Breathe easy," she rubbed the bulge, golden eyes trained on you as if she'd known your body forever, "In... And out."

You nodded, trembling a little as you tried to breathe deeply. Ambessa slipped the strap out all the way before slamming it back inside with an obscenely loud squelch. You yelped— the sound a mixture of a moan and a squeak. The strap was too big for your tiny hole.

You groaned when she bottomed out, Ambessa's hands squeezing your sides, "There we go, angel, you're doing well for me. Taking all of this big dick."

She cooed at you as if she wasn't splitting you open on her strap. Your tears rolled past your temples and soaked the pillow case as your hand tangled in her hair. "Please, it's too much," you begged.

Ambessa's hips pistoned perfectly, her experience showing as she continued ramming into you, your hole stretched deliciously around her huge silicone cock, slick running down the base of it everytime she pulled out of you. You were so wet, it was no wonder she slipped in so easily.

"Bessa!" You cried out when Ambessa rolled your nipple between her thick fingers, smirking down at your tear-stained face, her pace never ceasing.

Your eyes closed tightly as Ambessa slammed inside your hole again, she was in so deep her pubic hair brushed against your clit, only heightening your pleasure by doing so.

"That's it, my princess." Ambessa said and that was enough to make the coil in your tummy snap. Your back arched off the bed and you squirted all over the strap and Ambessa's abs.

"C-cumming!" You cried out loudly.

"There we go, my beautiful angel," Ambessa cooed in your ear gently easing the strap out of you. "Let's clean up, yeah, princess?"

[laughing-with-god]

These Things Take Time (Yandere! Supernatural! Taehyung x Reader)

Synopsis: There's something wrong with your boyfriend Taehyung. At least, you think it's him.

16.5k

Trigger warnings: yandere behavior, psychological gaslighting, violence, gore, some heavy making out, strong language, AFAB reader (she/her) I'm sure I'm missing some but you know me and what I write lol

Authors note: just a real quick thank you to @bigbuffjoonie and @mustardpop for having beta read and brainstormed with me literally a year ago about this fic that I never published until now.

-----

He passionately thrusted her against the wall, mouthing at her neck while muttering disgusting things that he was going to do to her.

It was foul…

It was taboo…

It was…..

Your fingers paused and hovered over the keyboard, the constant clicking of your writing coming to a sudden halt.

Your eyes scanned the last few lines, lips instinctively mouthing the words and checking the overall flow of the plot.

Your two main characters were about to fuck each other’s brains out after a long ‘will they or won’t they’ that spanned well over a dozen chapters.

There should be a feeling of torture, a feeling of relief, a feeling of frenzied lust that just couldn’t contain itself anymore and combusted within the contents of these pages.

That is what you desperately wanted your loyal readers to experience when they get to this scene.

Yet when reading the long-awaited buildup, you felt nothing.

You cared for every character you created like a mother does their child, them getting their happy endings was just as important to you as it was to them. So why did you feel so numb and dissociated from everything you’ve been typing the past hour?

You released a disillusioned sigh and leaned back into your chair. Your eyes stung from staring at a screen for so long and your limbs ached to be stretched with hours of immobility.

Writer’s block was a bitch.

Unlike other skills, writing was one of the few expertise that working harder at it won’t guarantee a better outcome. You could type away until your fingers were bruised and bloody, but it doesn’t mean anything you wrote would be worth shit. Writing was a talent and it came and went as it pleased. And right now it was gone.

Which left you very depressed and your editor very pissed.

You gave up the fight and reluctantly closed your laptop. Then stood to your full height, to give your back a much-needed stretch.

‘I tried today. And that’s okay. I’ll try again tomorrow.’ You thought to yourself, half heartedly taking your therapist’s advice to acknowledge your efforts and not just the outcomes.

When in a creative slump, it has been said that reading other works can be a source of inspiration. Can’t be a good writer yourself, then go out and read a good writer. With this thought in mind, you slowly exited your office and descended down the stairs.

Last week your mom sent you a book she recommended, and you’ve been so busy trying to finish your own novel that you just tossed it somewhere and haven’t touched or looked for it since. Though, you were almost certain you caught sight of it on the coffee table yesterday.

When you stepped into the living room, you spotted a familiar figure standing by the large bay window.

The sight tugged a small fond smile onto your face.

Taehyung was your boyfriend of six months.

He was strikingly attractive, tall, kind and clearly didn’t know his own worth because not only was he dating you, but he also agreed to move into this secluded farmhouse while you tried to finish your book. He assured that he could use this time and space to focus on his paintings as well, but you knew deep down he just didn’t want to leave you alone out in the middle of nowhere.

Right now only his profile was facing you, his alluring feline eyes staring at the raining scene outside, dark brows furrowed in heavy thought. He looked to be biting on his lower lip, a habit you’ve never seen before, but you supposed you two have only been dating for a few months so there was probably a whole world of little quirks you didn’t know of yet.

The scene was a bit intense, as you weren’t used to your usually cheerful boyfriend looking so ponderous. Yet you shrugged it off and just assumed he was most likely brainstorming his next painting. Taehyung was your first artist boyfriend and your friends did warn you that they could be a bit dramatic.

You quickly surveyed the room and indeed located the book on the coffee table. While reaching for it you called out, “Hey love?”

Taehyung snapped his neck at a speed too fast for your liking, instantly facing you with eyes wide and blown out in what you could only assume was shock.

You giggled, thinking he was too absorbed in his own world that he probably just now noticed your presence.

“I know I said I wanted pasta for dinner but how about we order some chinese instead?” You asked. Taehyung didn’t say anything, eyes still wide in unknown revelation, entirely unmoving. You continued, “This weather makes me not want to do anything, and I know you complain about the delivery time but we could just reheat the food if it gets here cold.”

It seemed like forever but Taehyung eventually nodded.

He then turned to face the window again.

You inwardly sighed and guessed he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of chinese. He always complained that you didn’t take care of yourself and how you needed home cooked meals rather than greasy takeout. But when creatively burnt out like this, you tended to just reach for the doordash because the act of cooking seemed entirely too much for you.

Hoping to butter him up, you tipped toed from behind and wrapped your arms around him. You nuzzled your face into his back and took a deep breath, enjoying the familiar scent of his outrageously expensive cologne. His body seemed to melt into your hold, tense posture suddenly limp and calm.

You reached up and pecked his cheek, grinning when you caught sight of his lips twitching upwards. Harmless manipulation complete, you trudged out the room with a lukewarm “Thanks honey!”

You skipped up the stairs and made a left into a hallway, quickly getting into the bedroom and preparing to plop into the heavenly crumpled mess of sheets and blankets, when an unexpected sound caused you to still.

The front door was opening.

Afraid of a possible home invasion, you rushed out to see what was happening.

The door was wide open and emerging into the home…was Taehyung.

His hair and jacket was drenched from the rain, four or so heaping grocery bags in his hold as he looked up the stairs at you with a tired smile.

“Hey baby, can you give me a hand with some of this? I got some sauce for the pasta and picked up some other stuff we were running low on.”

Time stood still.

Your jaw dropped in bewilderment.

Your mind struggling to process this odd collapse of reality.

The nearest grocery store was, at its quickest, still a twenty-minute drive into town.

There was just no way Taehyung was able to leave and get back in the same time it took for you to get up the stairs and into your room.

No one can be in two places at once.

What the fuck was going on?

You just saw him. You just talked to him. You just smelled him. You just touched him.

Taehyung’s gaze worriedly ran up and down your face, correctly detecting that something was dreadfully wrong. He kicked the door closed behind him and rather ungracefully dropped the bags, hastily stepping over some of the falling items to race up the steps and take you in his hold.

“Y/n? Baby what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Did something happen while I was gone?” He fretted.

“I-w-what-you-j-just-living room…” You stammered, not even being able to bring yourself to voice what was happening.

“What? What about the living room? You’re not making any sense.”

You gulped, looking up at him with fear. “T-Tae, I could’ve sworn I just saw you in the living room. I talked to you.”

Your boyfriend’s face dropped.

“Y/n, get in the bedroom and lock the door behind you.”

You irritably huffed while blinking away oncoming tears, realizing Taehyung didn’t quite understand what you were saying. “No! Not like an intruder! It was you.”

“I’m right here Y/n. I just got back from the market. I haven’t been home in the past hour. There’s no way you just saw me in this house.” He slowly explained, as if you were having some mental breakdown and needed to be talked off the ledge.

Your temper rose. “No shit Kim Taehyung! That’s why I’m scared! Do you have a twin brother or something? Or did you come into the living room before going back to the car to get the groceries?”

Taehyung backed away from you, clearly put off by your outburst. “No? First off, you know I’m an only child. Secondly, why would I come in and let you talk to me before going back out in the pouring rain, bring in groceries and then pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about when you said you saw me in the house just now?”

You glared up at him, now feeling foolish for even being scared in the first place of something that most definitely had a logical explanation.

Your boyfriend always had a more playful side than you and this was most likely the first trick he was trying to play in your very young relationship.

“I told you I don’t like pranks, Taehyung. You can pull them on your friends all you want but you promised to never pull one on me.”

He threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “I’m not pranking you! It probably was an intruder who looked kinda like me and instead of letting me go and investigate, you're arguing with me?”

“It wasn’t an intruder! He didn’t take anything!”

Taehyung laughed incredulously, “Great, you're defending some robber over your own boyfriend now? I almost feel jealous.”

“There’s nothing to be jealous over because the guy was you!” You exploded.

“Which isn’t possible!”

“Go look then!” You relented.

Taehyung didn’t need to be told twice. He swiftly ran down the stairs and went through the entire house, searching for an unseen man who managed to trick his girlfriend into thinking he was him.

He found no such person.

It was only while you both wordlessly unpacked the groceries while licking the wounds of your little spat did Taehyung make a point that chilled you to the bone.

“Y/n, when you saw me…how did I look?”

You raised a brow at him. “I don’t know? You looked just fine.”

“Okay…and your working theory is I parked outside and came in, talked to you, then went back out, just to enter through the front again like nothing happened?”

You meekly shrugged, “Yeah I guess that would be a good trick.”

Your clever boyfriend pointed at the window, where it was still raining heavily. “I would've been soaked then, Y/n.”

That was the first incident.

— Dinner that night was a tense affair.

At least until Taehyung solemnly apologized for being so bad at hiding his true identity.

He then fessed up to being the Korean version of The Flash.

Against yourself, you bursted out laughing.

Maybe it was all the anxiety of the day that made you loopy, or your desperate need to just return to normal but you apologized for snapping and blamed your overactive writer's imagination for everything.

Taehyung said it was okay and that you actually looked hot when angry, you knew for a fact you didn’t but took the compliment nonetheless and suggested an early night in.

And just like that your first couple fight was over.

Yet that night when you were in the arms of your slumbering boyfriend, with his peaceful snores rumbling in your ear, all you could think about was the other Taehyung.

You regretfully lied to your boyfriend.

You knew for a fact that it wasn’t your imagination.

You were never the type of writer who got so immersed in your work that you began imagining things and confusing them for reality. If anything, you were too grounded in reality. In addition to this, you highly doubted that multiple weeks of writer’s block would even allow for such a vivid mirage to occur.

And the most damning evidence of all, if it was your imagination…why would your mind conjure up the exact replica of your boyfriend? The very man you live with and see everyday for hours on end? Wouldn’t it be a character from your book? Or at least someone you haven’t seen in a while?

It all didn’t make sense, but you didn’t have enough information to say what it was, you just knew what it wasn’t.

You rolled over and buried your face into Taehyung’s chest, practically praying for the mystery to soon be over and solve itself quickly.

It was most likely the overthinking and looming dark corners of the bedroom, but you began to feel like someone was watching you through the small gap in your ajar bedroom door.

– A few days passed and you have almost forgotten about the incident.

I mean, maybe not entirely but you were at least willing to chalk it up to a freak incident.

Scrolling through some discussion boards online showed that your story was actually pretty tame to what other unexplainable experiences some people have had. At least the other Taehyung didn’t try to scare or hurt you. It just seemed like he was doing his own thing really, like he was lost in his own world staring out that window. Thus you concluded that you weren’t in danger, and it therefore wasn’t worth freaking out about.

Mainly because your editor was on your ass and there was nothing productive about thinking of him when you were already so late on a deadline.

Naturally, you attempted to throw yourself into your writing, which was proving to be as fruitless as ever. Yet you knew giving your editor anything was better than nothing, leading you to sending half-assed drafts to him and enduring long calls about how your writing was okay, but not great.

You and Taehyung have been off too.

There was no more fighting or even words exchanged about the fiasco. However there still was an uneasiness between you two. You doubted that Taehyung believed your imagination excuse, but you also knew that he didn’t trust your original recollection of events either. Your boyfriend sort of walked on eggshells around you, almost as if you’d somehow think he was the imposter whenever he’d step into the room. You would be lying if you said you weren’t a little offended by it.

Luckily, Taehyung was currently immersed with his art, rarely leaving his little workspace. You wished you could say the same but you felt like you were simply writing in circles without actually getting anywhere. It was hard to not be jealous, but at least you were given some space away from him after a rather unresolved fight.

Meanwhile, you were planning to take a day or two off of writing, to just let your mind wander and relax so that maybe the next time you sat behind a laptop you could actually produce something worthwhile.

Of course it would just so happen that it would fall on the very day you get sick.

Waking up that morning you felt feverish and lightheaded, telling yourself that you could just use fifteen more minutes of sleep and you’d probably feel better.

You woke up five hours later; feeling even more feverish, lightheaded, and now nauseous.

You trudged downstairs to the kitchen and popped back some painkillers with a glass of water, already fantasizing about getting back into your warm and comfy bed once again.

Except what could make your bed even warmer and comfier? Taehyung.

Your boyfriend was always the more affectionate one between you two, you often practically had to push him away when you were trying to get work done. But now that you were willingly going to ask for his affection, there was no way he’d let you go uncuddled.

Any awkwardness in the relationship was long forgotten as you stomped towards his workspace, a demand to be held heavy on your tongue. You were too sick and exhausted to try to navigate relationship politics, but the whole point of a boyfriend was that he was supposed to provide attention on demand, right?

You reached his door and feebly knocked, trying to be polite to his artistic process and not just barge in.

You heard some shuffling on the other side and soon enough your boyfriend was in front of you. Taehyung hadn’t shaved his face in days, a faint goatee gracing his already intimidatingly handsome face. His black hair was messy and fluffy, a gold chain gracing his neck and drawing attention to his lack of shirt and gray sweatpants.

He grinned at you, “What’s up baby?”

You pouted up at him, momentarily not even ashamed to resort to such cheap tricks, “I feel sick and want to be cuddled back to sleep.”

“Aww poor thing.” He crooned while leaning against the doorframe. “Why don’t you head back up to bed and I’ll be up as soon as I can? I just finished a sketch and really need to focus on the next few steps before I can quit for the day.”

You huffed, kind of annoyed that he wouldn’t even take a break to hold you.

He rolled his eyes at your reaction, “Don’t look at me like that, honey. When the muse strikes, I gotta paint. Otherwise I don’t know when I’ll get the next chance for inspiration. You understand, right?”

“Yeah, I’m just really crabby and being held sounded really good.”

Taehyung chucked, muttering to himself a “cute” before leaning forward and pecking your lips. “I promise I’ll try to be quick. Go drink some water and wait for me. I’ll bring you some soup when I’m done.”

You just nodded and left him to his work. Instead of the bedroom, your feet somehow led you to the living room.

Maybe you should watch some tv while Taehyung worked? You already slept a lot today and if Taehyung was gonna be in bed with you later, perhaps it was a good idea to stay up for a little bit. Besides, you’ve been avoiding this part of the house ever since the incident and you needed to get comfortable in your own living room eventually.

Such a reminder of that rainy day caused you to cast a wary glance at the bay window, oddly feeling both relief and annoyance that nothing was there.

You plunked down onto the couch and wrapped a throw blanket around you, searching your usual streaming services for some comfort show to watch.

It was halfway through an episode of some show you’ve already watched countless times, when you heard footsteps approaching.

You looked up and saw your boyfriend, looking as cute and messy as before. Except now he held a sheepish smile on his face as he held up a steaming mug of something.

“What’s that?”

He took a seat next to you and gently handed the drink over. “Hot chocolate. I know protocol is tea whenever someone is sick, but I know how much you hate the taste.”

You fondly smiled and took the mug, flustered that he remembered such a minor detail about you. “Thank you love but you didn’t have to. You should be focusing on your work. Don’t let me distract you!”

Taehyung shook his head and threw an arm around you, holding you tight against him. He craned his neck and looked down to you, almost meeting you nose-to nose to connect his gaze with yours. Suddenly a serious expression replaced his formerly sheepish one.

“Actually, I wanted to talk.” He said, taking a deep breath before continuing, “I-I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?”

He licked his lips, “I know we’ve been kinda out-of-sync ever since you said you saw someone and I didn’t believe you. But, it just didn’t make sense. Like, how is that possible? Whatever the case though, I shouldn’t have made you feel like you were going crazy or something.”

You raised an eyebrow, “So you believe me then?”

“Yes. I know you wouldn’t lie. I don’t know what happened but…I know you know what you saw.”

A warm feeling spread across your chest, temporarily putting your sickness on the back burner. In truth, you weren't sure if the situation even called for an apology but you felt so pampered that your boyfriend cared enough to. “I-I’m sorry too, Tae. I shouldn’t have assumed you were being mean and pranking me. Snapping at you wasn’t cool.”

Taehyung just shrugged. “Nah, I probably would’ve done the same thing.”

You secretly agreed that you were in the right but still, if he was being a big enough person to say sorry so should you. You turned your attention back to the drink in your hands, taking a sip.

You nearly moaned in pleasure when the flavor graced your taste buds.

“What did you put in this?”

“Oh just some cinnamon and-”

“Ginger.” You interrupted, knowing without a doubt that it was the other spice.

“Yup. Why? Is something wrong?” He asked, probably worried you didn’t like it.

“No! It’s perfect.” You said before gulping down more of the nostalgic hot chocolate. “When I was a kid, I had a babysitter who would make her hot chocolate with cinnamon and ginger. Mrs Fritz was her name, a really kind old lady from down the street. I was her favorite so she made hot chocolate for me all the time and watched me for free whenever my parents went out.”

Taehyung hummed, a small smile on his face as you fondly recalled one of the biggest figures of your childhood. “She must’ve had great taste.”

“Mrs. Fritz had impeccable taste.” You good-naturedly corrected with a giggle. “I miss her. When other kids wouldn’t play with me she would stay inside with me and color or read me these cool stories.”

“I would’ve played with you.” Taehyung grumbled, in all likelihood noting how you grimaced at the memory of not being all too popular as a kid.

“Haha, you definitely wouldn’t have! I was such a dork and actually hated playing outside. Kid me much rather be at home watching some old movies or something. Not to mention I was quite an ugly little girl.” You laughed.

Tae gasped dramatically, “That’s not true! You were adorable!”

“You saw like one picture of me at eight! And my mom did me all up for that picture! Trust me, I didn’t look that good at all.”

Taehyung looked like he wanted to argue further, but realizing you were right he just dropped it with an unconvincing, “Whatever you say.”

“But anyway babe, you really can go back to painting. I don’t want to keep you. If I had any inspiration right now, you wouldn’t be able to tear me away from my laptop.”

His arm tugged you even closer. “Nope, I’m alright where I’m at right now. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I left my sick girlfriend all alone?”

You blushed, logically aware that you could handle yourself but emotionally over the moon that this beautiful man didn’t want you to. Selfishly, you wanted to take advantage of his presence even if it came at the expense of his art progress. So you placed the mostly empty mug on the coffee table, fishing out your phone from your sweatpant pocket and setting it there too.

You then curled up into his side, suddenly feeling so drowsy.

Taehyung held you closer, even playing with your hair as you lost the battle with your increasingly heavy eyelids.

You felt him press his lips against your forehead in a drawn out peck, as his nose ticked the crown of your head. He inhaled deeply, his everlasting love for your shampoo revealing itself once more.

“You okay?” His baritone voice whispered.

“Yeah. I just took some medicine that’s probably making me all sleepy.” You mumbled back.

You didn’t hear anything else, just felt as he rested his head on top of yours, presumably also closing his eyes to rest.

Slowly but surely feeling the mechanisms of your brain shut down, the darkness steadily taking over as the sound of the tv became more and more distant.

A notification from your phone caused you to open a single eye, quickly scanning the screen on the coffee table.

Taebear: Hey almost done over here! Do you mind turning down the TV a bit tho? Kinda distracting :(

Before you can even gasp, the medicine-induced darkness consumed you completely, effectively and brutally knocking you out.

That was the second incident.

–

“So like I was saying, I dumped his ass because what the fuck do you mean you ‘don’t know what we are’? I met his damn parents, Y/n!”

The voice blarred over the phone speaker, as you hummed rather noncommittally. “What a jerk. You can do a whole lot better, Lisa.”

You were in the laundry room, slowly taking clothes out of the dryer and folding them as you spoke on the phone with one of your closest friends. About once a week you two would have a call and catch each other up with your lives. Although, Lisa led a much more interesting life than you and usually had a crazy story to share every week, while you just reacted to it. It was kinda like a one listener podcast, but you didn’t mind as you were always very entertained with her.

“Thank you! I don’t know where I keep finding these guys. You really got lucky with Taehyung, all the other men our age are such assholes.” She groaned.

You wanted to laugh, but at the mention of your boyfriend’s name you froze.

Not catching your silence, Lisa continued, “Anyway, how are you and Taehyung doing? What’s it like to live together only six months into a relationship?”

“Actually…we had our first fight.” You told her. “Maybe. I don’t know. It may not even be considered a fight so much as a disagreement but I’ve been feeling a little awkward.”

“Oooh, what happened?” She didn’t even try to mask her excitement.

“It…I…Something happened and he didnt…I don’t know, Lisa. I’m going to sound crazy but I feel like I’m experiencing a glitch in the matrix or some shit.”

She pushed, “Try me. Remember when I used to be a flat earther? I’ll believe anything.”

Lisa made a good point, she was always down for conspiracies and even proclaimed herself a supernatural expert. So you relented, “Okay. Look, I don’t want you to laugh at me or anything because I’m being completely honest. I’m telling you this because I desperately need theories.”

“I promise I’ll give you a theory! Just get to it!” She barked over the phone, anxiously awaiting your story.

“Um, so earlier this week I went downstairs and saw Taehyung. I talked to him about ordering out instead of cooking, hugged him then went up the stairs. Then not even a second later Taehyung came home with groceries, telling me he wasn’t in the house at all when I said I saw him.” You paused, waiting for her to interject.

“Huh…” She trailed off, stumped herself with what that could mean.

“And yesterday, I went to Tae’s workspace to try to cuddle but he said he needed a bit more time with his painting and then he’d meet me upstairs. I went to the couch to wait and he suddenly came in and apologized for not believing me earlier. We cuddled and talked then…I got a text from Taehyung asking me to turn the tv down because it was distracting him.”

You took a deep breath to calm your rising nerves, not liking how you were managing to scare yourself all over again. “Lisa, how was I in Taehyung's arms when Taehyung wasn’t even in the room with me?”

“How did this other Taehyung act? Was he any different than your actual boyfriend?”

“I mean, the first time he didn’t say a word and I left the room quickly. The second time he was so sweet and…I don’t know. Maybe even nicer than my actual boyfriend but not like suspiciously so.”

“And there’s no difference between him and Taehyung? Same height, voice, birthmarks, everything?”

“Yes.”

A brief silence as she no doubt was working with a theory. “And you’ve never had experiences like this before you moved into that farmhouse?”

“None.”

“Ah-ha! It’s probably a ghost then!” She assured triumphantly.

You, however, weren’t so sure she solved the case. “A ghost that looks exactly like my boyfriend?”

“Well, crazier things have happened. You know, scientists say that each person has around six doppelgangers out there somewhere. What if this ghost was your boyfriend's doppelganger?”

“Still, why would he act like he was my boyfriend? Like, this ghost must have a different name and background than my Taehyung so why does he go along with it whenever I call him Taehyung and treat him like a boyfriend?” You questioned.

“The afterlife can get pretty dull. The ghost is probably just bored and noticed that Taehyung looks alot like him, so he’s using that to his advantage to mess around.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” You grumbled, pissed at the prospect of you being a little plaything to a bored spirit.

“I know babe but ghosts are mostly harmless. If it really starts to bother you, maybe get a medium to move him along or whatever.” Lisa advised.

“Yeah, maybe.” – Mom: Look what I found!

The text came with a video attached, and you clicked it without thinking much.

A chubby little girl of about three to five years of age was badly hiding in a school cubby. Her mini feet sticking out and wiggling as the rest of her body was covered by a hung up winter coat. The cameraman sighed dramatically from behind the scenes, asking loudly, “Oh where could Y/n possibly be?!”

The girl giggled and a new figure slowly snuck into frame, approaching the cubby with a large grin.

The preschool teacher suddenly reached into the cubby and snatched the girl up, holding her up in the air as if the toddler was a prize of some sort. “Gotcha!”

The mini version of you laughed in her hold, kicking the air in glee. “Miss Addison you found me! You’ll find me anywhere, right?”

The young teacher nodded as she placed you on your feet. “Of course! I have a really good Y/n sense! I’ll find you anywhere.”

“Even the moon?” Innocent you asked, most likely just having learned about the star.

“Yes, I’ll find you on the moon if I have to!” Miss Addison chuckled.

The video ended and you went to type your mom a half-hearted reply, mostly inquiring how she still even had that clip after all these years.

While doing so, you caught yourself wishing that you could show this to Taehyung and prove that you were indeed not the best company as a child, your teacher had to play hide-and-seek with you because no one else would.

Yet, it wasn’t Taehyung you had that particular conversation with. Rather other Taehyung.

Or as you and Lisa had nicknamed; ghost Taehyung.

You failed to tell your boyfriend about the second incident. He woke you up an hour or so later with his promised bowl of soup, softly scolding you for never turning down the tv.

Deep inside you were sure that he was already convinced you were crazy from the first time his replica showed up. You didn’t seek to push that theory even further. Mostly because you didn’t want him to admit you to a psych ward, but also because of another glaring reason. The first time you were sure that Taehyung himself was messing with you somehow, which prompted you to accuse him, but this time around you knew for a fact he was innocent.

Instinctively, you didn’t feel threatened by the doppelganger spirit. If anything you sorta wished he’d pop up again with a ginger-cinnamon hot chocolate. It was kinda weird that he was acting like your boyfriend when he wasn’t, but he didn’t try to be too intimate with you or anything. The lease on the farmhouse was only twelve months so you could put up with a friendly ghost for a while if need be.

The only creepy thing was that you weren’t sure how you were going to tell if you were talking to the real Taehyung or not. Thankfully, the sick day incident seemed to be the last one, the last few days being almost eerily mundane.

The door to your bedroom suddenly slammed open, revealing your beaming boyfriend.

He held up a champagne bottle with one hand and two glasses in the other. “Guess what just happened!”

You sat up in bed and placed your phone on the nightstand as he giddily approached you. “What? Are we celebrating something?”

“Only the Bauhaus Gallery agreeing to schedule a showing for my latest collection!”

You jumped up in surprise, instantly wrapping your arms around him and plastering his face with kisses. “Oh my god! Tae! That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you! When is it?!”

“Next Friday at eight.” He chuckled through your kisses, fully basking in your attention.

The Bauhaus gallery was an uppity German gallery in town that apparently served as a who's who in the world of painting. Personally, you didn’t get what the big deal was, but Taehyung made it one of his career goals to have a show there. He always said that his career would really take off if he could showcase his work at such a place.

You pulled back and began thinking out loud as Taehyung worked on the bottle, “Wow, okay! I need to get a dress. And we should invite some friends to support you. Oh! Namjoon and his wife would probably try to buy a painting so we should see if they’re free-”

Taehyung cut you off with the resounding pop of the bottle, “Yeah yeah, we can plan that all out later. Right now I just wanna celebrate with my pretty girlfriend please.”

You quieted down and held the glasses as he poured. He then placed the bottle aside, took a glass and held it up for you to clink. You did so while your boyfriend declared, “To my collection and girlfriend; both beautiful and priceless!”

“You better announce that again at the afterparty!” You laughed, covering your blush.

You both finished the drinks rather quickly, him with a refreshing “ahh” and you with a cringe. Champagne really was overrated in your opinion, having no idea why it was the token celebratory drink. The glasses were then shoved somewhere aside, courtesy of Tae.

You laid back down in the bed, Taehyung unhurriedly following suit and even climbing on top of you at a leisurely pace.

Taehyung’s face was now inches away from yours, his every breath tickling your skin. His previous mood of joy shifted into something more…sultry. Cat eyes darkened, fully taking you in with a steadily growing smirk. The artist licked this bottom lip in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed, before quirking one brow up in faux inquiry. His voice was low and husky, purring into your ears, “You know, it’s been a while since we’ve fucked.”

You snorted, “Gee, that’s hard to believe when you put me in the mood like that.”

“You like a man who's upfront.” He shrugged, not wasting a second more as he leaned down to slowly melt his lips against yours.

The intimate sensation felt almost foreign, the last few days having only been filled with obligatory pecks due to you two being so caught up in your work. You almost forgot how talented he was at making you feel special.

You kissed back just as slowly, feeling the intensity of his lips and taking the time to reacquaint yourself with them. It was gentle, deep, and meaningful. He kissed you gingerly, carefully, but that’s not what you wanted. Not after all this time. Pent-up sexual frustration caused you to knot your fists in his shirt, pulling him harder against you.

Taehyung groaned softly, low in his throat while encircling you in his arms to gather you against him. You two rolled over in the bed, tangled in the sheets, still locked at the lips.

His tongue slips into your mouth, tender but demanding. You swirl your tongue against his, moaning into his mouth as his hands snuck up to twist in your hair and grip you impossibly closer. Taehyung’s slight stubble prickles you, but somehow the extra sensation just excites you even more. Your boyfriend's lips pull back and meet their ultimate home at your neck, him now mouthing fervently at the sensitive nerves there as you gasped for air.

As you felt hotter and hotter, Taehyung answered your unsaid prayer and positioned his thigh between your legs, obscenely brushing against the place you needed him most. Knowing you like the back of his hand, he purposefully tensed his thigh as you not-so-subtly grinded against it, all the while he sucked and nibbled at the spot just below your ear.

A tug at your clothes.

Softly biting your earlobe, he whispered, “Be a good girl for me and take this shit off.”

Just when you were about to oblige, an unexpected sound cut through all the haze and caused you both to freeze.

It sounded like a…bang?

From somewhere deep within the house.

It was so loud and shrill, it effortlessly echoed off the walls of your humble bedroom. If you had to describe it, it was as if someone had just thrown a bowling ball with all their might.

Undoubtedly snapping into protector mode, Taehyung immediately jumped off of you and reached under the bed to retrieve a metal baseball bat.

“Stay here.” He ordered, already marching out the door before you could even protest.

You fearfully obeyed, reaching for your phone in case 911 had to be called.

Your once warm and flushed body was now icy with panic. Sitting upright in the bed, you strained your ears for any idea of what was occurring downstairs.

But alas, the house remained freakily silent. Almost as if that brutal sound was in your head and nothing more.

This did nothing to help your anxiety, a cold sweat quickly forming.

Minutes passed, you waited with bated breath for something. Anything.

But nothing ever came.

Your worry grew tenfold.

The longer Taehyung was away, the more you felt weighed down with dread, heart nearly in your throat.

‘What was happening downstairs? Was Taehyung okay? Did he find something? If there was a struggle, surely you would’ve heard it by now, right?’

Then ultimately, as the seconds ticked on, ‘Was your boyfriend going to come back?’

At the ten-minute mark, you made your decision.

Now concerned for your boyfriend’s safety, you sprung out of bed and ran out of the room. Your body purposefully moving too fast for your mind to catch up and halt your movements in the name of self-preservation.

“Taehyung?!” You desperately called out as you practically plummeted down the stairs.

“In here!” A croaky voice answered, sounding like your boyfriend but oddly…defeated?

You correctly traced the voice to his workroom, stepping into the space and seeing a scene that swiftly broke your heart, effectively replacing all your fright with woe.

Taehyung was on his knees in front of an easel, head bowed down.

The easel held a half-done canvas.

It was a sketch of two people, a man and a woman that closely resembled you and Taehyung.

It was partly painted, the scene depicting a warm sunny day at the park that looked alot like where Taehyung had taken you for a picnic and officially asked you to be his girlfriend. You were in Taehyung’s arms, kissing his cheek as he smiled his signature box-smile. You could recall that precise moment easily, you had just said yes to being his and sheepishly pecked his cheek, embarrassed by the old man on the bench a few feet away that eyed you two like a hawk.

It was a wonderful piece of unfinished art, not only due to the sentimental value but also the artistry and time that clearly went into it.

If only there weren't angry red sloshes of paint that cut through it, ruining the picture and turning it into something that looked like a horrible bloody mess of goo and not the romantic day it was.

“I-I was going to gift this to you….on our seventh month.” Taehyung’s voice was watery.

You didn’t even know what to say.

All of his hard work and thought was simply…gone. Erased. Ruined.

It would’ve been the equivalent of someone breaking into your laptop and deleting your entire novel’s draft. What would you even do? If roles were reversed, would there even be a way for Taehyung to console you? To make matters worse, it was his gift of love to you. He didn’t make that painting for himself, a buyer, or a collection…he made it for you.

Your empathy made you almost cry for him, but you knew that would be the last thing he’d want to see right now. His guilt would only grow.

You walked further into the room and got on your knees beside him.

Wrapping your arms around him, you cradled his head in the nook between your head and shoulder while rocking the two of you. “Tae baby, I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, although you felt wet teardrops on your skin.

“Who would do this? It doesn’t make sense why someone would break in, take nothing and just destroy my gift?”

You didn’t know either, but you wanted to make him feel better. “Listen, I think it was the perfect gift. It’s really the thought that counts and I’m just happy that you even thought to make me something like that. Especially in the middle of working on your own collection, it must’ve been hard.”

Taehyung pulled back, regarding you with a tearful but hopeful gaze. “Really?”

“Of course! I was literally going to just get you a watch or something. That gift kinda would have made me look bad.” You attempted to joke.

He shakily smiled, even chuckling a bit before pulling back entirely and standing to his full height. Tae then held a hand out for you, pulling you up as well.

Not wanting to be in the room anymore with that awful mess, you gradually pushed him towards the door, eventually up the stairs and into your bedroom.

You both sat on the bed, him with his head in his hands and you awkwardly suggesting yet another early night in.

But instead of agreeing and attempting to join you under the covers, Taehyung continued to sit almost painfully still at the edge of your bed.

Then, he spoke.

“Y/n, you were lying when you said that guy was probably just a figment of your imagination.”

It wasn’t a question.

He knew.

He believed you now.

–

It was now the official opinion of the house that a ghost was indeed roaming around somewhere.

You wanted to pat yourself on the back because truly, your taste in men was superior.

Taehyung wasn’t one of those horror movie boyfriends that was convinced every unexplainable occurrence must’ve had a logical explanation. It only took that one experience for the artist to admit that something weird was going on, and although he never saw the ghost himself, Taehyung believed you when you said it looked exactly like him.

You were happy that you two were on the same page…well, mostly.

Taehyung reasoned that the lookalike ghost must’ve been the one to ruin his painting.

You don’t know why, but somewhere deep within, that accusation just didn’t feel right. Without thinking much, you had told your boyfriend that destroying his gift didn’t seem like something ghost Tae would do.

Obviously Taehyung was bewildered at your sudden defense of the spirit’s character and demanded to know how you could be so sure that it wasn’t him.

Feeling that your hand was forced, you fessed up to the second incident in which you ran into the other Taehyung. You explained that he was sweet, brought you hot chocolate and even held you as you fell asleep. It was only after the real Taehyung texted you that you realized it wasn’t your boyfriend, but by then it was too late.

Your boyfriend was understandably furious.

For one, you never told him that you were cuddled and taken care of by another man, dead or otherwise. And secondly, this spirit seemed to be taking too much of a liking to you. The artist was a weird mixture of jealous and protective, following you around the house and barely leaving you alone in fear that his replica would show up and snatch you away.

You thought he was overreacting, but Taehyung's determination to get rid of the ghost only grew as the days passed.

One day you took a break from writing and went downstairs to refresh your coffee, when you paused at the sight of your boyfriend waving an odd burning stick around the living room in a fashion that somehow made sense to him.

“Sage cleanses the home of negative energy and basically tells unwanted spirits to fuck off.” He told you as if you were the idiot and not him- wildly thrashing his arm around in a puff of smoke and demanding that his evil ghost twin left the premises immediately.

You shrugged, “Just don’t set off the smoke detector, please.”

The next day, Taehyung informed you over dinner that he called a security camera company and had ordered a set to be installed in your home.

“Don’t you think that’s kinda a big fucking thing to not run by me?”

“I’m sorry baby, but I knew you wouldn’t have agreed.” He apologized without seeming even the tiniest bit apologetic.

“If you knew I wouldn’t have wanted it then why do it anyway?!”

“Because as the man of the house it’s my job to protect us and I would like to witness everything that’s going on. Next time he comes out and tries to touch you, I will be able to see it from my phone and confront him.” He then reached for his water and took a self righteous sip before muttering under his breath, “That is if the sage didn’t kick him out already.”

“Man of the house?!” You echoed incredulously. “You call twirling around with some burning twigs and yelling at a harmless ghost being the man of the house?”

“He’s not harmless! Why are you so convinced that it’s just a casper that we’re dealing with?!”

You opened your mouth to retort, but snapped it shut when you realized you didn’t really have any reason to believe he wasn’t dangerous. So you just focused on the main glaring issue, “Nevermind that. I just don’t like how you made a big decision without telling me. Are we not equal in this relationship? It wasn’t even worth consulting me about?”

Taehyung didn’t say anything.

It would seem that he understood your point, but was stubbornly holding onto his just a tad more.

Appetite ruined, you stormed away in a display of vexation.

Not wanting to go to sleep beside him either, you stayed all night in your office and tried to just focus on editing the latest version of your draft.

Somewhere along the way, you managed to fall asleep on the keyboard.

You blearily awoke hours later to the sound of the door firmly shutting.

Groggily you sat up and twisted to see if anyone else was in the room with you, all the while rubbing off the key imprints on your cheek and leftover drool.

No one was there.

When you turned your attention back to the desk, you softly gasped in surprise.

A plate of grilled cheese sat there, still hot.

Alongside it was a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

One sip and you instantly recognized the ginger-cinnamon.

It wasn’t your boyfriend who left this.

The sage didn’t work.

–

Ralph was a man of about fifty years of age.

Tall, lumbering, calloused and not necessarily easy on the eyes, he shifted awkwardly at the entrance of your delicate farmhouse as Taehyung listed off the places in the home that he’d like covered.

Ralph was to set up the cameras while you and your boyfriend went out for a quick errand.

The gallery showing was tomorrow, and so was the little afterparty that you had arranged to take place. You did so without really realizing all that you would need for hosting. The guest list was an intimate circle of seven, but given you and Taehyung were running out of groceries for even just the two of you, you figured a trip to the market was needed to properly prepare.

You rolled your eyes and waited for your boyfriend to finish his little pep talk, sighing in relief when Ralph was finally free to disappear into the living room with his bag of tools.

“Ready?” You asked Taehyung, not really waiting for an answer as you stomped past him and out the door.

He followed you wordlessly to the car.

The ride into town was stiff and awkward, neither one of you saying anything and music not even playing in the background as Taehyung drove.

You both were still angry at each other.

Well, more like you were angry at him and he was correctly trying to not poke the bear by instigating useless chatter.

The cameras were overkill in your opinion and a giant waste of money. You both were artists, which means a severe lack of steady income. You needed to be smart with what you threw cash at because no one knew if your next book or his next painting would even sell. Nothing was ever guaranteed.

You felt for him that his gift was wrecked, but you weren’t lying when you said that the thought was all that really mattered to you. You genuinely didn’t care either way, it would’ve been nice to have the painting, but it was just as nice to know that he was painting one for you.

If you were a betting woman, you would bet that this was more about Taehyung’s unfounded jealousy than anything else. Usually you would find harmless jealousy kind of attractive, but not when it went into installing cameras into your home at the “low” price of a couple hundred dollars.

You thought of this in a quiet rage as Taehyung pulled into the grocery store.

He parked, you both got out and walked inside before grabbing a cart.

“Let’s split up.” You said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“Fine. What do you want me to get?”

“Get the drinks. They’re mainly your friends so you’d know what they’d like more than me. I’ll get some stuff for a charcuterie board.” You ordered, just wanting to get back home as soon as possible

He nodded and swiftly went over to the alcohol section as you made way into the food aisles.

You were looking at the different types of crackers and wondering what the fuck the difference was when a sudden call of your name took your attention.

“Y/n?”

The voice was light and airy, tone warm and nostalgic to the ears.

No way.

It can’t be…

You swirled around to face the owner, nearly choking on your spit when you realized your suspicions were correct.

Park Jimin was as gorgeous as ever. The cherub face was just as you recalled, somehow both ruggedly handsome and softly docile. His eyes crinkled behind a pearly smile, a small hand coming up to swiftly brush through his dyed blonde hair as he approached you.

“I thought that was you.” He chuckled. “How have you been? It’s been so long.”

You managed a wry smile.

Jimin was once your college boyfriend of one year, five months, and eight days.

But hey, who was counting?

“I’m doing okay.” You choked out, not liking how he quickly frowned at your strained tone. If there was one man you could never lie to, it was Jimin. “How about yourself? Did you open up that studio you always wanted?”

The truth was you knew he did. Before meeting and dating Taehyung, you were guilty of occasionally checking his social media. It simply couldn’t be helped. Jimin was the longest relationship you ever had. The first man you ever really loved. And your first ever heartbreak.

“Um, yeah I did! I heard you published your first book last year. I bought a few copies myself…” he trailed off sheepishly, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “It uh, was really well written. Are you um, working on anything now?”

You bit your lip, not sure how you felt about the man you were once wildly in love with reading your novel after years of not talking. Much less buying more than one copy to support you. “Y-Yes I’m writing my second book.”

He nodded, a proud expression on his face as he pursed his lips in thought.

“I’m sorry this is…weird.” He finally huffed. “I really didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You sighed with some relief, thankful he felt the same way. “Same. After you said you wanted to date other people I really didn’t expect to say another word to you like, ever.”

Jimin laughed, “Haha, what? Your memory continues to suck, Y/n. If anything it was you who ghosted-”

“Y/n.”

A much deeper voice cut through the air, bringing all the attention to a new figure descending upon the scene.

Taehyung strode up from behind you, placing an arm around you and regarding the other man with a brooding look of regard.

“Whose this?” Your boyfriend asked, purposefully deepening his already deep voice.

You inwardly rolled your eyes, noting how the artist was practically puffing his chest and glowering at the much shorter man.

“Taehyung, this is my old friend Jimin. Jimin, this is my boyfriend Taehyung.”

The two stiffly nodded at each other, you dodging the questioning look Jimin secretly shot at you for being described as ‘an old friend’.

A pregnant pause hung in the air.

“So…how long have you two been together?”

Before either you or your boyfriend could answer, a pretty lady suddenly skipped into the aisle and grasped onto Jimin’s arm.

“Babe, I can’t find the oat milk! I thought you said- Oh hello!” She just now noticed you and Taehyung, smiling politely and not-so-subtly nudging at Jimin to introduce her.

“Oh, um, this is Molly.”

“His girlfriend! And you two are?”

“I’m Y/n and this is my boyfriend Taehyung.” You introduced. “Jimin and I went to school together.”

“Really? I never get to meet any of Jimin’s old friends! We should have a double date or something!” Molly was an over the top girl, your ears almost ringing at the volume she exuded. But she seemed nice, so you smiled warmly at her and vaguely agreed.

Another brief, awkward and only slightly painful silence.

“Actually…” You trailed off in thought, an idea forming in your head but you didn’t know if it was a good one. Yet it was too late. Before you could even backtrack, all three sets of eyes were on you, eagerly waiting for you to finish the thought. “…what are you two doing tomorrow night?”

“Was just gonna drag Jiminnie to see this new movie! We can totally blow it off though!”

“Well, my boyfriend is a really talented artist and he has a showing tomorrow night. We’d love it if you two could make it.”

You felt Taehyung stiffen beside you, but you paid it no mind.

From what you understood about showings the more people, the more eyes, the better. It was harmless, wasn’t it? Jimin bought multiple copies of your book, and you’d invite him to a gallery showing to please his over hyper girlfriend.

Even, right?

Molly beamed, asking for your number to exchange the details.

You did so, pretending not to notice how both Jimin and Taehyung bore their stares into you.

When finished, you waved goodbye to the couple as they made their way to the dairy section. You and Taehyung then continued your own shopping in a rushed manner- your boyfriend grumbling about having to get back in time for the cameras.

The ride home was a bit more talkative, with Taehyung asking how you knew of Jimin and what made you two friends. You answered the questions rather honestly, just leaving out the parts about how your friendship blossomed into something more.

You weren’t exactly trying to be deceitful. It was just that he was under a lot of stress and paranoia the last few days, you didn’t want to push his poor nerves any further. If he was willing to set up a bunch of cameras to keep some ghost away from you, you didn’t want to push your luck by mentioning that Jimin was your ex boyfriend and longest relationship.

Besides, it wasn’t like Jimin was any kind of threat. You would never entertain the idea of going back to the guy who dumped you. He also now had Molly, so clearly you both moved on.

Taehyung pulled the car into the driveway, asking if you could handle the few bags as he went in to talk to Ralph and sort out the last few steps of installation. You agreed, watching him jog into the home as you gathered all the groceries and took your time to get inside.

You beelined straight to the kitchen with the newly bought food, raising your brows when you saw Taehyung staring at something intently on the counter.

“What is it?”

Taehyung didn’t answer.

You walked up behind him and stood on your tippy toes to spot over his shoulder what he was looking at.

It was a note, in messy and hurried handwriting.

“Sorry but the cameras could not have been installed. It won’t work here. -Ralph.”

–

If there was any man on top of the world tonight- his name was Kim Taehyung.

The Bauhaus gallery was swarmed with countless people, all clamoring to gaze upon the latest Kim collection and ponder the intricate meanings behind each piece. They wore luxury clothes and drank fancy wine that you couldn’t even pronounce, their tax bracket clearly a couple pegs above yours. There was of course some idle chatter, almost every corner of the building being filled with some pretentious snob rambling about the brush strokes, artistic style and commentary your boyfriend was allegedly trying to make with his art.

Such a crowd was not something you were accustomed to.

Thus you clung to Lisa, both idly sipping at wine and watching your boyfriend from afar as he charmingly answered questions.

“You know, he’s going to make thousands of dollars tonight.” Lisa thought out loud. “These rich types will outbid each other like crazy.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. You were happy for him, and knew he deserved it but you would be lying if you said he wasn’t in the doghouse.

“Still mad huh?” Lisa correctly assumed, reading your expression. “What happened after the camera dude disappeared?”

“Taehyung was really upset and called the company to demand his money back. They refunded him entirely, apologized and even sent someone to get the company van. I guess the Ralph dude was an alcoholic and everyone just kinda accepts that he skipped town.” You explained. “I tried to calm him down but he sorta snapped at me about how I never even wanted the cameras so I was probably just loving it all.”

Lisa lowly whistled, “Damn. Well, he probably snapped about the cameras but I promise you it wasn’t just about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You invited your ex to his showing.” Lisa lectured, as if you were a child who didn’t even understand what you did wrong.

You stuttered, “B-But he doesn’t know Jimin is an ex! I told him he was just an old friend.”

She rolled her eyes, “Y/n of course he would see right through that. There's always going to be chemistry between Jimin and you, he probably picked up on it and is aware you’re not telling the complete truth about what you two were.”

“He’s just overly jealous. He wants to fight our ghost too. At this point, every man is a threat to him.”

At the mention of your ghost, Lisa’s eyes practically sparkled. “Oh I can’t wait to go back to your place! I want to feel the haunted energy for myself.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes, “It’s just like any other home, Lisa.”

“That’s because you don’t have a psychic sense to save your life, Y/n.”

You didn’t know whether or not to be offended by that, so you decided to distract yourself by scanning the room for your boyfriend’s invited friends.

Kim Namjoon was an old boss of Taehyung that remained good friends with the artist even after he dumped his job to take up painting full time. Currently, he and his wife Jennifer were talking rather seriously to a thin-lipped curator, most likely about purchasing one of the artworks displayed.

Right across from where you and Lisa stood, Taehyung was conversing with his former coworkers; Jin and Hoseok. They appeared to be laughing about something, their lightheartedness standing out in the overly serious room of people.

If you craned your neck a little to the left, you could spot Yoongi and Jungkook hiding in a corner away from everyone else, almost perfectly mimicking you and your close friend. They both nursed their drinks quietly, occasionally sharing words but mainly just waiting out this event.

You always kind of thought that Lisa and Jungkook would make a good pairing if properly introduced and pushed. So you turned to your friend and was just about to suggest you guys walk over, when she made a face at something behind you.

“Uh oh, here comes the ex.” She mumbled.

You turned around to indeed see Jimin and Molly approaching.

Jimin wore a suit, dress shirt unbuttoned at the top to reveal some of his sun kissed chest. His blonde hair was properly done this time, brushed to the side and back to fully expose his forehead. He raised a hand and waved, rings catching the light and nearly blinding you in the process.

Beside him, Molly looked as pretty as ever in a blue sweetheart dress that complimented her figure. Yet, she looked rather irritated. She attempted to give you a smile in greeting, but it looked more like a grimace.

Jimin spoke first, “Hey, I’m so sorry we’re late. I’m hoping we didn’t miss too much?”

You wanted to be annoyed but without meaning to, a giggle escaped you.

“Things really don’t change.” You told Jimin, a knowing look simmering in your eyes. While dating, you guys were often the couple that showed up late to any event. Most people assumed that it was your doing because you were the girl, when in all actuality it was Jimin.

Jimin shamelessly grinned, “I’ve gotten better, I swear.”

You didn’t believe it for a second and he knew it.

You both shared a laugh, staring at each other fondly like old friends reliving the old times.

It was hard to believe that you were joking with the man you once thought you’d never get over or forgive. Countless nights were spent eating your feelings, hysterically crying and obsessing over all the videos or pictures you couldn’t bring yourself to delete.

But there are some people in life that as soon as they come back, it’s like they never left.

And it was almost as if Jimin never left.

You two continued to gaze into each other, lost in your own comfortable bubble when a sudden throat clearing broke the haze.

“Um, actually the showing is almost over.” Lisa informed, her and Molly visibly looking left out of the nostalgia.

Your ex had the decency to look guilty. “Oh no! I’m so sorry! Maybe we can all just get drinks? There’s a nice bar two blocks down. I can buy a round for everyone?”

“That’s sweet but we have a little after party planned back at my place. I live kind of out of town though, so it’s okay if you can’t make it.”

“No! We can make it! What's the address?” Jimin seemed eager.

You told him, him pulling out his phone to save it into his gps system.

Molly was silent all this time, which was kind of worrying as your first meeting with her led you to believe she was the bubbly type. Now that you mentioned it, it looked like she was avoiding looking at either you or her boyfriend, focusing on a spot on the wall somewhere behind you.

You opened your mouth to maybe ask if she was alright, but quickly shut it when you realized that could be overstepping some boundary.

Fortunately, Lisa seemed to have enough of this entire interaction and grabbed your arm while saying, “Me and Y/n were just going to go to the restroom! Please take a good look around and enjoy her boyfriend’s work! See you guys at the after party!”

Your friend then swiftly dragged you away, barely leaving you enough time to smile apologetically at the couple.

When you both entered the restroom, Lisa simply marched up to the sink and began fixing invisible smudges in her makeup as you shifted awkwardly beside her.

“So…” She started, looking you up and down in the mirror. “Please tell me you know Jimin is still in love with you.”

“W-What?! No way!” You spluttered.

“Y/n it’s so obvious. I actually felt bad for his girlfriend. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.” She rolled her eyes, almost disappointed in your lack of awareness.

“It’s just been forever. It’s hard to not hyperfocus on eachother, we’ve both changed so much. Also, why would the guy who dumped me out of nowhere still be in love with me?”

She released a deep sigh, “He knows he made the shittiest mistake of his life and is now regretting it when seeing you and your talented boyfriend doing so well.”

You chuckled at the thought of someone looking at your relationship and being jealous.

“Listen, just remember tonight is Taehyung’s night and fighting or not, he’s still a wonderful boyfriend overall. And Jimin is your ex who broke your heart. Inviting him to your place after this might’ve been too much. I suggest you keep your distance.”

“Lisa, thanks for the advice but I honestly was just being friendly. He seemed sorry that he missed most of the showing. Besides, I’m going to be too busy hosting to have a deep heart to heart with him or anything.” You explained, a little offended that she thought you were going to play part in some dramatic reconciliation.

A sudden announcement echoed outside the restroom doors, your ears straining to hear a gallery worker asking everyone to gather on the main floor for the artist’s speech and thus the final part of the night.

Saying nothing more, Lisa and you made your exit to join the audience.

– The clock was nearing midnight.

Your usually quiet farmhouse of a home was not at all quiet.

Your boyfriend's friends were merrily talking and drinking, once in a while their masculine laughs would sync up and reverberate through the halls. They all conversed and lounged in the living room, the largest part of the house that could fit all of them comfortably. Yet, you and Lisa stayed in the kitchen, making the drinks and finger foods, as you indulged in harmless girl talk.

“The one with tattoos is so hot, Y/n. Please tell me he’s single!”

“Jungkook? I’m pretty sure he is. Taehyung told me that Namjoon is the only other one in the friend group that’s in a relationship.”

“Okay, so far so good.” She paused to pop a stuffed mushroom in her mouth, humming in thought. “What’s his type though? Like, would I have to make the first move? Does he like a straightforward girl? Because he hasn’t so much as looked at me tonight.”

“I’ve only met Taehyung’s friends once before so I don’t know their types or anything. I do think Jungkook looks a lot manlier than he actually is. He’s very kind but shy so you’ll have to talk to him first.” You explained while opening another bottle of wine for the two of you.

Lisa frowned at the thought, not used to being the one that had to chase.

You poured two glasses, handing her one with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I can introduce you two. It’s kind of a good thing he’s avoiding you like the plague, Tae once said he only acts like that with pretty girls.”

Your friend lit up like the fourth of july.

“Hey babe!” A familiar deep voice called out.

You looked around to see your boyfriend stepping into the kitchen, a buzzed smile on his face and a slightly glazed film over his eyes.

Moments like these made you realize how much of a lightweight your boyfriend was. It only took one or two drinks for him to get tipsy. But it was still his night and he was already home amongst loved ones, so all you could do is smile endearingly at his slightly intoxicated self.

“Yes, handsome?”

His boxy grin grew, “The boys want more beer.”

“Already?! I put out a twelve pack! People need to be able to drive home, ya know!”

He laughed, “Baby, my friends can drink a gallon each and still be able to drive home with their eyes closed if need be.”

“Well I don’t have any more beer up here. Just wine. There might be some more in the basement, though.”

He nodded in thanks, turning his back to presumably go to the basement and retrieve the drinks.

Lisa waited for him to get fully out of earshot before leaning over and dramatically whispering, “How is Jimin and that Molly girl doing?”

You shrugged, “Last time I was in there, Hoseok was making conversation with Jimin and Molly was all over Yoongi.”

“Damn, trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t seem too bothered and she seemed a little drunk. She might just get overly friendly when she drinks.”

“And you’re still convinced that he’s over you?”

You rolled your eyes but ultimately stayed silent, aware that the couple was acting sorta strange but also not so sure that you were the cause. You took your wine in one hand and a plate of appetizers in the other, motioning for Lisa to grab the rest and follow you.

When you both entered the living room, you were thrilled to spot Jungkook sitting alone on one of the loveseats. You quickly set the food down and pulled Lisa along with you, approaching him with a friendly smile meant to put him at ease. Considering the way his eyes widened at the sight of your friend, you didn’t know how successful you were.

“Hey Jungkook, it’s been a while!” You greeted.

“Y-Yeah it has been. How’s your erm, book going?”

“It’s doing okay, thanks for asking. Have you met my friend, Lisa?”

He briefly scanned your friend, nervously gulping before saying quietly, “…No I haven't.”

“Oh well, Lisa was just saying how much she liked your tattoos.” You nudged her, prompting her to say something.

She just nodded in agreement, suddenly meek.

He blushed, “Thank you.”

“Actually, Lisa, weren't you saying that you were thinking of getting a tattoo?” You pretended to think out loud, as if you weren’t outright playing them. You didn’t wait for her to answer the rhetorical question, “Jungkook, don’t you do tattoos now?”

Now on a topic of interest he was for sure confident in, Jungkook practically jumped in his seat, “Yeah! I do! I’ve only tatted myself and some friends but I hope to work on more people.”

You watched with a smirk as Lisa moved to sit next to Jungkook, her now explaining what she’d like done and Jungkook asking questions about placement, size and color.

You felt sure enough in them to leave them alone, now inhabiting your little corner as you finished your wine while taking in the scene.

Yoongi and Molly stood by the window, and were obviously the most inebriated. He was the type to ramble pointlessly when tipsy, and she giggled at every little thing he said, playfully shoving his shoulder once in a while. You knew for a fact that Yoongi was too deep in his own self-epiphanes to notice her bad flirting, either that or he was just trying to talk to anyone who was willing to listen.

Namjoon and Jennifer were sitting on the couch and talking to Jin, laughing at whatever odd impression he was attempting. Beside them on the loveseat, Hoseok was politely nodding along to small talk from Jimin. Being one of the friendliest and most calming of the group, it made sense that Hoseok was the one trying to make your ex boyfriend feel included.

Content to just watch your guests for a while, you stood by your lonesome and slowly sipped at the remnants of your wine.

Playing host wasn’t exactly your forte, so you were enjoying the little lull while it lasted. Unlike your boyfriend, your social battery tended to max out at the two-hour mark when in group settings.

And as much as you loved the people in your home (with maybe the exception of your ex and his girlfriend), you couldn’t wait for them to get out so you could take a long, hot shower and head to bed.

The stress of the last few days was really tiring you, and you just knew that as soon as the excitement of the showing and sold paintings wore off, Taehyung was going to continue his spat with you about the cameras.

When you and Jimin dated, you two were always on the same page. Fights very rarely happened. And Jimin was such a people pleaser that if literally anything slightly upset you, he would practically fall over himself to make you smile again.

Taehyung was the first boyfriend to genuinely pick a fight with you, being more stubborn than you about matters you didn’t necessarily want to back down from either. Your relationship conflict resolution skills were being tested, and you just didn’t have the patience or experience to keep fighting much longer. You would call a truce or some type of compromise, if it weren’t for the fact that there was no way to really keep both of you happy.

A few minutes passed as you pondered this to yourself.

Seemingly materializing out of nowhere, a mysterious arm wrapped around your waist.

The suddenness of it all caused you to jump and release a very unflattering squeak.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

A deep chuckle rumbled beside you, Taehyung smirking lazily before diving face first into your neck and nuzzling it in some sort of drunken stupor.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” You groaned, trying to forcefully shove his face away from you. “Where’s the beer you went to fetch?”

Your boyfriend expertly dodged your shove and dove back into your neck, mumbling against the skin something about not being able to find more drinks.

The vibration of his lips on such a sensitive spot made you want to squirm, but his halfhearted mumbles took your attention a bit more.

“No beer? I could’ve sworn-”

“Hey Y/n!” Someone interrupted with a call across the room. You looked up to see Lisa trudging over with a determined look on her face and a fogged up look in her eyes, perhaps a bit more tipsy than you remember leaving her. “Aren’t you going to show me where exactly you saw the ghost?”

Your dear friend most likely thought she was being discreet and having a normal conversation at a perfectly appropriate tone. But no, she was actually speaking way above a conversational volume, causing everyone else in the room to halt their conversations and turn to look at you.

“Ghost?” Jin laughed.

“You saw something in this room?” Hoseok inquired with a trembling voice, most likely regretting having come over. Beside him, Jimin quietly shook his head to himself.

“No way, Y/n doesn’t believe in stuff like that.” Your ex confidently informed the group.

At the sound of your past lover’s voice, you felt Taehyung stiffen beside you. The artist untangled himself from you, standing to his full height and facing the guest with an unknown expression.

“We had a little bit of a ghost problem, but it’s taken care of now.” He paused, and you could nearly hear his smirk when he went on to declare, “I got rid of it.”

Yoongi laughed boisterously, having to hold himself up with the wall to prevent falling over. “I’m sorry, but the image of little Tae boxing a little sheet with two holes for eyes is really sending me.”

Half your guests laughed at the thought. The other more believing half still stared at you inquisitively.

An awkward silence.

“Ghosts are real.” Jennifer started, effortlessly drawing all eyes to her. “I used to live in a haunted house when I was a kid.”

She put her drink down and folded her hands across her lap, suddenly immersed in thought and careful about what she was about to share.

“In my childhood home, there was a garden in the backyard. Almost everyday, at sunset, I’d look out the window and see this lady circling the flowers and humming to herself. After ten minutes or so, she would disappear into thin air. I told my parents but they never believed me.”

She paused, either for dramatic effect or to recollect.

“Until one day, my mom saw her too. And when she went out to confront what she thought was an intruder, the lady disappeared before her eyes. My mom then did some digging about the history of the house and it turns out, the previous owner was outside gardening when she had a heart attack and died.”

A pregnant pause hung in the air as everyone silently digested the anecdote.

“That’s fucking terrifying, please tell me your parents moved houses after that.” Hoseok broke the silence first, pleading with watery eyes.

Namjoon’s wife laughed, reaching for her drink once more. “How is it scary? The lady was just checking on her garden in the afterlife. However, I then grew up really interested in supernatural stuff.” She turned to you. “There’s some tell-tale signs that a home has a spirit attached to it. Cold spots, shadow figures, whispers, scary dreams and the biggest of all: always feeling like you're being watched, even if there’s no one else in the room.”

You quietly thought to yourself. Were there any cold spots in the home? No. Any shadow figures? Nope. Whispers and nightmares? Nada.

But…the last one, being watched when no one is there.

If you really focused on your intuition, you faintly felt that even now amongst all these people, you were being watched by something unknown.

Goosebumps raised on the surface of your arms.

Chills ran down your spine and you shivered, the reaction causing Taehyung to grasp you tighter against him in what was supposed to be comfort.

You felt even more cold.

“We haven’t had any of that. Really guys, it’s taken care of.” Your boyfriend told the room, effectively shutting down the paranormal subject.

You assumed Taehyung felt a bit defensive of his ghost expelling skills, either that or he genuinely wanted another topic of discussion.

You then felt a little bad, it was still his night after all and here you were unintentionally ruining it with your little ghost stories. The focus of the room should be on him and his achievements, not everyone's supernatural beliefs and stories.

“Taehyung is right, it’s all resolved. But I’d like to ask all of you to fill up your glasses one last time, and raise them with me, ” While they did that you quickly scanned the room, “Um, except maybe you, Yoongi. Feel free to sit this one out, bud.” You laughed as the drunk man just grumbled at you, defiantly snatching another beer and holding it high while swaying on his feet.

Hopefully he wasn’t the one driving home.

You cleared your throat, “I'd like to propose a toast to our own Taehyung. Everyone in this room knows it was only a matter of time before your artistic genius was recognized by the world, but that doesn’t make us any less proud than we are of you tonight. To the first of many showings! To Taehyung!”

“To Taehyung!” the room loudly parroted back, everyone thrusting their drinks of choice in the air before knocking them back.

The artist beside you laughed and shook his head, “Really, guys it’s no big deal. Just a few paintings that I’m lucky even got sold. But thanks so much for making it. Most of you-” he snapped a side eye where Jimin sat, “have supported me so much, I’m just happy to have such a great group of friends.”

Said friends all smiled and nodded, although a few caught on to Taehyung’s subliminal dig and warily looked over at your ex.

Jimin pursed a tight smile, clearly trying to be nice and not make it obvious that he was the outsider at the party. You caught his eye and shot him a sorry look, but he shook his head in what was clearly meant to say “don’t worry about it.”

Your boyfriend continued, “However! ‘Friends’ don’t really beat ‘love of my life’. So without getting into all the lewd details of how I plan to spend my night celebrating, I’m going to need you all to start clearing out,” Taehyung smirked. “Y/n is a screamer.”

“Ew!” Lisa shouted, beside her Jungkook was suddenly unable to make eye contact with you.

The older men in the room just cackled. You slapped the artist's chest while trying to hide your blood red face.

Taehyung ducked and mouthed at your ear to whisper, “Sorry baby, but you know it’s true. And don’t act like you don’t want them out sooner rather than later.”

You wanted to be mad, but understood he was tipsy and riding on the high of his showing. So instead you played along and harshly whispered to him, “I doubt you can make me scream tonight. It’s not right to be misleading to your friends.”

He tiled your head to make you face him.

Taehyungs’ left brow twitched in vexation, his lips pulling back in a little growl. He looked around to make sure the guests were distracted with finishing their drinks or saying their goodbyes to each other. When he confirmed no eyes were on you two, he secretly placed his hand at the back of your head, running his long fingers through your hair and stopping right at the ends, to quickly form a fist and pull.

It was just one short tug, but the power of it made you gasp.

You would be lying if you said it didn’t make you a little wet too.

You had no idea where this came from. He never pulled your hair. Your boyfriend wasn’t rough and was one of those really progressive artists types that viewed any kind of manhandling in the bedroom as sort of sexist. But when you peered up at him, with the doe eyes he said he loved so much, and saw the clouded nature of his gaze, you just knew that inebriated Tae was very different from sober Tae.

Black and white, really.

‘I’m in for quite the night’ you thought to yourself while biting your lip, inwardly smug at how Taehyung transparently honed in on the action.

“Um, hey I think I’ll take my leave first.” You looked up to see Jimin awkwardly shifting in front of you two, a blacked out Molly in his hold.

“Oh god! Is she okay?” You exclaimed, noting the poor girl looked dead.

The dancer chuckled, “Yeah, she just gets really hyper when she's drunk then passes out after a bit. Ironically, sleep is all she needs I guess since she always wakes up good as new. No hangover.”

“Here let me show you out. I can help put her in the car.” You offered, already detangling yourself from Taehyung. He made a small sound of protest and made move to hold you tighter.

You placed a hand on his shoulder and consoled him with a smile, “You wanted people to leave, so we should help everyone get home safe. Can you check on Yoongi and maybe see if Namjoon and Jennifer can take him home?”

He looked conflicted, carefully sizing Jimin up through his peripheral. You wanted to roll your eyes. Although tipsy Taehyung was apparently a sexy beast, he was also an immature toddler who needed to be tricked.

You got on your tippy toes to whisper in his ear, “The quicker we get people out, the quicker you get me all to yourself.”

That seemed to convince him as he reluctantly stomped away in the direction of the couple, shooting one more guarded look at the dancer.

With that you led Jimin to the front door, even helping him put Molly’s heels back on before stepping out into the driveway and walking him to his car.

Silently, he opened the car and laid her in the backseat, tucking her in with his jacket. Then he shut the door, but instead of walking around to the driver spot, he turned to you and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

“So….”

“Look, I’m sorry about Taehyung. I didn’t even tell him you were an ex but he’s just been really possessive and weird lately. It’s not just you.” You informed him, hoping to make him feel better.

Jimin just waved it off with a chuckle, “No, I get it. You’re really gorgeous, kind and talented. I also struggled with jealousy when we were together. Can’t really blame him.”

You hoped your blush wasn’t too prominent as you said, “Yeah, but you were always nice to people regardless of feeling possessive. He was just rude. Again, I’m sorry.”

“Well, you can’t really date someone breathtaking if you’re going to be an insecure prick about it.”

You gaped like a fish at the implication you were still breathtaking in Jimin’s eyes. Words were suddenly hard to come by.

It was silent for a moment, the tension between you two as thick as it can possibly get for two past lovers.

“Y/n…why didn’t you tell him we dated?”

“L-Like I said, he’s already been acting jealous and I didn’t want him to focus on that when it was his night. Besides, It’s not like-”

“I broke up with Molly.”

“…What?”

“It happened on the way to your after party, she was upset that I still held a candle for you. And yeah, I couldn’t drag her along when I never felt half of what I felt for you, for her. I just said it without thinking, terrible timing of course. But that’s pretty on brand for me, I suppose.” He attempted a joke.

You smiled politely, although you had no idea how you should feel.

He continued, “I just thought I should say sorry because the reason she was such a drunk and sloppy mess in your home was because I carelessly dumped her on the way there.”

“It’s um, okay Jimin. She wasn’t the only drunken mess tonight. I hope you two manage to stay friends.” You said, then after a beat added, “And that you find what you’re looking for.”

“Listen, I know you're with Taehyung and happy but, I think there was some kind of misunderstanding about our breakup. I’m not trying to be a homewrecker or anything, but can we get a coffee sometime and just…talk?”

You smiled, finding no harm in the offer. “Sure-”

“No.”

You gasped and whipped around to see Taehyung standing behind you, arms crossed and hell in his eyes as he glowered down at Jimin.

How did he get there without being spotted or heard?

It's like he fabricated out of nowhere.

“I suggest you get in your car, leave and never speak to her again.”

Your ex held his hands up in surrender, “Look man, I wasn’t trying anything-”

“What kind of guy goes to their ex when she’s clearly in a happy and healthy relationship, and tries to drudge up the past in the name of closure? Fuck your closure. You lost her, and now I have her. And trust me, she has better things to do than getting coffee with the guy who broke her heart.”

“Please, Taehyung-”

You were cut off.

His voice was the lowest you’ve ever heard it, eyes pitch black and face blank as he calmly finished, “It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. And if I see you again I’m going to break your kneecaps and skin you alive, you little spineless boy. Run along now. While you still can.”

The threats were so visceral and promising, coupled with a man who looked downright murderous yet somehow calm. As if he had done it before and doing it again would be more so an inconvenience than a whole life-ending ordeal.

In this moment, you didn’t know your own boyfriend and you were terrified with this new persona.

No one moved or spoke, in fear one step or word would make Taehyung good on his promise.

You and Jimin were paralyzed, like two helpless deer in the presence of a blood thirsty wolf, the only hope was to stay still and go unnoticed. You met your ex’s eyes and while he did look afraid, he was focused only on you and your proximity to Taehyung.

Jimin was fearful. Not for himself, but for you.

And while you wanted your ex to run away, you were also scared to be left alone with someone so different from your usual Taehyung.

How could a few drinks and some jealousy cause such a behavior?

“Hey what’s going on here?”

Namjoon and Jennifer were babysitting a toddling Yoongi, the couple was also making way to their vehicle when they spotted the scene. The so-called ‘leader’ of the gang was quick to pick up on Taehyung’s aggressive stance, probably prompting him to get involved.

You felt your body lighten in relief.

Namjoon was always good at calming people down and taking control of situations.

Like a switch was turned on, your boyfriend grinned at the oncomers and nodded over at the dancer. Seemingly happy as a clam he chirped, “Nothing, hyung! Jimin here was just leaving. His poor girlfriend had too much, I think.”

Namjoon didn’t quite believe that, you and Jimin still looked rigid with alarm after all. Nonetheless, he played along for everyone’s sake. “Really? Maybe you should leave now then Jimin, get her in bed as soon as possible. It was nice meeting you.”

Jimin took the hint with grace and wordlessly ducked into his car, not acknowledging anyone else as he mouthed to you “call me”.

He started up the car, then slowly backed out of the driveway, and eventually down the road.

“Dude, are you sure you’re okay? It looked like you wanted to kill him.” Namjoon asked the artist.

Before hearing whatever bullshit was going to spew out of his mouth next, you promptly whipped around and stormed back into the house, making sure to purposefully shoulder-check your boyfriend as hard as you could in the process.

What the fuck was wrong with the bastard?!

Talking as though he was some offender or even a murder, just because your ex wanted to catch up?

You were so dreadfully embarrassed! Jimin must’ve thought you lost your mind after him and went off to date some real weirdos.

If you weren’t already on a lease with the man, this probably would’ve been the part where you blocked him and made it your personal mission to never see him again.

Instead, you busied yourself in the kitchen and washed most of the dirty dishes your guests left behind. You hoped Taehyung was wise enough to leave you alone, if the jerk knew what was good for him.

About 15 minutes had passed, and the kitchen was nearly as spotless as it was before the party had started, thanks to your furious cleaning and scrubbing. The house was now silent, and you were just debating putting all your spices in alphabetical order when you heard a shuffle behind you.

You snapped around and instantly scoffed at the sight.

Taehyung was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets and fixing a sheepish look at you.

“So…that got a little out of hand.”

You barked a disbelieving laugh. “More like you got out of hand, Taehyung. Threatening people like you’re some felon! Wouldn't be a surprise if there’s a rumor spreading about me dating a serial killer now."

“Y/n, I’m sorry. But please let me make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me? Your actions cannot be undone Taehyung! I cooked and cleaned after your friends and tried to make this night special for you. I just wanted you to have a nice night and be nice, and you flip out over a platonic coffee date? Who do you think I am? A slut who will open her legs to any ex who talks to me?!”

“W-what? No- Of course not! Please don’t think-”

“What the hell am I supposed to think, asshole?! Even if Jimin still had feelings for me, it would take me reciprocating them for anything to happen! You clearly don’t trust me, and if that’s the case, then what are we doing here? Should we just become roommates or something?”

A painful struck his face, watery eyes met yours when he choked out, “Do you even hear yourself? Why would I try to fight your ex if I truly didn’t love you? You’re mine, and I love you so much it’s just…I can act a little crazy sometimes.”

You sighed, turning your back on him to lean on the sink in exhaustion.

“I thought you were different from other guys, Tae. That caveman shit is extremely degrading to not only you, but especially me.”

“I’m sorry…it’s just a primal part of me that I can’t turn off. Give me a chance to make it up to you.”

You shot a look over your shoulder at him, still pissed.

He shot his hands up in the air, as if in defense. “You can still be mad at me all you want.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch for a week.”

“Done.”

“And….And you’re forgetting all about those stupid cameras.”

He quirked a grin, unknown mirth dancing in his eyes. “Sure.”

“At the end of the week, you will personally apologize to Jimin via a phone call or letter.”

His smile dropped, your glare sharpened, “Umm..fine okay. It won’t be sincere though.”

You rolled your eyes, “Doesn’t have to be, it’s the right thing to do so you’ll do it.”

“…anything else?”

“Not for now. I’m going to bed soon so if there’s anything you need from the room, get it now.”

He wordlessly turned around, and you then faintly heard him going up the stairs.

Biting your lip in deep thought, you proceed to wipe off the last of the counters.

Could you forgive him? When he was willing to do all that to appease you?

If you were being honest with yourself, you could feel the irritation already start to melt away a bit. You hadn’t expected such a 180 in his stance, he went from threatening Jimin with murder to begrudgingly agreeing to apologize within only a matter of half an hour or so. You thought you would have to at least give him the silent treatment for a bit before you could even bargain a “sorry” for your ex. Taehyung was usually much more stubborn…

Nonetheless though, you were still upset and embarrassed about the scene.

You hated when men got violent around you, it made you feel so unsafe and small. You thought Taehyung was different, him even poking fun at the meatheads who would pull stuff like that at the local bars you would frequent while dating. So what changed?

Footsteps slowly descended back down the stairs, telling you that Taehyung had returned from your bedroom and it was safe to go up.

You left the kitchen, turned off the lights and passed through the hallway. Briefly you stopped, just short of the stairs, to see your boyfriend grumbling to himself while arranging some blankets on the couch.

A sudden and chilling thought ripped from your lips before you could even quietly ponder it.

“Taehyung…how did you know Jimin was my ex?”

He stopped in his tracks, slowly turning to face you with a blank look.

“Uh, Lisa might have slipped up and told me.”

You relaxed, unknowingly releasing a breath you had been holding. “Hmm, okay. We’ll talk tomorrow then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight baby.”

“Oh! Let me get some water first, can you check that the doors were locked?” You asked while skipping back towards the kitchen. You hated waking up with a dry mouth and always kept a glass of water on your nightstand, restless bathroom trips be damned.

You didn’t hear any response to your request, but you paid it no mind, assuming Tae probably already double, if not triple, checked the locks being the worrywart that he was.

Right next to the kitchen entrance was the basement door, and it was shut.

Yet, something stopped you in your tracks.

The light under the basement door…it was on?

“Well I don’t have any more beer up here. Just wine. There might be some more in the basement, though.”

It couldn’t be….could it?

Your intuition was hollering at you from within.

A force greater than you pulled you to the door handle.

Against yourself, you opened the door to the basement…

And choked back a horrified scream.

At the bottom of the stairs lay Taehyung.

Unconscious, pale and bleeding horrifically from some head wound that was forming an inky pool under his crumpled form.

It wasn’t your Taehyung that returned upstairs.

So...this has been sitting in my drafts for over a year lol. I do have a dramatic ending in mind and some final scenes but yea, I don't think I could finish this unless people actually wanted it so let me know if this is a plot you kinda liked? I never tried flat-out supernatural horror like this. Anyway, happy October guys! Love you all. Luna :)

[aceofshitposts]

Contrary to popular belief Tim is actually well aware of the importance of sleep. Tim knows that the body needs sleep to function optimally, that he needs to get more of it and imbibe less caffeine. That would all be well and good, if his body would let him.

Tim's no stranger to insomnia. Has suffered sleepless nights staring at the inside of his eyelids over and over until... Well, if he wasn't going to get any sleep anyway he might as well do something else. Tailing Batman and Robin when he was younger then working on cases, tinkering with gadgets in the early morning hours in the Batcave; anything to maybe force his body past the point of no return so he could actually sleep.

While it's gotten better, Tim still spends more time awake then he does asleep. It might be easier, some nights, but not always.

"I'm heading in early." It's a thankfully quiet night but Tim can feel the exhaustion tugging at his limbs. By his estimation he's gotten a scattered total of ten hours of sleep the last couple days and none of it was particularly restful.

"Alright," comes Oracle's computerized voice, "you okay?"

"Fine. Just feeling a little under the weather." It's true enough and Tim manages to be in bed in his apartment a little after 12:30am.

He just has to close his eyes. Close his eyes, stop thinking...

Two hours pass and Tim still. Can't. Sleep.

Fine then. There's WE reports to review anyway. If he passes out while working on the couch then so be it.

The sun is beginning to rise, Tim's living room cast in a deep orange light when there's a noise at the balcony. Even as tired as he is Tim manages to fish a batarang out from the underside of the coffee table and brandish it at the intruder.

"The hell are you doing awake?"

Who turns out to be the Red Hood in all his armoured glory, a plastic takeout bag dangling from one hand.

Tim drops back onto the couch in a huff, rubbing one hand down his face.

"Honestly couldn't tell you. What're you doing here?"

"Blondie told me you were sick," Jason says simply, placing the plastic bag on the coffee table with a thunk. The helmet follows soon after. "Thought I'd drop off some food as thanks for helping me out the other day, especially if you were doing it while getting sick."

Huh. That's awful... thoughtful of Jason. Unfortunately, Tim wasn't any more sick than he was normally, Stephanie had probably exaggerated the problem just through hearsay.

Jason is looking at him. Scrutinizing him in a way only a bat can.

Tim's never exactly told anyone about his troubles with insomnia, content to let everyone just assume it was by choice. Which was probably an entirely different problem in and of itself.

"Alright, come on," Jason says. Commands, really. He's gone from the other side of the coffee table to grabbing Tim by the bicep and hauling him to his feet in the span of a blink. Or maybe Tim's perception of time has completely deteriorated. One of the two.

"What?" Tim asks belatedly in the middle of being dragged from the livingroom to the bedroom. Jason doesn't answer, instead drawing the blackout curtains to block out the rising sun and... it's not quite a shove, but it's definitely not a suggestion either that Tim lie down.

He disappears out the door leaving Tim to wonder if he actually hallucinated all that. There's noise in the apartment- the fridge door opening, the rustling of a plastic bag, the fridge door closing. Tim expects Jason to leave, sighing into his comforter as he tries to get comfortable. If he's lucky he'll fall asleep in a few hours at this rate.

And then he hears the bedroom door close. Footsteps and a weight on the bed. Warm, strong arms pull Tim in until he's pressed flush against Jason's solid body.

Tim starts to wonder if he did fall asleep on the couch and is currently just. Halluci-dreaming. Or something.

Jason's chest expands, his breath ruffling Tim's hair.

"Stop thinking, babybird," he rumbles, squeezing Tim a little tighter.

Tim closes his eyes and falls asleep in record time.

[jelloapocalypse]

Hi! I guess it’s ask time? Just wanted to say I think you’re one of the funniest people on YouTube; I have a playlist called ‘Emergency Funny’ and like half of it is just your videos.

I’m wondering, when you’re cold-reading a line, like in those streams of voice acting a video game while playing it, what are the small details, if any, that you look to to figure out how to read the line? I’m continually amazed how you manage to have near perfect delivery while never having read the line before. Sorry if this is worded confusingly I legit don’t know how to phrase it

This was sent months ago, but it's actually a very good question and talking about this might help people who like to voice games on stream get better at doing that.

For context, this is about our "fully-voiced" game playthroughs where we cold read an entire video game out loud.

One small thing I try to do that helps is pressing the "advance dialogue button" when the person speaking is about 65-70% of the way through their line. That way, if the next line is from the same character the actor has a chance to read it smoothly as though the lines were not separated at all.

If it turns out to be a different actor's line, this gives the new actor more time to skim the words as well as extra time for them to realize they're about to be speaking so they don't get caught off guard.

Doing this is actually kind of hard because every actor we work with reads at a different pace and the person actually playing the game has to keep that in mind. Oz, Vixen, Arim, and I can sight read most lines almost instantly. I've seen Oz and Vixen in particular read entire text boxes that were only onscreen for a couple frames. But, obviously, not everyone is that fast, so everyone gets different "advance the dialogue" speeds.

Ideally, if a game is well-written and the characters you're playing have a strong voice, you'll slowly fade into the character as you read them. You begin to feel the things they're saying rather than just reading words on a page. Once you hit that flow state, it becomes easier to process what they might logically say next. If you notice one of us make 2-3 errors in the span of just a few lines, it means we're probably not in that flow state.

Some games are also much easier to scan than others, usually because of their character poses.

A game like In Stars and Time has such incredible character portraits that you can usually tell the tone of the accompanying line within a few frames of a portrait change.

Loop (above) is an extremely suspicious and weird character, but voicing them was so much fun because I could always rely on the portraits and the font changes in the text to give me direction on how to play them accurately, even though I didn't actually know what their deal was until about halfway through our playthrough.

Coffee Talk also has very strong portraits that react in real time to the lines of dialogue. The framing can push characters smaller or larger in focus depending on how upset or meek they are, so it's very easy to react on sight and adjust accordingly.

Every time a game developer takes the time to painstakingly add portraits that match every single line, every time they add SFX to accentuate certain words, every time a font wiggles to tell you someone is speaking in a sing-songy way, that's all direction that the game's creators are giving you.

Another thing that helps is just media literacy. I think everyone on the channel is pretty good at that because, speaking frankly, I don't like hanging out with people who have bad media literacy, lmao.

The more media you consume, the easier it becomes to know how a story is going to go. Even a really well-written mystery usually has only 3-5 real options for an ending, and while you're reading games aloud it's a good practice to consider all of them equally so your reads make sense no matter what. You'll notice it's pretty rare something takes us entirely by surprise in a read-through.

Also, of note, it's much easier to notice specific foreshadowing and word choice in dialogue when you're reading it aloud as opposed to silently skimming.

A solid example is our fully-voiced playthrough of Trails From Zero, which actually happened on SurpriseRoundRPG a few years back and not my own Twitch or YouTube.

Minor spoilers, but the character above, Ernest, has some antagonistic interactions with your main party over the course of this game. He wants Ellie, the white-haired party member, to quit the police force (that's your group) and go back to working with him in the Mayor's office.

When Arim played this game solo he didn't really think much of this guy. However, when he played the game for us and we read it out loud, having lines like the one pictured above spoken aloud makes it kind of impossible not to notice that this man is a freak. Mo, his VA, ended up playing him as a manosphere incel weirdo because that's the vibe he was putting out, and, lo and behold, that's pretty much exactly the character he turned out to be.

There's a running theme on our channel where commenters are often surprised to see the game "play into our bits" and how we "accidentally predict things".

What's really happening is the reverse.

It's very, very rare that we decide to make up a bit from absolutely nothing. It's not a hard and fast rule, but I find we only make jokes and play up aspects of characters based on things that are already there. Hence that one time in Miles is a Robot when I said something awful and sexual as Ray Shields, Oz groaned, and I said "Hey man, I'll give him a different joke when the game gives me somethin' else to work with!" I didn't choose to make Ray awful and sexual all the time. That's just how he is, so that's the well we pulled bits from.

Because we only extrapolate from existing content and our "silly" versions of the characters onscreen are just exaggerated versions of what's really there, whenever the game gives us more info about them, the new stuff tends to be very in-line with the bits we've already been doing. It's not us being psychic. It's us being consistent!

It also helps that almost all the regulars on my channel have done professional voice work and have been doing some version of this for literally 10+ years. Practice makes perfect!

[spideyhexx]

oct. 11th - mrs. plinth

Husband!Sejanus Plinth x Wife!Female!Reader x Coriolanus Snow

mdni!!! wc; 3.3k cw; cuckholding, p in v, some degradation, cheating, toxic reader really, lil bit of a breeding kink

kinktober 2024 masterlist

a/n; ah, the return of coryo and sejanus together in a fic. we talked about this idea/plot a while ago and it needed an appearance, so here you go lovelies!!! Enjoy!!!

Every brush of Coriolanus’ fingers was another bought of sin dumping itself all over your body. And you let yourself marinate in it each time. How could you not? Coriolanus and his perfect hair and clothes of refinery and voice as smooth as butter, it would be a complete loss if you gave up on the agreement you had with him, even after he married Livia Cardew. Even after you married Sejanus Plinth. 

You would lose the feel of his strong hips and all encompassing hands, his lips that get redder the more you kissed him and the sight of his gelled hair messy and unkempt. Not to mention the rare tender moments post-sex where Coriolanus would complain about almost everything in his life except you. 

Except you. You were excluded from Coriolanus’ complaint list which was a compliment without being a compliment. He’d be laid out, naked and panting, allowing you to share his proximity and exchange soft words until he inevitably had to leave. He was always coming to your penthouse. Livia was around too much. Sejanus too naive. But he worked. So the better option was always your apartment. 

Coriolanus came barreling into the penthouse this late morning, the keys you gave him clanging against the dish on the small foyer table. You’re in the kitchen sipping coffee. At first you think Sejanus forgot something, but you see that glimpse of Coriolanus’ hair before you see his face. 

He looks angry. His eyes icier than ever, his brow knit and his hair isn’t gelled to perfection. Disregarding the fact you weren’t expecting him right now, you don’t give him a look of shock. All you do is tilt your head at him as he nears closer, “Coriolanus, what’re you-”

His hands cup the mug in your hand and gingerly set it down on the counter behind you, then they cup your face, forcing your head up. Coriolanus slots his lips to yours in a heated passion. There’s little hesitation on your end. A surprise visit is welcomed in your eyes. You loved Sejanus. You really did love the man. He was sweet, he took care of you, he paid attention to you, he cooked, he did everything someone would want in a husband. 

But nothing lit a fire in your stomach the way his ‘best friend’ did. Nothing would ever compare to the way Coriolanus kissed you hungrily every single fucking time his lips met yours. He holds your face with a firm grip, keeping you from backing out of it, though you were not planning to. Your hands found his sides, rubbing them in what you consider a soothing manner. The nosiness in your nature wanted to know what he was so angry about. Livia? Sejanus? Work? It couldn’t be you. Couldn’t be. 

Coriolanus sinks his teeth to your bottom lip in a quick bite, then he sucks on it, smirking at your little moan. His thumbs span across your cheekbones in slow rubs, nipping your lips before giving you a break. 

You breathe out your words the moment he breaks it, “What’s wrong?” 

“Quick,” he mumbles, squeezing your face gently. Also quick. 

“What. Is. Wrong,” you repeat, enunicating each word, leaning up to caress his jaw with your mouth, coaxing an answer out of him. What you’ve learned from these years of rendezvousing with Coryo is that you might be the only woman, only person who could coax deep, dark things out of him. Not that this would be that, but it did not mean you wouldn’t use those skills. 

His jaw tightens and he keeps rubbing his thumbs on your cheeks like it’ll magically calm him down but his eyes glare still. “Livia. Just Livia…stuff.”

You raise your brow at his vagueness but the little hint that it was marital problems making him this agitated. You kiss right under his jaw, then let your teeth graze his skin. Coriolanus’ breath is heavy and he pushes his hips up to yours, crowding you against the kitchen counter. 

“She was just pissy that I’m busy all the time, that’s all,” Coriolanus concedes, but there must be more to it than that. They fight all the time about how he’s busy. And he is. Between working in his position as the Head Gamemaker and fucking you, he had little time for Miss Cardew, ahem Mrs. Snow. 

“Are you sure it’s not cause you’re barely fucking her?” 

Coriolanus scowls at you, his left hand dropping to your hip while his right grabs around your jaw, “Don’t be so crude about it,” he tells you. If you didn’t know better, you’d scoff in his face, but you had no reason to anger him more right now. Coriolanus would never truly admit that he’s just as crude as you can be. 

“So it is that?” You question, but your tone is airy. Your lips sliding into their dignified place. A smirk, to which he can’t keep his scowl too long. He rolls his eyes though. 

“Partially, yes,” Coriolanus tells you, squeezing at your hip and dipping his head back down to chase your lips. A spark runs through you and you glide your hands up his chest to his shoulders, before you lock your hands behind his neck, pulling him close. He lets you, let you steal him into the kiss, his hips jutting a bit to yours in a silent plea to take things further, but all you can focus on are his lips. 

You fucking loved that Livia was pissed about that. Coriolanus knew that. Jealousy was never in your blood, but you did feel a spark of confidence whenever Coriolanus admits he hasn’t been sleeping with his own wife when he’s supposed to be making the heir to his fortune. No, instead he’s been balls deep in you, emptying himself into you every two days until he was spent. You can’t say you’re not in a similar position with your own husband. Sejanus was a sweet lover. There was nothing inherently bad about the way he took you, but that’s almost the problem. It wasn’t sex and it wasn’t fucking, something you craved, something animalistic and primal was what you wanted. You might have mentioned it subtly to him once or twice, but Sejanus was merely not as confident in himself as he should be. 

Coriolanus presses his hips to you again, now sporting a hard-on from the way your tongue trails his lips and slides into his mouth with no purpose but to lure him in. Your skin feels hotter, his fingers digging into your jaw, while the other tries to bunch up the nightgown you’re wearing. You would have let the man fuck you against the counter Sejanus was making his lunch on this morning, but the front door opens. 

Coriolanus pulls away from you in an instant, face flushed and lips swollen, “Maid?”

You’re about to speak when Sejanus’ honeyed-voice calls out, “Sweetheart?”

Coriolanus’ nose wrinkles and he’s most likely going to slam his hand on the counter but you catch it, and push him back, taking a couple steps forward, and straightening your nightgown as best you can just as Sejanus rounds the corner into the kitchen. 

Sejanus looks to you, then to Coriolanus, who leans back against the counter behind you. “Coriolanus,” he says, giving the other man a nod, to which Coryo only gives a nod back. You’re sure your husband is assessing. He would see Coriolanus’ lips are redder. That you’re both slightly disheveled. You haven’t looked but you’re sure Coriolanus’ bulge is hard to hide. 

Now, Livia may not know of the affair. But Sejanus, he knew. 

He caught the two of you around three months ago. It took a lot of softly spoken words and convincing but you got Sejanus to believe this was okay. It did not mean he liked it. But he allowed it. Coriolanus gave you a kiss on the mouth for it when you told him. 

“I just…forgot my notebook,” Sejanus says, his eyes still darting between you two. You catch his gaze go down to Coriolanus’ crotch and it almost makes you feel that stupid pit of jealously you never feel. 

You shake those thoughts away. Sejanus looked at Coriolanus’ crotch. Oh you’re spinning. You always thought there was something between those two men, though you never pushed it. Sejanus would get too blushy and Coriolanus would probably explode. Maybe that’s why Sejanus was able to brush past the fact you’re fucking Coriolanus, but you couldn’t be completely sure. 

Everyone always called you impulsive for a reason. 

“Oh, I’m not sure where it is. Have you seen it Coryo?” You look back at him and he raises a confused brow at you. He knows you better than your husband does. He knows you’re playing at something, but what, he doesn’t know. 

“No?” 

“It’s probably just in the bedroom,” Sejanus says, having made no move to walk to the master suite of your penthouse. He shifts on his feet and you glance back over to him for a few seconds, before you land your gaze to Coriolanus again. 

You take the three steps over to him, grab his face and pull him into a hard kiss, a bruising one that has his breath shortening upon impact and his hands wrapping around you. You hear some sort of gasp leave your husband, but you don’t pull away. Neither does Coriolanus. Whether he’s figured out your game or not, you can’t stop kissing him, knowing Sejanus is staring. You don’t hear footsteps, you don’t hear him say anything, all you can hear is the wet smacking of your lips to Coriolanus’ and the man’s heavy breaths breathing a new sort of life into you. 

You don’t stop Coryo when he ruts his hips into yours, making you feel how hard he is, that he’s not planning on backing down for whatever you’ve got brewing in your head. It spurs you on, leaning your head back and breaking the kiss, letting Coriolanus taint your neck in sin as your eyes lock to Sejanus’. 

He’s flushed, mouth slightly parted. A hand to the counter near the doorway and his pants tight. 

You moan. 

Coriolanus lifts his head, having not expecting the sound yet, but he glances to Sejanus, notices the same thing you did, then shares a look to your husband. 

…

It was a blur. Coriolanus tugging you to your bedroom, to yours and Sejanus’ bedroom. Telling Sejanus to come with, Sejanus actually following. 

In your fantasy, Sejanus would cut the shit and kiss the life out of you, fuck you like he should and show he’s your husband, but the perfect fantasy comes instead when Coriolanus nudges on Sejanus shoulder towards an armchair, then he grabs your waist, picking you up and practically throwing you on the bed.

It makes you stare at him a little wide-eyed, his finger working the buttons of his shirt, “I’ll show you what we do,” he says to Sejanus, who’s sitting back in the chair just as wide-eyed as you are. But god, the fucking noticeable tent in his pants makes you squirm, moving to push your nightgown up over you, but Coriolanus swats your hands away, “No keep it on.”

Coriolanus kicks his shoes off and lets his shirt fall to the ground, standing at the foot of the bed and holding his hand out for you. You turn over and crawl to him. You wonder if he thinks you’ll hesitate now that you’re in front of Sejanus, but you want to prove otherwise. Have to. 

Have to see the look on your husband’s face. So without a thought of anything, once you’re close, you let Coriolanus’ hand rest to your head and you nuzzle your face into his groin, nose sliding along the length of his cock that’s visible through the fabric. 

“She’s a whore for it,” Coriolanus mumbles, to himself, to you, to Sejanus, who knows. You almost comment, ‘crude,’ but you’re too busy finding his tip and latching your lips over the fabric so you can hear his breach hitch and his hand press down on your head. 

“You don’t have to call her that,” Sejanus speaks for the first time. His hand is over his lap and his eyes are glued to the scene. 

Coriolanus chuckles, “I don’t. But she likes it. Did you know that?” He pushes his hips up to your face more, then shoves your head away, undoing his belt as he looks over at Sejanus. 

“Well? Did you know that?”

Sejanus swallows, watching you wait patiently for Coriolanus as he drops his belt and pushes his pants down, followed by his boxers. 

“N-No,” Sejanus says, eyes stuck on Coriolanus’ hard, dripping cock in the same way you would look at it, which you are, reaching under your nightgown to take your panties off. Once they’re at your ankle, Coriolanus grabs them and tosses them to Sejanus, “There fuck those.”

You want to laugh so bad. Coriolanus is a fucking lunatic and you love him. God, you love him You love that fucking man, what the fuck.

Coriolanus kneels onto the bed with you, leaning in to kiss you. It’s softer than you would expect it to be, then he trails kisses from your lips to your cheek to your ear, whispering, “don’t speak too much. I can do it. Just enjoy yourself.” You give a slight nod and he nips your ear, turning your body over. 

You take his lead and lean your head down to your plush pillows, your backside raised and ready for him. 

Coriolanus pushes your nightgown up around your hips and rubs his fingers on your ass, massaging the skin as he spares Sejanus a look. “I haven’t touched her,” he starts, glancing between your legs, “but I can see it. She’s soaking. Already a wet fucking mess for…,” Coriolanus purposely trails off, teasing his knuckles against your cunt, and pressing one of them to your hole, kneading his knuckle against it. 

“For me, mostly…but she fucking loves you’re watching, Sej.”

Sejanus swallows, but his mouth is dry. His hand instinctively rubs to his bulge and Coriolanus sees it. Smirks at it. 

He rubs his knuckle against your cunt in slow dragging movements that have your head spinning. Coryo drops his other hand to his cock, giving it a slight tug before lining it up more to you. “Bet she’s been so happy she doesn’t have to hide this,” Coriolanus all but murmurs, taking his knuckle away, but quickly replacing it with the tip of his cock, rubbing it through your lips, getting himself wet with you. 

“Oh, I wish you could feel this right now, Sejanus,” Coriolanus groans, watching you nuzzle your cheek to the pillow in annoyance over how much he’s teasing you. And his words. Of course. 

“Yeah,” Sejanus replies, but then he gets a burst of something because you hear him say, “I know what that feels like. To do that to her.” 

Coriolanus hums in thought to that as he starts to sink himself into you. It’s torture, only feeling the head of his dick inside you, somewhat easing a slight tension, but nearly not enough. You’re almost more surprised he’s holding back so much when he normally can’t, but maybe it has to do with your husband sitting in the armchair nearby. Maybe. 

 “You know some if it,” Coriolanus says, voice huskier as he pushes more of himself into you, “but she’s not getting fucked by you, Plinth.” 

He thrusts the rest of himself into you, your cunt taking him like it’s meant to be there, his hands grasping your waist as you moan out. 

“I don’t know how you can’t fuck her,” he grunts, drawing his hips back and slamming then back into you, a half-smile gracing his lips when you grip to the sheets tighter. 

“I-I do,” Sejanus says, his hand still palming himself. 

“No. You don’t. You make love to your beautiful fucking wife but you don’t do this.” There’s venom to his words, like he’s upset on your behalf, like he wishes your husband fucked you hard and rough, snapped his hips you like Coriolanus is doing now, the sound of his skin hitting yours getting more apparent. 

You moan for Coriolanus, asking for it harder and he really does try not to laugh. But he does. This is so perfect. “Are you hearing her? Poor Mrs. Plinth needs a good fucking and you’ve been keeping her from it?”

You can’t see Sejanus. And Coriolanus knows this too. He knows especially when you try to turn your head to catch a glimpse, but he distracts you with a particularly sharp thrust of his hips, leaning his body down over you. You can feel the sweat of his chest and his ragged breath to your ear as he murmurs, “Baby, he’s touching himself. He’s getting off on it, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”

His words only make you whimper, and Coriolanus’ hand collides to your ass in only one slap before leans back up. “At this point, I’m her sex life. Not even her husband. That’s sick.”

Coriolanus fucks into you like he’s hungry. Like he needs to wreck you as much as he can since it’s front of Sejanus, a Sejanus who has slipping his hand down his pants, a Sejanus who can’t argue against Coriolanus’ words. 

“Sejanus watch, don’t fucking look away,” Coriolanus spits out in a rushed tone, so you can only assume Sejanus did look away. Your moans are tumbling out of you, your body on fire as his cock pounds into you. You can feel him twitch and you know he’s close. 

“Don’t look away,” he pants, “I’m gonna fill your wife’s cunt with my cum, gonna fill it all up, gonna give her my fucking baby,” Coriolanus grunts with each push of his hips. His words must surprise even him because his hips stutter before they regain their purpose and you whine. You whine for his seed, for him to breed you like he should have been meant to. You knew he would never speak those words about Livia and it turned you on to an unimaginable level. 

With the first spurt of his load, you spasm against him, cumming with Coriolanus. A louder whimper leaves you while he grunts, his voice cracking with his last few words, “that’s it, that’s fucking it, you see this, Sejanus? You see this? She comes like this for me. All for me.” 

You grin tiredly at his words, letting your body rest as Coriolanus pulls out of you. When you can look over at Sejanus, his hand shaky and his pants have a wet spot. It almost makes you want ot crawl over to your husband and take care of him again. Maybe this will change him. 

But Coriolanus cups your face in his rough, warm hand and kisses your nose as his other hand cleans between your leg with your blanket. He whispers so only you can hear, “I’ll see you tonight,” then he’s finishing getting changed, saying absolutely nothing to Sejanus, and walking out. 

Sejanus is glued to his seat still, staring over at you. With lust, with disgust, with awe, all of the above. It almost makes you nervous. Almost. 

“You should-”

“I should-”

You both stop when you speak at the same time, then Sejanus stands up, “I should go back into work,” he says and you nod. Your husband tentatively takes a few steps over to you, then leans down and kisses the top of your head, before walking to his dresser to grab new pants and boxers, then he’s gone. 

There’s disappointment welling in your stomach. He could’ve fucked you nonsensically after what Coriolanus did, but Sejanus just kissed your head. 

At least Coriolanus would be here tonight.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Rainy Season - Part 2

What You Gonna Do?

Azriel x Reader

A short follow up to Rainy Season since you all have been so gracious with your responses - Initially I planned a time jump for part 2 but decided to give a taste of the aftermath of her leaving. Things will eventually look up for our girl, she’s just going through it right now. Stay tuned for more! I’ve decided to make this a short series.

Part 1 Part 3

Warnings: cheating, language

Azriel

Who wakes you when the morning comes?

Azriel awoke to rays filling the room with brightness. Shit - he’d overslept. Why hadn’t Y/N woken him? He looked over to find the bed cold, as if it had been vacant for hours.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he wandered to the kitchen, lacking its welcoming aroma of fresh coffee and the sweet and savory aromas of pastries and bacon. No, it was totally empty.

Where was she?

“Y/N?” He groggily called out into the house.

Silence.

Slipping on a pair of pajama pants he wandered to the door. The chill of the house whipping against his bare, muscled abdomen.

Perhaps she was basking in the sunlight on the patio. He always loved how she looked in the morning rays - a deity in her own right. He should probably tell her that sometime.

Padding to the front door, two things caught his attention.

One, his clothes were strewn over top of his bag and two, a note was scrawled in her messy handwriting.

No - not a note. A list of rhetorical questions.

“Who wakes you when the morning comes?

Who gives you all she has to give?

Who fulfills all her promises?

Who sees the good in you?

What are you gonna do when I’m gone?

Where you gonna go when there’s nobody home?

Who’s gonna love you when you’re all alone?”

He dropped his head. Fuck - things were good last night. What happened? As he bent back down to clear up the strewn undergarments, the strong, sweet scent of Elain wafting into his nostrils.

No - those questions were not rhetorical. They were a plea. “Who?” Who is that person to him?

Clutching his chest he realized just how terrible a mistake he’d made when he fucked Elain.

—————

Y/N

The warm rays of the Summer Court and the overwhelming weight of crushing heartbreak greeted me bright and early. A mockery to the pouring rain I’d traveled through last night, showing up at my grandmother’s door like a drowned rat.

Instead of chastising me for how long it had been since I’d paid her a visit, her brown eyes only met me with compassion. She knew me well and every ounce of pain on my face spoke the words that I couldn’t get out.

She pulled me into a bone crushing hug, ran a hot bath and steeped a pot of tea before laying in bed behind me and running her fingers through my hair until my heaving sobs turned to shuddering breaths and eventually a deep sleep.

It was a strange feeling. It had been too long since I’d seen her and yet, she showed me more love and compassion in a span of three hours than I had in the last three years.

Thank the gods the rays woke me early as I had to make it to the palace in Adriata immediately.

“Leaving me so soon?” Grandmother asked as I hurried out the door. “Sorry! I promise I’ll be back before lunch.”

I’d only met Tarquin a handful of times but sensed that he was a kind, benevolent ruler. Still, I expected to meet with his officials before being granted access to his office but when he’d heard who was here to see him, he immediately made time for me.

By the end of our meeting, he’d granted me renewed citizenship in the Summer Court and wrote to Rhysand effectively barring Azriel from his court. Careful to not create tensions in the court, he revoked the current ban on Cassian so long as he could keep himself from destroying any more buildings within his court.

Despite my numb state, a small smile flickered across my face as I imagined Cassian’s reaction to the news. He wasn’t one to hold petty grudges but he certainly clung on to that of being banned from the Summer Court. I just hoped he wouldn’t be angry with me for leaving without saying goodbye.

Additionally, Tarquin discussed my skill set with me and by the end of the meeting I had been offered a paid position in teaching self-defense courses within the palace to a variety of age groups, primarily focusing on women and children. I brought few assets with me upon leaving the Night Court and my pride was too stubborn to withdraw any of the money from Azriel and I’s shared account when I left. No, I could do well enough on my own - thank you very much.

After the battle of Adriata, Tarquin had ramped up efforts of ensuring his citizens were better protected on all fronts so his offer was mutually beneficial for his court and me, ergo not solely extended out of pity. My pride beamed at that.

I gratefully accepted his offer.

—————

I returned home. Home? No, not home - to my grandmother’s house to find that my sister and nephew were there waiting for me.

“Oh my gods!!!!!” My sister Camila yelped. Practically tackling me.

“Gran! You didn’t tell me that Y/N was coming for lunch. You secretive old thing.”

Before he could say anything I swooped my nephew, Alex, up into my arms and - ouch, I was not as strong as I used to be because it was an effort to lift him. He’d grown at least a foot since the last time I’d seen him. A pang of guilt struck me out of my blissful state and back to reality at the thought. It had been far too long since I’d come to visit my family.

“Where’s Uncle Azriel?” he asked.

The question struck me like a knife. My expression faltering as I scrambled to regain composure. “He’s on a mission.” I lied.

My sister’s brows furrowed. She was always too good at reading me but thankfully she didn’t press further. I would talk to her when I was ready.

We spent the rest of the afternoon chatting and catching up. Alex animatedly told me of school and all of his friends - I couldn’t help but smile as the warm summer breeze whisped over my exposed skin. The tea tasted a little bit sweeter, the air a little fresher, and the company a little warmer.

—————

“Y/N?”

Rhysand’s distant voice echoed into my mind as I lay down for bed that night. I always forgot how far his daemati abilities could carry.

“Hello, Rhys.”

“I received Tarquin’s letter. Azriel has been on edge all day and…. Well, I’m not going to ask you to share anything you don’t want to but - it must have been bad. Take all the time you need.”

“I’m not coming back, Rhys.”

The words rolled through me so quickly that I almost believed them but I knew I’d need closure at some point. For now, I wasn’t ready for that.

Seeming to sense that exact thought Rhys only replied, “Write me or Feyre if you need anything at all.”

—————

Who cries knowing you don’t care?

Night time always brought out stronger emotions in me. I’d keep my emotional barriers held high all day but as the sun set, so did those walls. As I lay in bed that night the first waves of grief blew through me. Not a wave of my own grief which had been omnipresent within me but… Azriel’s grief through our bond.

Of course it took me leaving for him to feel anything toward me through our own mating bond. I shut it down as effectively as I could and cried. Tears of anger flowed as I realized that my presence was never enough but my absence was what it took for him to give a damn about me.

Who worries what the future holds?

I grieved the future that could have been ours had he only chosen me. I let the sobs pour out once again as his pain rolled through me in waves. He couldn’t even extend the courtesy of shutting down his end of the bond as he came to grips with the ramifications of his own actions. His emotions only brought me bitterness and maybe that was a flaw on my end but it sure as hell felt justified. I spent so long giving him everything and even now, I still receive only heartache in return.

Who’s tired of empty promises?

He swore he’d love me forever but forever only meant until someone better came along. Certainly it wouldn’t be long before he returned to Elain for comfort. Would he be courteous enough to shut down the bond then or would I feel the pleasure she brought as she soothed his emotional wounds then too? As he healed and made the same empty promises to her that he had to me? Hell, had he already made those promises to her? Would he hold to them for her?

What would he do now that I’m gone?

What would I do now that I’m gone?

———————————————

A/N brace yourselves, we’re getting a different character’s POV in the next chapter 😏 🔥

Tags:

@going-through-shit @kalulakunundrum @lisanna2000 @fxckmiup @sheblogs @emryb @one-big-fangirl @historygeekqueen @isa1b2h3 @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @theravenphoenix26

[halcyon-writings]

nav.

iasip style title card: His real name is Rafayel "attached at the hip" Deepspace. may the rafayel girlies pull the new myth in the least amount of pulls!

You know that the reason you're at this art show is because Rafayel had asked you to come with him. Several times, actually, in the span of the days that had come before it. You weren't usually a fan of such spaces, given the fact that the last time you went to one, it was only through the combined efforts of Thomas and Rafayel, that you didn't punch some critic for being far too rude.

"Pleaseeeeee," Rafayel had begged even. The artist had come over that morning with breakfast from the cafe you both liked to go to. The scent of hot cakes and the warm syrup had made your mouth water. But no... you must stay strong...

Of course, such a thing is easier said than done when you hear your stomach growl rather loudly. You had gotten home pretty late last night, so dinner wasn't on your mind as much as falling into bed and immediately passing out was.

Rafayel's pleading expression becomes smug. But he slides over a latte, and you know that your fate is sealed as the scent of coffee floats towards your nostrils. You don't even playfully swat at him when he presses a kiss to your cheek, thanking you with a melodic like laugh that once again proves how much you let him get away with.

"I'll make sure you have everything ready for later, you don't have to worry about a thing," You can't help but squint as he lists off what you'll need. An outfit (one that is matching his, obviously), accessories to match said outfit, and just registry into the guest list. Given who Rafayel was, all of that was easy to acquire.

The gallery's venue was the rented out rooftop of some restaurant, one whose waiting list was both impressive and intimidating. Another part of you found it ridiculous when you looked up their menu out of curiosity and saw the portion size.

Thomas, looking relieved that Rafayel appeared at all, is quick to greet you too, bringing you some of the appetizers that were catered, that you gratefully accept.

"Finally made it?" A familiar voice asks behind you, sneaking a piece from your plate as Rafayel's eyes twinkle with mirth.

You hum, chewing thoughtfully, "Of course, I was invited by the gallery's star of the show."

Rafayel laughs, a sound that makes you smile as well.

"Come on," A familiar touch of his hand rests at the small of your back, his palm is warm. You'd almost think he was a completely different person with the charming smiles he gives, when you think about the past instances of Rafayel not wishing to attend galas or events, where Thomas had to all but drag him along.

Even when guests wanted to speak to him in regards to work and what not, somehow, someway Rafayel always managed to turn the conversation towards something else. Before excusing both him and yourself to a more secluded part of the upper floor.

His arm was now wrapped around your waist, keeping you at his side.

"You know, Thomas is going to get on you for not mingling," You sing-song quietly, bringing your glass to your lips as you drink some water. "He's probably looking for you right now."

Rafayel huffs, but doesn't let go, instead, somehow you think he found a way to stand even closer within your personal space. "He'll be fine, I already mingled enough. I would rather spend my evening with you, then be around these snobs."

You shrug, but your own hand rests against his leg, giving his hip a small pat in comfort. "You poor, poor thing," The faux comfort isn't lost on him, but Rafayel plays it up anyway. He nods along, sniffing at the "indignity" of it all.

"But you will have to let go eventually, I can't save you from an irate Thomas if he gets to that point." You say, watching as Rafayel puts a hand to his heart, blinking.

"Oh, you hate me, cutie." He bemoans. "To be apart from you is like asking a man to stop breathing."

This time you do laugh. Which makes his gasp of mock outrage even funnier.

"Oh, hello Thomas!" You chirp, just to watch Rafayel jump, hiding behind you, only to peer over your shoulder to find... nothing.

He squints at you. You wink at him. He's quick to forgive after a kiss on the cheek, or a couple.

[simping-on-the-daily]

how do i meet the strangest men (they always seem to find me)

Summary: The bizarre armageddon, (Weirdmaggedon, you once overheard Ford call it) is upon you and the town of Gravity Falls. Spared from the human throne, the mastermind behind all this wants to share you with him and the man you once called a friend.

Warnings: Yandere content, not beta read we die like Eycludia, swearing, gore, Inspired by suggestive material but not NSFW

Notes: Based on @/yandere--stuck's drabbles and posts!! Title is from Possibly in Michigan, Ford is feral in a cute way and a dog, Bill uses all pronouns and she is transfemme thank you very much,,,,

Gravity Falls was a weird place.

It wasn't a ghost town- everyone here was a lively character, from Manly Dan to Old Man McGucket to Tyler Cutebiker’s horrifying puma-panther shirt abomination to the mailman who wouldn't shut the fuck up about her divorce from two years ago. It's chaos was almost relaxing, and at some point, the gnomes and manotaurs became a breather compared to panicking over last minute Summerween decorations and Northwest’s limo causing seventeen traffic jams in the span of two minutes.

This? This was not fucking relaxing. And it wasn't because of the gaping open wound over your heart, thank you very much.

Even above the chaos, you still felt yourself stressed by the very thought of the town’s circumstances. Bears doing choir and coffee turning to decaf? Sure, why not. A reverse waterfall of what you're pretty sure is blood and the water tower becoming a cannibal? That wasn’t ‘normal’. Those should've been Hades most horrific punishments, Sisyphus and Tantalus style, but no. It was real. And all of it was caused by the fucker in the corner.

Said fucker was currently playing fetch in the floating pyramids ‘penthouse suite’, using your bloody heart as a ball and throwing it to the other side, clapping when Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines sprinted on all fours towards your still pumping organ. As he held it in his mouth, you felt a pain surge through your chest as his teeth dug through the layers, instinctively curling in on yourself.

“Good boy, Sixer! We’re making new records!” Bill patted Ford's head. Instead of fighting back, as he promised you and his family, Ford melted into the touch, gleeful smile on his face. Was Bud Gleeful dead? God, you hoped so. His shitty cars had no space in the apocalypse. A noise akin to purring was coming through Ford's vocal cords, and you knew that if Bill snapped his fingers and gave him a tail, it would be wagging so hard you'd get dizzy just from looking at it.

“Hey, sweetcheeks! Wanna give it a go?” Bill appeared in front of you, taking your hand off the human skin couch and placing your heart in it like mashed potatoes on a plate. The feeling of it felt gross, slimey in all the wrong ways. Bill intently waited, and you knew that despite his phrasing, it wasn't a question.

You still tried to postpone it, though. “Why not…..yours, this time?” You pointed towards the heart in your hands for clarification.

Bill laughed, hands reaching to where you assumed her stomach was as she chortled. “One day, honeypie! When your eyes won't explode and get in my eye. I like your gusto, though! I knew choosing you wasn't a mistake.”

You looked over to Ford, who was staring at you with lovestruck eyes, waiting for you to make the throw. God, that look was gonna fuck you up. With a sigh, you aimed back, elbow hitting the couch before you released and threw overhead.

You let out a pained whimper as you felt the agony of your heart hitting the roof with a strong thud. The moment it hit the ground, a few feet away from you, Ford scrambled to your heart, tripping on nothing as he ran towards you. With you on the couch and the scientist on his arms and knees, another surge went through your body as you realized how the scene would look from an outsider's point of view.

Bill gave a quick clap. “Impressive throw, snookums! We should go javelin throwing someday, just the two of us.”

You weren't focusing on him, though. All your attention was on Ford, and it felt like neither of you moved. You kept looking in his eyes despite trying to glance at anything else and god, there was a lot in this situation to get desolate or angry about, but damnit you couldn't be mad at Ford, you just couldn't.

For over thirty years, Ford's life revolved around Bill, whether she was Ford’s muse or mortal enemy. And being in a portal for thirty years? Of course Ford had some screws loose, twelve PHDs couldn't protect you from the natural mental decay that'd cause. To come back here, to think you're safe only for Bill to show her face and start the armageddon of shitposting? It wasn't surprising that Ford just……gave up.

Did he, though? Was Ford being mind controlled into this? Was he living in a reality where he wasn't on all fours with an ornate red collar choking him that had ‘good human’ written on the back? Was this the result of being human, of the brain being weird, like some sorta Russian Sleep Experiment or Yellow Wallpaper shenanigans? You didn't know, not really.

But you did know that you loved Ford, or at least cared for him enough to not put the blame on him. Both you and Bill know how he loved putting the pressure on all of his shoulders.

You gingerly placed your heart to the side, and cupped Ford's cheeks with your hands. Only then did you notice they were bloody, and you realized that there was gore nesting deep inside your fingernails with a mental sigh. Ford sunk into your touch, smiling such a happy smile and fuck you think your heart twitched.

“.....Good boy, Fordsy.” You settled on. “You're a good boy.”

You didn't know if it was Ford's tears of happiness or viscera from who knows where falling down your hands and dripping on your legs, but while yes, the sensation absolutely grossed you out, you didn't let go. Seeing Ford in this state was for a lack of better words, magnetic. It felt like a drug, an addiction you don't think your circumstances or Bill would allow you to be rid of.

But was that such a bad thing? Not when it was Stanford Pines who was giving you this exquisite rush?

“Hit the nail right on the head, babe!” Bill interjected, and with a quick snap of their fingers, they were now sitting in your lap. Your hands were taken off of Ford's face and wrapped around the triangle in some sort of hesitant hug. “He is a good boy, isn't he? And you are, too!”

With a gush of wind and a yelp from you, your heart was dragged back into your body, the hole in your body closing. You clutched your sides suddenly, insides now fucking freezing. This wasn't your organ, anymore, not really, it felt like an intruder in your meatsuit, the same way worms made nests in apples and that one unlucky time a fly flew into your ear during a picnic with you, Mabel and Dipper and the ensuing panic that came.

Dipper and Mabel, your stomach lurched with a freezing shiver. 'Let them and Stan be alright,' you prayed. A glimpse from the corner of your eyes caught a dash of pink from the bubble outside, and you felt goosebumps crawl up all your limbs like centipedes with human feet. 'Let them and Stan be alright.' you repeated with a plead.

“Gonna be honest, doll-eyes, I didn't get what Ford saw that was so special about you,” Bill mentioned with a flippant hand gesture, and though you knew you shouldn't give ten shits about what she thought about you, you still felt like shit regardless, like you were in the wrong. Did Ford feel like this too?

“But then I saw you in action, and boy oh boy, I almost turned pink by the sight of it!” Bill's arms were outstretched in a V shape, getting off your flap and floating up to your head. “And then it hit me.” They slapped themselves, and the sight of their pupil going in circles like they were dizzy was honestly sort of humorous, in a really fucked up way.

“You're the perfect middle line between me and Sixer!” She explained, stretching a limb to run it through Ford's hair, who snuggled your leg deeper in response. When did that happen? “And with us by your side, you could be a whole new extreme! Everyone likes a Mystery Trio, and we’ll be the best one this dimension could ever know! Ed, Edd and Eddy will eat their hearts upon seeing us!”

He cupped your face, just like you did with Ford. “You got potential, and me and this cute puppy here got the key, I just know it!” Their eye became a mouth, and as Bill interlocked his hands together, they placed a chaste kiss to your cheek and a more passionate on your lips and god fucking dammit, you hated the way your face flushed and how you felt Ford nuzzle your knee.

Your body only responded by scratching Ford's chin, and he responded with a squeal you could've never imagined him make until now. “Is…..is he gonna be like this, forever?”

Bill spined, an exaggerated way of shaking the head she doesn't have. “Sixer’s just as fun when he's a puppy just as when he's playing interdimensional chess with me! Which reminds me, we gotta introduce you to it sometime, we’d have a blast.” A snap of her fingers caused Ford to fall to the ground more than he already was, and you quickly heard content snores coming from him.

“It's a blessing as much as it is a burden for him. Every good pet human needs a break sometimes, and the best way to do that is to make the 'pet' part of our deal even more literal! No equations or worries in his pretty brain, all he needs to care about is pleasing the both of us!” Bill explained, summoning a cane and pointing to nothing like they were a teacher with a nonexistent blackboard.

“Both of us?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Pet human’s a good look for you, sweetheart! Pretty puppy? Not so much. Besides, I know how excited you got knowing what he'd do for you!”

“I think you're purposefully misinterpreting the context.” Trying to defend yourself, your outstretched arms hit a hard part of the human couch, and you instinctively clutched your hand in pain.

“I'm rarely wrong, honey! But being wrong to you? I could get behind that!” Bill adjusted his tie before giving you a quick forehead kiss. “When we get the kids and Oyster too, we can all be a big happy family! Like I've always wanted!”

‘Please let them be alright,’ you prayed for a final time, focusing on that instead of worrying about the unsettling look in Bill’s eye. Running your hands through Ford's hair, your heart sunk once more upon knowing how wrong this would look from an outside perspective.

You were worried that after a while, it would feel right.