#(which I'm starting to think is also kind of stupid)

[star-mum]

hello lovelies, I'm finally free : D

Once again, I'll read it without checking the tags, I'm in the mood for surprises :3

"Isaac Lahey pulled you far away to somewhere secluded" we're starting with SEX !!! pwp? maybe (well not without completely cause i know you, but little plot?)

"which would soon be filled with sweaty assholes" usually it's the other way around

"11. McCall" : O

oh okay not cheating... (said dejectedly)

"his eyes flashing that glowing golden yellow" JAOAOWIAJA W AAAAHH I'VE MISSED WOLF SHENANIGANS (literally giggling and kicking my feet)

"and fuck you senseless, feeling like an overeager dog" derek is an idiot cause this FUCKING RULES !!!!!

"Your gut had shriveled up when you saw that it was one with Scott’s name and lacrosse number on it" Lydia knows EXACTLY what she's doing, don't be fooled

"if it meant that you had been misleading him or leading him on" I think he knows, yes Scott is stupid but he can smell Isaac on us afterwards

(you have no idea how much I've missed these dumb dogs and their dumb abo dynamics)

(I'm also on my ovulation period so very horny) (sorry if tmi)

(if youre not sunny and you're reading this, I am not sorry actually, you chose this)

"She was excited that the two of you would look ‘coordinated’ cheering for your ‘boyfriends’" this was calculated, don't fall for her lies !!!!

"weird spiritual sexual codependency" delicious

"All of it was to make Isaac jealous - to get some kind of a rise out of him" terrible for Scott but he'll live... not the first time this has happened to him

"feeling of his teeth digging into your neck" hihi 🫣🤭🤭

"the first small indicator of his facade cracking" he's the pathetic pussy

"Was supposed to be treasured as yours" 🥺

"knowing that those tights emphasized your thick thighs" FAT READER !!!!!!

"he slashed his claws across your chest, shredding the fabric to pieces" scared is the best way to be horny, Eleanor Shellstrop always right

"you would have been angrier about if not for the very pretty boy currently sucking on your face" sacrifices must be made...

"You have to ‘take it off’ too" please for the love of god, I am NOT fucking you in this dumbass get up, Isaac

"You act like a dumb slut all the time.” SKSKKSKS YEEEEAAAHHH (I love all your readers so much, they're so fun)

"You don’t have to be so mean" QOAJAIAKAN he is SO cute tho

"He wouldn’t take a step in any direction if it wasn’t to stand in your shadow. He didn’t worship anywhere if it wasn’t at your altar" WOWOWOWOWOWOWOW

"Owning a pet meant that sometimes you came off with a few tiny wounds" i love this so much

"cooling the salvia he had left there" this is always my favorite typo in ANY smut fic ever cause it's just proof the writer was going at the speed of light to bring the vision to life (i can fear the frantic typing)

"Get on your knees for me like a good dog" hell yeah

"more than eager to shove his face into the folds of your perfect pussy" every single guy in this show has this energy, they all eat pussy like they're starved

"There was no skill to it" but damn it if he's not giving it his all

"Behave.” “I wasn’t done.” i love them

"beyond human strength helping him to easily lift you" one of my FAVORITE things in this show

"Such a sweet little puppy. Good fucking dog" LOVE IT HERE

"the metal started to crumble beneath his fist" ‼️‼️OJNANAOAKANA HIHI 🫣

"Especially knowing that he would be able to smell that cum on you for hours" another one of my favorite things about this show :3

"Somehow, at six-foot-one, he looked so terribly small" he just has that pathetic sad vibe to him

"I’ll even get you a dog collar with my name on it so that everyone can know you’re mine" HE'D WEAR IT !!!!!!

I LOVED THIS !!! I LOVE IT HERE !!! this felt like coming home, I've missed this

seriously the ending of this semester was so fucking stressful (for a myriad of reasons) I REALLY NEEDED SOMETHING NICE LIKE THIS !!!!

The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty

If you wanna start a fight,

You better throw the first punch - make it a good one.

And if you wanna make it through the night,

You better say my name like:

The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty.

Sub!Isaac Lahey x Dom!Fem!Reader

Summary:

What you and Isaac had going on wasn't exactly public - and whatever it was didn't have a title. Sexual, friendship, two souls entwined and bound to each other in an utterly complicated way.

Whatever. It didn't have a label. The two of you didn't need one.

But Isaac definitely didn't expect to see you showing up to a lacrosse game wearing Scott's number with the name McCall boldly across your chest. All he knew from the moment he saw that stupid shirt on your chest was that the night was going to end with it shredded to pieces.

(He had no clue that was precisely your plan from the start, because you knew how to guide him exactly where you wanted him - every. Single. Time.)

Sub!Isaac Lahey x Dom!Fem!Reader. Best Friends with Benefits (Secret Relationship) to Lovers. Smut/PWP. Set during Season 3.

Word Count: 7,200

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below.

Warnings: this is primarily a smut fic - there is some slight plot; this does take place in a high school setting, but just for the sake of clarity/for the sake of argument, the characters are eighteen or older; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina and breasts (but as with all my fics, the primary pronouns used are you/yours); mention of the reader wearing a skirt;there is some descriptions of the reader being curvy/plus sized (as with many of my fics - and I always just picture Isaac with a plus sized girl) (absolutely no bias there), and there is mentions of Isaac being taller than the reader, but that is based on the assumption that at 6.1, he would be taller than most people; there is also mentions of Isaac lifting the reader due to his supernatural strength, but her back is also supported by a wall so it’s not wholly unrealistic; mentions of background Scott x reader (mostly the reader using Scott to make Isaac jealous and Scott having feelings for the reader that she does not return), and this would have been when Scott and Allison were broken up because I would not do my girl wrong like that (you can even interpret this as Scott using the reader to help ‘get over’ Allison if you want); some non-detailed mentions of the abuse Isaac received from his father (which is pretty difficult not to mention in an Isaac fic); there is some dom/sub themes - Isaac is submissive and the reader is more dominant; Isaac is jealous and possessive - very slight angst because it discusses Isaac’s jealousy coming from a place of being hurt; this is not the first time that Isaac and the reader have had sex with each other; Isaac and the reader have been best friends since before his father’s death (and his werewolfism) and they recently started having sex, and they have a murky situationship; the reader clearly knows that Isaac is a werewolf; mention of Isaac ‘pinning the reader down’ and fucking her (in a memory) (and she loved it); Isaac calls the reader a ‘slut’ and a ‘whore’ - not in a kinky way, but over the fact that he is deeply offended that she was flirting with Scott and pretending to like him; in turn, the reader calls Isaac a slut in a kinky way; the reader also calls Isaac ‘puppy’ and ‘good boy’; hair pulling - Isaac receiving; something like subspace is described (regarding what Isaac is feeling) but the word ‘subspace’ is never used during the fic; the characters do not discuss having a safe word in place, but they trust each other due to their history and know how to nonverbally balance each other’s needs; Isaac using his claws to shred a shirt that the reader wears with Scott’s numbers on it, and in the process he accidentally scratches her chest slightly (but she likes she slight pain); very slight blood kink - Isaac licks up the blood from these small cuts; I feel like there should be a warning for the endless amounts of dog imagery because I cannot stop comparing Isaac to a kicked dog because it works to well; lacrosse pads being used for slut activities; oral sex - reader receiving; Isaac has an extreme scent kink (he loves the way the reader smells); praise kink - Isaac loves being praised by the reader; penis in vagina sex; unprotected sex; (surprisingly, there’s no breeding kink in this); I think that’s actually it for this - one stray joke about the reader getting Isaac a dog dollar.

A/N: I had so much fun writing this. As soon as the request hit my inbox, I knew I was going to write it at some point. Part of me kind of feels bad that I didn't write the expected jealousy = dominance - you may notice when you read the fic, I started out writing Isaac as dominant, but I cannot help writing him as submissive, and it turned into this interesting painting of 'his dominance is a performed act, and submissiveness is his true self' and 'his jealousy is possessiveness, not dominance' and possessiveness is a very submissive trait. (I could go more into depth about this in another post, and I probably will.) People often associate possessiveness with Doms, but I see Isaac as the most possessive Sub ever because he's a wolf. Anyway - I am really happy with how this turned out, and even if it's not what the original requester intended, I think the point of a request is that the author gets to interpret it and write it in their own style. And this is definitely how I would write it most true to my style. Also this has references to Season 3 - like Lydia dating Aiden and Isaac fighting the Alpha pack, but this is set after a lacrosse game, and in S3, they were in the off season of lacrosse. and I can guarantee you my autistic ass is the only one who cares about that and you didn't even notice until I pointed it out. So please - carry on.

...

The lacrosse field of Beacon Hills High School was absolutely buzzing. 

The night air was filled with cheers as the team and many fans were celebrating another win, while the opposing team sulked in disappointment as they packed onto their bus with their heads hung low, their coach screaming at them for the loss. Chatter and celebration filled the air - but you didn’t get a single moment to be a part of it as Isaac Lahey pulled you far away to somewhere secluded. Somewhere only he could get to have you.  

He currently had you pinned up against one of the lockers in the girls’ locker room. It was a place that nobody would think to look for the two of you - a place that wouldn’t be entered for the rest of the night, unlike the boys’, which would soon be filled with sweaty assholes shedding their kits and getting a shower before they went off to some party to celebrate their victory. Isaac had locked the door to make sure that the two of you would be left alone, and left the lights off so that nobody would be suspicious of any light coming from the crack beneath the door. 

But right now, none of those details mattered. 

All that mattered was that stupid number in the middle of your chest. That stupid block lettering sitting across your perfect round breasts. 

11. McCall. 

You could claim that you had worn it as a joke. But as Isaac locked his jaw stiffly, staring you down - you didn’t think that you would be getting away with that claim. 

“Take it off.” Isaac growled at you, his eyes flashing that glowing golden yellow, a visual that made your breath tight in your chest and made your cunt quiver. 

You remembered the first time you had seen that glow coming from his eyes - the first night he had found you after he received The Bite, when he was still high on adrenaline and warned by Derek not to do anything ‘stupid’. And the stupid thing he had done was climb up the side of your house, claw in through your bedroom window with the clumsy hands he barely knew how to use, and pin you down to your bed and fuck you senseless, feeling like an overeager dog with intensely swollen balls, feeling like he was too strong and going through puberty all over again. 

It had been one of the best nights of your life. 

“What?” You said, your voice even, calm, not even close to mocking dubious. “Take what off?” 

You were faking confusion - faking it poorly, easily signaling to him that you knew exactly what he was talking about. 

It was a dare. You were egging him on purposefully. The two of you always had the best sex when you did. That’s what the whole night was about, after all. 

Lydia had gotten the shirts made - she had gotten one for herself with Aiden’s name and lacrosse number on it, and she had told you that it was cheaper to ‘order multiple at a time’, and then she had pulled out one in your size. Your gut had shriveled up when you saw that it was one with Scott’s name and lacrosse number on it. 

A plain white tee shirt in a feminine, tight fit with burgundy vinyl lettering to match the school’s colours. Lydia had ordered them in white because she said it would be easier to make into an outfit, and she didn’t want to ‘wear that god awful colour’ with her nice coats. 

You had gone on one single date with Scott. He asked you out, you said yes. It had been a pleasant, average evening that ended with a bit of kissing. It was nice - Scott was a great guy. But it definitely hadn’t been anything special. It had only driven home in your mind that you definitely didn’t have those feelings for Scott. And you felt guilty for every single time you had flirted with him in Isaac’s presence just to make Isaac jealous, if it meant that you had been misleading him or leading him on. 

A while ago, Lydia had been talking about guys, and she said something about ‘you and Scott’ and not even fully paying attention, you agreed with her. And then she cheered, and you realized that she had been talking about romantic couplings among your friend group. She thought that your flirting with Scott and the one single date meant that the two of you were dating - so she took this as a greenlight to order you the shirt. She was excited that the two of you would look ‘coordinated’ cheering for your ‘boyfriends’ in the stands. 

But more than anything, you felt awkward correcting her because you couldn’t exactly tell her about the thing that you and Isaac had going on. 

Mostly because you had no clue what to call it. 

The two of you had been best friends for years, and you had been his rock and his confidant before anybody else knew what was going on with his father. And then, shortly after he had made the grand transformation from abused introvert to powerful (hot) werewolf, the two of you had started… this. 

Some might call it ‘friends with benefits’, some might call it a weird spiritual sexual codependency that had truly begun with you patching up his wounds from the beatings his father had given him. Either way, the slight flirting of your normal friendship ramped up tenfold, and now, every single time the two of you were behind closed doors together, the intense sexual tension in the air built until you were both partially unclothed and moaning. 

And in the outside world, the two of you were constantly at war. You were constantly in the throes of a game that nobody else knew was going on. You both refused to name each other as a romantic partner, but you were constantly in some kind of effort to get the other’s attention or make the other person jealous. He flirted with Allison and Erica, and… that stupid game was the only reason you had gone on a date with Scott. It had been a relatively nice date, but you hadn’t felt a single sense of the spark with Scott that you did with Isaac. 

And it was the only reason that you were wearing the stupid shirt that Lydia had given to you. It was the only reason you had sat in the stands beside Lydia with your jacket unzipped and even taken off all night in the cold, showing off that shirt, loudly cheering for Scott, putting on a show. 

All of it was to make Isaac jealous - to get some kind of a rise out of him. 

And it had worked so damn well. Seeing his clenched jaw, his flared nostrils… seeing the way his sharp fangs extended out over his lips as if he couldn’t control them while he looked at you with hellish lust in his eyes… you were almost terrified by how well you had succeeded. Almost. 

“Take. It. Off.” He growled, grinding on each word, his chest now heaving with the effort. 

“Make me.” You mumbled in reply, entirely confident, hoping that further teasing would only wind him up more. Hoping that it would only beautifully play into your game. 

He stepped closer to you and when you instinctively took a step back, your body hit the cold metal of the lockers, and you swallowed harshly as your body pumped with more lust. It was oddly thrilling to be so trapped - only because it was Isaac. And because you knew there was only one way this could end. 

Because your body was preparing for the sensations you knew came next - the ghost of his touch already lingering on you, your mind replaying those past events like grooves in a record. It caused you to become wetter and wetter just thinking about the feeling of his teeth digging into your neck, the feeling of his hands possessively gripping your hips, the feeling of his cock splitting you open. 

His breath ghosted over your forehead, his height towering over you somehow not intimidating at all as he pressed his hard body (disappointingly still clad in lacrosse pads, keeping you from feeling the true ridges of his muscles) up against you, truly ensuring that you could not escape. Not that you would want to escape from him. 

He took a thick sniff into the air, his nostrils flaring widely, and you knew he could smell it on you - the lust, the pure attraction you felt toward him, the adrenaline. Or maybe it was just the pure smell of your pussy pathetically leaking into your underwear that he was picking up on. Either way, he let out a whine, the first small indicator of his facade cracking, and you felt his hips jolt toward you, instinctively seeking friction. 

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” 

Isaac growled, still trying to sound tough, the words bordering on a pained howl. There was a unique agony in his voice as he stared down the length of your body and continued to fixate on those numbers on your chest, true haunting dancing in his pretty baby blues. 

Your gut twisted horribly as you realized it. This wasn’t just something he could brush off in the name of sex. You had really hurt him this time. Perhaps you had gone too far this time. Something that had started out as a well-meaning game of cat and mouse had turned into truly taunting a wolf - and unintentionally, you had wounded that wolf. 

That wolf that, even if it was never spoken, was supposed to be yours. Was supposed to be treasured as yours. 

You had gotten so caught up in playing the stupid game that you had made a terrible mistake. 

But you needed to see it through now. 

You reached up and grabbed both sides of his face, forcing him to look you in the eyes. 

“Make me.” You repeated the words, and Isaac let out another huff. “Make me take it off, Isaac.” He replied to this with a growl from deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated through your hands on his delicate, angelic face. “Make me yours.” 

He reached up with one hand in the middle of your chest and gently pushed you back, making sure your body was stiff and firm against the metal of the lockers, propping you there like hanging art on a wall. And then he took a small step to distance himself, his eyes flickering up and down your body sharply, drinking you in even though he had seen you thousands of times before. 

It had been torture - pure torture all night. From the moment he had seen you unzip your jacket, revealing that fucking shirt with Scott’s name on it (and the fact that you had paired it with a tiny little skirt and a pair of sheer tights… knowing that those tights emphasized your thick thighs, his favourite part of your body… just to torture him…) - he had been tempted to ditch off the field completely and run up into the stands just to tear it off you. Just to prove a fucking point. 

But that hadn’t even been the worst part of it. No. One of the words parts had been the fact that he was forced to stay on the field all night listening. Over-hearing you chatting it up with Lydia and Allison about your ‘date’ with Scott, talking about kissing him, theorizing about what having sex with him might be like. You had known he was listening the whole time. You knew his hearing was enhanced enough, and you knew that he had a special knack for picking up on your voice in a crowd. You had been doing it on purpose. 

And every time he glanced over between goals and saw Scott’s name stretched across your perfect tits… it killed him a little more inside. 

While thinking about all this, while thinking about the fact that he had been waiting to do this all night - 

Isaac raised up his hand, very intentionally flaring his claws, bold enough for you to see what his next move would be so that you could anticipate it and wouldn’t be afraid. And his cock began to throb almost painfully between his legs when he saw you push your chest out, arching your back against the lockers as you licked your lips, silently begging for it. 

Clearly, you didn’t wear Scott’s name proudly. You were aching him to tear the shirt off you, downright lustful at the thought - biting your lip, batting your eyelashes at him, the scent of your lust even more potent in the air down. 

Such a beautiful fucking tease. 

With delicate precision, he slashed his claws across your chest, shredding the fabric to pieces and feeling a cathartic vindication as the name and number of another guy fell apart and began to fall off you. 

A twinge of guilt nearly ruined the moment as he saw the slightest bit of blood glinting across your perfect skin, gathering in your cleavage along your gorgeous stretch marks, but you didn’t seem to care, and you didn’t seem to be in the slightest bit of pain. In fact, you let out a purely lustful moan and arched your back even more, pushing your chest toward him more - making you look like a perfect porno in your shredded clothing with your red lace bra now revealed underneath. 

Though in a moment, you reached up, pulling the scraps of the fabric away and shucking off the useless remains of the shirt, throwing it to the ground like the garbage that it now was. In the back of your mind, you guessed that now you would have to put on your jacket  - which you had been carrying in your hand and tossed off to the side earlier, and zip it up completely to cover yourself in order to leave. But that didn’t matter now. You didn’t care if you would have to leave here in just your bra if you meant you got to have what would likely come next. 

Isaac indulged in the sound of your pretty panting, the way you licked your lips, and the perfect, accelerated thumping of your heartbeat in his ears. 

“Better.” He sighed in relief, much preferring the sight of your chest heaving, nearly bare in front of him than the visual of Scott’s fucking name plastered across you like he owned you. He never did, he never would - 

You let out another hot moan in response, and Isaac found himself licking his lips. 

While he stood there, frozen with his lust, too busy visually admiring you, you were driven forward by your maddening need. You grabbed the front of his jersey and yanked him forward into a heated kiss. It was a mouth that you knew well from experience by now, and it was only a second before the two of you were exchanging moans and a clash of tongues. 

He craned down, his hands possessively grappled for your thighs, those claws making quick work of your tights, putting runs and even huge holes in the sheer material, quickly exposing your skin to the cool air of the room. It was something you would have been angrier about if not for the very pretty boy currently sucking on your face. 

One of his hands moved to claw at the seam of your tights, but you quickly clamped your legs shut, trapping his wrist from moving any further, much to his whiny disappointment. You used your hold on the front of his jersey to push him away, and you were met with the most sweetly crestfallen expression - wide, glossy, sad eyes staring you down while he curled his lip, clearly wondering what he had done wrong. Wondering what he had done to be denied. 

“Not so fast.” You scolded him gently. “You have to ‘take it off’ too.” You told him, running your fingers down the front of his chest, more than offended by all the padding he was wearing in addition to the clothing. Far too much coverage. 

“I’m not the one who was acting like a whore.” Isaac huffed, clearly still wounded from the fact that you had worn Scott’s numbers. The word sounded strangely good on his lips, but still, you rolled your eyes. From him, it wasn’t dominance or power. It was slowly turning into bratty defiance in your little game. “I wasn’t out there shaking my ass in front of the crowd while wearing some other guy’s fucking number, acting like a dumb slut-” 

“Oh, please.” You let out a dark laugh, and Isaac swallowed thickly, knowing that you had truly arrived. After all the winding up - the main event had finally started. “You act like a dumb slut all the time.” 

Isaac let out a sharp breath at your words, loving how easily you tossed the words back at him. Something inside of him was absolutely purring at the harsh title that was now freshly branded into his skin. This was the moment that his brain began to melt between his ears, and any sense of the ‘tough guy’ act that he put on for the rest of the world was completely gone. 

From this point on, he was dissolving into the sweet puppy that only you were allowed to know. 

“Like now, for example.” You continued on, more venom lacing through your lips. You put on your most threatening voice, hating to get firm with him, but knowing it was necessary. “So you can strip down, and fucking behave yourself, or I can get dressed and go find Scott and see what fucking him would be like instead.” 

Isaac glared at you, and you saw that horrible quiver come across his lip again. Before you could worry that you had gone too far, he reached up and began pulling off his gear, and you heard a few muffled complaints as his pads hit the floor. 

“You don’t have to be so mean,” He told you, nothing more than a petulant whine at this point. 

He was ready to be compliant with you - ready to do whatever you said because he needed it just as much as you did. 

When he was shirtless, you didn’t wait for him to ditch his bottoms before you leaped into action once again. You reached out and tucked your fingers into the waistband of his shorts, hauling him toward you - and much like a loyal dog tight on a leash, he let himself be so easily pulled, even though he was much stronger than you and he could have overpowered you if he wanted to. 

But that was the glory of it. He was a statue of might, standing over six feet tall, shredded with muscles that were enhanced with supernatural strength, and yet - he wouldn’t hurt a fly without your permission. He wouldn’t take a step in any direction if it wasn’t to stand in your shadow. 

He didn’t worship anywhere if it wasn’t at your altar. 

He had sought out guidance anywhere and everywhere since his father had died - Derek, Scott, Deaton, even Erica. But he had only found sanity and solace at the palace of your lips. 

Which was why he moaned into your mouth as you kissed him again, quickly shoving your tongue past his teeth to remind him of why he was here. He belonged to you, and he shouldn’t do anything without your sacred permission. 

You got a firm grip on his hair and caused a sting across his scalp with how possessively you were holding onto him, causing pleasant tingles through his whole body as he was reminded of that lovely feeling of being held by you, being owned by you. You used the hold to force him tighter into your mouth, angling his head just the way you needed to kiss him firmer, deeper, controlling every single aspect of it - causing a sweet whimper out of him as he was guided like a puppet on a string. 

He had been the one to drag you here with a demanding, tight grip on your wrist - he had been the one to practically throw you up against the lockers in anger. He thought this whole thing had been his idea. 

But this had never been his game. 

Any tough moves he made out on the lacrosse field, any intimidation he managed with people like Stiles or the Alphas he had battled during the summer - it was all a farce. You were the only person that knew deep down, he was a puppy, just looking for guidance. At the end of the day, after everything he had been through in life - he was just looking for somewhere soft to lay his pretty head. 

Isaac let out a whine as you pulled away from the kiss to take a breath. He instantly wanted to protest, instantly began chasing your mouth. He didn’t care if he drowned in your mouth, if he died due to lack of oxygen. 

But of course, he didn’t settle for a lack of contact. 

While you combed your fingers through his hair and used the other hand to start untying the knot of his shorts, he immediately dipped his head down, seeking more of your precious skin. His neck almost became pained from the awkward angle, having to lean so far down due to his height - but he didn’t care. He dipped his head between your breasts and immediately began laving his tongue over the small cuts he had unintentionally left there. From him, it was a wordless apology, hanging his head in shame at the fact that he could ever hurt you, no matter how small, no matter how meaningless the tiny scratches were to you. 

In your mind, it didn’t matter. Owning a pet meant that sometimes you came off with a few tiny wounds. You would end up loving the scars. You let out small hiss at the sting of saliva, and then began moaning, and he was quickly driven mad by the twang of your blood on his tongue. 

“Isaac-” You moaned out hotly. 

He believed that he was a beast being fed by you, bound to devour you disastrously sooner or later - but you knew not to be afraid. He could do you no real harm. You could never truly be afraid of someone with such delicate sadness in his eyes. 

Especially not when he humped your hip like a lost puppy and whined against your skin like he had been kicked in the gut. His cock throbbed painfully inside his athletic cup, far too fucking restricted, crying out for your touch. He was grateful when you pushed down his shorts and his thin athletic pants underneath, and then took care to strip off his underwear and cup without hurting his sensitive, now very hard cock. 

“Aww, puppy.” You cooed - it was a playful pet name that you had used with him many times before, but for some reason, it practically punched him in the gut, easily forcing the air out of his lungs when he heard it. 

His responsive moan crescendoed into a harsh growl between his teeth when you reached out and grabbed his cock with a cool hand - it was an immediate contrast, his skin boiling hot with blood thumping so hard underneath, making his cock so rigid that it practically vibrated under your touch. The tip of his dick leaked furiously into your hand as you began casually pumping him, no distinct rhythm or precision in your movements, purposefully teasing him. 

“You need this, don’t you?” You purred, voice purposefully honey-sweet as you lapped up his reactions. “You need me.” 

“I need you.” Isaac panted in return without hesitation. “I need you, please.” 

You ran your thumb over the leaking slit of his cock, indulging in just how wet he was, loving how it showed his desperation, plain and clear. You also couldn’t help but to love the beautiful little whimper he let out from the back of his throat, the way his breath puffed across the exposed skin of your breasts, cooling the salvia he had left there. Your skin becoming more exposed as he reached a hand up and yanked down your bra, putting strain on the straps where they sat on your shoulders. 

“You gonna earn it?” You posed, feeling the devil on your shoulder, unable to resist. Isaac only whined in response. “Get on your knees for me like a good dog.” 

Isaac’s breath caught in his throat. 

When he had first become a werewolf and you had found out about it, you had made a good many ‘dog’ jokes about him. And he used to hate them. But over time, he had come to love the comparison because he loved being your dog. (It’s why the nickname ‘puppy’ put a warm fondness in his gut rather than making him feel humiliated.)  

He knew, at the end of the day, that it was true. He needed to be owned by you, he needed a damn leash. He was intensely loyal, despite himself. And no matter what, at the end of the day, he would always return to you, head down, looking for praise, looking to be fed - whether that was a feeding of the soul, or stupidly literal, who knows. 

Any other time, the words would have been embarrassing - it would have been something he argued against. But this time - he practically let out a bark to demonstrate his pure loyalty to you, and he rushed to follow the simple order. Even though he hated your touch leaving his cock as he dropped to his knees on the cold tiled floor (thankful that he was still wearing his knee pads where his clothing was caught in a tangle just above them), he was more than eager to serve you. He used a careful, precise claw to reach up and shred a hole in the crotch of your tights, quick to destroy your underwear as well when he found them in his way. 

“Good boy.” You easily praised him, and he found his brain once again delightfully fuzzy at the simple words. 

Your fingers were in his hair again, but he didn’t even need your touch driving him forward. He was drawn to your exposed cunt like a madman, more than eager to shove his face into the folds of your perfect pussy. He used a hand to lift your perfect plump thigh and pull it up over his shoulder, inviting you to sit some of your weight on him so that he could be closer to you, ever closer, closer. He shoved his tongue deep into your hot, wet hole and shoved his nose between your folds, unintentionally bumping against your clit, just hungry to taste and smell as much of you as he possibly could. 

“Isaac!” You moaned out, using your hold on his hair to try and keep him in place while you humped against his face, causing him to moan enthusiastically into your pussy. “Oh fuck, puppy! You’re so good.” 

The combination of the praise and the nickname was absolutely dizzying, and along with your wetness on his tongue, your smell so potent and perfect surrounding him - he felt as though he didn’t deserve something this good. But he didn’t care. He quickly became obsessed with drowning himself in you - with one hand possessively gripping your thigh beside his head and the other gripping the edge of your skirt, moaning frantically into you while he fucked his tongue in and out of you, lapping up as much of your taste as he could. 

“Oh fuck - such a sweet puppy, so good for me.” 

There was no skill to it. 

He was growing dumb between the ears, becoming more and more of the dog that you accused him of being - nothing but animal instincts and the loyal need to please you. He humped his hips into the air and his cock began leaking openly onto the floor, leaving a pathetic puddle of precum there that neither of you would notice, something that would have the janitor questioning later. 

Currently, all Isaac cared about was the taste of your pussy on his tongue, the wonderful essence of you that reminded him he was home. All he cared about was being good for you while getting a reward that he barely deserved; all he cared about was the wonderful heat of your pulsing cunt under his lips with your vibrating little button bouncing on his nose, getting to smother himself in your perfect scent. 

“Yes baby, so fucking good-” 

All of his moaning and insistent tongue-fucking meant that you were drawing close to your orgasm very quickly. 

Your thighs began to shake, your muscles jolting beside his head and he continued to lap it right up. He moaned even harder, angling his head to drive his tongue deeper into you as you became wetter, and he only basked as there was more for him to consume. You panted in harsh gasps as beautiful jolts of pleasure rang through your cunt while his tongue pierced you again, and again, and again, fucking you in the most perfectly thoughtless way. 

Your fingers dug into his scalp and he didn’t even care that you used the touch to drive him further to smothering while you rubbed your pussy across his face, smearing your wetness all over his cheeks and his chin, coating him so perfectly in your smell. He could only enjoy it as you came all over him and tipped your head back against the lockers behind you, your moans echoing against the walls like a perfect concert while the boys in the locker room across the hall were none the wiser. (The chatter of their conversations and the sound of their showers completely muting out the sound of your moans from reaching their ears.) 

“Fuck, Isaac! Oh, puppy! Such a good boy!” 

Isaac moaned at your words and his cock was downright throbbing now. 

But even though, in the back of his mind, his dick was cold in the air of the room and he wanted nothing more than to sink into your perfect pussy, he still felt a deep pang of disappointment when you used your grip on his hair to pull him away from your perfect, wet cunt. He let out a whine showing that disappointment, and fought to keep your leg on his shoulder as you moved to pull away. But still, he ultimately conceded to you when you patted his hand off your thigh and scolded him with a glare and a quiet warning of: 

“Behave.” 

“I wasn’t done.” He complained, his voice small. 

But still, he settled for licking your taste off his lips, looking up at you through his lashes from down on his knees. You combed your finger through his hair again, unable to stop yourself from admiring him, even if he was being a bit of a selfish brat. 

He was just so damn pretty. 

Porcelain skin stretched over perfect muscles, big pretty blue eyes staring up at you, his cock out and still leaking, bright red now due to being neglected by you. You couldn’t have imagined a more perfect sight. You couldn’t help but to reach down and drag your thumb through some of the lingering wetness on his chin and feed it to him - and of course, he ate it right up, sucking the digit eagerly into his mouth and moaning around it. 

“Oh? So you don’t want to fuck me then?” You posed, playing off his words with a teasing statement that easily drove him mad. 

These words quickly sparked him to action. 

He jumped up off his knees, rising to his tall height once again, somehow so unintimidating. Such a sweet little wolf. 

With your back pinned up against the lockers for support, he grabbed your legs and pulled you up off the ground, his beyond human strength helping him to easily lift you so that you could wrap your legs around his waist - and just a moment later, as his cock perfectly lined up with your soaked entrance, you easily fell onto that perfect, stiff shaft. 

He didn’t hesitate to fuck up into you. He knew you didn’t need soft and you definitely weren’t expecting it, and any sense of patience he might have had was long gone. There was no sweetness, no slowness - all that was left was his pure possessive need to be close to you and your guiding hand driving him on, encouraging him as you dug your nails into his shoulders, leaving marks that would never last with his werewolf healing. 

“Good boy.” You told him, your breath slipping away for a moment as you were reminded of just how perfectly his cock could split you open. “Fuck, Isaac.” 

He kept one hand tight on your hip and the other went above your head, hanging onto the top of the lockers, desperate to hold on to something as he felt your perfect, hot wetness gripping his cock. Following his instincts, he fucked forward, slamming his hips into you, needing to feel more, needing to be closer to your warmth - needing more of you. 

“Need you.” He panted, his head falling to press his forehead close to yours, something that felt sweetly intimate for the situation, his eyes squinted tightly as he became overwhelmed by the sensations. “Fuck - need you, need you so much.” 

“Come on, puppy.” You encouraged him. “Come on, take what you need.” 

You tightened your legs around his waist, his movements nearly threatening to buck you off as he moved his hips so wildly - sheer need absolutely tight in every muscle as thick whines poured from his lips. You were eager to soothe him, your hands running up and down his sweaty back - some of it lingering from the hard work he had done during the game and some of new from how hard he was fucking you now, lighting up all the nerve endings inside your pussy, making you feel so perfect. 

“Such a good boy.” You moaned, your breath brushing against his lips - his mouth open as he struggled for air and continued to whimper sweetly for you. “Such a sweet little puppy. Good fucking dog.” 

Isaac let out a growl, fucking into you harder, his brain pure static at this point. 

Yes - he was a good dog. He was your good dog. 

He couldn’t help it when the pleasure surged through him, the pure energy, and his grip on the lockers above your head tightened so much that the metal started to crumble beneath his fist as if it was nothing more than a piece of paper. You heard the terrible shrieking groan of the metal, but you didn’t even bother to look up - you couldn’t have taken your eyes off Isaac in those moments. You were far too enraptured by your puppy in front of you, by the nearly pained look on his face, by the feeling of his perfect cock splitting you open as he faithfully fucked up into your pussy, not stopping for even a moment. 

You brought a hand to his face, grasping his jaw between your thumb and forefinger, digging the touch in - just a twinge of pain to get his attention, a firm grip to remind him that he was yours. 

“Look at me.” You demanded, your breath hot, your voice shaking slightly as the pleasure shook your body. “Come on, puppy - look at me.” 

He forced his eyes open, eager to be good for you, eager to do as you said. He gulped air in as he continued to grip onto your hip, the locker crumbling even more into a mess as the tension in his muscles was wrought into it, forced there rather than ever be taken out on you - even unconsciously, he could never use too much force on you. 

The silken blue that looked at you was a sight so beautiful that you couldn’t bear to look away, a mess of lust and ravenous madness, a prayer of devotion to you that was far too complex for words. You gave him a small, sweet kiss on the lips that he moaned so deeply at, his hips stuttering terribly as his balls downright ached - 

“Cum for me.” You demanded, the words a firm smack against his mouth, a punch to his gut that made him cry out. “Cum for me, puppy, be a good boy, come on-” 

He let out a strangled moan that dissolved into a downright filthy whimper from the back of his throat as his hips sped up, his skin practically blurring as he was now given precious permission from you. Your cunt became utterly sore with the speed and pressure his pelvis kept hitting you with, continually pounding into you with that impossible strength, the sound resonating harshly through the room, nearly threatening to break you. 

But it was only a few breathless moments later that a moan punched through his gut and you heard something that resembled your name choked through his throat - and then he fucked into you one last time, his hips then becoming glued to yours, almost entirely still in contrast to moments before. He ground against you sharply, overstimulating your swollen clit with the stiffness of his pelvis as he seemingly tried to merge with you through persistent will alone as he pumped his cum inside of you in warm spurts. 

“Good puppy,” You hummed, continuing to run your hands up and down his back and through his hair. You kissed down his cheek and his neck and along his shoulder, praising him, soothing him, worshipping him just like he deserved while his cock throbbed inside of you. “Good boy. So fucking good for me.” 

He moaned in return, words lost to the stupidly thick tongue inside of his mouth - one that was only capable of licking up and down your neck while he humped his cock inside of you for a few more moments, enjoying your soothing words and the warmth of your pussy around him as his orgasm ebbed away. 

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last forever like that. 

You pulled him in for one last kiss - one that the two of you savoured with a moan and a dip of tongues into each other’s mouths as he pulled his cock out of you. 

(Distantly, you had a thought about how you would have to walk out of here with no underwear - because you definitely weren’t going to keep on the scraps that he had left you, gaping with remnants of his cum inside of you. And you did feel a strange sense of satisfaction in that. Especially knowing that he would be able to smell that cum on you for hours with his werewolf nose, even if you went home and changed your clothes before Lydia’s mandatory ‘Lacrosse Team Win’ celebration party - and that was enough of a reason not to take a shower and scrub the scent off.) 

He let you down and you were unsteady on your legs, much like a baby deer, still having to lean on the lockers for support while he moved to grab some toilet paper from one of the stalls to help clean you both up. 

A heavy silence fell over the two of you, unlike any other time that you had sex with Isaac. 

While you righted your clothes (prying what was left of your underwear out from underneath your tights and throwing them away, along with the scraps of the shirt that had started this all, fixing your skirt, and putting your jacket on over your bra for some coverage) - and Isaac got dressed, you wondered what would happen next. Your eyes landed on the huge dent that was now in the top of the row of lockers, and you genuinely weren’t sure if you should ask him to try and fix it, or if it would just be better to leave it like that and let people wonder. 

“Please…” 

Isaac mumbled out, his voice so quiet, raspy around the edges due to the moaning he had just done. When you whipped your head toward him, he worked up the courage to finish the sentence. 

“Please… don’t talk about Scott anymore.” 

You stared at him, puzzled, as he put on his jersey (his pads still left on the floor, seeing as he didn’t need them anymore). Clearly, his mind had been on a completely different track. He was staring you down with those sad, glassy eyes once again, and you felt a terrible twinge of guilt tighten in your gut. 

You knew that he was the jealous type. That was why you had done all this. But you couldn’t go on being his secret fling, his secret fuck. His perfect confidant with no public title. 

So you prodded that wound one last time. 

“Why not?” You asked, risking it all. 

You would either leave this losing your best friend, the best sex of your life, and the person you loved most in the whole world - or you would leave this as a whole, better person. 

Isaac swallowed, and bowed his head, unable to look you in the eyes. Somehow, at six-foot-one, he looked so terribly small. He might not be able to do this. He might be too broken to live up to it. But you hoped, you prayed that he would - 

“Because I-” He shuddered, verging on tears. And somehow, he was able to get the words out. “Because I’m in love with you.” 

Everything inside of you lit up. More perfect than any orgasm, better than the feeling of his cock inside of you - this was what you had been missing the whole time. 

“And look, I understand that you might have just been playing around,” He continued, his words having a terrible meaning - acknowledging your game in wearing Scott’s numbers, and voicing his insecurities in your relationship, believing that you had been unserious with him because you had never loved him at all. “But it kills me to see you with other guys. I can’t-” 

You stepped forward, using a hand on the side of his jaw to pull him into another kiss. In a moment, he understood the passion, the warmth - something that went far beyond sexual needs. The way you guided him because you knew exactly what he needed. The unspoken connection the two of you always had that now needed those words. 

“Isaac, you should know I love you too.” You told him. “That I’ve been in love with you - since forever.” 

He let out a tense breath of relief. 

“I won’t talk about anyone else like that, or flirt with anyone, or anything along those lines, if that’s what you want.” You assured him. “You are mine, and I’m yours. Okay, pup?” 

He flushed at the nickname, and nodded, and you smiled brightly. 

“I’ll even get you a dog collar with my name on it so that everyone can know you’re mine.” You said - your tone was distinctly joking, but you didn’t miss the way he bit his lip, and the lustful light that grew in his eyes. 

“Shut up.” He laughed, shaking his head. 

(He definitely wouldn’t end up masturbating to thoughts of that later. Definitely not.)

...

Please keep in mind, there will not be a continuation or a 'part 2'. This is a oneshot, meaning that it is a complete story on its own and I do not feel the need to continue it. If you comment asking for a Part 2 or asking for a continuation after I have written this ending message, I consider that to be extremely rude and unkind.

If you are going to comment, please comment about the content of the fic that has been written. I love discussing the characters that I write about with other people in the comments and connecting with fellow fans. I work very hard on my fics and I always appreciate comments, but I do not appreciate when people only comment asking for more rather than wanting to discuss what I have already worked hard on.

Even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed, and if you want more from me because you enjoyed this fanfic a lot, you should definitely check out my Teen Wolf Masterlist, which has a lot of similar fics!

Happy Reading,

Sunny ☀️

[tawked]

I think ultimately my beef with Chris Claremont is that he will discuss bigotry at length but seems not to understand how many forms of bigotry are manufactured on a societal level.

Take "God Loves Man Kills," which is kind of the thesis work for the concept of "X-Men as minorities" under Claremont imo. I think it's fine to point at fiends like Pat Robinson and so on as a vector for increasing bigoted beliefs in society, sure. That's very accurate.

I uh, have never met a bigoted Christian who functions in precisely the same way as William Stryker, and bud believe me I have met bigoted Christians, but fine. As a broad "fuck this kind of dude" thing I think it works and starts conversations for a lot of young boys reading these comics at the time, mission accomplished.

My issue is, the same text presents the cops as ranging from indifferent and "just doing their job" to heroic because one of them shoots Pat Robinson. There's a rejection of the concept that the cops are themselves agents of bigotry in society, or even susceptible to bigotry. All of the cops we see talk shit about Pat Robinson. Why? I believe it's because Claremont genuinely believes in liberal societal myths that if all is functioning smoothly, then we are in fact equal. In Claremont's X-Men, racism is an aberration from the norm brought out by individual bad actors and their stupid sheeple followers. It's like how you see liberals attempt to understand the Daily Wire or Tucker Carlson or whatever by insisting it's just grifters and nameless faceless stupes who don't exist in the way you or I do, and sans Tucker would perhaps not be racist. They understand racists as amorphous masses, and not people created by complex systemic and cultural realities that can be addressed, is my point.

And that's just not my worldview man. So reading a text about racism that fully embraces this concept of racism feels naive and, if I'm being really honest, a little embarrassing.

I think that it's also impossible to really ignore that this text does contain an ambiguously brown rape gang. The only character with a voice uses Spanish phrases, and his mate is wearing a Sikh dastar (it was also a time when "Sikh" and "Muslim" were, hilariously, not distinct in the minds of most white Brits and Americans lol). These characters attempt to rape Kitty Pryde, and are then all killed by the child-murdering anti-mutant extremist who wants to kill Kitty Pryde. What is going on here, and what is Chris Claremont unintentionally - or perhaps intentionally - saying about the actual nature of bigotry? That sure, some people in society are A Problem, but it's not these nice mutants who all live in a mansion under the watchful eye of a benevolent white billionaire? That racists feel justified because hey, they're not sending their best, they're not sending people like you and me, they're sending rapists?

I don't know.

The thing is, in my opinion, Claremont seems unaware or uninterested in many flavours of history. He is, obviously, very aware of and responds often to Nazi antisemitism, using Nazism as some a kind of warning as to where society might be headed if we're not careful with the slurs. Fine.

He also has a range of Native American characters lol. Oop! The thing is, Native American history consistently debunks the entire concept of normative peace and tolerance vs. individual bad actors and mass hysteria. In fact, the concept of tribalism, that is the idea that people innately react with hate and hostility to folks what look and live different, is consistently used to deny the extreme intentional nature of colonialist genocides.

Frustratingly, Claremont doesn't engage with Native American or colonialist history beyond this football teams concept. In fact, Claremont solves this issue by just... not talking about it much at all.

Now, perhaps something is eventually said with Dani Moonstar or someone, sure, but I simply did not read enough to reach that point. Which is a problem, because I read 16/18 volumes of the Masterworks Uncanny re-issues (meeting Mickey Twoyoungmen and my favourite, Forge), and 4/8 of the New Mutants. So, regardless of whether Claremont chooses to get around to it sooner or later, it's certainly not frontloaded like the presence of the characters is.

Frankly, at one point, Claremont puts pro-colonialist words in Dani Moonstar's mouth, as if she simply would not have a more complex inner world or reaction to seeing colonialist violence.

Claremont will have his Indigenous characters yell "hoka hey" in direct reference not to Chief Crazy Horse, but to cowboy movies about Chief Crazy Horse. He will not sit with the concept of colonialism as a manufacturer of racism in a way that distinguishes that racism from, say, a Klansman lighting a cross. Dani just hates white people, 'cause teams. They play for the Bulls and she's a Celtic.

To demonstrate what I mean by not giving equal weight to history:

In her introduction, Dani Moonstar is told she's going to be relocated to live with Charles Xavier, a white billionaire. She screams no, fuck that, white people are "the enemy" and I'm not going to live with one.

Claremont does not couch this in a discussion of how for generations the United States has weaponized child protective services and similar state entities against Cheyenne and other Indigenous people. Relocating Native American children into residential schools and white households is not a neutral subject, or something one can explore with a "two football teams" idea of racism. There's history of this as a tool of colonialist violence and Dani, often politically aware of colonialist violence (see: her grandpa's death) is not written to articulate this sentiment in a way the reader can access.

Thus, Dani's resistance to being forced to live in a rich white man's home is couched in some kind of strange "racist black guy" concept. She never deconstructs this further, and is characterized as a bit paranoid and traumatized, sure, but not correct.

A more informed audience may fill in that blank if they want to. Will an ignorant reader be able to do the same?

Racism has complex roots.

When black historians discuss redlining as "going all the way back to the plantation," that's what they're getting at. White supremacist cultural practices exist in layers of beliefs built upon colonialist attitudes that began on day one and persist, mutating through generations to fit new realities and circumstances, but never deconstructing the core.

When Columbus met the Taino, the Arawak and the Carib people, and he infantilised (and enslaved) the Taino, but used the Arawak as a scapegoat to claim a "caniba" nature of the Carib people. He was not responding honestly to observation, and this was not a "egad! brown skin? verily these fiends play for Detroit Pistons and I, the noble Denver Nuggets!" situation.

This bitch wanted fuckin money and was enacting older, Crusades-era concepts of Christian dominionism (see how history cycles work?) So, he was marketing this new uncolonized land to his investors as having slaves, and dangerous locals who he characterized as so savage they could not be Christianized and thus had to be killed, justifying further investment of resources.

It wasn't

ah! different people! my urge to kill... EXPLODING!! NNNGHGN

Listen, I like the X-Men fans that I've met. It's one of the nicest fandoms on tumblr and the people in it are broadly cool, educated and hot with excellent pecs.

However, and I do mean this with love, I bet not a single fuckin fan from when Claremont's books were on the shelves found it odd that Storm XMen, a Kenyan living in Kenya in the 1970s, was somehow untouched by colonialism or decolonialist concepts, during Kenya's decolonisation era.

The region was forcibly Christianized by the British starting in the 1890s, or debatably earlier if we count missionary efforts, and yet Storm XMen lives in this weird little untouched pristine village where they worship her as a goddess.

The 1970s audience probably just accepted this because 1. she controls the weather, so obviously right, and 2. they're like dumb black African villagers or something so they probably worship all kinds of shit.

An opportunity for education was, in my honest opinion, wasted.

And it fucks me into a coma leaving my asshole wet and gaping because I see older fans insisting that it's just "of its time." man! man!!

the time of Black Panthers, feminists, queer and disabled liberation marches, all of these anti-bigotry activist causes out in the street causing a ruckus!!

Roy Thomas' ASS, I mean Roy Thomas' All Star Squadron, contained a clumsy but somewhat informed expression of the systemic causes of American anti-Japanese racism during WWII. It was bad, yes, but at least Thomas was able to explore the concept that most white Americans didn't even know where Japan was beforehand.

Bro! He explores how American culture created arbitrary and fucked distinctions of "good Japanese" vs. "bad Japanese" based primarily on immigration status and other mechanisms weaponized against this marginalized demographic. He was out there dropping terms like issei and nisei, which sure yes whatever that's diet shit for historians, but I have simply never seen other American media care enough to acknowledge how white supremacy genuinely did create complex wedges in Japanese-American society in the 1940s.

There's even a moment early in the run where a white bloke articulates that China and Japan are like even forces and thus removes the Sino-Japanese War from its colonialist character lol. Although I believe this is unintentional on Thomas' part, veeery funny and apt considering the overall vibe and the era Thomas is discussing. That kind of thing coupled with anti-Asian racism is why the west never intervened before the creation of Manchukuo.

It's bad! It's ahistorical and frustrating! It contains a "Heroic Jap" narrative meant to debunk the concept of absolutist racism!

But it demonstrates an adjacent of-era comic series that is able to engage with racism as a systemic and manufactured concept at a level that Claremont can't or won't or whatever.

And another thing, Claremont's use of schizophrenia -

[littlespoonevan]

one thing i still genuinely do not understand is why all of these teen shows set in high school aren't just set in college instead. when i think of all the shows i watched in my teens/early 20s they all have the exact same problems and all of those problems could be solved if they were just. set in college instead?????????? actors don't look 16?? that's cool bc they're in college so they can reasonably be anywhere from 18-24. parents seemingly non-existent or disappear for episodes at a time??? nbd all the characters moved out for college so they don't see their parents that often. characters going to endless parties, having unlimited access to alcohol, and sleeping with a different person every ep??? sure makes a lot more sense if they're in college!!!! characters randomly having free time in the middle of the day??? everyone's college schedule is different!

like!!! there are so many shows that completely lose the run of themselves by s3 bc their characters start off 16 and now they're supposed to be graduating and all the plans they had and colleges they wanted to go to now need to Go Away bc they need a reason for them all to still stay in the same setting which means basically messing up 2-3 seasons worth of character development. and i just cannot understand how none of these tv execs thought, hey maybe if we make them freshman in college this would make more sense bc we'd at least have a plan for 4 seasons and even if we reach graduation we could still feasibly transition them into their career paths without disrupting the existing dynamic??????????? teenagers would still watch that, the demographic wouldn't change???????? college is still a tumultuous time where people are growing and learning and making mistakes and having new experiences?????????? where are all the shows set in college where are they?????????????????????????

[n3ongold3n]

I feel like adhd is a bit like an very beautiful wool garment - intricate and finely made. But it has moth holes. Some are visible and some are hidden, only to present themselves when that part of the fabric is strained.

[asvidema]

i'll take a moment to thank, from the bottom of the heart, all the friends and the people i don't even follow for leaving tags on my art. special shoutouts to those who share thoughts about it and compliment my designs. you have no idea how much that means to me

[taniushka12]

Thinking about a later scene of my fic but being currently stuck on like, the second one. Grits my teeth

[keeps-ache]

ggghhg i hate vehiclessssssss ghghghhghhhhh [dies dies dies forever]

[elytrafemme]

why doesn't anybody talk about schrodinger's mental illness? seriously i think i'm onto something here

[dravidious]

Very nice and cool you are

SO I finally started dumping my stuff on my geocities.ws account that I made like a year ago but it turns out that this site SUCKS but at least it can send .txt files so here's a fossil fighters card game that I made WAY more cards for than I thought I would

[ebodebo]

The Bewitching

—thinking about roommate!simon riley seeing you in your halloween costume… MDNI

"Where's your sexy roommate anyway, babe?" Your friend, dressed as a sexy witch, purred from her spot on a stool around the kitchen island. You had invited two friends over to spend Halloween with you since your roommate, Simon, had to work.

"He, uh, had to work," you say, taking a sip of your wine. Your witchy friend's eyes widened as she carefully dipped a pita chip into some hummus.

"On Halloween?" She gawked, pushing the chip into her mouth, eyes wide. You also take a chip and swirl it around in the hummus before shrugging.

"Seems so," you say, inhaling the chip. You turn to pull open the fridge, reaching for a bottle of champagne. Once you turn back, you see your other friend dressed as a sexy police officer, head slightly titled in confusion, her eyes carefully observing your costume.

"So, what are you supposed to be? A sexy nurse?" She questions. You raise your brows, perplexed that she couldn't tell who you were.

"You're kidding, right?" You urge, waiting a minute before continuing to see if she is joking. She shakes her head no, pursing her lips. You shake your head in disbelief. "Debs, I'm one of the nurses from Silent Hill."

"Should've gotten Simon to dress as pyramid head," your sexy witch friend instantly says. You flick your eyes to hers to see a smirk spreading on her lips.

"Oh, please," you laugh out. "Over his dead body would he ever willingly dress up." You take a sip of your wine, stalling when you hear the sound of a familiar truck pulling into the driveway.

"Oh, looks like your big guy is home," Debs winks. You roll your eyes, set your wine glass down, and head for the front door. You step out to see Simon searching for something in his truck.

"Hey," you greet. "What're you doing back so early?" He doesn't avert his attention from some loose papers he was scanning over.

After a minute, he says, "Price had a Halloween thing for his kid." He continues sifting through loose papers. "So, here I am," he dryly says, eyes still focused on the papers.

"Okay. FYI, the girls are inside—" You start before he interrupts, finally turning around to face you.

"If you want, I can just go to a bar, or—" He abruptly stops, eyes wandering down your body, taking in your costume—which included a very provocative dress. He swallows deeply as his eyes sweep over your exposed thighs, up to the deep dip of your breasts on display.

"Simon?" You prod, trying to understand why he has stopped speaking. He drags his eyes up to look into yours.

"You—what are you supposed to be?" He lazily questions.

"Um, a nurse," you say; he tilts his head to the side.

"Never seen a nurse look like that," he sticks his tongue out to wet the seam of his dry lips. You feel a sudden rush of embarrassment.

"It's from a—a game," you quickly say, rocking back on the heels of your feet. "It's kind of stupid," you turn your head away from him, trying to hide some embarrassment from his gaze.

"I like it," his eyes shamelessly drag down the length of your body. You flick your eyes back to him, offering him a small smile, noting the way his eyes become darker as the seconds pass.

"Ya?" You're shocked that you managed to get a word out since your mouth had turned to ash. Dry as a bone.

"Mhm," he hums as he takes a step towards you. You swallow hard as he steps closer to you, close enough for his fingers to graze the hem of your dress, tugging it down gently so it covers a little more of your thighs.

"Simon," you breathlessly say as you feel his fingers graze your bare skin.

"Dress ridin' up a little high," he murmurs, though he doesn't take his fingers away from you. He looks down at you, taking in your lazily closed eyes. "Have you gone out yet?"

"Wha—no. Didn't really want to," your tone is a little wobbly now as his hand slowly skimmed under your dress. You release a shallow breath.

He tilts his head back slightly. "No? What is it you wanted to do then?" He continues his movements, skimming his fingers up your thigh, slowly maneuvering between them. You find yourself gripping his shoulders. "Huh?" He tuts.

"I don't—I don't know," you choke out, dropping your head slightly as his hand grazes your cunt over your already wet underwear. You find yourself pushing yourself into his palm.

He leaned in closer to you, his hot breath grazing against the shell of your ear. "Did you want me to see you in this little outfit?" He whispers. You lean into his words flowing in your ear. "You knew how badly I wanted to touch this pretty pussy. Didn't you?" You let out an involuntary moan at his words, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

His pointer and middle finger slip into you through your underwear, grazing your clit. You find yourself rocking against his fingers to get more friction. "Ah, fuck. That's it, pretty girl," he groans, moving his fingers faster. "Keep fucking my fingers—just like that."

He pulled you closer onto him with his other hand, gripping your ass tightly to get you more friction. You leaned your head into his chest, moaning as his fingers continued to move in you.

"Fuck, baby. Look at me—look at me," he commands. You flick your head up to look him in the eyes; his mouth is slightly parted from panting. "Just like that," he pants, watching your mouth agape as he coaxes your orgasm, making you come in your underwear.

He holds you up as your body spasms, gifting him with the sweet mewls you spew. Once your orgasm subsides, he grips one side of your soaked underwear, slipping it down your thighs and tucking it into the pocket of his cargo pants he wore.

You look up at him, doe-eyed, before you look around in horror. "Oh my—you just, you just fingered me in the front yard," you frantically say, taking a step away from him. His lip quips at your genuine anguish.

"I know. I was there," he monotonously says. Anxiously, you bring your hands to thread through your hair. Your eyes widen even more.

"Oh my—my friends," you exclaim, whipping your head to your house.

"Guess you'll have some explaining to do," he casually says.

"Fuck you," you remark.

"Hungry for more already?" He smirked, pulling you by the arm closer to him so you rested flat against his body.

"No—you know that's not what I meant!"

a/n: happy almost halloween! take my treat to u all! divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[marvelstoriesepic]

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

[geminiwritten]

baby sister ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: hangman has a serious crush on you, it might even be love, but it's a little complicated seeing as rooster is your older brother

notes: yes, i finally watched top gun (i'm stubborn, okay), and yes, i am obsessed! i'm not too sure how i feel about this, but it's my first one so please be kind! i also tried writing it by kind of switching pov's, so sorry if its weird / confusing! but as always, i love feedback so please, please let me know what you think x

warnings: swearing, very minor physical altercation with a creepy guy, boner joke, switching pov's (kind of), protective older brother, and likely some very inaccurate us navy details

word count: 7493

- One Year Ago -

The old bar smells exactly as you remember it; wood polish, worn leather, stale beer, and a hint of ocean air. It’s a lot cleaner than it used to be – the soles of your shoes aren’t sticking to the floor – and you assume that’s thanks to the new owner. It isn’t as busy as you would expect for Friday at 4PM, which you’re somewhat thankful for as you easily find a spare barstool beside the vacant pool table.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a polite smile.

“Just a water, please.”

He retrieves a bottle from the fridge below the bar while you check your pockets for cash, pulling out a few dollars and handing it to him in exchange for the water. He smiles again before turning around to serve patrons on the other side of the bar, and you start drawing shapes in the condensation of the bottle while you wait.

“This seat taken?” someone asks, appearing beside you.

Startled, you turn quickly to find a pair of green eyes much closer than expected. You’d have to be stupid not to immediately notice that this guy is gorgeous, but the smirk on his lips tells you that he knows it too.

“Not yet,” you reply with a tight-lipped smile.

He sits himself on the stool and signals the bartender, ordering a schooner of pale ale draught before pulling a few notes out of his back pocket. He isn’t in uniform, but you can tell by the way he holds himself that he’s an officer.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, “are you visiting?”

You nod before taking a large sip of water, your eyes constantly watching the new patrons that enter through the main door. You know better than to flirt with a lieutenant (guessing by his age), your mother always told you to stay away from military men.

“Have you been to North Island before?” he asks, seemingly unphased by your lack of enthusiasm for conversation.

“Yeah, a few times.”

“Military family?”

“Sort of,” you reply.

“Okay, let me guess,” he leans both elbows on the bar and looks at you, unleashing the full power of his pretty green eyes, “your dad was military, gone for months at a time with little to no contact, which left your mom to raise you all on her own. You would hear her crying at night and watch her struggle every day, but then when your dad got home, he was the hero; forget about all her hard work. Eventually, your mom got sick of being alone and began to resent him, so they grew apart and the next thing you know, dad moves out with his new girlfriend and mum tells you every single day never to date a man in the military.”

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips, because damn this man is pretty, and you simply can’t find it in yourself to ignore him.

“Close,” you say, “but it was her first husband who was military, and he died in action. My father was a banker, safe but boring, and it didn’t work out. But you are right about one thing; mom has always told me not to date a man in the military.”

“Oh,” he takes a long sip of his beer, stalling as he tries to think of something to say that isn’t totally insensitive.

“Not that I always listen to what she says,” you add with a smirk, making him choke on his mouthful of beer.

He looks back at you, shocked but still smiling, “Are you flirting with me?”

Your turn sideways on the stool to face him, opening your mouth to reply when a familiar sight walking toward you catches your attention. You stop and smile, looking straight past the man sitting beside you.

“Hey Baby,” Bradley says with a grin.

“Hey,” you jump off the stool, “how are you?”

“Woah, hey,” the green-eyed man stands too, a slight frown between his brows, "Rooster, c’mon man. You’re going to have to find yourself another girl; let’s not make this a competition too.”

Bradley’s brows shoot up toward his hairline, and you have to roll your lips to keep from giggling.

“Oh, here we go,” one of the men who walked in with Bradley chuckles, and you think you can remember meeting him the last time you visited.

“A competition?” Bradley repeats, his tone mildly threatening.

“Wait,” the man glances between you and Bradley, “are you two dating?”

Bradley scoffs, “Absolutely not.”

“Then why did you call her baby?”

“It’s her nickname, genius,” the same man as before says, and you suddenly remember Bradley introducing him to you last summer. You never did find out his real name, but they call him Payback.

The green-eyed man turns to you in shock, “Like, your call sign?”

You shake your head, “I don’t fly.”

“She wishes,” Bradley says as he slings an arm around your shoulders. “Hangman, this is Baby, as in my baby sister.”

The poor man chokes so hard on his beer, you’re surprised it doesn’t spray out his nose. He coughs and splutters, holding a hand on his chest while the rest of Bradley’s friends laugh from around the pool table. Bradley chuckles too, seemingly satisfied with the damage he’s caused, before turning to give you a proper hug.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Not terrible, but I swear my bag was the last to come out on the carousel.”

He releases you from his hold and orders two beers from the bartender, handing you one soon as its poured. “You remember my friends, don’t you?” he asks as he turns to face the game of pool, “Payback and Fanboy, and that’s Bob; I don’t think you met him last summer.”

You smile and give an awkward wave, not bothering to walk around and shake everyone’s hands in the middle of a game.

“Dude,” Fanboy says to Hangman, who is now standing on the opposite side of the pool table, “I can’t believe you were hitting on Rooster’s little sister.”

“Hey,” Hangman frowns, “she was hitting on me back.”

Bradley’s head whips toward you, his eyes wide, “You what?”

“Oh, calm down Braddy,” you say, “I can look after myself.”

Payback snickers, “Braddy?”

“Aw, Braddy,” Fanboy coos.

Bradley shoots you a glare as you slip out from under his arm to find a seat, grinning sheepishly at your brother as his friends continue to mock your nickname for him. After half an hour and two pool games – these guys are freakishly good – another two lieutenants join the group, introducing themselves as Coyote and Phoenix.

“So,” Phoenix says as she sits on the stool beside you, “what brings you to North Island, aside from missing your big brother?”

Even though Bradley’s back is to you as he takes a shot, you know he’s rolling his eyes.

“Well, I usually try and visit more than once a year, but he’s hardly been on the ground in the past twelve months,” you say, “then Uncle Pete called me a few weeks ago and said he was going on a trip with Penny. So, he asked if I could come babysit Braddy for a while.”

“Aw,” she giggles, “Braddy needs a babysitter?”

Bradley flicks your arm as he walks past, circling the pool table to find the best angle, “Would you stop telling people embarrassing shit about me.”

You shrug, “How was I supposed to know that you were pretending to be cool?”

The rest of the group laugh as Bradley completely botches his shot, sinking the white ball.

“I’m sorry, Rooster, but I definitely like her better,” Hangman says with a smirk.

You roll your lips as you look over at the lieutenant, appreciating how tight his t-shirt is as he bends forward over the pool table to take his shot.

Bradley points at him, “You better cut it out, she is off limits.”

- Present -

You decided to move to San Diego about two weeks after flying in last summer, and it had nothing to do with the beach day you went on with Bradley and his friends, where Jake tackled you in the surf, all shirtless and wet and muscly. Bradley was beyond excited to have his little sister closer to him, he even helped get you a desk job in the operations department. It wasn’t anything close to what he was doing, protecting the country and all that, but you’re liking it way better than your old job. Which again, has nothing to do with the fact that you get to take lunch breaks with a certain lieutenant. Your brother is there too, but you don’t fancy staring at him, you’ve seen enough of him over the years.

“Are you going to eat or stare?” Natasha asks, nudging your side with her elbow.

The mouthful of pasta that had been balancing on your fork falls off and plops back into your bowl. You turn to her, your eyebrows furrowed, “Huh?”

“My God, you’re practically drooling.”

“Is the pasta good?” Jake asks, clearly having overheard and misunderstood your conversation, “I knew I should have chosen that; the sloppy joes are too sloppy.”

He leans across the table and takes your fork, stabbing it into a few pieces of pasta before popping it in his mouth. Your heart thuds in your chest as you watch his lips wrap around the utensil that was previously in your mouth, and you want to be ashamed of yourself for allowing something so frivolous to get you so excited, but you simply can’t help it. With your brother the constant cock-block always hanging around, sharing a fork is the closest you’ve gotten to Jake in the year that you’ve been here.

“Mm,” he groans, “that is good.”

“You can have it,” you push the bowl toward him, “I’m not that hungry.”

“Yeah, and you just contaminated her fork,” Bradley says, smacking Jake’s shoulder.

“I don’t think she minds,” Natasha pipes in.

Oblivious, Jake looks up with a huge mouthful of pasta making his cheeks puff out, and somehow, he still looks adorable. You shoot a subtle glare at Natasha from the corner of your eye before picking up the apple from your tray and biting into it.

“So,” you turn your attention to your brother, “The Hard Deck after work?”

He nods, “Yep, I’ve got a year of free beers to win.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, “It’s cute that you think you have a chance of winning in a pool comp against me.”

“Or me,” Jake adds.

Bradley snorts, “Please, you’ve been so off your game lately, and Phoenix” – he turns to look at her – “is good, but not as good as me.”

“You are so full of yourself, do you know that?” Natasha says, her eyes narrowed at Bradley.

You quickly tune out as they launch into a petty argument about who is better at pool and who is going to win The Hard Deck’s billiards tournament, having heard it almost a hundred times over the past month. It’s an eight-week competition, every Thursday night, and this is only the fifth week but you’re pretty sure you’re going to kill your brother if he doesn’t stop bragging about being undefeated so far. Then again, he hasn’t yet had to play against half of the dagger squad, arguably the best pool players on North Island.

“Alright, we better go,” Bradley says, nudging Jake again.

Jake scrapes the last of the pasta from the bowl into his mouth before standing from his chair and leaning across the table toward you. “Thanks Baby,” he says with a wink, “I owe you one.” He drops the empty bowl on your tray and slides your tray across the table, stacking it on top of his.

When he straightens up, both trays in his hands, Bradley is glaring. “Watch it, Seresin.”

“What? I was just thanking her,” Jake says innocently, “don’t get your panties in a knot.”

You roll your eyes and stand up from your chair, “See you guys later, then?”

Jake can’t help himself, and he turns toward you wearing his most charming grin, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Dude!” Bradley exclaims, smacking him in the shoulder.

Natasha sighs, despite the amused smirk on her lips, “Come on you two, fight about it later.”

You roll your lips to keep from giggling, because you know that will only irritate Bradley more, but you’re pretty sure your cherry red cheeks are about to give something away. Before your brother can notice the way Jake’s words have affected you, you turn on your heel and head back toward your office, anticipation bubbling in your stomach for tonight.

- Jake -

Maverick ended today’s training half an hour early, dismissing everyone but Rooster since he still had sixty-two push ups to do after betting that he could catch Phoenix and Bob before Mav could. He was wrong, but Jake admires the cockiness.

The rest of the squad have already made their way to the locker rooms, eager to shower and change and get to The Hard Deck for a well-earned drink. There’s no current mission for the dagger squad, no impending doom, so that on top of the excitement for the billiards comp has everyone in the highest of spirits. Everyone but Jake, of course.

He’s the last to enter the locker room, dragging his feet and slowly unzipping his flight suit as he weaves through the rest of the boys toward his locker. He isn’t sad by any means, just frustrated, because it seems that the longer you live in San Diego, the more protective your brother gets. His rule about you being off limits isn’t easing any time soon, and neither is Jake’s crush.

“What’s the matter with you?” Coyote asks, shoving his flight suit into his locker right beside Jake’s.

“Hm?” Jake looks up from his feet, “Oh, nothing, just distracted.”

Payback peers around from the other side of Coyote’s locker, his lips curled into a smirk, “So, how’s that hideously inappropriate and all-consuming crush on Rooster’s little sister going?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s great,” Jake says sarcastically, “I should be ready to kill myself any day now.”

The rest of the boys dissolve into laughter, each pausing in various stages of undress to giggle about Jake’s unfortunate situation. Everyone but Rooster and Phoenix know at this point, having easily figured it out by the way Jake can’t seem to focus anytime you’re in the same room, and thankfully, none of them plan on outing his little secret anytime soon. Jake likes to think it’s because they’re afraid that Rooster might shoot the messenger, and while that might be a small part of it, he knows it’s really because they feel sorry for him. The first girl who Hangman actually wants something real with, and it’s the little sister of Bradley Bradshaw.

However, Jake is surprised that Phoenix hasn’t yet figured it out, but grateful nonetheless, since she’s way too close to you to have that kind of ammunition under her belt. There have been a few times where he thought she might be onto him, little glances at you whenever he gets too flirty and subtle comments that could have underlying meanings, but she hasn’t confronted him about it yet, so he assumes she’s just as clueless as Rooster is.

“Come on, Hangman,” Fanboy says from the opposite row of lockers, “it can’t be that bad.”

“You want to bet?” Jake asks, glancing over his shoulder. “I got half a bar at lunch today because I used the same fork as her.”

The laughter, having died down for a moment, picks up again with renewed vigour. Even Bob, who is usually quiet and refuses to comment when the boys start teasing Jake about his crush, is giggling into his open locker, shoulders shaking.

“Oh, man,” Coyote says between fits of laughter, “you’re down bad.”

“What’s so funny?” Rooster asks, standing in front of the door as it swings shut behind him.

The laughter quickly subsides and everyone turns to hide their faces in their lockers, all but Jake who is left staring at Rooster’s quizzical frown.

“Coyote was just saying that he nearly soiled himself today when Mav pulled that cobra manoeuvre in front of him,” Jake lies, at which Coyote shoots him a glare.

Rooster chuckles, “Oh, really? I didn’t catch that.”

“Too busy running your mouth, Rooster,” Fanboy chimes in.

“Yeah, how’s your stomach after those two-hundred push ups?” Payback asks as he walks toward Rooster with an evil grin, reeling his fist back to strike his friend in the abdomen.

Rooster evades the attack, eyes wide, “Don’t even think about it, my abs are on fire right now.”

Jake relaxes as casual conversation picks back up; Rooster seemingly fooled by his lie as he jokes around with the rest of the squad. They all strip out of their flight suits and shower before changing into civilian clothes, packing their gear into their lockers, and heading out the door. Those who aren’t headed to The Hard Deck bid their goodbyes, while those eager for a beer begin making their way to the bar.

“Should we wait for the girls?” Jake asks as they walk toward Rooster’s car.

“Well, at least one of us has to,” Bob replies, glancing around the group of six.

Rooster tosses his keys in the air and catches them again in the palm of his hand, “Fight it out amongst yourselves boys.”

“It’s fine, I’ll wait for them,” Jake offers quickly.

Fanboy has to stifle his laughter behind his hand, pretending to rub his nose.

“That’s unlike you to be so obliging, Hangman,” Coyote says, his narrowed eyes telling Jake that he’s still bitter about being thrown under the bus earlier.

“I actually think I left my watch in my locker, so I have to run back anyway,” Jake lies again.

“Easy done,” Rooster, oblivious as ever, says, “climb on in fellas, I’m thirsty.”

The rest of the group all move toward Rooster’s car and pile in, while Jake turns his back and pulls out his phone to text Phoenix, asking her to wait for him if the two of you exit the locker room before he’s done ‘looking for his watch’.

More and more of late, Jake has been doing things that are ‘unlike him’ in order to gain more time with you away from your brother, the ever-present cock-block. It isn’t often that he has the chance, and he knows his behaviour is becoming noticeable, but until Rooster confronts him for trying to spend time with you, he’s going to keep trying.

He runs in and out of the locker room, simply to keep up the lie, before fishing his watch out of his pocket and strapping it to his wrist as he walks back toward the car park. He could recognise you from a mile away, all perfect and effortless, leaning casually against Phoenix’s car and twirling a stray piece of hair as Phoenix talks to you. The closer he gets, the more he can see that whatever Phoenix is saying is intense, and it’s making you nervous. Your hair twirling is less idle and more anxious as Phoenix stresses her words with her hands, looking exasperated.

A part of him wants to sneak up and try to catch the conversation, but before he can think too hard about how he could become stealthier, Phoenix spots him. “Come on Bagman, hurry it up!” she calls across the lot.

You glance over your shoulder, locking eyes with him and he simply cannot stop the grin that takes over his lips. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Trace,” he says, though his eyes never leave yours.

Phoenix scoffs, “What’s your obsession with panties today?”

When he comes within a few feet of you, he frowns and turns his attention to Phoenix, “What?”

“First Rooster at lunch and now me,” she says. “Are you not getting laid or something?”

The way her eyes drift over to you as she speaks, a smirk threatening to curl her lip, has Jake’s heart racing. Does she know? How could she know?

He clears his throat and wills himself to seem unaffected by her taunt, but whatever smart-lipped quip that he would usually respond with refuses to pop into his head. He panics, sweat prickling the back of his neck. Phoenix turns her attention away from you and back to him, her playful smile slowly fading as the silence stretches and he struggles to retort. If she didn’t know before, she definitely knows now.

“Oh, leave him alone, Nat,” your voice breaks the tension, “we all know Hangman has no trouble with the ladies.”

Phoenix shakes her head, as if needing the physical queue to stop her own spiralling thoughts. “So he tells us,” she says, grabbing the handle on the driver’s side door, “but I’m yet to witness his skills in action.”

She casts Jake one last dubious glance before opening the door and taking her seat behind the wheel. You turn to him then, your gaze holding him captive as you ask, “Do you want shotgun?”

He shakes his head, swallowing on his dry throat, “You take it, I’m good in the back.”

- You -

Jake looks like he’s seen a ghost as he stares out the window of the car, watching the Naval Air Station pass by as Natasha drives toward the exit gates. You can’t help glancing at him in the rear view mirror every few seconds, only able to see a portion of his side profile with the angle of the mirror, but it’s still enough to know that he doesn’t look normal.

As a matter of fact, Natasha looks a little odd too, as if she’s trying to silently solve a math problem in her head. Her eyes are narrowed, her brows furrowed, and her hands are holding the steering wheel tightly at ten and two. She too keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, whether looking at Jake or simply checking the traffic, you can’t tell, but her shoulders stay tense and her lips pressed firmly together.

“So,” you say, swivelling in your chair to properly look at Jake, “how was flight school?”

His face breaks into a soft smile and your pulse triples its speed, your heart thundering in your chest as you stare into his pretty green eyes. “I graduated flight school a while ago, darlin’,” he says.

You love when he uses a pet name other than your nickname, because ‘baby’ just doesn’t have the same ring when its something your whole family uses.

“I know, but I heard Maverick over the comms say that he was going to send the lot of you back to flight school.”

Jake chuckles, “You were listening on the comms?”

You shrug, “Sometimes I listen in, just to be nosey.”

You really only do it so you can enjoy Jake’s voice throughout the day, because something about Jake in that cockpit doing what he does best gets you incredibly hot and bothered. What can you say? You’re a masochist.

“Well, I better start watching my language,” he says, “or I can just tell Mav that you’ve been listening in.”

Your eyes widen, “You wouldn’t do that.”

His smile turns into a smirk, “You sure about that?”

All you want to do is crawl into the back seat and crush your lips against his. He looks good enough to eat right now, fresh from a shower, his damp hair a little spikier than usual, and his green eyes sparkling with mischief and something else you can’t quite place.

“Speaking of Mav,” Natasha pipes in, “he said he was going to stop by the bar tonight.”

Great, not only a brother but a cock-blocking uncle too. Well, uncle figure.

“Oh, fun,” you say, trying not to sound so sarcastic, but Natasha isn’t stupid. She catches your displeased tone and shoots you a knowing look, her lips now curled into a smug smile. At least she seems to have figured out her math problem.

A minute later, Natasha pulls the car into the gravel parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. She finds a park right next to Rooster’s car, and the three of you climb out in silence. You can hear the jukebox playing from outside as you approach the main door, Natasha in the lead and typing a message on her phone while you and Jake follow closely behind.

“Nervous?” you ask him, referring to the pool comp.

He chuckles, “Only because you’ll be watching, darlin’.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, their wings making you sick with nerves as they flutter violently. You want to reply, but your brain is complete mush as you stare back at his gorgeous grin, so all you can do is playfully roll your eyes and bump your shoulder against his.

The three of you enter the bar and make a beeline for the familiar faces seated at the booth closest to the pool table. The cues and balls are nowhere to be found, and there’s a sign written in black marker laying on the green felt that reads ‘POOL COMP IN SESSION, DO NOT TOUCH’.

Before you can reach your brother and the rest of the squad, Natasha grabs your hand and tugs you toward the bar. “Want a drink?” she asks, moving too quickly for Jake to follow.

You glance over your shoulder and watch him watch you with a confused frown as he takes a seat at the booth with the rest of the group. Natasha pulls you a decent way away from the squad, finding an open space at the bar and leaning against it, but she doesn’t flag down Penny or Jimmy.

“I think Seresin likes you,” she says, her voice low and eyes wide.

Your stomach does a somersault, “What?”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out, but” – she smacks her hands on the bar emphatically – “he really likes you.”

“Is that why you were so tense before?”

“Yes, because I-”

“Hey ladies,” Penny interrupts, an easy smile on her lips, “what are we drinking tonight?”

“Hey Penny,” you muster your best I’m Totally Not Freaking Out Right Now smile, “two schooners of the pale ale, please.”

She nods once and fills two schooner glasses, sliding them across the bar and taking the cash from Natasha’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks Penny,” Natasha says, before taking a big gulp from her glass.

You tip your own drink to your lips and drain half of it, plonking it back down and wiping the foam from the tip of your nose before turning back to your friend. “You were saying?”

“Before, when he came up to us in the parking lot,” she explains, “I made some stupid joke about him not getting laid and I looked at you, because duh, but so did he.”

You frown, “And?”

“And he looked totally panicked.”

“Maybe he was just embarrassed.”

She rolls her eyes, “That wasn’t embarrassment, he looked like I’d just outed his biggest secret, and he didn’t even comeback with some stupid, sarcastic comment.”

You sigh, “Nat, I love you, but I think you’ve gone insane. Jake doesn’t see me as anything more than Bradley’s baby sister, he’s probably just fried from work and couldn’t think of anything on the spot.”

“You’re never going to believe me, are you?”

You shrug, “Probably not.”

“Okay, fine,” she picks her drink up and steps back from the bar, “I’ll find a way.”

She starts walking back toward the booth where the rest of the squad are, and you quickly pick up your own half-empty schooner before following her with an amused smile on your lips. Natasha is anything if not determined.

- Jake -

Jake releases the breath he’s been holding from the moment Phoenix dragged you away from the group, toward the bar. He can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous, his sweaty palms pressed against his jean-clad thighs as he watches the two of you approach the booth. He has no idea what Phoenix just told you, and he has no idea if Phoenix really knows what he thinks she knows, but his nerves are firing on every cylinder regardless.

“This seat taken?” you ask him as Phoenix takes the spare spot beside Bob.

He shakes his head, “All yours, darlin’.”

“Careful, Hangman,” Fanboy chuckles, “don’t want Rooster hearing that.”

Jake rolls his eyes, forcing his demeanour to appear relaxed, “Rooster’s all talk.”

“That so?” Rooster asks, stepping up to the booth with a tray of beers.

Laughter rumbles through the group.

“I guess we’ll find out later tonight,” Phoenix chimes in, “you two are versing each other in the second game.” She slides the schedule for tonight’s games across the table toward Jake, pointing at the names beneath ‘Game #2’.

“I guess we will,” Jake says, plastering on his cockiest smirk.

Rooster rolls his eyes before turning to find a spare chair, since both sides of the booth are very full. On one side, Coyote, Bob, and Phoenix are sitting side by side, and on the other is Payback, Fanboy, Jake, and you pressed firmly against Jake’s side. He doesn’t mind, of course, because your leg is warm against his, and with his arm slung over the back of the booth, you fit almost perfectly against his side. In fact, he’s surprised Rooster hasn’t said anything yet.

After two rounds of beer and a lot of banter, it’s time for Jake and Rooster to compete. Penny calls them over to the table and sets it up, handing each of them a cue before rattling off the rules as she did before the first game. They flip a coin and Rooster calls heads, but tails lands face-up and Jake gets to break.

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he lines his cue up with the white ball, a small voice at the back of his head demanding he look cool since you were a mere three feet away, watching. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that this is an easy game, before releasing his shot and sending the balls scattering.

The game begins smoothly, each of the lieutenants lining their shots up with precision and hitting the balls with calculated force. They each sink a few, and at about halfway through, the game is tightly tied.

“Come on, Seresin,” Rooster mutters as Jake bends over for his next shot, “what does it take to make you crack?”

Like the idiot he is, Jake lets his eyes wander away from the white ball and across the green felt until they find you, still sitting at the booth on the opposite side of the pool table. Without thinking, his back hand jabs the cue forward, but without his full focus, it knocks the white ball on a short and wobbly path toward nothing in particular.

The spectators give a sad ‘ooh’ as Jake sighs, and Rooster smirks, “Now who’s all talk?”

Jake only shakes his head and moves away from the table. Since the white ball hadn’t made it all that far, Rooster positions himself almost exactly where Jake had been, bending over the table a little further and aiming his cue at the white ball. He focuses for a moment, scanning the constellation of balls across the felt before he glances up and notices you. From where he’s positioned, he is looking directly at you, exactly as Jake had been when he fumbled his shot.

Rooster’s smirk drops and his gaze moves slowly toward Jake, his knuckles turning white as his grip on the cue tightens. Jake’s heart crawls up into his throat, his palms sweating as he stares back at Rooster. Did he just figure it out?

Rooster takes the shot and sinks two balls before repositioning himself and sinking another one. His next shot puts the white ball in an awkward spot for Jake, and he fumbles again. He’s lost all focus, unable to see anything but your gorgeous face or your brother’s murderous one.

After ten more minutes, the game is over and Penny is announcing Rooster as the winner. Jake isn’t knocked out of the competition, but he doesn’t have to play again tonight, which he is more than grateful for.

“Alright, Rooster,” Penny says, “you’ve got five minutes and then it’s you and Fitz.”

Jake finishes his beer before quickly excusing himself to the men’s room, avoiding eye contact with every member of the squad as he hurries through the bar. Once in the safe confines of a bathroom stall, he covers his face with both of his hands and sighs, loudly.

After everything – all the stolen glances and subtle flirting, every excuse to see you or talk to you – did Rooster really just figure it out in the middle of a stupid pool game?

“This is ridiculous,” Jake mutters to himself as he rubs his hands down his face.

He’s never felt this way about anyone before and he has no idea how to deal with it. The nerves are different than what he’s used to, it’s not like before a mission when he can channel his anxiousness into anticipation and put all his focus into being an expert pilot. Because he knows his jet inside out, and he knows the cockpit like the back of his hand, but this? It’s all different. He doesn’t know what this feeling is because he’s only ever felt this strongly about one thing before; flying. But right now he’s pretty sure he would spend the rest of his life on the ground if it meant the rest of his life would be spent with you.

He stays in the stall for another few minutes, making sure Rooster’s second game of pool is well and truly underway by the time he exits the bathroom. The door to the men’s room has hardly swung shut behind him when Phoenix appears in front of him, startling him.

“Far out, can’t a guy catch a break?” he gasps.

“Were you in there crying about your defeat or just hiding from Rooster?” she asks, her expression deadpan.

He frowns, feigning confusion, “What? Why would I be hiding from Rooster?”

“Because you’re in love with his baby sister.”

The panic he had managed to subdue mere minutes ago returns with a vengeance, coursing through his veins like a thousand volts of electricity. He scrambles for a defence, words, anything. “W-Wha- Phoenix, I- you don’t-”

“Save it,” she interrupts him, rolling her eyes, “I’m not going to interrogate you or try to talk you into making a move.”

His tangled mind struggles to follow along, “Why would you-”

“He is,” she says, pointing at their captain who is sitting alone at the end of the bar.

Jake’s stomach flips, “He is what?”

“Going to talk to you.”

She grabs his wrist, the strength of her grip surprising him even though he knows she’s just as strong as he is. She drags him toward the bar where Maverick is sitting, sipping his beer and watching the pool competition with keen eyes.

“Evening, Captain,” Jake says, and he knows the moment it leaves his lips that he’s being unusually formal.

Phoenix rolls her eyes again, dramatically. “All yours, Mav,” she says, before turning on her heel and returning to the booth with the rest of the squad.

“Hangman,” Maverick says, a hint of a smirk on his lips, “take a seat.”

Jake swallows hard as he sits on the barstool beside his captain.

“You know,” Mav continues, “you haven’t addressed me as captain in a very long time.”

“Well,” Jake says, “it's never too late to make a good impression.”

Maverick chuckles quietly before tipping the last of his beer to his lips. When he puts the glass back down on the bar, Penny takes it, offering Jake a small, almost sympathetic smile as she does.

Mav turns on his stool to face Jake, “I’ve noticed you’ve been acting a little different lately. Want to talk about it?”

Jake clears his throat, “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Cap- uh, Mav.”

“You sure about that?” Maverick asks as he looks away from Jake, casting his gaze across the bar toward the booth where the dagger squad are seated. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve been acting strangely ever since Y/N moved here.”

Hearing your name is the closest thing to a prayer in Jake’s ears, because he is so used to hearing your nickname, that hearing your real name feels reverent.

He sighs, admitting defeat, “Who told you?”

Mav chuckles again, “Technically, Phoenix did, but no one had to tell me. I might be old, but I’m not stupid, and I’ve lived long enough to recognise the way you look at her.”

Jake frowns, “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I was kind of enjoying the way you’ve been sucking up to Rooster,” Mav replies sheepishly, “letting him be team leader in all the mission simulations, buying him beers every weekend, and letting him win at pool of course.”

Jake can feel his cheeks burning, “I didn’t let him win, Mav, I just can’t focus when she’s around.”

Maverick claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder, leaning on him slightly as stands up. “Then stop being so scared of her big brother and do something about it, before someone else does.”

He nods toward the squad again before stepping back and walking behind Jake, around the bar toward the pool table. Jake’s eyes follow his captain as he circles the bar, stopping to watch the game of pool on the opposite side of the table to where the dagger squad are seated. When Jake’s eyes pass over the intense game between Rooster and Fitz, his breath catches in his throat.

- You -

You had gotten up to go to the bathroom when this man cornered you, stopping you on your way and trapping you against a wall on the other side of the booth. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him around work, but you can’t be sure, because the only person you do recognise in the sea of naval uniforms on base is Jake. This man is not Jake, and that is one of the main reasons why you can’t be bothered to listen to a single thing he is saying.

“Do you think you’ll stay in San Diego for long?”

You look up at him, pressing your shoulder blades into the wall in an attempt to create more distance between you and him. “Um, probably,” you reply.

You glance quickly over your shoulder, for once wishing that your police dog of a brother would do what he does best and scare this man away, but he’s too focused on his pool competition.

“That’s great,” the man leans even closer, his breath wreaking of alcohol, “maybe we can get together sometime, alone.”

You press your lips into a tight smile, neither wanting to accept nor reject the man’s proposal in the current, vulnerable position in which he has you trapped. When he opens his mouth to speak again, a cheer erupts behind you and Penny announces Rooster as the overall champion of the night. You clap your hands and smile at your brother as he does a few dramatic bows.

You turn back to the man with your excuse for escape on the tip of your tongue, “I better go-”

“We should get some fresh air,” he says, grabbing one of your wrists in a vice grip.

Panic washes over you, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of your neck as he tugs on your arm. You stumble forward and glance over your shoulder, hoping that someone has noticed, but he chose the perfect time. The rest of the squad have rushed to the pool table, taking the cues from Penny to set up their own game while other pub patrons congratulate Rooster on his win.

Just as the man reaches the doors leading onto the beach, Rooster’s eyes find you. His grin vanishes and he quickly tries to step away from the crowd surrounding him, but Maverick appears at his side with a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. What the fuck?!

You watch Maverick say something to Rooster, who’s eyes then dart away from you and toward something across the bar, but before you can follow his gaze, the man tugs you out the door. The cool night air bites at your bear arms as you stumble down the wooden steps onto the sand.

“Much better,” the man says, finally releasing you.

You turn sharply to run back into the bar, but you only make it two steps before coming face to chest with someone else. You know who it is even before you look up to find a very concerned pair of pretty green eyes.

“Jake,” you breathe, your body relaxing as he wraps an arm around you.

The man steps toward you again, “Hey, what the-”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Jake exclaims. “Who the fuck do you even think you are dragging a girl out of the bar when she clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you?”

“I don’t recall hearing her saying no,” the man argues, puffing out his chest.

“Because you didn’t give her a fucking chance,” Jake spits.

He takes half a step forward, guiding you behind his body as the man grounds himself as if getting ready to throw a punch. Your stomach sinks and the lump in your throat doubles in size at the thought of Jake getting hurt for you. Just as you think the man is about to wind his arm back, his scowl shifts to something behind you and his jaw goes slack. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Javy and Reuben step out of the bar and your heart aches with fondness.

Without so much as another word, the man shoots Jake one last look before turning and walking away. Javy and Reuben chuckle to each other before stepping back inside the bar, leaving you and Jake alone on the sand.

“Hey,” he turns to face you, “are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you drop your gaze to your shoes, “sorry about that.”

He hooks a finger beneath your chin and tilts your head back up, “Don’t be silly, that was not your fault and nothing to be sorry about.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, drowning out the music from the bar and the sound of waves crashing. All you can feel is Jake, close and comforting, and staring down at you as if he might want to kiss you too.

“Well,” you step toward him, as close as you can get without pressing your body against his, “then I’m sorry about what might happen to you after I do this.”

You curl your fingers into the material at the collar of his shirt and pull him forward, stretching up onto your toes to meet his lips with yours. He’s startled at first, but quickly responds, his hands grabbing your hips and pulling your body against his. He tastes like beer and spearmint gum, his lips soft as that move with yours, fitting together in the most perfect way. As you take a quick breath, his tongue slides past your lips and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss.

You wrap your arms around his neck to hold yourself up, and just as his hands begin sliding down your hips, you’re both startled by a loud wolf whistle. You both turn toward the bar and see Mickey with his head out the window and a stupidly wide grin plastered across his face. The rest of the squad are all pressed against the glass, almost completely fogging it up as they cheer and wave.

“Oh, God,” Jake sighs, “Rooster is going to kill me.”

You can’t help but giggle, “Don’t worry, Hangman, I’ll protect you this time.”

Inside the bar, your brother turns to Maverick, having to look away as you pull Jake into another kiss. “You’re seriously okay with this?” he asks, “You’re okay with Hangman sticking his tongue down the throat of my baby sister?”

Maverick chuckles, “She’s not just your baby sister Bradley, and that’s not Hangman. That’s Jake and Y/N, and it looks to me like they might be in love.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and pretends to gag, deciding to ignore the scene on the beach and return his attention to the pool table. He knows deep down that Maverick is right, so he silently gives his blessing while starting a list in his head of what he will and will not allow the two of you to do in front of him.

END.

[ceilidhtransing]

I've cropped out the username because I have absolutely no desire to start drama or make a personal “callout” or have people go harass someone or anything like that (and if you take this kind of thing as an opportunity to go and be horrible to another Tumblr user then that is terrible and you should stop), but wow, I have never seen such a clanging example of amatonormativity. I don't think OP necessarily meant it this way, I don't think they meant any harm, I don't think they're consciously arophobic or something - it's far more likely that they're simply unfamiliar with aspec issues, and I always prefer to assume good faith - but I want to talk about this post anyway because it provides a really good and explicit example of the way society just sort of... asserts the centrality of romantic attraction and entirely forgets aromantic people exist.

I do want to first say that I actually agree with the initial point this post is making. Romance as a genre is unfairly derided as some kind of “lesser” form of art, and this derision very frequently comes with generous helpings of misogyny. I totally agree that romance is not at all an unintellectual or superficial thing to write about, and it's bad that it gets treated that way and that readers and writers of romance get so often mocked and condemned. Romance is a totally valid genre and enjoying it doesn't make you vain or stupid or superficial.

HOWEVER. As an aromantic person I find the rest of the post just... I don't know, it's just so perfect as a probably unwitting expression of baked-in cultural amatonormativity. It's brilliant. It's so funny to me. I can almost do a line-by-line breakdown of the way it so completely forgets the existence of aromantic people. In fact, let's do that.

It is so fundamental to us. The issue here should be pretty obvious. The assumption that romance is some integral part of The Human Experience and that it's fundamental to All People is pretty much amatonormativity 101. It reinforces the idea that people who don't experience romantic attraction are “lacking”, forever sitting apart from The Human Experience, and possibly in some way not quite fully human, since we don't experience the thing that is apparently so fundamental to humans.

To want to love and be loved. The post seems to be incorrectly equating “romance” with “loving and being loved”, when in fact there are many people who don't experience romantic attraction yet absolutely love and want to be loved. (And of course loveless aros, aplatonic people, various folks who don't “want to love and be loved” also exist, and it's important to emphasise that this desire, just like romantic attraction, is also not necessarily integral to all people.) “Love” is not automatically “romantic love”, but this post seems to imply that romance is the only, or default, form in which love can exist.

If you don't think every great work of literature. philosophy. metaphysics. was ultimately about romance. I don't think you were paying enough attention. OK this is the line that elevated this post from “sigh, more casual amatonormativity to scroll past” to “I just have to respond to this”. Where to even begin with this assertion. This is a level of “assuming romance is central to everything humans ever do and ever create” that I've almost never encountered before. It feels like a manifestation of the tendency for alloromantic people to declare that, because romance is very central for them, it is thus central to Everything. And I'm homing in on “romance” because the post doesn't say “ultimately about love” - which would still be a reach, but less of a reach - it specifically says “ultimately about romance”. As an aromantic person who is an academic at heart and highly educated in the humanities and social sciences, the idea that my ability to understand literature and philosophy and metaphysics is somehow greatly hampered by the fact that I don't experience or relate to romantic attraction is just... what??? This idea is really very funny to me but also genuinely pretty insulting, even though I'm sure it wasn't meant that way. Not only does it feel like the summation of every patronising “oh, you couldn't possibly understand” directed to aromantic adults who are, in fact, entirely capable of understanding, but it also flattens the incredible breadth of human intellectual experience into “being about romance”. I sometimes find myself wishing that alloromantic people would peak outside the bubble of amatonormativity and realise that actually, there is an enormous swathe of human experience and intellect and creativity and expression that has nothing at all to do with romantic attraction and romantic relationships. And no, stating that, I don't know, the Book of Job is not actually about romance has nothing to do with our society's misogynistic denigration of romance as a genre; it has everything to do with the fact that the Book of Job is not actually about romance. (And if you aren't familiar with Job or for some reason don't consider it a “great work of literature”, replace with whatever other example you can think of; there are many.) It's insulting to imply that aro-spec and/or ace-spec people are somehow less able to participate in art and literature and philosophy etc because we might bring a perspective that doesn't include romance or sex at all and we're just not capable of understanding that Actually Romance And/Or Sex Is Central To Everything. It's genuinely absurd to argue that all the pinnacles of human intellectual achievement really, at their core, come back to romance, and it speaks to our very blinkered society's tendency to declare things like “everything is really about sex” or “everything is really about romance” or “everything is really about breakups” or whatever and then look at aro-spec and ace-spec people like we're aliens and go “but like... how do you even live?” Newsflash, there is so much more to life than romance and love and sex. You can live an entire, very fulfilling, very meaningful, very thoughtful life without these things being at all relevant to you. That's not to dismiss those things as minor or unimportant - they are indeed very central to a lot of people's lives, and they're not “dumb” or “shallow” or whatever - but they're not central to everyone's lives, and they're hardly The Only Things In The World.

And if your response is something along the lines of “well OK there's a tiny minority of people who don't engage with romance and/or sex, or relate to it in the same way most people do, but that doesn't mean that romance isn't still at the core of humanity, or that all the most important things don't still have romance at their heart”, imagine telling a woman that “well, you can focus on a career if you want, but what's really fundamental to being a woman is being a wife and mother - in fact, motherhood is the most important thing in the world, it's fundamental to women, it's what all women's literature is about”. Or, hell, telling a person of any gender that “parenthood” is the central pillar of all of humanity and that every great work of art ever produced is ultimately about parenthood and obviously parenthood is fundamental to everyone's being - forgetting that actually some people will never be parents, and implying that their childlessness makes them less able to understand The Human Experience. That might give you some small idea of what it's like to be an aspec person and be repeatedly told that feelings you don't experience and relationships you don't have and attractions you don't relate to and acts you don't engage in are somehow Fundamental To Humanity and are what lie at The Core Of Everything: how excluding that is, how alienating that is, how oppressively stifling that is.

Feeling that love and/or romance and/or sex are very important to your own life is totally valid, but I wish alloromantics and allosexuals could be more capable of opening their minds and imagining and empathising with an existence for which these things aren't central. Our lives aren't lesser, or emptier, or sadder, or shallower for lack of romance or sex. Our experiences are part of The Human Experience. Our perspectives on art and life and relationships and philosophy and humanity and everything else are just as valid. We are just as capable of profundity, of creativity, of insight - because romance and sex aren't “at the core” of any of these things. We are here, and we're tired of being forgotten, ignored, sidelined, dismissed, erased, talked over, talked past. It would be great if society at large actually remembered we exist once in a while, and that our lives are just as beautiful and important as anyone else's.

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Ten

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Cricket Oscar I repeat Cricket Oscar! Also... you know that whole 'ten chapters per era' thing? Yeah, scratch that. I'm just going with the vibes. They have more story to tell than I thought! We're almost at the end of Boarding School era though. Almost.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The outfield shimmered under the kind of sun you could almost believe was nearly summer, not just the British version where your nose still ran but your calves were burning.

Harper was stretched across the cricket pavilion steps, blazer bundled under her head, school skirt hitched to mid-thigh. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her legs — bare, pale, with a fresh constellation of freckles — were aimed straight at the sky like solar panels.

"Do you think it's working?" She asked, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Jane, sat beside her with her knees up and a blue slushie in one hand, sniffed. "Your thighs still look like milk, but your knees might be caramelising slightly."

"Excellent," Harper muttered. "Just what every girl dreams of. Caramelised knees."

On the pitch below, the Year 11 and 12 boys were playing some kind of friendly cricket match, which was loosely organised and entirely chaotic.

Oscar, Sam, and Matt were all in full whites — jumpers on, shirts rolled at the sleeves, trousers already grass-stained and untucked. Oscar bowled like he was in the Ashes. Sam swung the bat like he was in a pub fight. Matt had no idea what he was doing, but his mum was a big donator to the sports department, so he was on every team they had.

Jane slurped her drink loudly. "How do they look fit in cricket whites? Like. That shouldn't be hot. But it is."

Harper hummed in agreement. "Oscar looks so good."

"I'd let Sam ruin my life," Jane said mildly, tilting her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. "Just for the record."

"That's a given," said Alfie from behind them.

He was leaning against the pavilion rail with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a bouncer at a VIP tanning party, watching the crowd.

Harper smirked. "You alright there, security?"

"I'm good," he said, not moving. "Just enjoying the weather. And making sure no one ogles the royal bump or the goth queen over here for too long."

Jane fluttered her lashes. "Aw, Alfie. That's so sweet."

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but didn't deny it.

Two Year 10s walked by, gawking a bit too long at Harper's stomach. Alfie flipped them off without looking away from the field.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "It's like they've never seen a pregnant girl before. Weirdos."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Leave them alone, Alf. Our sex-ed programme here is awful."

On the pitch, Oscar had just clean bowled a year 12 twice his size. He didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his mark like a soldier reloading his gun.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off a sliding catch and promptly started peacocking like a West End actor. Matt attempted a cartwheel and fell flat on his face.

The girls howled with laughter.

"They're so stupid," Jane said, beaming.

"They're our stupid, though," Harper replied.

"And you're stuck with them forever," Alfie added, which made Harper laugh so hard she snorted.

Oscar looked up at the sound — squinting toward the pavilion — and smiled when he saw her, quick and quiet and just for her. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, waved once, then turned back to the game.

Jane sipped her slushie. "God, you two are cute."

"Shut up," Harper said, but she was still smiling.

The sun drifted a little lower. Somewhere in the background, the school bell rang for Sunday chapel — and nobody moved.

For a moment, just one, they weren't kids dealing with exams and babies and contracts and races and aristocratic uncles and tabloid magazines.

They were just fifteen and full of sugar, with sun warmed skin, watching the boys they liked pretend to be grown-ups in too-big uniforms and too-small egos.

It was perfect. Brief. Messy.

Life.

—

The boys came trudging up the slope from the pitch victorious — Sam with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, Matt skipping like he'd just won Eurovision, and Oscar... quiet, scuffed, a bit pink in the face and pretending he didn't notice Harper jogging down the last few steps to meet him.

"Oi, lovers!" Jane called, slapping her empty slushie cup onto Alfie's head. "We're going this way!"

Harper didn't care. She launched herself at Oscar, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand.

"You were so good," she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. "Seriously, I think I'm ovulating. I don't care that I already have a baby inside me."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alfie, who had not asked to hear that.

Oscar went bright red. He kept his arms mostly around her waist but was clearly short-circuiting in front of his friends.

"Harps," he mumbled, shifting his grip awkwardly. "There's, like—people watching..."

"Let them watch," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're so fit."

Sam passed by, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. "You're a proper stallion, mate. Well done."

"I hate all of you," Oscar muttered, voice muffled by Harper's hair.

Jane high-fived Matt for literally no reason. "Good effort, you absolute weapon."

Matt beamed. "I caught a ball with my face."

"And still the girls love you," Jane sighed. "Life's unfair."

As they reached the top of the hill, the group slowed — sweat-stained boys dragging their jumpers over their heads, the girls walking barefoot across the hot pavement in socks.

Alfie rolled his eyes as Harper kissed Oscar on the neck. "Get a room."

"We've got a room," Harper said sweetly. "Yours. I sleep in it four nights a week."

Sam gagged. "Alright, alright — leave some dignity on the grass."

Oscar was flustered beyond speech. He kissed Harper's temple, quickly, like a reflex, then shoved his kit bag higher on his shoulder and marched ahead of them.

The rest of the group, of course, followed him, cackling like feral hyenas.

By the time they reached the dorm block, Oscar had nearly made it to the stairwell alone — but Harper caught his wrist and tugged him back.

"You alright?" She asked, quieter now.

He glanced around — no one right next to them, just the echo of stomping boots on the stairs.

Then he nodded. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Oscar looked at her, eyes soft now that it was just them. "I don't mind the kissing. Just...not when Sam's narrating it."

Harper grinned. "Sorry. It's the hormones."

"Okay," he said, leaning in and kissing her properly this time — quick, but real. "I like when it's just us."

She smiled. "Me too."

"Also I think Sam might throw up if he ever wakes up when we're — you know."

"Sucks to suck." She said.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

They walked the rest of the way up together, quietly bickering over whose turn it was to nick KitKats from the vending machine and which bed they were claiming tonight.

Down the hall, someone yelled that Matt had thrown a sweaty sock at the fire alarm, because Jane was already in the process of burning her toast.

Harper smiled at Oscar.

Oscar smiled at Harper.

—

The classroom windows were cracked open, but the air still tasted like too many bodies in one place — biro ink, cheap deodorant, and GCSE anxiety.

Harper sat at the back, her copy of Macbeth balanced on top of a closed ring binder. She had a pen tucked behind one ear, a half-drunk bottle of Lucozade on the desk, and one hand pressed to the base of her spine like she could physically will the ache away.

Miss Freeman was rambling up front about ambition and power, pacing between the whiteboard and her desk with her usual furious energy. Her voice was sharp, quick — trying to cram five months' worth of content into five minutes, as if the sheer velocity of her teaching could force it into their heads.

"Harper," she called without turning, "what's Macbeth's fatal flaw?"

Harper blinked, sat up straighter. "Uh — ambition?"

"Good. Expand."

She swallowed. "He... wants power more than he wants to do the right thing. Even though he's full of doubt, he still goes through with it. Because he wants it too much."

Miss Freeman turned and pointed her marker like a sword. "Yes. Wanting something doesn't make you worthy of it. Write that down."

The room scratched with the sound of pens on paper.

Harper tried to focus — genuinely, she did — but her lower back was killing her. Not sharp pain, just that low, constant pressure, like someone had tied a sack of flour to her spine and told her to sit still with it.

She shifted slightly in her chair, trying to stretch out discreetly, but the movement drew a glance from the boy next to her — Toby something, always smelled like orange body spray and stale chewing gum.

He leaned slightly away, like she might suddenly explode.

"You alright?" He asked, face pinched.

Harper raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

He stared at her stomach like it had just started glowing.

"It's not catching, you know," she added dryly, turning back to her notes.

Toby flushed. "Didn't say it was."

"Didn't have to."

He said nothing after that, except to edge his chair a full six inches away.

Harper bit back a sigh, pressed her fingers harder into the knot at her back, and underlined the word ambition three times.

Across the room, she caught Jane's eye — Jane raised both eyebrows and mimed stabbing herself with her pen.

Harper smiled, barely, then went back to her book.

The clock ticked too slowly. The air buzzed. And the ache in her spine crept up just a little further.

—

The school nurse's office was too bright, too white. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sharp against Harper's already pounding head. She sat stiffly on the low cot near the radiator, both hands braced on either side of her bump. Her back hurt — a dull, dragging ache low in her spine that came and went like waves. Not agony, but not normal either.

She'd tried to ignore it in class. Kept her head down, revising and pretending the ache wasn't spreading like warm pressure across her belly. Until she couldn't anymore.

So she'd texted Oscar.

Can you come with me to the nurse? Not urgent just... a bit of pain.

He hadn't replied.

He'd shown up at the English classroom less than two minutes later, breathless, eyes wide.

Now he was sitting beside her, not saying much, hand closed tightly over hers. She could feel how tense he was in the way his thumb didn't move, how his leg bounced nervously even though he was trying not to fidget.

Mrs. Lyle, the school nurse, was kneeling by a cabinet, flipping through a stack of maternity leaflets she hadn't touched in probably two years. That's how long it'd been since the Haileybury baby.

"You said it's low back pain? Tightening?"

Harper nodded. "Sort of like... pulling. Like pressure. Not sharp, but weird."

Oscar's fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Mrs. Lyle stood and crossed to them, sitting down on the little stool by the cot. "Sounds like Braxton Hicks. You're about what — thirty weeks now?"

"Almost thirty-two," Oscar said, before Harper could answer.

Mrs. Lyle smiled softly. "Right. That makes sense, then. These start around now — practice contractions, essentially. Not actual labour, but your body's working out the muscles. Like rehearsal, in a way."

"But it hurt," Harper said, quietly. "I mean, not properly. But it felt like..."

"Something more serious?" The nurse finished for her, nodding. "It's normal to worry. It's good you came in."

Oscar looked down, jaw clenched. "So it's not — she's okay? The baby's okay?"

"Everything sounds textbook," Mrs. Lyle said calmly. "Nothing to panic about. She needs rest, hydration, and someone to carry her backpack for the rest of the day."

"Oscar always carries my bag." She said, automatically. Then she let out a breath, trying not to sag too visibly into Oscar's side. But he felt it anyway, leaned a little closer like it was instinct. His thumb finally moved, brushing against the edge of her knuckle. "I didn't know what to do," she said quietly.

"You scared me," he replied.

"I thought maybe it was real. Like — too early. I thought something was wrong."

"I know," he said. "I thought that too."

The nurse busied herself across the room, giving them quiet.

Oscar stared at the floor, then looked at her again. "I'm going to switch English periods. So I'm with you most of the day. Only class we'll have separate is Maths."

"Thanks." She whispered.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his hand lingering at her jaw. "I keep thinking I'm going to mess this up. Like there'll be a moment, and I won't know what to do, and you'll be hurting, and I'll just... freeze."

Harper turned toward him, forehead brushing his. "You didn't freeze, though. You ran out of class and came to get me."

"I got detention for it," he muttered.

"Worth it?"

"Obviously."

She smiled faintly, and for a second it almost didn't hurt anymore.

Mrs. Lyle came back with a bottle of water and some instructions about warning signs. Harper nodded through them, Oscar listening like it was life-or-death briefing.

Later, when they walked back toward the dorms together, Harper's bag slung over Oscar's shoulder and her hand in his hoodie pocket, she felt it again — the ache, the low pull in her back.

But she breathed through it. Didn't let herself panic.

Oscar stopped, watched her, gave her a minute.

And when she gave him a tiny little nod, they started walking again.

—

Oscar's pit garage was alive with movement — laptop screens glowing, air compressors hissing, the sharp scent of tyre rubber and brake dust thick in the air. The mechanics were everywhere, half-in and half-out of red team jackets, their radios clipped to belt loops, voices clipped and fast in the way only race days made necessary.

Harper sat on a crate in the back corner, half out of sight, a bottle of orange Lucozade in one hand and Oscar's helmet balanced beside her. She was wearing his old team fleece, zipped to the chin. Her legs ached from walking too much around the paddock that morning, and the baby — thirty-three weeks now, she kept reminding herself — was sitting weirdly on her spine. But none of that mattered.

She'd learned the names of all the engineers now. Matteo, who let her plug in tyre temp data to practice her number handling skills; Hugo, who always made her tea when it rained; and Ana, who'd secretly slipped her a granola bar the first time she nearly fainted from the garage heat.

They didn't look at her like she was a distraction.

They looked at her like she belonged.

"You're back early, Harps," Hugo said, passing her a stack of pit notes. "Track walk not worth the dust?"

She smiled faintly. "It was just Oscar doing that thing where he looks at gravel and pretends he understands how it affects his drive."

"Funny kid. Acting like he doesn't just drive like a lunatic every weekend and somehow make it work," Matteo added, grinning.

Harper smiled wider, adjusting the fleece over her bump. "We like lunatics."

There was the clatter of boots on metal and a burst of voices outside the canopy. Then Oscar pushed in through the side flap of the tent, tugging off his headset, face flushed and bright-eyed. His hair stuck up on one side, and he looked like he'd just run three miles.

He spotted her instantly.

"Harper—" His voice was breathless. He crossed the garage fast, past the prep bench, around the team radio desk, and knelt beside her like he couldn't get close enough fast enough. "Come here. Two seconds. Just—"

She blinked, startled, letting him pull her up by the hand and half-drag her toward the quiet side of the tent, near the stacks of spare slicks and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull.

Oscar looked like he might combust.

She tilted her head. "You alright?"

He looked at her for a second like he was checking if it was real.

Then he said, "Prema wants me. For F3."

Her mouth parted.

"What?"

He nodded, quickly, still flushed, eyes almost glassy with adrenaline. "Just talked to Marco. They want me. Already. Like—next season. They said I'm tracking above expectations. They want to get me in the F3 car before the year's out. Testing. Maybe a free practice."

"Wait—wait, wait," Harper said, stepping in closer. "Oscar, are you—are you serious?"

"I think I'm going to cry or be sick," he said, but he was smiling, wide and unguarded.

She grabbed his face with both hands, stared at him like she was trying to press the words into his skin. "You're going to F3."

"Yeah."

"You're actually—"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and kissed him. It wasn't a careful kiss. It was messy, hot with nerves, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that comes after months of half-holding your breath and hoping everything you're building doesn't slip through your fingers.

When they broke apart, Harper kept her forehead against his.

"You deserve this," she whispered. "You've worked so fucking hard, Osc. This isn't luck. This is you."

He didn't say anything at first. Just closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were clear and determined.

"I want it," he said. "I want it bad. But I'm scared that—"

"Don't," she said. "We'll make it work."

Someone called Oscar's name from the garage entrance.

He kissed her again, faster this time, and muttered, "Gotta go."

"Win this one," she said, still breathless.

"I will."

As he jogged back to his engineer, helmet under one arm, Harper stayed near the stack of tyres, heart hammering in time with the noise of the circuit starting to come alive beyond the paddock.

F3.

It wasn't just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

Step by step, formula by formula.

Her boyfriend was going to be a world champion one day.

And she'd be right next to him when it happened.

—

The computer lab always smelled like dust and old wires, the kind of cold room that was either boiling from server fans or freezing from the busted window. Today it was somewhere in between.

Harper sat in the corner by the window, legs tucked under her in the school's worst office chair, a hoodie tugged over her bump and a stubborn frown etched into her face.

"Line thirty-six," Matt said, leaning over her screen from the side. "You've got a missing semicolon."

She groaned and dropped her head to the desk.

"I hate JavaScript. I hate the entire concept of JavaScript. It's all chaos and no laws."

"You're learning React, which is basically JavaScript on crack."

"I chose this language because it was meant to be user-friendly."

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. "It's not. It lies."

Harper sat back up, cracking her knuckles. "Whatever. It's a project site, not a space launch. It just needs to work."

On her screen: a rough landing page — bold, accessible design, a mockup portfolio header, a contact form that mostly worked, and a bright pink font that she'd argued about with her teacher twice already.

The title read: Harper Grace Whiatt | Front-End Developer.

"You're not even doing this for class anymore, are you?" Matt asked, squinting at the layout.

"Nope," she said, popping her lips. "I've been attending this accredited course online, doing the certification stuff. Once I get my GCSEs out of the way and baby is born, I'm going to spend all my free time on it. Maybe go freelance. Build stuff."

Matt blinked. "Like... actual websites? For people?"

"Yeah," Harper said, tapping her space bar like it owed her money. "There's this girl I follow on Instagram — she's eighteen, self-taught, does Squarespace templates and Shopify setups, makes more than a junior lawyer. I figured, you know... it's smart. Futureproof."

She said it like a defence. Like she had to prove to everyone — to herself — that she wasn't going to be the story people had already decided for her.

"You don't have to," Matt said after a moment. "Prove anything. We already know you're clever. And, like. Kind of terrifying."

"Aw," Harper said. "You're sweet." Then she said . "Ever say that again and I'll launch this keyboard at your head."

Matt rolled his eyes, but grinned. "You're going to be good at it."

She looked back at the screen, the site stubby and full of placeholder text, but real. Hers.

"I want to build stuff people actually use," she said, softer now. "Not just pretty things. Useful ones. That don't assume you've got perfect eyesight or that you know where all the buttons are."

"Accessible design?" He asked, a little impressed.

Harper shrugged. "Bit ironic, right? Couldn't pass GCSE Maths if you paid me, but give me a CSS framework and I can make your entire checkout system retina-ready."

"You're the only person in this school who knows what 'retina-ready' means."

She grinned. "Maybe."

A message pinged on her screen — a Discord notification from a dev server she'd joined the week before. Someone had commented on her mock portfolio build: Nice typography choices. Would love to see more of your work.

She stared at it for a second.

Maybe this wasn't some pretend future. Maybe this was real.

Her world didn't have to shrink. It could shift. Change shape. But it didn't have to vanish.

Her laptop fan wheezed and clicked. She opened her browser, pulled up her GitHub, and started typing.

—

Oscar was lying flat on his bed, hair still wet from his post-training shower, eating Haribo one by one like they were sacred. Harper was on the floor cross-legged, MacBook balanced on her knees, pyjama sleeves pulled over her hands. Her bump curved gently under the fabric, resting against her thighs.

The screen glowed blue in the dim light.

"You're not allowed to look yet," she said, waving him off.

"It's going to be my website," Oscar muttered, tossing a Haribo into his mouth and missing.

Sam snorted from the other side of the room. "To be fair, you couldn't design a website if your life depended on it, Piastri. You'd just put a picture of your face and 'vroom' underneath."

Oscar threw a sock at him.

Harper kept typing.

They'd been working on it — quietly, between revision and races and everything else — for the last two weeks. He hadn't told anyone yet. Mark knew, obviously. And Alfie, by accident, when Harper asked if anyone had high-res images from Oscar's most recent F4 race.

They'd all gone to watch him from the grandstands like normal fans. Sam, Alfie, Jane, Matt — and obviously Harper. It'd been like a weird, fun little school trip.

Now the website was almost done.

"Okay," Harper said finally. "Try it."

Oscar leaned over and squinted at the screen. Then blinked.

The landing page was sharp and minimal, black background, bold white type. A full-width photo of him racing — visor down, car catching the light just right — stretched across the top.

OscarPiastri.com

"Whoa."

She kept scrolling for him. Stats. Race results. An embedded video reel Mark had helped them trim. A bio she'd bullied him into writing. Sponsor contact section. News feed. Instagram integration. All responsive. All accessible.

"You made this?" He said, eyebrows high.

She nodded. "Built from scratch. No Wix bullshit. I even set up the CMS so Mark can update the results and press stuff without breaking anything."

He just stared. "It's so... professional."

"I am professional."

Oscar looked properly impressed. Then a little overwhelmed. "You're literally fifteen."

"Sixteen in, like, nine weeks," she corrected, deadpan.

He reached for her, pulled her gently up onto the bed beside him, and kissed her temple.

"Thank you," he said, soft.

"'s nothing," she said, tucking herself under his arm. "I liked doing it. Made me feel like I'm... part of it."

"You are part of it."

She didn't say anything. Just closed the lid of her laptop and leaned against him.

Across the room, Sam looked up. "Wait. If you're building sites now... think you could make me one for my rap career?"

Harper didn't even blink. "No. I want nothing to do with that disaster."

Oscar laughed.

Sam sulked.

—

The early morning light filtered through the cracked dorm window, casting a pale glow on the cluttered room. Harper sat on the edge of her bed, fiddling nervously with the hem of her jumper. Oscar leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes tired but trying to look calm.

"First one," Harper muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. "Biology. Easy, yeah?"

She snorted. "You're joking. You've seen my biology notes."

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you've got this. We've done the revision, the late nights, the panic... now it's just another test."

Harper bit her lip. "I'm scared. What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down?"

Oscar crouched down, grabbing her hands. "No one's expecting perfection. And what does a biology result matter anyway?"

She squeezed his hands, trying to hold onto that steady feeling. "Thanks, Osc."

He smiled, awkward and sincere. "We celebrate. Whatever happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

He pulled her into a quick hug, warm and tight. "Go smash it."

NEXT CHAPTER

[hoshifighting]

i'm BEGGING for a collegefling! jeonghan plzz

thank youuuu 💗 love your work <33

warnings: smut, teasing, flirting, fingering, penetrative sex, cock riding, semi-public sex, library sex, loud!jeonghan, jealousy, he's such a cutie too.

college fling!jeonghan who's not the type to play around with mixed signals. if he wants something, he’s pretty direct about it. likes games—just not the confusing kind. so, yeah, when you first met him, you kind of got what he was about from day one. freshman year was chaos. the university’s big events had everyone talking—water games, shirtless dudes, bikinis, everyone all bronzed and glowing under the sun. but jeonghan— he’s not about the whole "show off my body" thing. kept his shirt on, like he didn’t need to prove a damn thing. confident as hell, and you hated how much that got to you.

he was the one who came up to you first, of course. said something like, “my friend thinks you’re pretty.” such a casual opener, like it was no big deal. but then he took it further, all smooth with a teasing smile. “but i don’t really trust his taste, so i had to see for myself.”

you remember just rolling your eyes, thinking, this guy—but also trying not to let on that his vibe was doing things to your brain. when he went on to say, “so, are we making out now, or later?”—you laughed in his face, hard. hard as fuck, actually, and told him straight up that wasn’t happening, and his response? a smirk. that smirk that would become the smirk, the one you'd start seeing every time he spotted you from across campus, during parties, even in the quiet corner of the library when you thought you were safe.

after that day, it was like this... game, but not really a game. like, you’d be minding your business, trying to get through your classes, and boom—jeonghan would be there, casually sliding in with some flirty comment, always teetering on the line of too much. but never quite crossing it. like one time, you were sitting with your laptop, probably stressed over a deadline, and he just popped up with, “you look like you could use a distraction.” you shot back, “don’t you have someone else to annoy?” and of course, he answered, “nah, i’m committed to you.” committed. like it wasn’t just a stupid flirty thing.

and it kept going. year after year. no kissing, no hooking up—just this ridiculous back-and-forth, every time he saw you, making your stomach twist up in knots. it was frustrating as hell, ‘cause even though he flirted like it was second nature, he never actually pushed you to do anything more. he knew the game. he knew exactly how far to take it before pulling back, leaving you wanting more but hating that you even did.

one night, you were at some random house party, loud music, too many people, and of course, there he was. leaning against the kitchen counter, looking all too comfortable in a place that was way too crowded. he saw you first, waved you over with that lazy smile that you wanted to ignore but couldn’t. “you lost or just looking for me?” he asked, knowing damn well you weren’t looking for him.

“neither,” you lied, grabbing a drink from the counter just to have something to hold. but he wasn’t buying it, stepping a little closer, crowding your space just enough to make your breath catch.

“right,” he said, that teasing lilt in his voice. “so you’re not here just to finally kiss me?”

you laughed again, but this time, it didn’t feel as easy. “jeonghan, you’ve been trying for years. give it up.”

“noo sweetheart,” he pouted, voice smooth like honey. “i’m just playing the long game. i like it..”

the long game. because even though you never kissed, never took it past flirting, there was always this tension, simmering just below the surface. you’d catch yourself thinking about him sometimes when you weren’t even around him—wondering if he ever thought about you the same way.

but he never made it weird. never tried to make you feel like you owed him anything, which was maybe why you didn’t hate him for it. because at the end of the day, it was fun. infuriating, yes. but fun. he’d make a comment, you’d brush it off, but deep down? yeah, there was always a part of you that kinda wanted to see what would happen if you let the game go on a little longer.

and jeonghan... he was patient. too patient, if you were being honest.

there was something stupidly comforting about jeonghan always being around. like, even on your worst days—those days when you couldn’t even be bothered to try. oversized hoodie, messy hair, not a scrap of makeup. you were barely surviving, and there he was, still managing to make you feel noticed. he’d walk up, casual as hell, and say things like, “your hair smells nice today,” or he’d reach out, fingers grazing your hand, just to say, “new nails? they look cute.”

and then there was that one time, oh god—you remember it clear as day. you’d barely rolled out of bed and showed up to class, hoodie pulled tight around you, and jeonghan slides up beside you at the cantine, glancing down at your hand. “you know what would look cute wrapped in there?” he’d said, all casual. and for a split second, you didn’t catch on. you were about to ask what he meant, then it hit you—cock. he meant cock.

you felt your face heat up, your brain misfiring as you shot him a look, trying to figure out if anyone else had heard. your eyes scanned the tables, praying no one else had clocked his little comment, and when you finally turned back to him, there he was—smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “what?” he asked, all fake innocence, like you hadn’t just caught onto his bullshit. “i was talking about the energy drink can.” and he pointed at the one in your hand, the one you had just bought. “it matches your nails.”

you laughed. you couldn’t help it. he had this way of making everything lighter, even when you were convinced it was gonna be a trash day. and he smiled too, like your happiness was his mission for the day. it was always like that. jeonghan would flirt, you’d roll your eyes or laugh, and things would feel a little easier. it was comfortable. safe, even.

but then… spring party. fuck.

there was something so painfully uncomfortable about seeing him with her. it wasn’t even the fact that they were together—it was the way he smiled at her. the way his arm was casually around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and then the cheek kiss. you saw it, and it felt like something lodged itself in your chest. like, what the hell.

it hit you like a ton of bricks. you liked the game too much. you liked him too much, but you hadn’t taken the shot. you never thought it was serious enough to matter, but seeing him with someone else? it felt like you were watching something that should’ve been yours. the whole night was a blur after that. no amount of party energy could bring you back up after seeing that.

you left early. didn’t even bother sticking around when the lights got lower, the music got louder, and everyone else started to get more and more drunk. you just… left. walked back to your dorm, the sound of your flower crown jingling a little with each step, the one your friends had insisted you wear. it felt stupid now. why the hell did you even care?

and then, as if the universe had it out for you, you saw him. just walking out of the dorms. not just any dorms. the dorms. the girls’ dorms. and you knew. of course it was her. she was in there, probably waving him off after some perfect little goodnight, and here you were, walking around with jealousy you didn’t even want to admit you had.

he saw you before you could duck away. smiled at you like nothing was weird, like you hadn’t seen him with her just hours before. “mhmmm... who’s this princess, huh?” he wolf-whistled, because of course, of course, he would. his eyes twinkled when they landed on your flower crown, clearly amused.

you weren’t. “fuck off, jeonghan,” you muttered, trying to brush past him. but you knew it. he heard it. he caught the tone immediately because even when he got on your nerves before, you were never this cold.

“whoa, whoa,” he called after you, stepping in your path with that all-too-familiar smirk, though now it felt different. heavier. “where’s this coming from? what happened? don’t tell me the princess has had a rough night?”

“i’m not in the mood,” you snapped, making a beeline for your dorm. but he wasn’t letting it go. he blocked your way again, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes studying you like he was figuring out some kind of puzzle. you saw his eyes lighting up.

“wait a minute… are you jealous?”

the way he said it, like he was genuinely surprised and also deeply entertained by the thought. you didn’t even want to give him the satisfaction of looking at him, but your eyes flicked up anyway, glaring.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m ridiculous?” he laughed, stepping a little closer. “so you saw me with her, huh?” he teased, and you could see the moment he clicked it all together. “oh my god. you are jealous.”

“shut up, jeonghan.”

but he didn’t. he was full-on laughing now, not even trying to hide how amused he was by the whole thing. “okay, okay. listen, that was my sister, y/n.”

you blinked. “what?”

he wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. “my sister. we had a family thing tonight, and she was visiting the campus for the spring party. she’s staying over, that’s why i was in the girls' dorms.”

you felt the embarrassment hit you like a wave. like, of course, you’d worked yourself up into a jealous mess over nothing. but still, the way he was looking at you, the way his laughter softened when he saw your expression change—it wasn’t like he was making fun of you. if anything, he looked… kinda pleased.

“you really thought i’d ditch you for someone else?” he asked, scrunching his nose. “after all these years?”

you wanted to hit him. and also kiss him. but mostly hit him. “shut up,” you mumbled, shoving past him to finally get to your door.

but as you fumbled with your keys, you heard him laugh again, this time lighter. “you know, if you want to kiss me that badly, you could just ask.”

"just ask?" you placed a hand on your hip, raising an eyebrow at him like you were calling his bluff. jeonghan just nodded, all nonchalant, like this wasn’t the moment of his life.

you took a step closer, the space between you two disappearing until your noses were nearly touching. you could see the way his eyes flickered from yours to your lips and back up, like he was trying to stay cool, but you knew better. underneath all that fake calm, he was freaking out.

you just smiled. you leaned in, just close enough for him to feel your breath on his lips, and whispered, “good night, jeonghan.”

you pulled back, turning on your heel, leaving him standing there. you didn’t need to look back to know the effect you had. you could feel the tension in the air, the way his posture faltered just slightly. when you reached your door, you glanced over your shoulder, catching his eyes one last time before you disappeared inside. he was still watching, a grin playing on his lips. as you leaned against the door inside, hand over your racing heart, you couldn’t help but smile too.

a few days later, you were at the library. it was one of those late afternoons where the campus was almost eerily quiet. most people were either at the football field, hanging out on the green, or already done for the day. you’d volunteered for this stupid school board vote thing, which meant you were stuck painting posters on cardboard, your hands covered in smudges of red and blue paint.

the library had this dim, cozy lighting, the blinds half-drawn so the soft glow of sunset was creeping in from the windows. but the table you were sitting at had this one bright, focused yellow lamp, shining right on your work as you dragged the wet paintbrush across the poster.

you were in your own world, humming softly, when you suddenly felt something… someone close. too close. a soft breath ghosted over your ear, so light you almost thought you were imagining it.

“boo!” a voice whispered, low and teasing, right by your ear.

you flinched hard, tensing up, your whole body jerking back so fast the paintbrush slipped in your hand. and of course, it was him. jeonghan stood there, barely an inch away, grinning like the asshole he was. his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, like he was trying to stop himself from reaching out and touching you.

“what the fuck,” you muttered, heart still racing from the scare, eyes glaring up at him. but he was having the time of his life, watching the way your body reacted, still all wound up.

“shhh,” he whispered, stepping even closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear this time. “we’re in a library.” the fake seriousness in his voice almost made you laugh, but you were too annoyed to let him win that easily.

“do you ever chill?” you asked, leaning back in your chair to give yourself a little space, but jeonghan wasn’t having it. he leaned down, resting his arms on the back of your chair like he was claiming it—and you.

“why would i, when scaring you is so much fun?” he shot back, his grin widening.

your heart was still pounding from the surprise, and now from him being so damn close, but you rolled your eyes, trying to act like you weren’t affected. “you’re annoying.”

“you love it,” he whispered, the teasing edge in his voice making you want to scream. but instead, you reached for your paintbrush again, ignoring him, or at least trying to. jeonghan, though, wasn’t going anywhere. he hovered over you, eyes scanning the half-finished poster on the table.

“what’s this?” he asked, gesturing to your work. “you painting a masterpiece?”

“just posters,” you mumbled, trying to focus on the brush strokes. but you could feel him there, his eyes practically burning into your skin. you hated how aware you were of him, of his warmth, of the way his breath still lingered on your ear.

“hmm,” he hummed, leaning a little closer again, his cheek almost brushing yours as he pretended to inspect the cardboard. “you missed a spot.”

“jeonghan,” you warned, glancing up at him through narrowed eyes. but all he did was flash you that familiar, maddening smirk.

“what? just trying to help.” he finally pulled back, standing up straight again, but not before letting his fingers brush lightly against your arm, just enough to send a spark through you.

you cursed under your breath, trying to focus on your work, but it was useless. his stupid little whisper and the way he hovered over you had already ruined any chance of concentration.

“you know,” he said casually, pulling out a chair next to you and sitting down like he had nowhere else to be. “you’re fun to mess with.”

“can you shut up for like, two seconds?” you shot at him, your voice carrying more frustration than you meant.

instead of taking the hint, he just wriggled his eyebrows at you, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. he never stops. you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to gather your thoughts, but the annoyance, the tension—it all bubbled up inside you, and before you could overthink it, you opened your eyes and leaned in, kissing him.

just a quick peck, a little “shut the hell up” moment, nothing more. but the second you pulled back and caught the look on his face, you almost regretted it. almost. jeonghan was stunned. like, full-on wide-eyed, frozen in place, like he couldn’t believe what just happened.

your cheeks immediately burned, but you kept your cool, clearing your throat before going back to the poster like nothing happened. “sit down and be quiet now,” you muttered, keeping your eyes on the cardboard.

for once, he actually listened. he sat down next to you, still staring, clearly trying to process what you just did. the silence that followed was awkward as hell, but it didn’t last long. because, of course, it didn’t.

he lasted about five seconds, max. then you felt his hand on your cheek, turning your face towards him. before you could react, his lips were on yours again, but this time, he didn’t hold back. it wasn’t some quick, shy kiss. no. his lips moved against yours, hungry, and then you felt it—his tongue pushing past your lips, invading your mouth like he had no patience left.

his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and before you knew it, you were completely lost in him. your body responded faster than your brain could keep up with, your hand instinctively reaching out to grab the edge of the table to steady yourself.

when he pulled back, just slightly, his breath was ragged, his lips hovering over yours as he whispered, “can i?” the neediness in his voice sent a jolt of heat straight through you.

you nodded, not trusting your voice. and that’s all he needed. his hand slipped down, fingers tracing the hem of your skirt before pushing it up just enough to get underneath. his fingertips brushed over your panties, teasing you, and you could feel yourself already getting wet.

jeonghan let out a soft chuckle, his breath hot against your skin. “you’re already soaked, cant wait to suck this pussy,” he whispered

you opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a shaky breath as he slid one finger under the fabric, barely grazing your folds. he was taking his time, dragging his fingers slowly, deliberately, over your wetness.

“so wet for me,” he whispered again, his lips brushing against your ear now. “you want me to keep going?”

you nodded again, your hand gripping the edge of the table tighter, and you heard him let out a small, pleased hum before he pressed a single finger inside you. the stretch was slow, his finger curling as he pushed in deeper, and the slick sound of your wetness filled the quiet library, pussy swallowing easily the long finger.

it was embarrassingly loud. the soft squelch of his finger moving inside you echoed in the stillness, and your head fell back, a quiet moan slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

“shhh,” jeonghan whispered, mockingly, his other hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat. “quiet, be quiet f'me okay??”

you bit down on your bottom lip, trying to stay quiet, but it was impossible when he was teasing you like this, his finger moving slowly in and out, curling in just the squishy spot. he was taking his time, dragging it out, the wet sounds growing louder with each shove of his finger.

“you like that?” he asked, his lips brushing against your neck now. “you like when i finger you slow like this?”

you could barely answer, your voice catching in your throat as he added a second finger, stretching you just a little more. the way your body responded was automatic—your legs spreading wider on instinct, your hips rocking forward to meet his hand.

jeonghan grinned, his fingers moving a little faster now, pushing deeper, the squishing sounds even louder than before. “fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered.

your head fell back against his shoulder, your body giving in. you could feel every inch of his fingers moving inside you, every curl, every thrust, the knuckles, it was driving you insane. you reached out blindly, your free hand finding his thigh before sliding up to palm at the bulge in his pants.

he let out a soft groan, his hips shifting slightly as you pressed your hand harder against him. “you’re really trying to make me lose it, hmm?” he muttered, his voice strained as he continued to finger you, his pace quickening.

your hand fumbled with the zipper of his pants, trying to get him out, but it was hard to focus when he was fucking you with his fingers like this, your wetness dripping down onto his palm.

“shit,” he hissed when your hand finally slipped into his pants, your fingers wrapping around his length. he was hard—so fucking hard—and the way you gripped him made his head fall back, eyes rolling as he thrust his fingers even deeper into you.

“you like that, baby?” he asked. “you like when i fuck you with my fingers?”

you moaned softly, nodding as your hips bucked against his hand. your walls clenched around his fingers, and the wet squelching sounds got louder, filling the quiet library.

“fuck, you sound so good,” jeonghan groaned, pulling your panties to the side so he could spread your legs wider, giving himself better access. his fingers moved faster, pushing deeper, and you felt your body start to tremble, the pleasure building so quickly you could barely breathe.

“jeonghan,” you whimpered, your hand tightening around his length as your other hand gripped the table for dear life. your hips rocked against his fingers, desperate.

“that’s it, mhmm just like that baby,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear again. “cum for your hannie.. so nasty baby, letting me fuck this pussy with my fingers...what if someone see this hm?.”

before you could stop it, your body seized up, your walls clenched tight around his fingers, your back arching as you came, the wet sounds of your release echoing in the quiet library.

jeonghan groaned softly, his hand still moving, fingers still pumping in and out of you as you rode out your orgasm.

jeonghan watched as you giggled softly, in overstimulation, your head nestled into the crook of his neck, making him smile too. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you against him.

a single line of slickness dripping down between your legs, a translucent trail of your release that shimmered against the dim library light and hit the floor with a quiet, inappropriate drip. he stared at it for a second, mesmerized by how fucking wet you were.

before you could even react, jeonghan slid his fingers from between your legs, sticky with your juices, and without hesitation, brought them to his lips. he sucked your wetness off them like it was nothing, like this was casual. but the way he moaned softly, like he was tasting something forbidden, made your cheeks burn.

“jeonghan!” you hissed, scolding him, giving him a little slap on the arm. “what the hell?”

he just shrugged, lips curved into that cocky smile. “couldn’t help it,” he muttered, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. “you taste so fucking good.”

your face flushed even more, but you couldn’t hide the way your body still buzzed with need, even after he’d just made you come. your eyes flickered to the door—still shut, no one else around—and something wild sparked in you.

before you could second-guess it, you stood up from your chair and climbed onto his lap, straddling him fast. jeonghan’s eyes widened in shock, hands automatically flying to your hips, but not stopping you. “y/n,” he stammered, voice shaky, his breath catching in his throat, “n-no, we can’t—”

“why not?” you whined, rocking your hips forward just enough to brush his cock agasint your folds, and fuck, it felt good. you were still wet, soaked from your orgasm, and the friction was enough to make you both let out quiet, needy moans.

jeonghan’s hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your skin as he struggled to keep his composure. “fuck,” he muttered, biting down on his bottom lip hard, his whole body trembling beneath you. “because—shit—i can’t keep quiet.”

“please,” you begged, your voice dripping with desperation, leaning closer so your lips ghosted over his. “jeonghan, i’m so horny… been wanting you for years too.”

those words did something to him. years. and it hit him all at once—the weight of everything, of all those years of teasing, flirting, the back and forth that never went anywhere, the way he’d always kept it just at the edge, never crossing the line. and now, here you were, straddling him, begging for him like it was all too much to hold back anymore. he could feel it too—the years of tension, of watching you from a distance, making you smile just to hear that laugh, all leading up to this.

“fuck,” he whispered, voice strained as he watched you grind against him, his hands flexing on your hips. his eyes fluttered shut as the pressure built between you, your slick folds dragging against him. his body was wound so tight he felt like he could snap any second.

“jeonghan,” you whispered again, your breath hot against his lips, and then you reached down between you, a gasp escaping him when your hand wrapped around his length, teasing him.

“we can’t,” he whispered, but there was no conviction in his voice, not anymore. his hips bucked up into your hand, betraying how badly he wanted this. “we can’t do this here.”

“then be quiet,” you murmured, lips brushing over his as you guided the tip of his cock to your entrance. your wetness coated him, slick and hot, and jeonghan groaned, his head falling back against the chair as you slid him along your folds. he was so hard, so sensitive.

“fuck, y/n,” he gasped, his body trembling under your touch. his hands shot to your thighs, gripping them hard as you teased him, your slickness coating his cock, making everything feel too good, too intense.

“please,” you whispered again, pressing down just enough for his tip to catch at your entrance, and jeonghan’s whole body shuddered. “i need you.”

he bit down on his lip, his hands shaking as he tried to stop himself from completely losing control. “you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, his voice rough with lust. “i won’t be able to stay quiet.”

but you didn’t care. you wanted him too badly, needed him too badly after all this time, all these years of unspoken tension finally coming to a head. you were practically shaking with need, your hips moving on their own as you slid his cock along your folds, teasing yourself with the tip.

jeonghan let out a low groan, his eyes rolling back as you rubbed against him, the wet sounds of your slickness filling the quiet space. “shit, baby,” he whispered, his hands trembling as they moved to grip your ass, pulling you even closer. “so fuckin good around me, fuck— i dont know if i will last.”

“then fuck me,” you whispered back, your voice desperate now, grinding down against him, your slick folds swallowing his cock inch by inch. you felt him twitch, felt how much he was holding back, and it only made you want him more.

he groaned, his head falling forward, his forehead resting against yours. “can’t keep quiet, can’t can’t—” he whispered again, his breath ragged, but the way his hips bucked up into you told you all you needed to know.

you let out a soft whimper as you finally sank down onto him, his cock stretching you so slowly, so perfectly. the feeling of him inside you after all this time was almost too much, and you moaned softly, your body trembling as he filled you up, inch by inch.

you started rocking your hips slowly, back and forth, barely pulling off him before sliding back down, letting him feel every inch of you. the way his cock filled you so perfectly made you clench around him, and you could hear jeonghan’s breath catch, a low groan slipping from his lips that he tried desperately to swallow.

his hands shot to your waist, gripping you tight as you moved. your rhythm was teasing, dragging your slick folds over him as his length stretched you with each motion. you knew what you were doing to him—the way his hips bucked up every time you slid down, his thighs tensing under your legs. he was struggling to hold it together, and you were reveling in every second of it.

you leaned forward, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “you’re so fucking hard for me hannie”

jeonghan let out a deep groan, his head falling back against the chair as he tried to keep quiet, his breath coming in short, desperate pants. “ngh—fuck—” he hissed, his grip on your waist tightening as he tried to control himself, but the way you were moving, so slow and deliberate, was killing him.

you smirked against his neck, pressing soft kisses to his skin before whispering again, your voice low. “you love how wet i am for you, hm? bet you’ve been thinking about this all of those years, huh?”

that did it. jeonghan’s whole body trembled, and he let out a strangled moan, “ahh—shit—” his fingers dug into your hips, trying to pull you down harder, but you kept the pace slow, teasing, letting him feel every second of it.

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned, his voice breaking as he threw his head back, his lips parted and eyes fluttering shut. “you—ngh—feel so fucking good.”

his reaction only fueled you more. you started grinding your hips a little faster, rolling them in circles. you leaned closer again, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered filth, your voice dripping with lust. “you’re such a good boy for me, letting me ride you like this..”

jeonghan let out another deep groan, “o-oh—fuck—” his hands slid under your skirt, gripping your ass as he helped guide your movements, his fingers squeezing the soft flesh. his eyes were half-lidded, mouth open, and you could feel him trembling beneath you, trying so hard to keep quiet, but every whisper from you had him moaning like he couldn’t control it.

“you’re such a dirty boy,” you whispered, “can feel how bad you want to cum inside me.”

“fuck—” he groaned again, louder this time, and you quickly leaned forward, pressing your lips to his to muffle the sound. the kiss was desperate, messy, his tongue immediately slipping into your mouth as he kissed you back hard, his hands pulling you down on him as you rocked your hips faster. you could feel him shaking, his control slipping with every thrust.

you pulled back, breathless, your lips hovering over his as you whispered again. “you gonna come for me, jeonghan? gonna fill me up like the good boy you are?”

his eyes rolled back, his hands gripping your ass even tighter as he thrust up into you, his cock twitching inside you. your fingers gripped the edge of the table to steady yourself, your nails digging into the wood as you rocked against him, feeling his cock throb inside you. his hands slid back up your hips, pulling you down gently as his cock twitched one last time inside you, the warmth of his release spreading through you.

you reached down between you, sliding your fingers through your own slickness and bringing them to his lips. “taste it,” you whispered, watching as his eyes fluttered open, still hazy with lust.

he groaned softly, but didn’t hesitate, his tongue slipping out to lick your fingers clean, tasting both of you mixed together. the sight of it made you shiver, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped your lips as you watched him suck on your fingers, his eyes locked on yours.

you could feel the heat between your legs still burning, still aching for more, and without thinking, you started to move again, grinding your hips against his slowly. jeonghan’s eyes widened, his hands gripping your waist as he realized what you were doing.

“y/n—” he whispered, his voice shaky, “what the—we—fuck, we can’t—”

“shh,” you whispered, your lips brushing over his as you rocked your hips again, feeling his cock start to harden inside you. “just one more time.”

jeonghan let out a low groan, his hands sliding down to your ass again as he gave in, his body already reacting to the feeling of you moving on him again. “fuck,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you just smiled, pressing your lips to his as you whispered against his mouth, “then die happy.”

[sqgeism]

haii!! Can I ask the reaction of amphoreus men to the reader don’t feel like they deserve them and feeling guilty about it? 🙏

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 if i'm turning in your stomach | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; am i making you feel sick ? he's so.. happy with you, and you don't seem to understand. they're in the glory and light as a chrysos heir, what could have possibly be seen in you for them to ever want to share that light?

love mail — haiii anonnie ! thank you for requesting :D in this fic, i mention the very likely theory of phainon being kevin from hi3 ! it isn't a major plot point but it is mentioned so if ure confused dont worry so am i ヽ(´Ａ`)ﾉ love u guys mwah ! 2/5.

now.. anaxa isn't a fan of gossip, accepting words at face value is foolish. especially since he is a man from a field of alchemy, trying and testing until he sees results. in this case, the truth.

but when a mutual companion, that babbling blue haired student of his, tells him that you've been feeling rather.. sad recently, he was determined to find out why.

in your defense, you were never meant to have him figure out, but this concoction you were working on was really starting to get on your nerves. you figured anaxa was still at the academy, so you were free to yell at the vial of glowing liquid like you could peer pressure it into getting it to cooperate. "stupid, stupid." you grumbled, your fists curling into a ball on the table. "i hate this, why can't i just... be like anaxa? he must feel ashamed with me. i can't do something as simple as a healing potion, after all."

you know these words aren't true, but you can't completely erase the fact you still feel them. your boyfriend was praised for his expertise in his field, couldn't you at least have learned something?—

it was then that you felt someone press up against your back, head leaning over your shoulder as anaxa sighs. his hands wrap around your waist, looking at your face like you're the moon. "your ingredients are perfect, dove. down to the measurements, but i'm sure your error comes from your order of mixing. listen to me, start with.."

you listen to his guide, trying to perfectly replicate the sequence as he speaks, but it's distracting. he hasn't.. stopped looking away from you while you work. not to mention, his hands trace the curves of your waist, as if keeping your body to memory. his sultry voice in your ear is NOT helping either.

"i heard you, you know." he mumbles, shifting his head to press kisses to your shoulder blades, somewhat relishing the way you shiver.

"do you really think i'd ever focus my time on someone who self proclaims their inadequacy?" you don't answer. "your intelligence is unmatched, dove. i couldn't think of anyone with a brain like yours, while also having a heart kind enough to open a man like me."

his advances move up to your neck, and at this point, the potion is long forgotten. your hands are too shaky to focus anyway. "please.. never think you're not good enough for me. i couldn't handle you leaving me for false truths."

your husband is a literal king, warrior, and an unmovable force.. you wonder why he settled down with an ordinary mortal. you're not quite in the spotlight, and instead, a humble historian. which means you're well versed in mydei's tales, especially ones pertaining to his past. according to rumor; mydei is fated to fall for someone for all of eternity, they were originally a warrior sworn to him, but had died tragically for mydei in the middle of a battle, in fear that the enemy had possibly been able to reach his weakest spot. after a desperate plea from the gods, they had been kind enough to have his lovers soul reborn every time they've come face to face with death. you.. were apparently the first one he's met ever since 'your death'.

and while you're.. comforted by that idea, the fact that you're fated to find mydei in every life you'll live, you also feel.. unsure. had the chrysos heir fallen for you, or for someone you used to be. and you could never really live up to be who you were.

that person was a warrior, one mydei cherished like his other half, and the myths of the two of them are romantic. how he spent hundreds of years mourning them, how they haunted his narrative. could he ever truly love who you are now?

"sweetheart?"

mydei's voice breaks through your thoughts, and you come back to reality—surrounded by your ancient maps and history. you're in your study, staring down at one of the many books written on the chrysos heirs. "are you staring at that old thing again? i told you, i don't like the way they drew me in that book." his laugh makes you feel guilty, you aren't even sure why. something about his love feels undeserving.

when you don't reply, he realizes you're not quite on a page about him.. but about you. your past life.

mydei knows how you feel about it, you've talked about it under the moon with him in hopes that its light will keep your secret safe. but he knows reassurance won't fix your insecurity easily, he needs time, and he'll give you all of it. he's waited to find you for all these years, what kind of man would he be to make you think you're anything less than precious?

carefully turning your body to him, his hand trailing up your cheek as he feels his heart ache. "sweetheart, my darling.." before he can even finish, you lean your head against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat in silence. "mydei, do you promise.. that this heart is mine? you.. you aren't after someone who i once was, and rather who i am now?"

he knows he'll have time to give you proper reassurance, but he knows you just need a few words now. "i promise, with all i am, that i have fallen in love with you all over again. and that i am yours, body and soul."

with all the mystery that surrounds your boyfriends identity, you can't help but think about it as well. do you.. really know him? does he not trust you to know him? you aren't sure. maybe you aren't as special as you thought you had been, that phainon's sweet words of how much he loves you are.. false prayers.

but you have no reason to doubt him, he's never stayed out too late or hung around people that made you question his motives, he's a good man. and you're starting to think that you don't deserve him for doubting that.

the idea clouds your mind the whole day, and for aeon's sake.. you and him are having a date night at his place. he notices it quickly, how your mind just can't seem to focus. how you move away from his touches and hesitate with every kiss, was there something troubling you? was he troubling you? that's when he's had enough of the lack of communication, he turns off the tv, pulls the blankets down, and gives you a confused but also rather upset look. "honey, what's going on in that gorgeous head of yours?

he holds his hand out to you, but you move away, the cold shoulder has never been so sweet. "phai.." you hesitate to finish your sentence, but phainon waits.

he's been known for his patience, he always has been. he was a composed man, a gentleman, he could surely hold himself togethe—

"am.. am i really anything special to you?"

he feels his heart sink to his stomach.

there's an sting that he's never quite felt before, overwhelming his body greatly. he's sure he can hear his heartbeat, or perhaps lack thereof, it's as if his world has stopped at those words.

you've begun to tear up now. "i don't know i just.. the people have been telling me things— and i'm realizing now that i don't.. i don't really know anything about you and.. i.. i'd want to get to know you better, but i understand if you don't want to, and don't trust me but—"

seeing you cry makes him remember something distant, a life he once lived in a different world. making someone he also loved so dearly cry because of what he's done.

phainon crumbles, moving closer to you to wipe your tears. you two are face to face now, his lips only a breath away as he's reminded why he loves you so much.

you're you, so human, so selfless. how could he be blind to your struggle, when he claims to watch you so carefully? "oh, angel. i'm so.. so sorry. there are things i cannot tell you yet, but i can tell you that i could never let my heart be taken by anyone else."

feather light kisses press against your eyelids, and you shudder at the contact. "sweet, sweet angel. please don't cry. i promise i'll make it up to you one day."

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)