#*loud groans echo in the distance*

[cafelattaes]

let love bleed red | geum seongje

summary: in which you got yourself tangled up with geum seongje. at first, it was trouble. then, it became routine. until, somehow, you became the only thing he would bleed for—willingly, violently, without regret.

pairing: geum seongje x fem!reader

genre: romance, hurt/comfort, angst

word count: 6.2k

playlist: he was chaos, he was revelry

last.

you were crouched by the side of a quiet alley behind a convenience store, setting down a paper plate with tuna and a cup of water. a tiny stray kitten had been hanging around there lately, mistrustful, but hungry. you've seen it a few times and started bringing food when you pass by.

the kitten was peeking out from under a box, inching closer. you kept still, one hand out, speaking low and soft.

then, there was a crash. a loud bang echoed from farther down the alley, and the sound of something—someone—getting slammed into a wall.

the kitten bolted instantly, disappearing into a gap between buildings.

you groaned under your breath, standing up with an irritated huff. not only did it startle the kitten, but it also startled you. you almost stumbled from the shock of the loud noise, your heart pounding rapidly.

"what the hell..." you stepped a little farther out to see the source, and then you saw him. a tall guy, maroon uniform jacket slipping off one shoulder, face stretched, hair a mess. bloodied knuckles and eyes wild.

he wasn't from your school. and by the looks of it, his opponent was already down. two more stood at a distance, too afraid to move.

the man lifted his head once, cracking his neck. then his eyes landed on you. you didn't flinch. just stared with narrowed eyes.

"go start your fight somewhere else," you said evenly. "you're not from around here."

he raised his brows and stared like he hadn't heard you right. then he smiled, crooked and wild. the kind that says, 'you've just made things interesting.'

you turned your back on him and walked off, not giving him another glance.

he stared after you. not many people talked to him like that. even fewer walked away before he decided the conversation was over.

you didn't run, but didn't linger either. just walked like you had somewhere to be, like he wasn't worth wasting another second on.

his eyes remained on you, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. a faint cut on his knuckle stung, but barely noticed.

'go start your fight somewhere else.'

'you're not from around here.'

not a scream. not a plea. not even a threat. just pure irritation. like he was some dumb dog that pissed on your shoes.

his grin curled slowly, something unhinged hiding just beneath it. he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it between his teeth, and lit it. the flame briefly flickered across his face before he took a drag and blew the smoke out lazily.

he'd seen people cry, scream, and beg. he'd seen how most people either froze or ran when they saw him, faces tight with fear, eyes darting around. but you?

you looked at him like he was an eyesore.

his laugh came quiet. brief. half-laugh, half-breath.

feeding a stray cat, he thought, like it was some ridiculous joke the universe threw at him. you looked too soft for your own good, too normal, too boring.

so why did you stick?

he leaned his shoulder against the wall, just for a second. watched the street where you disappeared. his blood was still warm from the fight, but that moment? that edge in your voice?

it was the first time he felt interrupted.

not threatened, not challenged. just... like someone reached into his noise and pulled something to the surface.

he didn't know your name. but that was fine. he had time.

it wasn't the next day, or the day after. but seongje still found himself wandering near that same alley. always around the same time. leaning against walls with a cigarette between his lips, smoke curling above his head like a restless thought that wouldn't burn out.

he wasn't waiting, he told himself. he just happened to be here, just passing time.

he was mid-drag when he caught a flash of familiar movement. dark hair, a recognizable bag slung over one shoulder. you were crouched near the alley's corner again, opening a can of tuna. next to your feet was the same stray kitten from before, now a little less wary, its ears twitching.

you didn't notice him at first. he said nothing.

he watched you feed the kitten. your expression wasn't anything special, just calm, focused, lips pressed together in a straight line. but he stared like it was the most peculiar thing in the world, like you were something unreal.

then you sighed and sat back on your heels, that's when your eyes flicked up, and landed right on him. you tensed slightly, like you were trying to figure out if it was him or just some other delinquent in a maroon uniform.

it was definitely him.

"you again? you muttered, standing slowly, brushing off your knees. "don't tell me you're here to start trouble again."

seongje let the cigarette dangle loosely between his fingers, gaze half-lidded. "don't flatter yourself. this is my spot now."

you snorted. "your spot? pretty sure this alley existed before you."

a grin pulled at his lips, slow and amused. that sharp glint in your eyes was still there. that same irritation, not fear, not interest. just a girl who didn't give a damn who he was.

"you always talk this much when feeding cats?" he asked.

"no. just when someone interrupts." he laughed, quiet but real.

you moved to step past him, clearly done with the conversation. but before you could, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and said slowly, "you don't scare easy, do you?"

you paused. "i don't like getting caught up in situations like this."

you walked off before he could say anything else. same calm steps. same complete disinterest in him. he stared at the kitten as it ate.

for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel bored.

you were coming out of the convenience store with a yogurt drink in hand when you felt someone matching your pace beside you.

you didn't even need to look. you felt it, like the air shifted, a shadow slipping in just a bit too close.

"miss cat-feeder," came the drawl, smug and lazy.

you rolled your eyes and kept walking. "seriously?"

"you remembered me," he said, hands in his pockets, leaning slightly sideways to peer at your face.

"no. i remembered your stupid voice."

"ouch," he grinned. "you wound me."

"what do you want?"

"just walking. not allowed to exist now?"

"not next to me, preferably." he chuckled at that, keeping stride with you anyway.

he walked like he owned the sidewalk, like even the cracks made space for him. he kept glancing at you, amused by how hard you were trying not to look.

"don't you have school?" you muttered.

"skipped."

"of course you did."

there was a beat of silence before he casually reached out and tugged at the hem of your sleeve. "what flavor?"

you jerked your arm away. "touch me again and i'll pour this on your head."

his grin widened, eyes gleaming with delight. there it is. "you're fun."

"i'm really not."

"exactly."

you stopped in your tracks. he looked at you, curious. "look," you said, eyes flat. "i don't like hanging out with loud people. so if you're looking for someone to flirt with, pick someone else."

seongje stared at you for a second, unreadable. then he smirked.

"i'm not flirting."

"good."

"i just like watching you get pissed." and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, hands back in his pockets like he didn't just drop a live wire into your day.

you watched him go, jaw tight.

god, he is annoying.

and worse, he knew it.

your shoes pounded against the pavement, too loud, too fast. the voices behind you were still getting closer. slurred words, the kind that came with guys who had too much time and nothing to lose. you'd told them off when they first approached, sharp and dismissive like always. but these ones didn't like hearing 'no'.

you darted around a corner, trying to cut into a side street you didn't usually take, and slammed straight into a body.

you stumbled back from the force, hands catching yourself on the person's chest, eyes wide and breath caught in your throat.

"whoa there," a familiar voice started, light and teasing.

your eyes shot up.

geum seongje.

of all people.

he was in his usual disheveled uniform, cigarette tucked between his fingers, a faint smirk already creeping up like instinct. "you really can't stay away from me, huh?"

but you weren't listening. you glanced over your shoulder, eyes scanning the street you just came from, anxiety tightening your features.

seongje's smirk faded, just a bit. his eyes narrowed.

"what happened?"

"none of your business. i need to go."

you stepped to the side, trying to move past him but his arm shot out fast, catching you by the wrist. not hard. not enough to hurt. but firm.

his voice lost all its humor.

"who."

you jerked against his grip, frustrated. "just let me go. jesus christ."

he didn't. instead, his eyes flicked toward the corner you came from. and for a brief second, something flickered through him, that thing he tried to keep under the surface unless it was time to let it loose.

then he heard footsteps and voices getting closer. the guys rounded the corner, laughing, loud, eyes scanning.

and then they saw you.

and then him.

one of them started to speak, some dumb threat halfway out of his mouth when seongje stepped forward and flicked his cigarette.

"alright," he said, eyes gleaming now. "which one of you thought chasing her was a good idea?" his tone didn't rise. he didn't shout. but it was enough.

the shift in the air was immediate, like a wire pulled taut. the guys slowed, uneasy.

"you with her?" one of them muttered, trying to size him up. seongje's lip curled in amusement.

"nah," he said, rolling his shoulder. "but she ran into me. so now you've got a problem."

one of them laughed nervously, already starting to backpedal. but it was too late.

you didn't say a word. his posture changed, loose and wild, but sharp, like the crackle before a fire starts.

"stay behind me," he muttered without looking at you. you almost snapped at him.

i didn't ask for help.

but something in the way he said it—flat, final—made you stay put.

he didn't do it for gratitude. he did it because someone pissed him off. and right now, that someone was anyone who looked at you wrong.

they didn't get the chance to react further. not really, because seongje's already on them.

the first one barely managed to raise his arm before seongje slammed his fist into his jaw, the sound cracking through the alley like a gunshot. he didn't stop, he grabbed the guy by the collar, slamming his head against the wall once, twice, three times until he crumpled like dead weight.

the second guy tried to pull something, maybe a pocketknife, but he was too slow. seongje grabbed his wrist and bended it the wrong way with a sickening snap. the guy howled, dropping the knife, and seongje grinned wider.

the last one tried to run. he got maybe five steps before seongje tackled him from behind, dragging him down like a wolf ripping through prey. there was nothing clean about the way he beat him. just pure rage unleashed in fists, knees, elbows, and feet.

the alley was quiet again. the three guys were groaning, two on the ground and one stumbling away. none of them dared to look back.

seongje stood in the center of it, breathing a little heavier, the scrape on his knuckles raw and fresh. blood trickled slowly down his arm, but he didn't seem to care. not even a glance at it.

you stared. not because you were scared of the violence. you'd known what he was capable of. you'd just never seen it up close. not like this.

there was a kind of stillness around him now, but it wasn't peace. it was the kind of stillness right after lightning hits the ground. charged, dangerous, humming under the surface.

he turned toward you, running a hand through his hair. eyes sharper now, less unhinged than before, but still wild.

"you good?" you hesitated.

"you didn't have to do that." he shrugged.

"i didn't do it for you." you frowned, annoyed.

"then why-"

"they looked at you like they could touch you," he said, voice low and quiet. "i didn't like that."

it came out too calm. like he was just stating a fact. like it was that simple.

you stared at him. "that's not normal."

he tilted his head. "i'm not normal."

you stood there in the silence again, tension thick between you both. then he looked down at his hand, flexed his fingers once.

"you gonna keep staring, or you gonna say thank you?"

you exhaled sharply. "i didn't ask you to help."

his lip twitched. "you didn't have to."

you started walking past him, brushing your shoulder lightly against his arm. "don't follow me."

he didn't. but he watched you go. watched like a wolf who'd just caught the scent of something that didn't run fast enough.

and this time, it wasn't about teasing you for attention anymore. it was something else. something worse.

something's changed. it had been days. you hadn't seen him near the alley, near the store, nowhere. and honestly, you were glad. the fight had left a sour taste in your mouth. not fear exactly, but it reminded you of the line he walked. the kind of line that most people never went near.

so when you saw him again leaning against the vending machine right outside the store, your steps faltered.

he noticed, eyes tracking you immediately. not grinning, not talking. just watching.

you stiffened, but kept walking. no use turning back now. you passed him without a word.

"you're avoiding me," he said. you didn't stop. "smart," he added after a beat.

that did it. you turned slightly, arms crossed, tone flat. "what do you want now?"

he looked you over, slower this time. less playful. like he was measuring something invisible.

"you said don't follow you," he said. "so i didn't."

"and yet, here you are."

"i was here first."

you hated that he had a point.

he pulled out a soda from the vending machine and cracked it open, taking a lazy sip. "i scared you."

"no you didn't."

his head tilted. "but you looked at me different after that day." you didn't reply. "you don't like people like me," he went on. "you don't like what i do. the way i fight. the way i look at you."

your throat tightened. "you make it sound like i'm supposed to like it."

he smiled, small, almost secret. "you're not."

you sighed and turned away again, but this time, his voice became lower. less teasing.

"you're not scared of me," he said. "but you're careful now." you paused. "i get it," he added. "but you should know something."

"what?" you asked warily.

"i'd kill for you without thinking."

the words didn't sound romantic. they didn't even sound intense. they were just real.

heavy. simple. dangerous.

you looked at him. at the bruised knuckles, the lazy posture, the eyes that never stopped watching you. and for the first time, you didn't see an annoying prick. you saw the storm behind his grin.

you didn't say a word as you walked away. but you walked slower this time.

the sky was gray, and the wind carried that dry chill that always came with autumn.

you didn't mean to come this way. really, you didn't. but this street was quieter than the main road, and your head was already aching from a whole day of voices, noise, and pressure from everyone around you.

your friends had found out. not just about anyone, but him. a certain delinquent hanging around you. not just anyone either, but someone from the union.

they kept telling you the same thing. stop meeting him, cut him off, stay away before things got worse. that's all you've been hearing for days. from different mouths, but the same message, over and over. as if you hadn't thought about that already. like you hadn't been trying.

you were tired. bone-deep, soul tired.

and there he was.

same place. same vending machine. like he'd been waiting, but not really. like he knew you'd come eventually.

seongje glanced up, surprised, but only a little. his cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, his jacket loose, like he didn't care how cold it was getting.

you stopped a few steps away and didn't say anything.

he raised a brow. "lost?"

"no," you said, too flat, too fast.

he stared. then blew out smoke in a low exhale. "you look like shit."

you snorted faintly. "thanks."

he nodded toward the chair beside him. "sit if you want."

"i didn't come to hang out with you."

"didn't say you did."

still, you sat. not close, just near enough to feel the warmth of someone else existing beside you. near enough to not feel completely alone. you stayed like that for a while. nothing said.

then, without looking at him, you muttered, "why are you like this?"

his brow quirked. "like what?"

"crazy. violent. all of it."

a beat. then a shrug. "it's fun."

you sighed, frustrated but not surprised.

and then, so softly that he almost didn't hear it, you said, "you make everything worse. but today... i don't know. you don't feel loud." that caught him off guard.

he turned to look at you, cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

you didn't meet his eyes. you just sat there, face turned to the street. like this, quiet and tired and not trying to prove anything, you looked different.

more fragile. not weak, never that. but human.

seongje flicked his ash away. "stay, then," he said. "if it helps."

you didn't answer. but you didn't leave either. and for once, he didn't push you to speak. he just let you be. which, for someone like him, was a kind of affection.

the unspoken kind.

the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.

another day, and there he was again. it wasn't often that you saw him alone like this. really alone. no noise. no laughter. no fights.

just seongje, slouched low on the steps behind an old building, elbows on his knees, head tilted back like he was trying to drown in the grey sky. he didn't notice you at first, too wrapped in whatever chaos lived behind his eyes.

you should've kept walking. you meant to keep walking. but something stopped you. maybe it was the stillness. maybe it was the fact that for the first time since you met him, he didn't look like someone trying to stir shit up. he looked tired.

you approached slowly, footsteps soft. he heard you eventually, turning just slightly to glance your way. his usual grin didn't show up.

"you stalking me now?" he said, voice low, like he couldn't be bothered to make it sound playful.

"i was just walking by."

"uh-huh."

you didn't sit beside him. you stood a little off to the side, arms folded, eyes scanning his face. there was a bruise on his cheekbone, not fresh but healing, and a split on his lower lip.

"what happened this time?"

"some idiot." he muttered. "deserved worse than what he got."

you rolled your eyes. "that doesn't narrow it down."

he smirked faintly. but it didn't last. he looked back up at the sky. "ever feel like you're stuck in a room that's too small, and the only way to breathe is to break something?"

you blinked. that wasn't the answer you expected. you said nothing.

he let out a low breath. "yeah. never mind."

you hesitated, then stepped closer. not sitting, just standing near him.

"i don't get you." you said finally.

"good."

"but i care."

that made him look at you again. not with that lazy, cocky grin. not with the sharp glint he gave the people he was about to wreck.

just... eyes. dark, unreadable, confused.

"you care?" he repeated, almost mocking, but there was no real heat in it.

you nodded. "i don't want to, but i do."

the silence that followed was heavier than anything he could've said.

you rubbed at your sleeve, eyes darting away. "it's stupid."

he stared a second longer, then tilted his head. "i'm not gonna be good for you," he said flatly. no apology in it. just fact.

"i know."

"i'll hurt people."

"i know."

"i might hurt you."

your gaze snapped back to his. "then i'll leave."

a pause.

and for the first time, his expression shifted, something sharp flickering behind his eyes, like the idea of you leaving physically bothered him.

but you held his stare. "i don't deserve to be hurt by you."

he didn't answer. when you turned to go, he didn't stop you. he didn't grab your wrist. he didn't make a scene. he just watched you leave like someone who'd been left too many times before to call out now.

and that was how you knew it wasn't just some sort of game to him anymore.

it was supposed to be just another normal day. you were going to meet up with a friend from a different school. but somehow, word got around that you'd said something snappy to the wrong group of boys the other day, boys who thought they could intimidate you into taking it back. you didn't.

but now they were standing in front of you in the alley near the rear exit of the building. three of them, too close, too smug, and too stupid to understand that they were walking into something far worse than your sharp tongue.

because seongje had seen.

he wasn't supposed to be there. you didn't even know why he was around this part of the city. but the second his eyes locked on the scene, on you cornered, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched, something dark lit behind his expression.

he didn't run. he didn't shout. he just walked, calm as anything, like he had all the time in the world. the sound of his steps echoing on the pavement made all three boys turn.

"oi," he said, voice low and slow.

the boys stiffened. one of them scoffed. "the hell are you?"

seongje grinned cockily. "me? i'm geum seongje. you fuckers."

his name dropped like a dead weight. the air shifted. one of them paled a little, while another took an unconscious step back.

"oh—shit—" one of them muttered under his breath, recognizing it too late.

then his eyes flickered to you. "you okay?"

you swallowed. "i've got it."

"wrong answer."

he passed the boys like they weren't even there, stepping between them and you, like drawing a line they couldn't cross anymore.

"you wanna explain why the hell you're trying to corner mine?"

the word slipped out like instinct. your breath caught.

the boys hesitated. one of them backed up. the dumbest one laughed nervously.

"you serious, man? you dating this chick or something?"

seongje didn't answer right away. instead, he pulled out his glasses, the metal catching the light for a second. then, without a word, he took your hand gently, almost unnervingly so, and placed them in your palm.

"i don't repeat myself."

and that was the only warning they got. it wasn't a fight. it was a statement.

a clear, brutal, one-sided reminder that you were off-limits. that if they so much as looked at you again, they'd wake up in pieces.

he didn't let it last long. he didn't need to.

when it was over, and the three of them were groaning on the pavement, he turned to you, no grin now, just quiet breathing. without a word, he took the glasses from your hand and slid them back on.

"you didn't need to do that," you said quietly.

"they shouldn't have looked at you like they could."

"that's not how this works."

he glanced at you, sharp. "it is now."

you looked away, jaw tight. "you act like i'm yours."

another beat of silence. the only sound was the wind through rusted fences. and then,

"you are," he said simply.

you stared at him, your heart thudded too loud.

"you can't just—claim people."

"i can."

"why?" he held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his.

"you're the only thing i don't want broken."

he said it like it bothered him. like the truth of it irritated the hell out of him.

you didn't know what to say. so you didn't. you just walked beside him as he left the alley, silent. but this time, you stayed close.

and this time, he didn't grin. he just walked with you like he always meant to.

the day had been long. longer than you thought it would be. school, people, life. everything felt suffocating. your body ached, your mind was frayed, and every little thing seemed to pile on top of you until you could barely keep your head above water.

but then, through the haze of exhaustion, you saw him.

seongje, leaning against your school gate. unbothered and detached. his posture was casual, his eyes scanning the crowd of students coming out of school. but the moment your gaze locked onto him, your heart gave a small jolt of relief.

there. him. the one person who, for reasons you still couldn't fully understand, made you feel safe. your body seemed to move on its own, your feet carrying you toward him without a second thought.

and then before you could even process what you were doing, you were already running toward him, arms outstretched, chest tight from the strain of everything you'd been holding inside all day.

the moment you reached him, you didn't stop. you wrapped your arms around him, burying your face against his chest.

you hummed. the noise was quiet, like a soft sigh of contentment, and for the first time all day, your muscles finally relaxed.

his scent, the familiar warmth of him, it was like home. a feeling you hadn't known you were missing until it was there, pressing against you in a way you couldn't explain.

for a split second, everything felt peaceful. you could rest now. let everything melt away. with him, it felt like nothing else mattered.

seongje froze. his first instinct was to step back, to pull away, because this wasn't how things were supposed to be. but when you stayed against him, not saying anything, just holding him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, something inside him twisted.

what the hell?

he couldn't breathe for a second. your arms around him, your face buried against him like you needed him. like he was something more than just some mad dog. he didn't know what to do with it.

you were so soft against him. so warm. his heartbeat, which had been steady, quickened as your arms tightened just slightly. and his body, despite the automatic urge to pull away, instinctively responded, his hands hovering at his sides, unsure of where to put them, but not wanting to make you pull away.

his reaction was slow. he was staring down at you, his usual detached expression gone, replaced with a mix of confusion and something closer to... discomfort. he didn't know how to handle it.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, he placed his hand awkwardly on your back, barely enough to return the gesture, but it was something. just a gentle pressure, like he was trying to let you know he wasn't going to push you away. but he wouldn't pull you in either. not fully.

his voice came out rough, not because he was angry, but because he didn't have the words to make sense of what was happening. "you... okay?" he asked, his voice low. it was like he was trying to understand you better. trying, in his strange way, to care.

and when you hummed again, your body still pressed against him like you needed nothing more, he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through him. subtle, but undeniable.

he didn't say anything else, but he did one thing he never thought he would. he let you stay there, his hand still on your back, just enough to show that maybe, just maybe, he didn't mind you being this close.

thoughts had been swirling around your head. people already knew who you were, and the kind of connection you had with geum seongje. you'd been hearing disapproving remarks from people you knew, left and right.

but that wasn't what was bothering you. it was when one of your friends asked, "when did you even start dating geum seongje?"

you didn't know how to answer that. you weren't dating. were you even together? you'd been so focused on how you felt about him, so content with the time you were spending together, that you'd forgotten to ask the most important question.

where do you stand in his life?

so you finally asked, quietly. on a cold night, after one of his disappearances. you looked at him and said, "what are we, seongje?"

he didn't look at you right away. he just lit a cigarette, sat back like you didn't just ask something that's clawing at your ribs.

then, after a long pause, he said, "you don't need a label for something i'd kill over."

still too vague. so you pressed. "so that's it? you can show up and disappear and wreck people and i'm just... what? someone you know?"

now he's irritated. not because you're wrong, but because his feelings itch under his skin worse than blood.

he dragged you close by the wrist, eyes burning, voice low and rough. "you're mine. you're not like the others. you don't walk away from me. and i'll kill anyone who touches you."

it became even clearer in actions. he doesn't flirt with others. he doesn't sleep around. he shows up when you're hurt, when you need help, or even just when the silence gets too heavy. his violence becomes more controlled around you. his chaos pauses for you.

and if you ever try to walk away, not out of fear, but heartbreak, he doesn't beg. but he follows.

he shows up in the dark and says, "you don't get to leave. you're the only thing i don't want to break."

so no, you don't get a title. but you get certainty. the kind that claws into you and never lets go.

you were at seongje's place, curled up in the corner of his bed, wearing one of his hoodies, watching something on your phone. occasionally, you laughed, your brow twitching, your mouth tugging in little ways. you probably didn't know he was watching.

he was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall. a cigarette rested between his fingers, forgotten halfway through.

it should've been just another moment. just another afternoon with you near. that's all it was. but it wasn't.

something cracked. it was quiet. internal. sudden.

he looked at you, really looked, and it hit him like a pipe to the chest. he'd always known you were different.

you didn't scream like the world did, you didn't beg to get closer to him, or flinch when he tore the world apart with his bare hands. you didn't reach to fix what couldn't be fixed.

you just were. and he couldn't fucking breathe.

he'd thought what he felt for you was already obsession. he thought the way he needed you around—the way his days didn't start right unless he saw your face—was already too much.

but this? right now? it was worse.

because you weren't even doing anything. you were just there, in his space like you belonged. and he couldn't stand it.

he didn't blink, didn't move. his heart was beating too fast, too heavy. like it was trying to get out of his chest, like it was trying to claw its way toward you.

you looked up at him, catching the stare.

"what?" you asked, your voice soft, lazy with comfort.

that was the final hit. his cigarette dropped to the floor. he stood and crossed the room in two strides.

you blinked and sat up, shifting to the edge of the bed. confused, then mildly concerned, because he wasn't saying anything. just looking at you like he was on the edge of something ugly.

"what is it?" you asked again.

he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands braced on the mattress like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"you," he muttered, low, dangerous, barely holding back the quake in his chest. "you don't even fucking know, do you."

you blinked in confusion, "know what?"

"that i'm already gone."

he leaned in close, breath warm against your skin. his hands were clenched on the sheets beside your thighs.

"i didn't think it could get worse," he said, tone ragged. "but it did. just now. just looking at you."

"seongje-"

he didn't let you finish. his voice came out lower. hoarser.

"i'd burn down everything. rip open anyone. just to keep this. you. whatever the fuck this is—"

he pressed his forehead against your knee. his voice dropped, barely a whisper now, like it hurt him to say.

"—it's mine."

your fingers moved before your words did. you reached out, slow and certain, and slipped your hand into his hair, like you knew something inside him was coming apart at the seams, and you needed to keep it from unraveling further.

you didn't flinch. didn't pull away from the sharpness in his voice or the weight behind his words.

instead, you curled your fingers gently against his scalp and said, soft but steady, "you don't have to break things just to prove you want to keep me. i'm not going anywhere."

that did something to him. his breath hitched, quiet, jaw clenched. you didn't treat his madness like something to be pitied or feared. you didn't try to fix it. you didn't flinch from the wreckage. you just understood it was there and touched it anyway.

his arms wrapped around your waist almost without thinking, head still pressed to your knee like it was the only place he could breathe.

then you said it, quietly. not to tease, not to demand. just honest. like it had always been true.

"you are my home."

and that was the thing that shattered him. because he didn't have a home. not really, never did. he was a creature built from chaos and flame and blood. the idea that someone could look at him and find rest?

it wrecked him in a way no fist ever could. his grip tightened. not out of fear of you leaving. but because you just gave him something he didn't know he'd been starving for all his life. and now that he had it, he'd kill the whole world before he let it go.

he didn't know what to say yet. so when you gently pulled him toward the bed, he didn't resist. he didn't say something cocky or crass like he usually would. he just let you.

you lay down first, guiding him beside you. he collapsed next to you like a man thrown off balance. arms still around your waist, his head buried against the curve of your neck. as if he could crawl inside your skin just to get closer.

your fingers ran through his hair, slow, rhythmic, soothing. the storm inside him didn't vanish, but it quieted. simmered.

your voice cut through the quiet, soft and careful. "do you love me?"

he froze. he didn't pull away, but he did stop breathing for a second. his gaze locked on yours, heavy and unreadable. then he took a slow breath, jaw tightening.

love? what the hell was that supposed to feel like? that was too unfamiliar. too soft.

he didn't know. he'd never had it. not from anyone. not for anyone. all he'd ever known was survival, pleasure, and pain. wanting things so badly he broke them just to feel something. hurting because it was the only way to know he was alive.

but this? this thing in his chest, this raw, aching, burning thing that only grew worse the longer you touched him, it was something else.

so he didn't lie. he didn't pretend. he spoke against your skin, voice hoarse and quiet.

"i don't know what love is. but i know i can't fucking stand the thought of you not being here."

another breath. he pulled you closer.

"you're the only thing that makes me feel calm and insane at the same time. you—" he exhaled, shaky now, like it hurt to say, "—you make me feel too much. and i can't stop it."

his fingers dug into the back of your shirt. possessive. desperate.

"i don't know if it's love, but i know this—you're mine. you've been mine since the moment i saw you. doesn't matter if you run, or scream, or try to tear me out of your chest. you're still mine."

"you're the air that i breathe," he said, voice dropping to a whisper, like a confession no one else was meant to hear. "and i'd tear the world apart to keep you. no hesitation. no mercy."

"when i look at you, it hurts." he said. "but i want that hurt. over and over again. you're the only thing i'd bleed for without thinking twice."

he let the silence stretch, like he wanted the weight of his words to press against you. crush you, mark you, bind you to him in the only way he knew how.

it was not a confession, but a surrender.

your chest tightened. your eyes stung. and you hated that they did, because you weren't sad. you weren't broken.

you were just... full. full of him. of this.

a shaky breath escaped you as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing just beneath his eye, like you needed to touch something solid to believe any of this was real.

you smiled. small, trembling, but true.

"whatever it is you feel for me, let it consume you." your voice was steady, despite the trembling in your chest. "break for me. burn only for me. want no one else—because i don't want anyone but you."

he stared at you like you'd just taken the air out of his lungs.

"i don't care if it's wrong, or selfish, or if the world thinks i've lost my mind." your hand slid back into his hair gently. "you're mine, geum seongje. just as much as i'm yours."

his hands were already on your waist, but they tightened at those words, like something inside him finally snapped.

and he kissed you. it wasn't soft. it wasn't careful. it was desperate, like he needed to feel everything at once, like if he didn't press every inch of you into him, he might fall apart.

you kissed him back just as hard, just as aching, fingers curling in his hair like you could anchor the both of you with the weight of your want.

and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

not the danger in his eyes. not the chaos in his soul. not the way the world would look at you.

because you knew him. and you would choose him—still. every time.

for you, he would bleed himself dry a thousand times—willingly, completely, because he didn't know how not to.

[motthe]

Maybe some Young! Silco fic? (Or anything that you wanna do) I already loved his older version but his Young self in The last episodes got my heart in a grip 😭💖💖 He looks so full of dreams and maybe a little silly. Maybe with a energetic/chaotic significant other!

young!silco also has me in a death grip don't worry. hope you enjoy this!!

warnings: fem!reader, violence, sexual innuendos, secondhand embarrassment for drunk rambling

“It’s doable!”

“Doable and survivable are two very different things.”

Vander knocked his head against the metal backing of his mining gloves repeatedly, aching for the two of you to come to a compromise. The light of the fungi matched the tink tink tink of his patience running thin.

Crunching footsteps had him pausing, one eye opening to find Felicia pushing her helmet up higher on her head as she stared at you and Silco just beyond, still very much squabbling. She leaned on her hip, one hand rising to rest on it as she smiled down at Vander’s hunched form.

“Are they still arguing about the gap?” she whispered.

He groaned quietly instead of answering. It was all she needed.

“I can make it!” you protested, arms gesturing to the other side of the ravine. “I’ve jumped buildings twice the distance.”

“When you’re jumping buildings you can see the ground,” Silco argued, pointing to the darkness below. “We don’t know how long a fall that is, you absolute lunatic.”

“You’ve gotta hand it to her,” Felicia chuckled, taking up camp next to Vander. “No one else would even think of jumping across.”

“She’s an adrenaline junkie,” Vander muttered. “Jumping off shit is all she thinks about.”

“Would you—just let me—damn it, Sil!”

The shuffle of boots and clothes had both of their heads turning, watching with equally amused expressions as Silco passed by with you being half carried half dragged away from the ravine. Silco didn’t pay them a glance as he went. You kept stretching back the way you came, struggling but not truly putting all your energy into it. Felicia could tell. You loved being his center of attention for as long as possible, even if it kept you away from your wild pastimes. 

The sound of a horn echoed through the caves, sending the fungi white with the sound. The work day was finished. 

“Back to the last drop, then?” Felicia hummed, standing and offering a hand to the big man. He accepted it with a soft grin, following her out. The two of them watched Silco far ahead, who was now fully carrying you in your grieved state. You kept muttering you could have made it.

“Think they’ll ever get together?” she hummed, nudging Vander.

“Wish they would,” he sighed. “It was annoying years ago, now its just pitiful.”

She laughed, waving a hand at you when you pulled your head up from Silco’s shoulder to eye them. “Well, she’ll never do it. She’s convinced herself he’s too focused on our cause to ever settle down.”

“Some days I think the same thing,” Vander said, introspective when she glanced up at him, “others, I catch him looking at her. He doesn’t open up, barely does around us, but…”

“Disappears around her, yeah?” She smiled at him and he mirrored her, nodding.

Later that night, the Last Drop was bustling with the newest record added to the box. You’re dancing over chairs, running across the edge of the pool tables as people chant your name. Someone tossed a mug through the air and you caught it, swallowing the contents down and cheering with the rest before continuing on with dancing. 

Silco watched from his bar seat. He had cruel timing, turning his eyes back to his notebook when you pulled yourself away from the crowd to glance at him. To you, he was lost in his own world, but really he fell into yours quite easily. You were distracting. He perked up at the sound of your voice without meaning to, knew the outline of your body in his periphery. Abrasive and chaotic. You’re too much, too loud.

Too perfect for someone as withdrawn and stiff as him.

“Oh, heaven help me,” Vander grumbled, both hands on the bar as he stared at the scene. Silco paused to raise an eyebrow at him. “She just downed three shots in one.”

“How many does that make it now?” he questioned.

“Eight.”

Both of their heads dropped, knowing how the night would be going.

“All right, I give!” Felcia slammed a hand on the bar as she walked up, panting. “I can’t keep up with her. Gods. Where does she get the energy?”

Vander passed her a drink as Silco shrugged, music blaring all around them. Felicia scowled when she noticed his journal. 

“Oh, c’mon, Silco. Let loose for a bit!” she shouted over the din of the bar, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“If I did that, nothing would ever get done around here,” he returned, smirking as she rolled her eyes. 

The counter shook under them, the second bang of Vander’s fist sending both of them on high alert. Two meant trouble. 

Felicia spun around, Silco turned in his seat. There by the record player you were backed against the wall by a man, one arm caging you in while his fingers pinched your chin. The cold look in your eyes had a shiver streaking down Silco's spine. You were a storm like this and he’d been lost to it for years. 

The man said something that made you scoff, batting his hand away and sliding to get out from under him. As his hand grabbed your upper arm Silco realized he was no longer sitting. Even across the room he could read your lips.

“Last chance. Beat it,” you warned.

The man laughed and tugged you closer, it sent your knee right between his legs. When he bent over, Silco heard the crack as your fist met the man’s jaw. He hit the ground, dead weight. 

Fuck, he thought, hands curling into fists at his side. You were perfect.

You stumbled back a few steps. It seemed those shots had soaked in. You were cradling your hand as yells broke out, slow to turn as a couple of goons stood from a table nearby.

“Great,” Felicia puffed, pushing off the bar, “he had lackeys.”

Vander shouted as they ran at you, Silco was halfway to you when you dodged the first swing, putting you straight into the path of another. Your back hit the record player, a scratch disrupting the music. The entire bar turned, regulars rushing forward without second thought and jumping the goons. 

Silco went straight to you, mindful of the chair Felicia was brandishing overhead as she flew into the meat of the fight. 

“Let me see,” he said, sliding a hand under your jaw and tilting your head back. You were hunching, still holding that hand of yours to your chest. 

“Hey, Sil,” you slurred, grinning and wincing. Your lower lip was busted, the right side of your face already beginning to swell from the jaw up. “Can you believe that guy? Down in one hit, hah!”

“Still have all your teeth?” he asked, wiping the blood trailing from the corner of your mouth. 

“What? You want me to open wide for you?”

He ticked a brow, scowling through the heat that flashed through his stomach. 

“Come on, let’s get ice on that,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around you. You hummed happily, falling into his side. Even as drunk as you were, your feet barely stumbled as he led you to the basement door. He nodded to Vander who already had the same idea, coming around the back of the bar to pass him an ice pack and a clean rag. He thanked him.

“Take care of her,” Vander said, rubbing a hand over your back. You tossed the big man a smile before he returned to his station.

“Keep that on there,” Silco said to you, heart aching as you hissed at the touch of it. 

“I’ve got it,” you muttered, hand brushing his. He made sure you kept it pressed to your cheek before opening the door and helping you in first, careful of the stairs as he closed it behind him. The sounds of fighting and the skipping music was muffled as he led you into the bowels of the Last Drop, setting you down gently on the couch.

He reached for your hand, frowning when you turned away from him. 

“Let me see,” he said.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled, curling into the couch.

“I’d like to see that for myself,” he pushed, fingers gentle as they smoothed over your wrist. Your furrowed brow relaxed a bit, watery eyes trailing to him. “Let me see,” he asked again, softer.

You sighed, the weight of your arm settling into his palm as he moved to sit next to you. You hand shook in both of his, the skin of your knuckles ripped open and gushing red. When he attempted to move your pointer and middle fingers you whimpered, head falling into his shoulder.

He apologized, pulling one hand away to reach into his jacket. “It’s sprained. I’ll need to wrap it.”

“Sweet Sil,” you sighed, your good cheek rubbing against his shoulder as you brought your knees up, “always prepared for the worst.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t constantly getting into trouble,” he hummed, pulling out a roll of bandages and beginning his work. You curled into him as he cleaned you up, tensing when he secured your bruised digits. As he tied the bandages off around your wrist, he sighed, holding your hand in his, thumb running over your skin. 

“M’sorry,” you sniffed.

He turned his head, a breath punched from his lungs as he saw tears slipping down your cheeks. The ice pack laid abandoned in your lap. 

“What are you apologizing for?” he murmured, brushing your hair out of your face. 

“I always make a mess,” you whispered, little gasps slipping. Each one was a bullet to his chest. He couldn’t stand seeing you cry. “I always annoy you.”

“No,” he murmured, arms stretching over you to pull you into his lap, “no, you don’t annoy me, pet.”

“Yes, I do,” you sobbed. “I get into t-trouble when I-when I just want you to look at me.”

Oh, Gods help him. He knew this was the alcohol talking but the hopeful flame in his heart was burning into a torch. He needed to calm you down and get you to bed. 

“I’m looking,” he said, lips grazing your forehead as he rubbed your back. “You don’t have to try so hard. I’m always looking.”

You sniffed and he grabbed the bloody rag, nudging the cleanest corner towards you to blow your nose. He chuckled when you groaned, curling deeper into his chest.

“Too drunk for this,” you mumbled. “Stupid shots.”

“Stupid shots, indeed,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Let's get you some water and go to bed.”

You whined, hiding your face in his neck. “Wanna stay here. M’warm.”

He sighed, settling into the couch. Eventually you would nod off. He’d carry you into bed, then.

“Hair’s nice.”

“What?” he chuckled, trying to look down at you, but it was impossible with you smushed up against him.

“Your hair,” you said, lips moving against his neck. “I like it when it’s bun. Hair frames your face nice. S’handsome.”

You’re going to hate yourself in the morning, he thought, holding back his laughter. You were never going to live this down and he wasn’t nearly nice enough to not tease you about this for the rest of your life. 

“Face hurts,” you sighed. He rubbed your calf, shushing you.

“Sleep, pet,” he murmured against your forehead. 

“You’ll stay?” you asked.

“I’ll stay,” he promised.

[sttoru]

.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. toji can’t get his deserved rest due to his baby boy keeping him awake.

wc. 707

tags. dad!toji x female reader. nothing else to add; just pure fluff.

“he’s kickin’ me again,” toji complains with a deep sigh. tiny feet keep patting his back, not allowing the man to sleep at all. the culprit is none other than megumi—his beloved, yet bratty, son.

the little boy lays between you and your husband. you figured that this was best since megumi kept wailing each time you put him back in his crib.

you chuckle at toji’s groans of annoyance. your son is still full of energy, even if it’s already super late at night. your hand brushes against megumi’s chubby cheek and you can’t help but squeeze it lightly.

that action gains you a high-pitched squeak. you sigh and keep your child occupied with the movement of your finger against his face, “it’s his way of asking for attention, honey.”

toji grumbles something under his breath and scoots away from the both of you. megumi’s head turns towards his dad, his attention caught by the rustling of the sheets. you raise an eyebrow in response to toji putting distance between you both.

“papa’s mean,” you huff, talking to your baby. you can’t see toji’s face since his broad back is obstructing the view, though you can easily guess that he’s frowning.

maybe even secretly sulking about the lack of sleep. you do understand, however. he’s worked hard all day to provide for both megumi and you.

“papa,” megumi speaks up with an adorable pout on his lips. he crawls over to toji before you can stop him. the little boy taps at toji’s back again, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.

megumi’s need for attention and affection from his father is heartwarming to see. you reach out towards your son in hopes of picking him back up. toji needs his rest after all.

a deep sigh escapes toji’s lips. not one of frustration this time, but rather one of defeat. he opens his eyes and turns around to face megumi. the man’s stoic face softens the moment he sees those cute doe eyes staring up at him.

“c’mere,” toji grumbles and lifts his child’s tiny body up without any effort. megumi giggles instantly and reaches his hands out to hold his dad’s face. your husband playfully bites your son’s tiny fingers instead, “not gonna allow y��r dad to sleep, huh? tsk tsk.”

you watch the scene unfold with a tender smile. toji lowers his head and starts blowing raspberries against megumi’s tummy. the baby squeals and giggles uncontrollably, writhing around in toji’s embrace.

“this is what ya get for being a brat,” toji mumbles and switches to leaving kisses along the little boy’s belly. that makes megumi laugh as well due to the ticklishness.

toji grins. his earlier drowsiness and annoyance have vanished into thin air. he can’t possibly stay mad at his son. not after seeing megumi happy. and especially not after seeing your content smile too.

“mama! mama!” megumi laughs between cries of help. his tiny hand reaches out to you whilst toji continues the little attack on his tummy. you chuckle and decide to intervene.

you scoot over to the other side and shield megumi’s tiny body from your husband’s tickles. you frown and playfully scold him, “stay away from my baby, you big bad guy.”

toji raises an eyebrow in amusement. he bites back a laugh before cocking his head to the side, that familiar smug expression appearing on his face.

“oh yeah? ‘m the bad guy now, eh?” the dark-haired man rolls his eyes. he towers over both you and your son - who’s giggling and still holding tightly onto you, “all right. i’ll show you just how bad i can be then.”

your eyes widen the moment you feel toji’s fingers land underneath your shirt, touching your bare skin. not a second passes by and he’s already tickling you. his other hand reaches for megumi’s tummy again—now making the both of you squirm and giggle loudly.

the happy sounds echo throughout the room. perhaps even loud enough for your neighbours to hear at four in the morning. but, you don’t care about any possible noise complaints. not during this cozy family moment.

plus toji’s fond smile as he continues torturing you and your son is definitely worth all of it.

[inseobts]

Tell Me No Lies

law x fem!reader

you’re a psychologist who can spot any lie and that makes law keep his distance, afraid you’ll see how he truly feels. but when a mission forces you to pose as his lover, the lines between act and reality blur fast.

a/n: this was a request but since it's really long I summarized it

words count: 3.9k

tags: slow burn, mutual pining, undercover couple, spicy but not smut, fluff, tension, crewmates being chaotic

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“You want me to do what?”

Your voice slices through the meeting room of the Polar Tang like a dagger, sharp, pointed, and just a little amused.

Penguin holds up his hands, grinning like he’s already imagined you and Law making out in a booth “Not my idea! Bepo came up with it.”

Bepo, ever innocent, blinks “It’s logical. Varrick lies constantly. You can tell when people lie. Captain’s the one meeting him. It’s simple.”

You stare “You want us to act like a couple.”

“Just for the night!” Shachi chimes in from where he’s stuffing chips in his mouth “The place is a casino-slash-brothel. No one goes in there looking like a business partner. You show up all cold and stiff, he’ll know something’s up.”

Law hasn’t said a word.

He sits at the head of the table, arms folded, expression blank. But you know that face. He’s thinking. Calculating. Fighting something.

Then, flatly “Fine.”

You blink “Fine?”

“You’ll have to stay close,” Law adds, eyes flicking to yours “I can’t talk in code around Varrick, and I doubt we’ll get a second chance if he feels like we’re onto him.”

“So, what, I sit on your lap and play with your hair while you ask about Navy routes?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Penguin snorts soda through his nose.

Law doesn’t miss a beat “If it gets us the truth.”

You swallow hard. Because that should not have sounded that smooth.

Later, in your room, you stand in front of the mirror, pulling on the final piece of your dress, a deep red number that hugs your waist and legs and dips dangerously low down your back. You smooth it down, checking the slit up your thigh, the way the silk shimmers under the ship lights.

“You don’t have to look like a goddess,” you mutter to your reflection “You just need to catch a liar.”

But damn it, the dress works. And the second you step into the hallway, you hear Shachi’s voice echo from down the corridor “Caaaptaaaain!”

You freeze.

“Don’t be mad when she looks hotter than you, bro!” Penguin adds, loud enough that it bounces off the steel walls.

“Stop yelling” Law says from somewhere out of sight. His voice is tense.

You round the corner and stop dead.

Oh no.

Law... Law is in a black suit, crisp and clean, no tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair’s slicked back just enough to make your throat go dry. Tattoos peek out at the edge of his collar. He’s leaning against the wall, looking at his den-den mushi, but when he looks up and sees you his fingers still. His eyes trail down, slow. Too slow.

You hear Shachi whisper “damn” under his breath and fist bump Penguin like they just won a bet.

Law clears his throat “You’re… ready.”

You tilt your head, smirking “You look nice too. Didn’t know you owned a suit.”

“It was a gift” he mutters.

You take a step forward “From who? Someone who wanted to see you flustered?”

His jaw ticks “I’m not flustered.”

You do notice the slight red creeping up the back of his neck. Just a little. Enough.

Before either of you can pretend to be normal, the rest of the crew crowds the hallway behind you.

Bepo holds up a little camera “Say cheese.”

“We’re not taking pictures” Law snaps.

“Oh come on,” Penguin grins “Look at you two!”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?” you ask, eyes narrowing.

“Nope.”

Shachi elbows Bepo “Ten bucks says they come back married.”

Bepo nods solemnly “I’ll take that bet.”

Law groans and starts walking past them, ignoring the chaos.

You trail after him, heels clicking on the metal. As you pass the guys, you whisper, “Try not to blow our cover.”

Penguin winks “Go get that intel... and maybe some action.”

You don’t answer but your cheeks are hotter than they should be.

And the second Law opens the hatch to the upper deck, the cold sea air hits you and so does the reality of the night ahead.

The casino is loud. Velvet-lined walls drown out the outside world, while gold lights glint off dice and crystal glasses. Somewhere near the back, a piano plays slow jazz. It’s all soft temptation and sharpened edges.

You walk in beside Law, his arm around your waist. His fingers rest against the small of your back like they belong there, not too tight, not too loose. Just… there.

You can feel the heat of his palm through the silk of your dress. You can feel everything.

Stay focused.

Varrick is waiting in a private corner booth, exactly where intel said he’d be. He’s slouched in the plush seat like he owns the place, surrounded by too many drinks and not enough class. Rings clink against his glass as he lifts it.

“Trafalgar Law!” he says, standing with a grin too wide to be real “Wasn’t expecting you to bring arm candy.”

Law’s arm tightens around you. Not protectively. Possessively.

“She’s more than that,” he says, calm as ever “But she doesn’t like to talk much.”

You smile politely at Varrick, then glance at Law from the corner of your eye.

Smart. That gives you the freedom to observe.

You slide into the booth beside Law, close, but with just enough space between you to keep your focus.

Varrick leans forward “So, you wanted info on that Navy ship?”

Law nods “I heard it was seen heading east out of Ivona Port last week.”

Varrick shrugs, swirling his drink lazily “Could be. Could be west. Hard to say.”

You place your hand lightly on Law’s thigh. Barely a touch. Just enough.

Lie.

Law’s eyes don’t move. His posture doesn’t change. But his fingers tap against the glass in front of him once, acknowledging you.

Varrick chuckles “You know, these Navy guys come and go. They don’t tell me everything.”

Your fingers slide up, brushing over the inside of Law’s wrist as you reach for your own drink.

Another lie.

Law hums “Then tell me what you do know.”

“I know they’re not looking for pirates right now,” Varrick says “Some big job further north. Something to do with weapons.”

Your nails gently press into the back of Law’s hand, slow and deliberate.

Lie.

You feel him tense slightly. Like he’s thinking.

“Do you want something in return for this info?” Law asks coolly.

Varrick grins “Only a little favor later. Nothing serious.”

Even now he's lying.

This time you run your fingers slowly down Law’s forearm, letting your touch linger like a lover’s caress. But it’s all code. All signal.

Law shifts beside you. To anyone watching, it just looks like he’s turning toward you, lips brushing close to your ear.

“You’re sure?” he murmurs.

You nod “Three lies so far.”

“Mm.”

Varrick raises a brow “You two are cute, y’know that? Real cozy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re actually into each other.”

Law leans in, his lips grazing the edge of your cheek as he speaks “We are.”

Your heart skips.

You almost miss the way Varrick’s mouth twitches at that. A little wrinkle in the corner of his eyes. Something flickers. Jealousy?

“Lucky guy then...” Varrick mutters.

Law’s arm moves from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer. Not fake this time. Not calculated. His hand is warm, firm, fingers curling possessively.

You’re practically in his lap now.

You keep your eyes on Varrick “So what’s the Navy doing near Blue Rock Island?”

He flinches.

Small. Quick. But you see it.

You drag your hand up Law’s chest like you’re playing with his shirt but your fingers dig in slightly at his collarbone.

That’s the truth. That’s the target.

Law tilts his head slightly, voice low and smooth “Blue Rock, huh?”

Varrick blinks, caught off guard.

You glance at Law just for a second and see it.

His eyes are calm. But his pulse at his neck is faster now. You shouldn’t be this close. He shouldn’t be looking at you like that. You’re supposed to be watching the informant, but now you’re catching the way Law’s lips part ever so slightly when you shift in his lap. The way his breath hitches.

He’s too good at hiding. You never have a baseline for him and suddenly, you realize you do now. You’ve been close enough tonight to read him. Feel him.

So when his ears turn red the moment Varrick leaves the table you finally know what his tell is.

“You’re enjoying this” Law mutters as Varrick disappears into the crowd.

You swirl the last sip of wine in your glass “Enjoying not getting stabbed in a double-cross? Sure.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You turn your head slowly toward him, lashes low, a smirk threatening at the corner of your mouth “No? Then clarify, Captain.”

His jaw clenches.

You lean in “Or are you upset I figured out your tell?”

Silence.

Got him.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you. Just sips from his glass like he’s trying not to set it down too hard. You watch his throat bob, slow and tight. He’s flustered. Controlled but clearly struggling to keep that control.

Which is dangerous and tempting.

You reach out, brush something “imaginary” from his collar, letting your fingers drag across the base of his throat. He stiffens just slightly, and you swear under that cool expression, his eyes darken.

“I’m not ready to leave” you say casually, turning away to scan the floor “We did the job. Got the truth. Maybe we deserve a little fun.”

Law doesn’t argue. That alone is suspicious.

So you both stay. You drink. You people-watch. You flirt, just enough to be part of the act. And he plays along, letting his hand rest low on your back, murmuring sarcastic commentary about the drunk nobles and sleazy gamblers, voice low and rough in your ear.

But then Varrick returns.

You’re seated now in a more open lounge, a couch near the roulette tables. Varrick walks up with a drink and a too-easy smile.

“Forgot one little detail,” he says, tone casual “Seems like the Navy isn’t after pirates right now because they’re meeting with one. Some kind of alliance. Dunno who.”

Lie.

You shift against Law and drag your fingers along his inner thigh, too slow to be innocent.

Varrick talks more, and you let your hands wander. One arm over Law’s shoulder, the other toying with the fabric of his jacket. A fingertip gliding along the inked edge of his collarbone. Every time Varrick lies, you punish Law with a new touch.

You want to see how much he can take.

When you trail your hand up to the side of his neck and run your thumb along his jaw, you feel it. That little twitch. A shiver. His hand slides up your waist and grips tight, like a warning.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear.

“He’s lying again.”

Your voice is barely above a breath.

“And you’re pushing it” Law growls, so low only you can hear.

But you just smile and press a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering “Don’t lose your composure, Captain. Someone might think you’re affected.”

Varrick finally gets bored and excuses himself, clearly thinking he’s dropped enough bait.

The second he’s out of sight, Law stands.

“You come with me. Now.”

You blink “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just starts walking toward the upstairs hall of the casino. Like he already knows you’ll follow.

Which… you do.

Up the stairs, past the velvet curtain, through the dim corridor lined with private doors. He finds an empty suite with a key card left in the slot—probably reserved for VIPs or those with a winning streak.

He opens it.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

And then he pins you to the wall. Hands at your side, like blocking you. Eyes burning.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says, voice rough “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

You pretend to think “Touching my captain in public? Flirting with a man who’s obviously holding back? Yeah. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

His gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes and back again. His breath is hot against your face.

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

You grab his lapel and pull him down.

“I’ll tell you if you lie.”

For a few long seconds, Law doesn’t move.

His fingers flex on your hips, like he’s debating whether to pull you in or push you away. His eyes are on yours, unreadable to anyone else but you can see it now. The cracks in that cold, calculated shell. The tension. The restraint.

You’ve spent months trying to get a baseline on him. To decode his behavior. Now? You are the baseline.

And he’s struggling.

“I should let you go” he mutters, voice low, more to himself than to you.

“But you won’t” you whisper back.

His eyes drop to your lips “No.”

He steps closer. Your back is fully against the wall now, your breath tangled with his. You tilt your chin up, almost daring him.

“What’s holding you back?” you ask.

His mouth twitches “You.”

A beat.

Then “You’re too good at reading people.”

You grin “So are you.”

His hand slips to the back of your thigh, just under the slit of your dress. Not high, but enough to make your pulse skip “You’ve been testing me all night.”

“Guilty.”

“You think it’s funny watching me lose control?”

“I think it’s hot.”

That does it.

He lets out a quiet, sharp breath, like he’s just given up fighting gravity, and leans in until your foreheads are pressed together. His hand stays on your thigh. His other lands on the wall beside your head.

You whisper, “You’re not usually like this.”

“No,” he says “You bring it out.”

You stay like that for a moment, so close, heat radiating between you, neither of you quite touching where it counts. The tension is unbearable in the best way. It’s not just attraction. It’s months of silence, near-misses, unsaid things finally rising to the surface.

Law is still Law, he's collected and composed, but now you know what it costs him. You feel the restraint humming under his skin like electricity.

You reach up and slide your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He shivers.

“Stay” he says. It’s not a command. It’s almost… a request.

You nod, slow “I’m not going anywhere.”

He finally steps back, not far, just enough to breathe, and moves to the bed. Sits on the edge, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to reset.

You take the moment to look around. The room is warm-toned, elegant. One massive bed in the center. Silk sheets. Balcony window cracked open to let in the sound of crashing waves and soft jazz from below.

You sit beside him, gently bumping his shoulder “So. What now?”

Law doesn’t look at you “Now, we sleep.”

You raise an eyebrow “You’re going to act like none of that happened?”

“I didn’t say that” he replies, voice quiet.

He leans back, hands braced behind him, eyes finally meeting yours “I’m saying we don’t have to rush it.”

Your heart stutters.

He adds, almost awkwardly, “This isn’t just the mission. Not for me.”

You don’t tease him this time. Instead, you smile, warm and soft.

“Not for me either.”

He pulls off his jacket, tosses it over the chair. Starts unbuttoning his cuffs. You stand and go to the bathroom to remove your heels and freshen up, giving him space, and maybe yourself a moment to breathe.

When you come back, Law’s already under the covers, shirt slightly open, tattooed chest half-visible in the low light. He’s facing the wall.

But when you slip in beside him, he immediately turns over and pulls you in, an arm draped over your waist, forehead pressing into your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The room is quiet now.

The casino noise is a distant hum through the balcony window, soft music, muffled laughter, the whirl of spinning wheels and shuffled cards. But inside, it’s just the sound of two hearts beating faster than they should.

You’re lying on your side, Law behind you, one arm slung around your waist like it belongs there. His hand rests just beneath your ribs, warm and heavy. Not demanding. Just… steady.

The silence stretches. Not awkward, but charged. Comfortable, yet not quite safe.

Your voice cuts through it, soft and curious.

“If we’re just gonna sleep… then why here? Why not go back to the ship?”

You feel him pause behind you. Not tense but thoughtful.

He exhales through his nose “Because.”

“Because?”

His voice drops, rough like he hasn’t decided if he wants to answer honestly “Because if I took you back to the ship, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

He shifts slowly and pulls you in tighter, chest pressed to your back now. His nose brushes your neck, and his breath sends a shiver down your spine.

You barely manage a whisper “This?”

He hums “Stay close. Let myself… feel something.”

You blink. That wasn’t what you expected.

He continues, quietly “On the ship, I’m your captain. In control. Always thinking. Always five steps ahead.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching the faintest edge of vulnerability in his eyes.

“And here?” you ask.

“Here,” he says, “I get to be a man lying next to someone who makes him forget all of that.”

You don’t answer for a moment.

Then, deliberately, you reach back and trail your fingers down his forearm, slow and gentle.

“Good,” you whisper “Because I like this version of you.”

You feel his smile against your skin.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just tucks his face into your neck like he’s finally allowing himself to breathe.

You shift slightly.

Not much. Just enough to test the space between you.

He doesn’t stop you.

So you turn.

You roll slowly to face him, your knees brushing his under the covers, your chest barely touching his. The low golden light from the hallway filters in through the crack under the door, just enough to catch the edge of his face, his jaw, his eyes, that small crease between his brows.

He’s watching you. Carefully. Quietly.

You speak, low and honest “You’re not the only one who forgets how to breathe around the other.”

His expression flickers. Just a second. But enough for you to see hope, doubt, desire. Then gone again.

You lift your hand to his cheek, gentle.

Then he kisses you.

Hard.

There’s nothing hesitant in it. No more caution, no more reading cues, no more pretend. Just heat, and months of tension finally snapping. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in deeper.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in.

Your hands move instinctively, one gripping his shirt, the other slipping around his waist. He shifts, pressing you into the mattress, his knee between yours, his breath shaky against your lips.

When he finally pulls back, just an inch, his forehead rests against yours. Both of you breathing like you’ve just surfaced from underwater.

You whisper, “That didn’t feel like something we’ll forget in the morning.”

Law shakes his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“It’s not.”

Another beat.

Then you add, teasing, “So much for just sleeping.”

His mouth curves into a tired smile, eyes half-lidded “You started it.”

You laugh soft and warm and tangled in sheets and tension.

And when he pulls you close again, one hand splayed across your lower back, your smile fades into something quieter. Something real.

Because this time, neither of you is pretending.

The next morning, the sun isn’t even fully up when you and Law leave the casino.

No one says anything at first. You walk side by side, close enough that your arms keep brushing, but not close enough to make it obvious.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But the second the Polar Tang comes into view, the nerves hit you like a cannonball.

You’re holding your heels in one hand, the other arm looped awkwardly around your waist to keep Law’s massive coat closed over your dress. Your own shoes were giving you blisters, so somewhere between the casino lobby and the harbor, Law, annoyed and muttering, slipped out of his and made you wear them.

Now here you are, flopping around the deck in his too-big shoes while he walks beside you in his socks, lipstick faintly smudged across the corner of his jaw.

You don’t look at each other. You cannot look at each other.

And then just as your foot slips slightly in one of his clunky boots “Well, well, well… Look who finally decided to come back.”

Shachi.

Leaning on the railing with a bowl of cereal and way too much smugness for six in the morning.

You freeze.

Penguin appears from the stairwell, blinking at you both. His gaze travels from your tousled hair to your crooked dress zipper, to Law’s missing shoes, to your very obvious lipstick on his jaw.

He lets out a slow, exaggerated whistle.

“That,” he says, pointing his spoon between the two of you, “was not part of the mission.”

Law doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps walking, face unreadable except for the ears burning red.

You try to look casual. Like you didn’t just sneak off a casino floor at sunrise “We, uh... we stayed for surveillance reasons.”

Penguin snorts “Yeah, I bet you were surveilling something.”

You shoot him a glare, still wearing Law’s boots “My heel broke.”

“Sure it did. And your lipstick broke too? All over the captain’s face?”

You reach up automatically to touch your lips, and groan when you realize he’s right.

Law growls under his breath “Enough.”

But Shachi’s having too much fun “Man, I thought you’d at least try to sneak back on like it didn’t happen. This is so much better.”

“Do you want to swim today, Shachi?” Law deadpans.

Bepo pops his head out of the hallway “Did you two share a bed? Was it part of the act or did something actually happen? Because you both look like—”

“Bepo.” Law cuts him off like a gunshot.

You turn to face Law, trying so hard not to laugh because the man looks like he wants to teleport to another planet. His hair’s still a little messy. His collar’s open. And he’s got the exact same expression he had when you kissed him: that barely-holding-it-together calm that only you can see cracking.

You mutter under your breath, “We should’ve never come back.”

Law nods “Agreed.”

Then, just when you’re about to make a break for your quarters, Law stops and turns.

He grabs your hand.

The crew goes dead silent.

He lifts your fingers to his lips in one smooth motion. Kisses them.

Soft. Deliberate.

Then walks off with all the calm dignity of a man in socks who’s still the most dangerous person in the room.

Your brain short-circuits. The crew loses their minds.

Penguin lets out a strangled “WHAT—”

Shachi screams “HE’S IN LOVE!!!”

And you’re just standing there, one hand in the air, heart about to burst out of your chest.

You finally bolt down the hallway toward your room, calling back “I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS!!”

Bepo shouts after you, “CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR EMOTIONAL MATURITY!”

You slam your door shut, cheeks on fire, heart racing, and a stupid smile you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

[pooksamiras]

- amira. 5/18/25 8:51 PM

Simon’s arms are canvases of ink — dark, intricate tattoos that twist along his skin like smoke, etched into him long before he ever imagined someone like her, entering his life. Wrapping around his forearms, crawling up his biceps, disappearing beneath the sleeves of a tight black shirt that clung to every sculpted ridge of his body. Faded scars interrupted the flow of ink — reminders of life spent in combat, discipline forged through years of military service. His hands rough, calloused. — hands made for breaking, but now, for holding, her.

He hadn’t come to that grimy little dive bar looking for anyone. Least of all someone soft, so bright-eyed, and warm. He stays tucked in the shadows, the glow of the neon barely catching the matte ink of his skin. People usually know to keep their distance. But, then she walks in. — curious, unafraid, drawn to something dangerous like a moth to a flame.

“Nice tattoos,” she murmurs, voice soft and intimate as her fingers graze the lines on his arm. Her touch light, almost reverent, but enough to make his muscles twitch beneath her fingertips.

He’s never been one for indulgence. Self-restraint is second nature — ingrained, necessary. But she is a temptation wrapped in softness, and something in him gave way.

—

Now, hours later, she’s pressed against the cold wall of his apartment, dress hiked up over her hips, tits spilling free. He drags her panties down with little ceremony, letting them dangle around one ankle. The air was thick with heat and tension, the dim light casting theirs bodies in an amber shadows.

“Wanna know something about my tattoos, darlin’?” Simon’s voice low and gravelly, vibrating against her skin as he pressed the heavy weight of his cock along her slick folds, teasing, coating himself in her arousal.

“They’re older than you, sweetheart.”

She whimpers, biting her bottom lip hard enough to sting, a breathy moan escaping as his words sank in. But she doesn’t pull away — no, she pushes back into him.

“Didn’t think you were into that,” he muttered with a smirk, and then he pushed inside — slowly at first, then all at once. The room echoed with the obscene squelch of him sinking deep into her soaked heat, her walls fluttering around him.

“Didn’t take you for someone who had a thing for older men,” he groaned, wrapping a large, inked hand around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes flutter. “Turns you on, yeah? Getting filled up by a man with tattoos older than your ass?”

Her legs tremble as he began thrusting, each snap of his hips sharp and precise. She could barely breathe, let alone speak, her brain melting under the weight of his cock.

“Already gettin’ dumb on me?” he cooed mockingly, his voice laced with dark amusement as tears welled in your eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, look at you. Cryin’ like a good girl.”

He watched every twitch of her body with greedy eyes. This — this — is more real than any night he’s spent fisting his cock in a lonely bunk, teeth gritted behind a balaclava, imagining something softer than his own rough palm. Now he has her, warm and wet and real, and he isn’t letting go.

He speeds up, fucking into her like he needs her to live, slick sounds loud and messy between them.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmured, tapping her cheek gently, coaxing her out of her haze. Drool trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Give the old man some respect, yeah?”

She moans brokenly, while he grins — all teeth and hungry — before burying himself deeper, like he wants to leave something behind inside her.

And maybe, he already has.

[loganficsonly]

Logan smut where reader and Logan are in an established relationship, shes a mutant too and right after him and Wade save the timelines, she gets mad because she thought they were both dead, then Logan spends the whole night with some “I’m sorry I scared you” sex

MMM THISSSS

this is hot but i've modified it so that the relationship between mutant!reader and logan happens afterwards? i just can't imagine the logan we see in dp&w having an established relationship 😭 sorry, though i don't think this little detail matters much in the writing below!

thank you for sending this in <3

"i thought i lost you" sex with worst!logan

gn!reader, 1.4k (it's poetic that each part is 701 words lmao) WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI please this is smut!!!, rough sex, slight angst, injuries/mentions of injuries and blood, established relationship, reader has mutant powers (sound manipulation), reader has hair, UNEDITEDDD we die like johnny storm being skinned by cassandra AUTHOR'S NOTE: i don't think i knew exactly what i was doing here... hope this doesn't disappoint

If he's the one who got seriously hurt:

He comes back home, blood on the suit. His, theirs, it doesn't matter anymore. It shouldn't have been that close of a fight, that much he knows.

You stare at him as he closes the door to your shared apartment, fingers numb from being curled into worried fists. He kicks off his boots and unzips his suit, not meeting your eyes.

You watch quietly. He doesn’t need heightened senses to detect the tension in the air.

He stands in front of you, naked save for his pants, as if trying to placate you with the sight of him unharmed. See, he’s fine. Nothing to worry about. He heals. He’s alive.

But when he finally looks at you and sees the mix of emotions burning in your eyes, he knows it’s not enough.

They’re red. Have you been crying?

 You finally speak. “It was supposed to be three days,” you say quietly.

His heart sinks, hears your bare feet close the distance between the two of you. Your words are spoken through gritted teeth. 

“You were gone for seven, Logan.” 

Before he can wrangle a word out of his dry throat, he feels your arms hug him tight, and quickly returns it, stroking your hair.

Then there’s wetness on his chest—tears. Your tears. He made you cry. 

“Sweetheart,” he rumbles, trying to put the words together in his head, but he’s not even sure what to say.

You lean up, kissing him. It’s soft and tentative, like he’ll disappear if you push further. His larger hands cup your face, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, thumbs brushing the tears off your cheeks. 

“Tried to echo-locate you,” you whisper between kisses, “b-but couldn't—didn’t know if you were alive or dead—”

His hands wrap around you tighter. “Honey, I’ll only be dead when you are,” he shudders against your lips, “till then, I ain’t gonna leave you alone.”

It’s slow. He lets you set the pace. Allows your hands to trace the veins on his arms while he kisses you dizzy, like you don’t already have them memorized. Tips his head back to make room for your lips on his throat, chest heaving with need.

Delicate brushes of your lips gradually turn to open-mouthed kisses on his skin, as if making sure this is really your Logan. 

As the heat climbs, he rids you of your clothes, hands sinking into the familiar plush of your flesh after knowing only death for so long. God, you’re soft… His eyes zero in on the way his fingers grip your thighs.

When you sink yourself on top of him, his blood rushes with emotion, a strangled groan escaping him. Warm. Tight. He wants more. 

There is a familiar sensation then. The shrinking of space, or rather the space of sound. You’ve blocked it out, like you sometimes do when you’re intimate with him.

The silence is loud when it hits him—no more traffic, no more construction. Not even the buzz of electricity remains within the tangle of your bodies. Only the sounds of your labored breathing as you try to fit all of him, his broken grunt when he feels himself bottoms out.

Just you and him. The outside world no longer exists.

“Fuck, honey…” he purrs, feeling you clench around him. 

Hazel eyes are dazed and dilated, but you feel their intensity as they burn, taking in the sight of you perched on his thighs. There’s a sheen of sweat that makes you glow, hair sticking to your face, your hands on his chest. 

“Logan,” you whimper, a thousand emotions bundled into those two syllables. I was so scared. I thought I lost you. Please don’t leave me.

He shushes you gently, palms snaking up to your waist, urging you to grind on him.

It only takes you one taste of that sweet friction. There are no more tears now. No more fear or anxiety. You feel full—figuratively and literally.

Moans entangled when you do. The friction is salvation, proof that the two of you are here, together. He pulls you in, mouth on your jaw, fingers on your chest, and then he thrusts up into you.

“A-ah—”

“I’m home, sweetie, I’m home.”

If you’re the one who got seriously hurt:

He was there with you on that same mission. When your body dropped to the ground it felt like his life was over.

From there it was static. The noise is drowned out and he can’t even hear his own roar. A blur of checking your vitals, carrying you someplace safe, cleaning you up.

When you come to, the first thing you notice is a sharp ringing in your ear. No doubt the aftereffect of the device they specifically put there to disable your powers.

And then a few things all at once. You’re in your apartment, on your bed. Your body seems fine, only minor cuts littering your arm. But the world still looks too bright, your bones too heavy, and your head groggy.

Logan is by your bedside, arms crossed while seated in a chair, head lolled forward. Asleep.

“Logan…?”

Just like that, he snaps awake, a guard dog triggered by a keyword. He scans you up and down, as if some new injuries might have manifested in you while he was out of it. You smile sheepishly. 

“I’m okay,” you groan, sitting up against the pillows. No pain. That’s good. “Geez, I should feel special. Who would’ve thought they’d prepare a sonic reverser just for me?”

“You shouldn’t have been there.” His voice cuts sternly.

“Wha—”

“Could’ve died,” he barks, rage knitted onto his face. You freeze.

His hand moves, placing it against your jaw, tilting your face to meet his as he rises from the chair. 

“But I didn’t—”

In a swift movement, he’s on top of you, the bed sinking with his weight. Arms cage the sides of your head as he sinks into the crook of your neck, all lips and teeth. You let out a surprised moan while he sucks on your throat with the intent of leaving a mark.

The look he gives you when he pulls away is wracked with guilt.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. You understand.

So you let his body press against yours, drag his lips all over yours, snake his hand up your shirt. It’s overwhelming, but it’s him. The warmth of his palm, the scent of his shirt. Him. 

Fingers work on your clothing, desperate to feel more of you. You’re naked under him, and he leans in immediately, lips on your chest, hand on your waist and between your legs.

You mewl, feverish with pleasure as he uses a hand to pleasure you like it’s his right. He’s unforgiving, relentless, mouth pulling away from your chest to watch your face as you squirm and writhe under him.

He makes you cum with his fingers twice, only giving you a moment to breathe once you’re ruined. Cheeks flushed, voice hoarse, sweat misting your skin.

Then he flips you over, laying you on your stomach, a hand locking both your wrists above your head. Your breath hitches as he tugs at your hips with his other hand, lifting it high in the air before parting you and—

“Oh my god,” you cry out, voice muffled by the pillow when he sinks his inches in.

You feel his chest against your back, panting against your ear as he pulls back before snapping his hips into you. You moan again, feeling like it’s too much, but it’s not nearly enough.

He takes you just like that, body glued to yours, claiming you with each roll of his hips against yours. You’re left babbling unintelligible noises of pleasure beneath him, too far gone to mind your own voice.

At one point when he lets your wrists go to tug at your hair, making you arch, you let out a loud “ah!”—to which he’d have teased the shit out of you and told you to mute the room for the outside world, but not this time.  

This time, he doesn’t care if the two of you get evicted.

Logan doesn’t stop until you’re a mess, pumped full of his cum, devastated by desire. He grunts as he pulls himself out, dilated pupils examining the bite marks he’s left on your shoulders and upper back.

“Not gonna let anything happen to you again,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head.

[glamourscat]

SUMMER NIGHTS | TIMESKIP! KENMA X READER

Kenma never confessed in high school, but five years later, one summer night and ten seconds might finally be enough i wrote this at like 2am after seeing the new loonyz fanart lmao. Sorry for any grammar mistakes and confusion I didn’t proofread:(

Kenma has a problem and that problem is you. It’s been exactly five years since high school ended. He’s twenty-two years old, owner of the Bouncing Ball company, a stock trader and a YouTuber, in the midst of all things. And yet, his mind is still so crowded with thoughts of you.

You, the ex-Karasuno team manager. You, who managed to be strict when needed and quite frankly, scared most of the players with your poker face. And yet, you’ve always been kind, altruistic and in his eyes, the most beautiful ray of light.

For Kenma, you are what early spring feels like for a bird. Rejuvenating. Refreshing. Bright. Cold to some, and yet, if they only took the time to actually wait, they would realise that your rays are warm enough to melt even the coldest, harsh, snow of mid March.

You who have become such an important part of his life. His friend, his confidant, and most of all, the girl he’s been utterly and stupidly in love with since he was seventeen.

Falling in love wasn’t exactly one of Kenma’s plans. It happened randomly on a hot summer night five years ago. He doesn’t remember much about that night besides how your body felt pressed beside his. Or the way you looked, out of this world, as the stars shined bright on you. But most of all he remembers the way his heart was about to burst out at any moment. The way he couldn’t help but look at you. All of you.

And despite the sweetness of the memory, he can’t help but cringe at the sour undertones of it. That crippling, hidden feeling that he utterly despises. Regret. He regrets not confessing earlier. Too afraid to let his mouth say the words he longed for. Too stunned by fear. But no more.

Tonight, tonight is the night.

And that’s how he finds himself, along side you, Bokuto, Akaashi, Kuroo and some of the ex members Karasuno team, all together again for the Hanabi Taikai, a summer fireworks festival, on a grassy hillside overlooking the bay.

You’re sitting next to him on a soft picnic blanket, legs folded. You reach into the small popcorn bag, offering some to him. “Want some?”

He nods, muttering a soft, “Thanks,” as he takes a handful of popcorns. His fingers brush against yours. And everything slows down.

Your eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Just the brush of skin and the way the world seems a little too quiet. Then both of you look away at the same time, stifling laughter, cheeks flushed. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The rest of the world fades out. There’s something soft here. Familiar. Fragile. Real. Something he refuses to let it slip again. 

And then the moment is partially broken as in the distance Bokuto’s voice echoes.

“ALRIGHT EVERYONE!” Bokuto’s says in his usual 120 tone. “TEN MINUTES TO FIREWORKS! COUNTDOWN STARTS IN TEN! TENNNNN—!!”

Kenma groans under his breath, but then he glances at you. You’re already looking at him. There’s something in your eyes. A glint. A question. Maybe even hope.

Now or never.

Your thoughts begin to race.

He’s looking at me like he wants to say something. Is this it? No… I shouldn’t assume. But… maybe? He hasn’t looked away. Oh god, is my heart always this loud?

Kenma’s heart beats louder.

Say it. Just say it. Do something. Anything. She’s right here. She’s looking at you. Her hand is still close to yours. Don’t be a coward. Please, not again.

“NINE!”

Is he gonna do something? Should I say something first?

She looks nervous. Why is she nervous? Is she feeling the same thing? Could it possibly be—

“EIGHT!”

I should just tell him. Just… say it. What’s the worst that could happen? We’ve known each other for years... but omg does he feel the same? 

“SEVEN!”

I can’t let this go again.

“SIX!”

This is it.

“FIVE!”

Do it.

“FOUR!”

Please, please don’t chicken out.

“THREE!”

Kenma shifts closer.

“TWO!”

Your heart is beating so loudly you can hear it in your ears.

“ONE!”

He leans in, hands trembling slightly and then his lips are on yours.

It’s soft. Hesitant at first. But real. Real and warm and everything both of you have been holding back for way, way too long.

When the kiss breaks, your foreheads are touching, and both of you are blushing so deeply it’s almost comical.

You let out a breathy laugh. “I’ve always loved you, you know. I just… thought you weren’t interested.”

His eyes go wide like a spooked cat. “What? No. I—God, I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen.”

You laugh again, and he can’t help but laugh with you, stunned by the dizziness of the moment and with happiness rushing through his veins. And just as he was about to lean in again, to savour those lips for a second time, noses touching and lips so damned closed… the moment is shattered by your friends in the background.

“WOOOOO!! FINALLYYY!” Bokuto’s voice explodes in the background, followed by Hinata’s high pitched shouting and Kuroo surprised, but amused grin, “Took you long enough!”

Someone (probably Tsukishima) mutters a dry, “About damn time.”

And just like that, you’re both swarmed in teasing and congratulations, flustered beyond belief but unable to stop smiling.Because finally it’s real. And your friends teasing, all of the noise, don’t matter.

Kenma barely hears the noise. All he feels is your hand brushing his again, not by accident this time and the warmth of your breath near his ear as you lean in to whisper something meant only for him.

He doesn’t even catch the words. Not really. All he knows is that he wants to hear you say them again. Closer. Quieter. Maybe with your lips pressed against his neck next time around. 

And maybe that’s greedy. Maybe that’s the summer heat talking. Or the hormones… maybe both. 

But with the fireworks exploding above and your fingers now tangled with his, he thinks, finally, he can start being a little selfish with you.

Just a little.

[ashthesalamipiece]

"Thin Walls – No Restraint”

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW (18+)

Setting: UA Dorms – Bakugo’s Room

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, possessive!Bakugo, semi-public risk (thin walls), marking, dirty talk, light biting, aftercare implied

---

Bakugo didn’t waste time once the door clicked shut behind you. His mouth was on yours in seconds, hot and urgent, lips crashing with the kind of hunger he never let anyone else see. Only you.

You barely got a breath in before he pinned you against the door, big hands sliding up under your shirt like he owned you.

Maybe he did.

“You been lookin’ at me like that all night,” he murmured against your mouth, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you until your legs wrapped around his waist. “You knew exactly what you were doin’.”

You laughed breathlessly, cupping the back of his neck. “Maybe I did.”

“Brat,” he growled, slamming his mouth to yours again.

He carried you across the room like you weighed nothing, tossing you onto the bed with a bounce. His shirt was gone in seconds, and you sat up on your knees, yanking yours over your head. His eyes devoured you—like he was starving—and the second you were bare before him, he was on you again, hands roaming, mouth trailing hot, open kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he muttered, fingers hooking under your waistband. “Spread out for me. Just for me.”

You arched your back as he yanked your underwear down, baring everything to the air and his hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” he hissed, gaze dark and wild. “You’re already wet.”

“Can you blame me?” you whispered, pulling him back down by the waistband of his pants. “You’re so damn hot when you’re possessive.”

That broke something in him.

He shoved his sweats down just enough to free himself, thick and hard and already leaking for you. You reached down to stroke him, but he grabbed your wrist.

“No time,” he gritted out. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

You moaned as he lined himself up, dragging the swollen head through your slick folds, teasing your clit before slowly pushing in. Stretching you. Filling you.

“Oh my god, Katsuki—” your voice cracked as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours.

“You feel that?” he growled, already thrusting, slow and deep. “Feel how perfect you are for me?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with how he was moving—controlled, deliberate, hips snapping into yours with every stroke that sent pleasure spiking through your veins.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, echoing loud through the thin walls. You heard a voice faintly—maybe Kaminari—yelling something.

Bakugo didn’t stop.

“Let ‘em fucking hear you,” he rasped, reaching down to grab your thigh, throwing it over his shoulder for a deeper angle. “Let ‘em know who makes you scream.”

You did.

You cried out his name, nails digging into his arms, legs trembling as he pounded into you with a pace that made your body shake. The headboard slammed into the wall once. Twice. Rhythmically.

“Katsuki—please—I’m gonna—!”

“Do it,” he snapped. “Cum for me. Now.”

He dropped his hand to your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, and it tipped you over the edge hard. Your whole body arched, muscles clenching tight around him, toes curling as you cried out his name loud enough that the people next door probably dropped their drinks.

“Fuck, fuck, that’s it,” he snarled, hips stuttering. “You’re so fuckin’ tight when you cum—shit—”

He drove into you one last time and let go, spilling deep inside you with a rough groan, biting into your shoulder as his body trembled over yours.

The room was filled with the sound of heavy breathing, the smell of sweat and sex, and somewhere in the distance—a loud bang on the wall.

“Shut up!” Kaminari’s voice rang through the dorms.

Bakugo laughed—actually laughed—low and smug, rolling off you and dragging you onto his chest.

“Worth it,” he muttered.

You grinned, tracing lazy circles on his skin. “Definitely worth it.”

---

[buckysleftbicep]

no sudden moves 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, mutual desperation, mentions of tight spaces (tw: claustrophobia)

summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.

word count: 4.6k

author's note: hi my loves! this is an idea i had in my mind lately, and i am so excited to finally have it posted up! love you guys, please stay safe! 💓

The concrete floor was soaked in blood and coolant.

Thick rivulets ran beneath your boots, mingling into a sickly smear that clung to every step. The air was chokingly damp, metallic with rust and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or the aftermath of plasma fire. 

The walls groaned around you, steel skeletons straining under stress fractures. Overhead, emergency strobes flickered with epileptic urgency, casting red and white pulses that danced like ghosts across scorched tile and broken rebar.

Somewhere behind you, a pipe burst with a metallic scream, jetting steam into the air so violently it echoed like a detonation. The shockwave reverberated through the corridor, rattling the bones of the facility. 

The lights overhead guttered, struggling to stay alive in the chaos. They buzzed and flickered, bathing everything in a staccato strobe that blurred movement into nightmare. Friend and enemy were just silhouettes now. Just shadows.

Every breath tasted like smoke and copper and panic.

You sprinted.

Boots hammered against the ground, splashing through slick pools of coolant and something darker. Your lungs burned, your throat scraped raw from the air that was quickly turning to poison. 

Each step jarred your body, jostling the fresh wound at your side—a sharp, searing burn that you were trying very hard to ignore. But when your hand shot down to apply pressure, your glove came away red and sticky.

Shit.

Bucky was just ahead of you—a dark silhouette moving like a phantom, purposeful and controlled even in the carnage. He turned sharply at the junction, glock raised, muscles coiled tight.

He didn’t glance back, but you didn’t need him to. You could feel his awareness of you like a wire stretched taut between your bodies—a constant pull. 

He moved with you in mind. Always.

The sirens overhead howled, their keening pitch loud enough to blur thought. Somewhere in the distance, distorted voices barked over intercoms in a language you didn’t recognise. The earpiece at your neck spat static, crackled once, then died.

"Comm’s dead," you rasped, ducking low as gunfire split the corner behind you, rounds ricocheting off the far wall with sparks.

"No shit," Bucky muttered, already moving, already firing. Three controlled bursts—center mass. The figure ahead dropped before it could scream. “You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed,” you bit out, stumbling slightly as you followed him through the next turn. The corner of the wall caught your shoulder—pain flared.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Quick in. Quick out. Sweep the lower levels, confirm the cache, plant charges. Black market tech from some HYDRA splinter. 

Old ghosts. Easy target.

But somewhere between the briefing room and ground level, everything had gone to hell.

The resistance was heavier than expected. The layout had changed and there were reinforcements waiting—armed. Whoever was here had been tipped off, and now the entire facility was shaking apart around you.

Another shadow lunged from the smoke—Bucky didn’t hesitate. The glock cracked once, and the man fell like a puppet with its strings cut.

“We need cover. Now.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” you muttered, teeth clenched. Your boot skidded across the slick ground—a slurry of melted tile, blood, and some kind of chemical discharge. You nearly went down.

Bucky grabbed your vest with one quick, powerful jerk, yanking you back upright. His vibranium fingers curled around your gear like steel cables, the motion precise but rough. “You with me?”

You nodded, panting. “Still standing.”

He glanced down, eyes darkening as they took in the spreading stain at your ribs. There was a moment, just a flicker, where something colder passed over his face. Not panic. 

Not exactly. Something sharper. Something older. Not at you. At whoever had fired that round. At the idea of losing you.

The ground rumbled again beneath your boots. Another explosion, deeper this time. Structural, maybe. Something was definitely collapsing.

“They’re trying to bury this place,” you breathed.

“No—” he said, grim. “They’re trying to bury us.”

His gaze darted around the corridor, calculating in that quick, precise way he did, always seeing angles, routes, exits. A soldier’s mind. A killer’s instinct. 

Then it landed—sharp, immediate.

“There.”

To your left, a collapsed portion of wall, partially obscured by a mound of broken paneling and twisted rebar. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. Bucky was already on it, shoving debris aside like it weighed nothing.

Behind the rubble, a maintenance shaft. Narrow. Deep. Black.

Just wide enough for two bodies, that’s if they didn’t mind pressing close.

Too close.

“In.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and absolute.

You stared at it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The shaft looked like a coffin. The jagged metal edges were wet with condensation, the air inside swirling with oil and smoke. “There’s no way we both fit in there.”

“Then I’ll go first,” he snapped, already tearing down more of the frame to make room. “But you’re coming with me.”

He turned to you, face shadowed, voice lowering. “We don’t have time for a debate. Reinforcements are inbound. We’re outgunned. Comms are dead. And you’re fucking hit.” His tone dropped lower. Rougher. “Get the fuck in.”

It wasn’t the words that made you move. It was the voice.

Commanding, steady and final.

You ducked into the shaft, your shoulders scraping the sides, the ceiling just inches above your head. The air inside was suffocating, thick and chemical, humming with static energy. You pressed back against the wall, one foot braced awkwardly as you twisted your body to fit.

Then he came in after you.

His bulk filled the space in a rush, the scrape of his tactical gear, the rough press of his thigh slotting between yours, the weight of his body shifting against your own as he maneuvered inside. His rifle braced beside your ear, muzzle angled down.

You could feel every inch of him.

His chest, firm and heaving, pressed to yours. His forearm planted above your head. His other arm curled tight around your waist, steadying you. Holding you. There was no room to move. No room to breathe.

His mouth was at your ear when he spoke, quiet, low.

“Don’t move.”

And just like that, the world narrowed to heat and breath and the impossible thrum of your heartbeat echoing through the dark.

The darkness swallowed you whole.

It wasn’t just the absence of light, it was thick, oppressive, as if the walls themselves inhaled and held their breath the moment you stepped inside.

A tomb disguised as shelter. The kind of dark that clung to skin and filled lungs. That made every shallow breath echo back twice as loud. You could feel it, the narrow, concrete throat of the shaft compressing around you, closing in with every heartbeat.

You weren’t alone in it.

You could feel the narrow walls breathing with the heat of your bodies, every exhale ricocheting off metal and stone until it circled back in whispers, growing louder with every pulse of blood in your ears. 

The space wasn’t built for hiding. It wasn’t built for people. It was a maintenance shaft,  narrow, ancient. But Bucky had forced his way in after you, muscled past jagged steel and choking heat until his body pressed fully to yours, armour against armour, thigh slotted between your legs.

Now, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

His hand was braced above your head, palm flat against the wall, elbow bent to keep from crushing you. The strain in his shoulder was visible even in the dim glow leaking from a crack in the wall, veins flexed under dirt-slick skin. 

His other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you there, holding you still, holding you close, like letting go wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now.

You could feel the heat of him in every place he touched you. The flex of his forearm braced against your back. The steady, controlled drag of his breath, each inhale expanding his chest, pushing it flush against your own. You were plastered together.

No space. No choice.

And his thigh, god, his thigh was wedged between yours, firm and unmoving, supported most of your weight now. It was the only reason you weren’t sagging into him completely.

You didn’t dare move.

Not with the blood roaring in your ears. Not with your wound still hot and throbbing under your tac suit. Not with Bucky fucking Barnes flush against every inch of you.

But still, your body noticed.

It always had.

The heat. The tension. The way his breath ghosted over your temple, short and fast, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted you to think. You could feel his heartbeat through the chest plate of his suit. Fast. Sharp. Right in sync with yours. The brush of his belt buckle dug into your hip. His shoulder pressed into the curve of yours, hard enough to ache.

Then the tremor in his fingers, subtle, but real, as they flexed slightly around your waist.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, the sound so low and deep it felt like it came from inside your chest rather than outside it. A command dressed like a plea.

“I am quiet,” you hissed back, lips barely moving.

“I can hear your heartbeat, princess.”

The nickname landed like a sin—sharp, searing, and soaked in sarcasm. It was barely more than a breath, but it still cut through the hush like a lit match, curling down your spine, making something inside you clench.

Outside, just beyond the cracked wall, the hall rumbled with the stomp of boots.

The enemy was still close.

You could hear them, the soldiers moving in tight formation. Orders barked in clipped, guttural accents. Gear clanking. Flashlights sweeping methodically through the gloom. One beam licked along the edge of the breach just inches from your foot.

You stopped breathing.

Your muscles went rigid, throat tight, every instinct screaming Don’t move.

And then, Bucky shifted closer. Just slightly. But it felt like the world tilted with him. His chest flattened more fully against yours, his thigh pinning you tighter. Your breast grazed the edge of his vest, your nipple dragging across thick Kevlar.

You inhaled, too sharp. He felt it.

You saw his jaw tighten. Felt his arm tense. Like he felt it, too. Like he noticed everything.

The light passed.

The soldiers didn’t.

But neither of you dared relax.

Because the longer you stayed like that, shoulder to shoulder, mouth to ear, sweat pooling between your skin—the worse it got.

The heat was unbearable now. Trapped. It had nowhere to go but in. Into your pores. Into your bloodstream. Clinging to your skin like a second suit. Your body was trembling, not from exertion, not from blood loss, but from something deeper. Hotter. More dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just adrenaline anymore.

Your body had made a decision without your consent, without consulting the mission clock or the bullet wound still leaking crimson under your gear. It didn’t care that this was a suicide hole in the side of a collapsing facility. That HYDRA's leftovers were closing in with guns and floodlights. 

That you hated the man pinning you in place.

Because this tension? It wasn’t new.

It had always been there, since the first moment Val had slammed your names together and ordered you into the field. “Try not to kill each other,” she’d said. Like it was a joke. Like it hadn’t already been written in the way you’d looked at each other.

You sparred like enemies. Like animals. You left bruises. Cracked ribs. 

You taunted, you snapped. You called him grumpy old man under your breath. He called you reckless, annoying, a fucking pain in his. You rolled your eyes when he brooded. He glared when you flirted—especially when it wasn’t with him.

And yet, in combat, you were perfect.

Seamless. Lethal.

He always had your six, you always took the perfect shot. He moved, you followed. You moved, he shielded. You never missed each other.

Like muscle memory.

And maybe that was why this—now—felt so inevitable.

But still, nothing had prepared you for the feel of him like this.

The sharp scent of cordite still clinging to his sweat. The way his breath hit your cheek, too warm, too fast. The press of something hard against your hip.

You blinked, heart stuttering. You didn’t dare look down. You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t move. But you saw it, that flicker of strain in his eyes. The muscle feathering in his jaw.

Like he was trying not to look at your mouth.

Like he was pretending his cock wasn’t pressed thick and full against the curve of your hip.

Your thighs squeezed around his leg. Reflex. Instinct.

Not fear.

His arm flexed around your waist, vibranium fingers shifted slightly, grazing the hem of your shirt, dragging over sweat-slick fabric like an accident. You knew it wasn’t.

You swallowed hard.

“Still think this was a good idea?” you whispered, sarcasm a lifeline now, the only thing between you and the cliff you were hanging off.

He exhaled a laugh against your neck. Warm. Dangerous. “Would you rather be riddled with bullets right now?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Would hurt less.”

His lips ghosted close. Close enough to feel but not touch. “Don’t tempt me.”

The silence that followed was electric, sharp enough to cut. You could feel the tension morphing. Twisting into something raw. Something that clawed under your skin and dug in deep.

Your chest dragged across his with every breath, nipples painfully stiff under your bra, and your hips buzzed, caught between the sting of your injury and the dull throb of growing heat. You were sore. Sweating. You ached everywhere.

And you wanted him to move.

His vibranium hand flexed again, pressing into the curve of your spine.

Every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse.

“You need to stop that,” you whispered. Barely audible.

“I’m not doing anything,” he murmured back, and he sounded so calm.

Too calm. Too close.

You shifted. Just a fraction. Just to prove a point.

He groaned. A quiet, broken thing, deep in his chest.

“You’re not helping,” he gritted out, voice rougher now, voice that frayed at the edges.

“You’re the one pressed against me like some fucking space heater,” you hissed back.

Then—another voice outside. A barked command. Boots pivoting.

You both froze.

The moment stretched. Tightened.

Then, the sounds retreated. One step. Another. Fading.

Silence.

Your eyes found his in the dark. 

Neither of you breathed. Neither of you blinked.

“I hate you,” you whispered, and it wasn’t convincing.

“Sure you do,” he whispered back.

His hand stayed curled tight at your waist.

And he didn’t move away.

It started small.

A shift. A breath. The slow, deliberate drag of his thumb along your waist. Just a brush at first, casual, even, but it lingered. Longer than it should have. Slower than it had any right to be. Not some accidental twitch. Not some nervous fidget. No. He meant it.

And you felt it everywhere.

His vibranium fingers stayed locked at your back, unmoving, anchoring you against the solid wall of his body.

But his other hand, flesh and blood, rough and warm, moved with a calculated kind of boldness. He wasn’t hesitating, he wasn’t testing, he was deciding. 

His palm swept with aching slowness along your side, fingers grazing over the damp fabric of your shirt, then lower, sliding just above the waistband of your ruined combat pants, brushing against skin so sensitised it made your whole body jolt.

His fingertips ghosted over the sliver of bare flesh beneath the hem of your shirt, skin long ignored, long untouched and your breath stuttered.

Your body stiffened. Instinct. Reflex. Not out of fear but anticipation. Heat.

“Bucky.” You whispered it like a warning, soft and tight. Barely a sound. Just a name, but spoken like a confession.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand passed over your waist again, this time slower. Lower. He wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t hiding behind pretense or excuse. His touch was firm, measured, dragging like silk over sandpaper. His fingers curled slightly, grazing the edge of your hip, slipping just under the edge of your shirt where sweat beaded at your lower belly.

It should’ve been harmless.

But it felt like your whole body tilted toward him.

Like gravity had shifted.

The air between you felt molten. Thick with breath and silence and something else — something sharp and magnetic and inevitable.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low and frayed. It was torn at the edges — half challenge, half escape hatch. One final out. One he wasn’t sure he wanted you to take.

“Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely holding together under the weight of everything you felt.

Because your heart was pounding so loud you could feel it in your ears, in your fingertips, in the spot between your thighs that throbbed with each desperate beat.

Because your body was already leaning in.

Because your thighs were clenching, your mouth had gone dry, and his cock—hard and hot and undeniable behind the weight of his tac gear was pressed against your hip in a way that made your thoughts splinter.

And because when you looked up at him, when your eyes found his in the low flicker of emergency light bleeding through the shaft wall, you saw it.

Raw, flickering need. Something deeper, something starved. His expression was a storm barely held at bay, hunger licking behind every breath.

It was already too late.

His mouth dipped toward your jaw, not quite a kiss, not quite contact, just breath. His lips hovered, dragging over your skin without touching, a ghosting warmth that raised goosebumps in its wake.

Then his hand moved lower.

Over the waistband.

Past it.

Your breath hitched. A sharp, soundless inhale. Your body shifted involuntarily, and he was already there, his fingers slipping beneath the ragged band of your pants, rough against soft, familiar with desperation.

He didn’t hesitate.

He found your heat instantly.

Skin on skin.

And groaned, low, guttural, like he’d found salvation.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped, voice shaking with the effort it took to stay controlled. “Fuck.”

The sound of it—his voice in that moment made your knees threaten to buckle. His fingers didn’t even move, not yet. They just rested there. Claiming. Possessing. And your whole body trembled under the weight of that touch.

You whimpered. Quiet. Helpless. The kind of sound you didn’t recognise coming from your own throat.

He hadn’t even moved yet.

Just touched.

“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me?” he breathed, mouth hot against the shell of your ear. His fingers began to move slow circles, featherlight, teasing and your whole spine arched into him. 

“You think I haven’t felt it every time we spar? Every time you mouth off just to see how far I’ll let it go?”

You tried to speak. You really did, something snide, something biting, something to maintain the illusion of control.

But then he slid one thick finger inside you, and your brain turned to static.

“Oh, fuck—” The sound ripped from you like a wound, head thudding softly against the wall.

He moved closer, pressing into you fully now. His thigh locked yours in place. His arm around your waist kept you pinned, held, owned. And his finger, slow and deep, fucked into you with a rhythm that made your whole body twitch.

And then he added another.

“Don’t be loud,” he warned, barely more than a breath. Then his hand was over your mouth, wide and firm. “You want them to hear you?”

You shook your head, frantic, flushed.

Another finger joined the first.

The stretch was exquisite. You were so wet he slid in effortlessly, and yet every push made your walls flutter. Your thighs quaked. His palm was tight against your lips now, muffling the noise that clawed up your throat.

It was too much.

Too hot. Too deep.

He was wrecking you with just his hand.

Your cunt clenched around him like it knew him. Welcomed him. Fucked back, desperate and filthy.

His breath caught. His mouth dipped to your throat, lips dragging along the sweaty, sensitive skin just below your jaw. He didn’t kiss.

He breathed.

Like your scent was undoing him from the inside out.

“You gonna come for me while they’re right outside?” he growled, voice velvet-wrapped sin. His fingers pumped faster, firmer now. “Gonna soak my fucking hand while I keep your mouth shut?”

You moaned against his palm, a pathetic, muffled sound. You were trembling now, caught in the rhythm, sweat running down your spine.

He could feel it.

“You gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” he whispered, biting back a groan as your pussy clenched hard around him. “Don’t want them hearing how bad you need it.”

Your eyes fluttered. Your thighs squeezed tight around his wrist. Your body knew what was coming. It was building, sharp and staggering, curling low in your belly, winding like a spring.

The wet, slick sounds of his fingers working your cunt echoed in the shaft, obscene and unstoppable.

You didn’t care.

You were grinding down on his hand now, chasing it, using it. 

Shameless. Starved. Your fingers clawed at the wall, nails scraping concrete, sweat dripping from your temple.

He kissed your throat, hard now. Open-mouthed. Possessive. Teeth scraping, almost primal.

You whimpered. He felt you tighten.

“Come for me,” he rasped.

And you did.

The orgasm ripped through you, brutal and sudden, your whole body locking, then shattering. You came on his fingers, walls fluttering, legs shaking, heat blooming behind your ribs.

You cry, or you tried to, but it was swallowed whole by his hand.

You were still trembling when he pulled away, not roughly, but not gently either.

And he wasn’t done.

You barely had time to blink. Your head was spinning. But your hands moved before your brain did, grabbing at his belt, trembling fingers tugging hard at buckles, pulling open his gear like your survival depended on it.

Frantic. Desperate.

Your hand closed around him—thick, hot, leaking and you gasped.

“Jesus christ,” he hissed, teeth clenched.

Then he moved.

He flipped you, fast, hard, until your front slammed gently against the shaft wall. His body covered yours, heat and strength and desperation wrapped around you like a cage.

One hand braced above your head. The other dragged your pants lower. Then between your thighs again, guiding himself.

You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge your entrance, dragging through your slick, and your breath caught.

“This what you want?” he growled. “Here? Now?”

You nodded—wild, frantic, voiceless.

And then he pushed in.

You gasped, sharp and silent.

The stretch was delicious, thick and deep and slow.

He filled you inch by aching inch until your hips trembled and your forehead hit the wall with a soft thud.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned against your shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you feel all of him.

Then his hand slid over your mouth again. Gentle. Thumb brushing your cheek.

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

He fucked you.

Hard.

Your shoulder slammed into the wall, his hips smacked into yours, loud and wet and brutal. You couldn’t catch your breath—every thrust punched the air out of you. There was no rhythm anymore. Just need.

His hand stayed firm at your mouth, catching your sounds. His vibranium one gripped your hip like a lifeline, dragging you back onto his cock again and again.

He reached around, found your clit, and rubbed.

“Gonna come for me again,” he growled. “Gonna squeeze me while I fuck you full.”

You were sobbing now, breathless, wordless.

Every nerve ending was lit, raw and overrun. Your body trembled, slick with sweat and slicker between your thighs, his cock dragging across swollen, overstimulated walls. You couldn’t form a sound, not really, just desperate gasps and stifled cries broken against your own hand, against his chest, against the fucking silence that surrounded you both like a net.

And then you broke.

It hit like a wave, violent, sudden, uncontrollable. Your body seized around him, hips jerking, spine bowing as your muscles locked tight and then unraveled all at once. You came again, harder this time, vision flashing white as your cunt clenched around him like a vice.

You damn near collapsed.

Your knees gave out, your breath punched from your lungs. You reached for the wall, for him, for anything to ground you, but it was all too much, the stretch, the sound of him, the way he held you together while you fell apart.

That’s when he came, too.

A sharp curse spilled from his throat as he drove deep, impossibly deep, hips stuttering against yours. He buried himself to the hilt, shaking, jaw clenched, breath choking out in ragged bursts. His whole body shuddered against your back, muscles locking, every inch of him tensed and trembling.

His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing as he came, each hot spurt flooding your core, filling you until it leaked down your thighs, messy and spent.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. You just breathed, uneven and wrecked, locked together in the dark.

You stayed there, pressed against the wall, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, skin tacky with sweat.

His weight still lingered over you, anchoring you with the kind of silence that made your heart pound in your ears. You could feel every inch of him still inside you, every echo of where he’d been.

Your limbs were a mess. His arm still braced above your head, his other hand curled at your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. Your legs were weak, barely holding you upright, and your fingers had long since slipped from where they gripped the wall. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The scent of sex clung to both of you, raw and thick in the stale air. His cum leaked down your thighs, hot and wet, mixing with your own slick, with the sweat that slid between your shoulder blades. Your clothes stuck to your skin. Your breath stuck in your throat.

Then slowly, he pulled out.

You whimpered, soft and hoarse, from the loss. From the emptiness that followed. A hollow ache bloomed where he’d just been, and you had to brace yourself against the wall again to stay upright.

He smoothed his hand down your spine, not possessive now. Just… gentle.

You turned, breathless, chest still heaving as you tried to gather yourself. His hair was a mess, damp and curling slightly at the edges, sweat trailing down from his temple. 

His pupils were still blown wide, gaze glassy and dark with something that hadn’t yet settled. You pulled your pants up slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged over tender skin, the ache between your thighs sharp and lingering. 

He laughed softly, the sound more exhale than amusement. 

“Next time,” you panted, shooting him a look, “maybe don’t pick the smallest shaft on the planet.”

He glanced at you, something like mischief flickering behind his eyes as a crooked smirk pulled at his mouth. 

“You complaining?” he asked, voice rough but playful. You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. 

“Define complaining.” His chuckle was low, almost fond, and then he reached for you—his hand warm, steady, curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging gently. “Before the rest start wondering where we went.”

You let him lead you toward the sliver of light ahead, your fingers still linked with his, your legs unsteady with every step still shaking. 

a/n: if you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or a reblog, thank you sweethearts 💌

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 26

<<<Previous Next>>>

You exhaled, frustrated with the careful wording. “But-”

“I understand why you sought certainty elsewhere,” he continued, not quite meeting your eyes. “It is not a crime to desire clarity.” 

Your heart twisted. He was trying to let you off the hook. To take the logical approach, the reasonable stance. But the distance in his words, the way he refused to acknowledge the ache beneath it all that was what stung.

“Okay, but-” You swallowed, shifting from one foot to the other. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t bother you.” 

He was silent for a long moment. His golden eyes were steady, unreadable. But beneath the quiet composure, there was something softer, something unread.

“…I am not immune to such things,” he admitted, so quietly that you almost missed it. Your breath caught. It was subtle. Barely a crack in the mask. But it was real. You took a step forward, hesitant. 

But he had already exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the walls were back in place. “We need not dwell on it,” he murmured. “Unless you wish to.”

Your fingers clenched at your sides. He was frustrating. Even now, even when you could feel the tension between you, he still left the decision in your hands. He still gave you the choice. You wanted to push. To demand an answer, to hear him say outright that it did matter to him, that he did feel something more than composed acceptance. 

But part of you, that small, cautious part was afraid of what you’d do if he actually said it. So instead, you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “…No. We don’t have to dwell on it.” 

His expression didn’t change, but you thought you saw something ease in his posture. You chewed the inside of your cheek, suddenly feeling small in the weight of the quiet. “…But if it does bother you, I want you to tell me.”

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he gave a single, slow nod. A promise. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The silence between you stretched taut, thin like thread pulled too tightly. Shadow Milk Cookie hadn’t rejected your words outright, hadn’t turned away or brushed them off with his usual grace. And yet, he wasn’t answering you either. That alone made your stomach twist. You could almost convince yourself to let it go. Almost. If not for the very distinct, very loud voice of Chai Latte Cookie echoing in your head…

"Oh, so you just walked away? Just like that? Gods, you are hopeless…"

And nope, you were not dealing with that tonight. You exhaled sharply through your nose, squaring your shoulders. “You say you’re not mad,” you started, keeping your voice even, “but I know when something’s bothering you.”

A blink. A slow tilt of his head. “I have never concealed the truth from you,” he said calmly.

“That doesn’t mean you tell me everything,” you shot back, quick. A flicker of something passed through his gaze, there and gone before you could name it. “…What is it that you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, throwing your hands up. “I just” You ran a hand through your hair, trying to keep the frustration at bay. “It just feels like something’s wrong. And you’re not saying it.” 

Shadow Milk studied you carefully, fingers laced together in his lap. “Would you feel better if I gave it words?” Yes. No. Maybe. You hesitated. He watched the conflict cross your face, then, softer almost gently he asked,

“…Would naming it change what you already know?” You swallowed. He wasn’t denying it. He wasn’t telling you no. He was just making you work for the truth, again.

“Stars above, you are infuriating,” you groaned, pressing your palms to your face.

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. You let out a heavy sigh, then, before you could lose the momentum, you asked “…Did it hurt?”

Another silence. This time, it wasn’t because he was thinking of the right words to use. It was because he already knew them. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, measured “…Yes.”

No flourish. No philosophical musings. No metaphor spun from light and knowledge. Just one word. You searched his face for something, anything, but he had already composed himself again, golden eyes steady, patient, waiting. 

“…Okay,” you murmured. You still didn’t know what to do with this. What this changed. If it changed anything at all. But for once, you had the answer you wanted. You let out a breath, your shoulders sagging as the weight of his honesty settled over you.

He had answered you. Had admitted to the hurt but what were you supposed to do with that? You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring at him, feeling the helplessness rise in your chest. You were expecting something cryptic, something layered, something you could untangle later. But he had just… said it. Plain and clear. And you had no idea what to do with it.

“…Okay,” you murmured again, softer this time. You looked away, fingers tightening in your lap. “I” A pause, a slow exhale. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s expression didn’t change, but you could feel the way he studied you, taking in every flicker of uncertainty, every hesitance in your voice. You huffed, rubbing a hand over your face. “What can I do?” You looked back at him, brows drawn together, frustration tinged with something raw. “So you’re not hurting?” He didn’t answer right away.

It sucked, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to fix this. You were a mess of emotions, but at least you felt them fully, unguarded, reckless in your own way. He was careful, composed, measured, even in this. 

You let out another sigh, shaking your head. “Chai Latte usually knows what to do,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “But unfortunately, she’s not here.” The words barely left your lips before you huffed out a weak laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Not that she could fix this.” There was another beat of silence before he spoke, voice quiet but steady.

“You are not required to fix everything,” he murmured. “Nor am I asking you to.” You swallowed, but something in his words still made your chest ache. “…Then what are you asking?”

He watched you carefully, his expression unreadable, but his next words were softer than before “For you to understand.” You felt the weight of that settle deep in your ribs. Maybe that was the closest thing to an answer you were going to get. You inhaled sharply, catching yourself before you could default to humor; to deflection.

It was instinct, really, to try and soften the edges of something too sharp, to push aside the weight pressing against your chest with something light, something easier. But this wasn’t easy. And trying to make it so would only cheapen it. So instead, you swallowed the urge to brush it off and met his gaze fully.

“…What do you want me to understand?” you asked, voice steadier than you expected. “Because I do want to understand.”

 Shadow Milk Cookie studied you, his eyes as unreadable as ever. But there was something in them you could almost decipher, not distant, but careful. Like he was measuring his words, measuring you. 

“What did I do?” you pressed, leaning forward slightly. “I mean, I know something upset you. I know that. But I don’t want to assume. I don’t want to sit here and untangle riddles and guesses when I could just…just ask you. So tell me.”

His fingers twitched slightly against his desk, and you didn’t miss the way his jaw tensed for the briefest moment. It was subtle, controlled, but it was there. “You turned to someone else,” he finally said, his voice as measured as ever, but you could feel the weight behind it. “For clarity. For certainty.”

 Your breath caught in your throat. “And you feel like I shouldn’t have?” 

His gaze didn’t waver. “I feel as though you believe I could not provide what you sought.” 

You blinked, your stomach twisting. “That’s not-” You exhaled sharply. “It’s not that I don’t think you could, it’s that you wouldn’t.” 

His brows furrowed slightly, just enough for you to notice. You ran a hand through your hair, frustration bleeding into your voice. “You never give me a straight answer. You always ask me more questions, always make me figure things out myself. And I get it, I do that’s who you are. You guide, you lead people to truth rather than hand it to them.” You swallowed, looking down at your hands. “But sometimes… sometimes I just need something certain. Something I don’t have to search for.”

There was a silence between you, thick and heavy. And then, softer than before “You already have it.” Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “You seek certainty,” he murmured. “But you fail to see that you already possess it.” You opened your mouth, but no words came. His gaze held yours, unwavering.

“I would not remain by your side if I did not wish to.” Your breath stilled. “Nor would I offer my hand if I intended to let go.”

The weight of his words pressed into you, a truth undeniable. Something in your chest ached. Your brows furrowed, confusion knitting its way across your face. 

“That’s” you started, but stopped, shaking your head. “That’s not fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head ever so slightly, unreadable as always, but you could feel the weight behind his gaze, the way it pressed into you like a question unspoken. 

You swallowed, exhaling sharply. “Look, I-I hear you. I want to hear you. But I’m only human. And sometimes I don’t see what’s right in front of me.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, frustration creeping into your tone. “If I knew, if it was so obvious, then I wouldn’t be standing here trying to figure it out, would I?”

The silence that followed was thick, a quiet so full it threatened to suffocate. Your chest tightened as the words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them. “Earl Grey is one of the very few friends that I love-” You froze. The second you said it, you knew. You knew how it sounded. Your breath caught in your throat, and without thinking, you immediately waved your hands as if that could physically push the word back into the void. “I mean, not like that!” you blurted out, scrambling to fix your own mistake. “Not, not in that way! I just I mean, I love him, but not like that, that would be weird”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t move, didn’t even blink. But you felt it the shift, the tightening of something just beneath the surface. You swallowed hard, heat crawling up your neck as you kept spiraling. “What I meant is, he’s my friend, like Chai Latte Cookie and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, because we grew up together, and he’s-he’s someone I trust someone who always gives me a straight answer”

Your voice trailed off, the weight of the moment crashing down on you. Shadow Milk Cookie was silent. And that made it worse.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “I just… I don’t think it’s fair to assume I should already know where we stand.” 

Your voice wavered, frustration mingling with something raw. “Because I don’t. And if I did, then we wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place, would we? A-And to top it off all he was doing was supporting me it’s not like I told him hey what do you think me and shadow milk are define it for me in five different languages please” 

Still, he said nothing. You swallowed, something almost desperate threading into your tone. “So if I did something wrong, tell me. If I’m missing something, tell me because I want to understand, I want to fix it, but I can’t do that if you just expect me to figure it out on my own.” 

Your heart pounded, pulse hammering against your ribs. And then, at last, Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled. Slow. Measured. The tension in the air thickened, something shifting in Shadow Milk Cookie’s expression something rare, something sharp. His composure, always so steady, finally wavered.

“You needed someone to say it?” His voice was low, quiet, but lined with something unmistakable. Frustration. “You needed someone to define it for you? So you turned to him?” You flinched at the way he said it him like the word alone was bitter on his tongue.

“I-” Shadow Milk Cookie got up from his chair took a step closer, his golden eyes dark with something you had never seen before. “Tell me, did it feel real then?” His tone wasn’t cruel, not exactly, but it carried an edge that cut all the same. 

“Did holding his hands make you feel certain of what you wanted? Did his words finally name the thing you claim to be so unsure of?” Your throat tightened.

“That’s not-”

“You seek my truths,” he interrupted, voice clipped. “But when it comes to this us you look elsewhere. Why is that?” 

The words hit harder than you expected, and you had to take a breath before responding. “…Okay. Fair.” You exhaled shakily, pressing your fingers against your forehead. “I deserved that.” 

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. You forced a humorless laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I know what it looked like. And I won’t sit here and act like it didn’t look bad. But you need to understand…I wasn’t looking for something better than what you could give me. I was looking for something clear.”

Shadow Milk Cookie remained silent, watching you carefully, his breathing measured but not entirely even. “I didn’t go to him because I wanted him,” you continued, voice steady now. “I went to him because I trust him. Because he knows me, because he’s been around long enough to see me flounder through every uncertainty in my life. And I thought” 

You swallowed. “I thought that maybe, for once, someone else could put it into words instead of me having to reach for something I still don’t know how to hold.”

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting, but not entirely easing. You met his gaze, unflinching. “You’re right to be mad,” you admitted. “I should have come to you first. But you have to admit you don’t make this easy.”

A pause. A long, heavy one.

Then, finally, Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No,” he said, exasperated. “I suppose I do not.”

You let out a breath, the weight between you shifting just slightly. It wasn’t fixed, not entirely. But at least now, the words were out. You exhaled sharply, raking a hand through your hair, trying to figure out where to even start. 

“Okay context” you said, voice tinged with frustration, mostly at yourself. “Because I feel like you’re imagining something way more dramatic than what actually happened.” Shadow Milk Cookie remained silent, watching you carefully, his expression unreadable but the tension in his posture still firm. 

You inhaled again, steeling yourself. “So, it started because Chai Latte asked me about us. She asked what was going on, what we were…if we were anything at all.”

His expression didn’t change, but you caught the slightest flicker in his golden gaze. You continued, shifting your weight uneasily. “And I didn’t really know what to tell her, because I don’t know. So I said that we’re… close. That we have this understanding, this rhythm. But there’s still this barrier, this thing we don’t talk about, and it’s starting to feel like it’s keeping us from something.” Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t speak. He just listened.

“And then Earl Grey…” You hesitated, feeling yourself losing your footing again, but forced yourself forward. “He said maybe you were waiting for me to define it. That maybe you were giving me room, instead of putting pressure on it.” 

Still, no response. But you saw something shift subtle, beneath the layers of his composure. You bit your lip. “And then Chai Latte asked me if not knowing still hurt, and yeah. Yeah, it does. Because it’s like we’re pretending the line isn’t there, but we both know it is. And it’s frustrating, and confusing, and I just. I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t making it up in my head.”

Your voice had become quieter, the words trailing off into the space between you. “That’s all I was looking for. I wasn’t asking Earl Grey for something you wouldn’t give me. I wasn’t” You sighed. “I wasn’t choosing him over you.”

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting, though not entirely easing. His gaze remained steady, searching yours, as if weighing your words, measuring them against something unspoken. You swallowed, feeling like you were walking on thin ice. “I wasn’t looking for something better than what we have. Just something clear. And maybe that’s unfair to you, but I-” You shook your head. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Then, finally soft, measured, but undeniably firm Shadow Milk Cookie spoke.

“…And do you have your answer now?”

You opened your mouth, then hesitated.  Because what was the answer? That you still didn’t know? That you were still standing at the same threshold, waiting for something, anything, to push you forward? “I don’t know,” you admitted finally, voice almost reluctant. “Not completely.”

His gaze didn’t falter. “Then what will you do with what you do know?” 

You let out a short, almost incredulous laugh. “Gods, this again?” You threw your hands up. “I ask a question, you answer with another question…I swear you do this on purpose.” Something softened in his expression just barely, just enough that the irritation drained from your chest slightly.

You sighed, running a hand down your face. “What do you want me to understand?” you asked finally, your voice quieter. “Because I do want to understand.” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a long moment, his golden eyes searching yours in that way that always made you feel like he could see every inch of your soul.

Then, at last, he exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. And he said, “That you were never meant to seek certainty in someone else.” Shadow Milk Cookie remained still, his golden gaze locked onto yours, the weight of his presence heavy yet unreadable. The tension in the room lingered, an unspoken verdict hanging in the air. You shifted, exhaling slowly before speaking again, voice softer now.

"Okay," you murmured, as if sealing something sacred between you both. "Then… when it comes to this whatever we are I won’t seek answers anywhere else." The promise felt heavier than you expected. It settled deep in your chest, final in a way you hadn’t prepared for. No more looking to Earl Grey Cookie, no more second-guessing with Chai Latte Cookie or Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie….just the two of you, stumbling through this uncertainty together.

"But," you continued, voice lilting into something more playful, "please don’t stay mad at Earl Grey. I need him. Sometimes, if I bribe him enough, he does my homework."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, against all odds, Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet, breathy exhale not quite a laugh, but something near it. His head tilted slightly, as if amused despite himself. "Does he now?" he mused, voice still measured but laced with something lighter.

You grinned, encouraged by the shift in the air. "Yeah. And I worked really hard to build up my bribery system. I offer him peace and quiet in the library, sometimes I even make him tea" You leaned in just slightly, as if confessing something devious. "One time I even stole a pastry for him."

"A criminal enterprise," Shadow Milk murmured, gaze flickering with something indecipherable.

"Exactly!" You huffed dramatically. "So if you hold this against him, my whole operation collapses. And then who’s going to keep me from failing numerical alchemy?"

He hummed, considering. "A tragic fate indeed."

"You’re telling me."

There was a pause brief but filled with something unspoken, something easier now. The tension between you had not entirely faded, but it had shifted, no longer sharp, no longer an open wound. You weren’t fixed…this wasn’t fixed. But it was something.

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled slowly, then, after a moment, inclined his head. "I will not hold it against him."

You blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yes," he said, tilting his head just slightly. "On one condition."

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "What condition?"

He leaned forward just enough that the space between you felt smaller, his gaze steady. "That next time you have questions about us," he said, low and sure, "you ask me first."

Your breath hitched slightly, heart stuttering at the sheer weight of the words.

Slowly, carefully, you nodded. "Deal."

And just like that, the barrier between you both thinned just a little more.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around him in a firm, earnest embrace. It wasn’t hesitant or unsure it was the kind of hug that sought to pull down whatever walls still lingered, the kind that said, I don’t want to be at odds with you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, voice muffled slightly against the fabric of his clothes. "I don’t want to be upset with you. I never did." For a long moment, he didn’t move. But then, slowly, you felt his arms come around you, careful but firm, as if grounding himself in your presence. His touch was warm, steady like something meant to last. You swallowed, the words pressing against your throat before you could second-guess them.

"But…" You exhaled softly, fingers curling slightly. "I need to know. What are we?" You felt his breath hitch, ever so slightly. "If we’re partners, then say it," you continued, voice quieter now. "Or if you want us to stay undefined, then tell me that too. But I" You swallowed. "I want to know what you want. I want to hear you say it."

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you properly, golden eyes searching yours with that same quiet intensity that always made your heart feel unsteady. His hands remained on you, warm against your shoulders, holding you there not keeping you, not trapping you, but anchoring you.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"I do not seek mere companionship," he murmured. His voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable weight to it. "I do not walk beside you simply because it is convenient or pleasant."

Your chest tightened.

"I will exist for a long time," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "And yet, I find myself wanting for nothing else but this." 

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sleeve, as if mapping the moment into memory. "If you would have me, then I would be yours as a partner, as more, as whatever name you would wish to give it."

Your breath caught.

"But only if it is what you want," he added, voice gentler now, as if afraid to ask too much. Your heart pounded in your chest, the weight of the moment pressing into you, warm and consuming. There were no riddles this time, no half-answers hidden behind layers of philosophy. 

This was just him. Your lips parted, but no words came at first, just breath just the realization of everything he'd just offered. Everything you both had been too afraid to name until now. And then, with a small, quiet laugh one filled with something like relief, like understanding you nodded.

"Yeah," you murmured. "Yeah, I think I’d like that." Shadow Milk Cookie’s fingers tightened, just slightly, against your arms. Maybe the barrier between you truly disappeared. You shifted slightly in his hold, tilting your head up to look at him, trying to ease the weight in the air with something lighter something that made this moment feel less fragile, less like a thread you might snap if you weren’t careful.

"So," you said, a playful lilt creeping into your tone, "on a scale of one to ten, how mad were you? And more importantly who were you mad at?" You waggled your brows for extra effect. 

"Be honest. Was it me? Earl Grey? The concept of human interaction?" Shadow Milk Cookie sighed one of those long, tired ones that felt like it belonged to someone who had lived far too many years and still had yet to understand why mortals acted the way they did. His grip on you didn’t loosen, but his eyes half-lidded with something unreadable.

"You truly wish for me to quantify my frustration?" he mused, arching a delicate brow.

You grinned. "Absolutely."

A pause. Then, with alarming precision, he replied, "Seven."

Your mouth dropped open. "Seven?! That's high! I was expecting, like, a four, maybe a five! Six if you were being dramatic."

Shadow Milk Cookie gave you a slow, pointed look. "Seven."

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. "Okay, okay, fine. Who was it aimed at? Me? Earl Grey? The entire notion of emotionally repressed scholars trying to navigate their relationships without imploding?" 

He exhaled slowly, and for a moment, you thought he might actually let the joke slide. But instead ever the scholar he answered you plainly. "Four points belong to you."

You gasped. "Excuse me?! I get a four?! For what? Trying to sort out my emotions? For wanting clarity?!"

"You sought clarity," he corrected smoothly, "but you sought it elsewhere." He tilted his head, as if studying you like a particularly challenging text. "That is where the four comes from."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Okay. Fair. Fair.

You crossed your arms. "And the other three?"

Shadow Milk Cookie's lips curled ever so slightly. "Earl Grey."

You snorted, then immediately clamped a hand over your mouth. "Oh no."

He did not elaborate.

You took a careful step back, watching the unreadable glint in his golden gaze. "Okay, but you’re not going to, like… sabotage his tea leaves or anything, right?"

"I am above such pettiness."

"...You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You did, I heard it!"

He merely hummed, a noise that sounded both knowing and entirely too neutral for your comfort. You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. "Alright, alright. I get it. I deserve my four. But can I earn my way back to a three? Or even a respectable two-point-five? Because I would really like to lower my crimes in the court of Shadow Milk." 

He regarded you for a moment, then, with unnerving smoothness, said, "I accept bribes."

You gaped at him. You huffed, crossing your arms with exaggerated indignation. “Fine,” you drawled, tilting your head with mock exasperation. “If we’re playing this game, then what do you want? Name your price, oh great and wise one. What must I sacrifice to lessen my crimes?”

Shadow Milk Cookie hummed, eyes gleaming as he took his time considering, tapping his fingers idly against his sleeve. He was enjoying this far too much, if you had to guess.

“A proper bribe must be proportional to the severity of the offense,” he mused, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his options. “And yours, I recall, ranked at a seven.”

You groaned. “You’re really sticking to that number, huh?”

“I am nothing if not precise.” You muttered something incoherent under your breath, but Shadow Milk didn’t seem remotely fazed. If anything, he looked downright pleased with himself.

“Alright,” he continued, regarding you with that unreadable yet slightly mischievous expression of his. “If you wish to lower your score… I will accept one of three offerings.”

You squinted suspiciously. “Oh, three offerings? So now I choose my punishment?”

“I am nothing if not generous.”

You rolled your eyes, but gestured for him to go on. “Alright, lay them on me. What are my options?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s lips curled ever so slightly, a whisper of amusement passing through his gaze. ��Option one: an essay. Minimum ten pages. On the subject of why seeking truth from unreliable sources is a grave mistake.”

Your mouth fell open in absolute horror. “TEN PAGES?” He inclined his head. “Minimum.”

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately. “What else you got?”

“Option two.” He held up a single, elegant finger. “You may publicly declare that I am always right, in front of all our friends. And,” he added smoothly, “that you were terribly mistaken to ever doubt me.”

You made a scandalized noise. “Oh, you would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You sighed, pressing your palms together. “Alright, third option, oh merciful one?” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned forward ever so slightly, a glint of something far too entertained flickering across his features. “A kiss,” he said simply.

You choked. “Excuse me?” He arched a single brow. “A kiss,” he repeated, entirely unaffected by the way your face had surely turned crimson. “One that is freely given, of course. I would never demand an unwilling tribute.”

“Oh, tribute now?” you sputtered, half-wheezing, half-wondering how you ever got yourself into this. “You’re actually serious?”

“I would not have offered it otherwise,” he said smoothly. You gawked at him, heart hammering, mind scrambling for anything to counter with. But he merely leaned back, utterly unbothered, utterly composed as he watched you flounder.

“Well?” he prompted, entirely too pleased with himself. “Which shall it be?” You slipped out of his arms, pacing a small circle around his office like a scholar on the verge of an intellectual breakthrough. 

Hands clasped behind your back, you hummed thoughtfully, nodding to yourself as if the weight of your impending verdict was a matter of utmost importance. Shadow Milk Cookie watched, entirely composed, one brow arched in clear amusement. He didn’t interrupt didn’t press you for an answer just observed with that knowing glint in his eyes, as if he already knew the conclusion you would come to. You, of course, already knew too.

But for the sake of theatrics, you had to pretend to struggle with your options. You rubbed your chin, adopting a dramatically serious expression. 

“Now, let’s analyze this logically.” You began to pace again. “A ten-page essay on why I should never doubt you?” You let out a loud scoff, throwing your hands in the air. “Impossible! An insurmountable task! I’d perish before I reached the third page!”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t so much as blink. “Unfortunate.” You ignored him, continuing your performance.

“The second option: a public declaration of your undeniable correctness, and a full admission of my egregious mistake.”

You placed a hand over your heart, as if wounded. “Ah, but alas! To speak such words before witnesses, to willingly feed your ego in front of Chai Latte Cookie, Earl Grey Cookie, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie? I would never recover!”

“Fascinating,” he mused. Your pacing slowed. You turned on your heel, finally facing him, your expression shifting from exaggerated suffering to something more calculated. More certain.

“That leaves only one option,” you murmured.

His golden gaze was steady, unshaken. “Indeed.”

A pause. Then, ever so casually “Well, I guess I’ll start drafting that essay-”

Before you could take another step, Shadow Milk Cookie reached out, fingers curling gently around your wrist. Not tight not demanding just enough to halt your retreat, just enough to keep you in place. You stilled, heart stuttering. His touch was warm. Steady. You met his eyes, and suddenly, the theatrics didn’t feel as necessary anymore. There was something in his gaze that made the moment feel weightless. 

As if, beneath all the teasing, beneath all the playful back-and-forth, there was a quiet invitation in the way he held you there. Not a demand. Not an expectation. Just… waiting.

You exhaled slowly, your pulse a restless rhythm against your ribs. Then, with a sigh of faux defeat, you let yourself be pulled back toward him. “Fine,” you murmured, lips curling slightly. “You win.”

“I usually do,” he murmured back.

And before he could say another infuriating word, you leaned in and kissed him. You pulled back just slightly, not far enough to break the warmth between you, but enough to catch the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes. His golden gaze, always so sharp, so knowing, had softened just a little. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the moment you’d handed him. You studied him for a beat, then tilted your head, your voice a quiet tease but carrying a weight beneath it.

“Well?” you asked, lips barely suppressing a smirk. “Are you happy with yourself?” Shadow Milk Cookie blinked once, slow and measured, as if truly considering it. Then, his lips curled not into his usual knowing smirk, not into something grand or theatrical, but into something softer. Something real.

“…Yes,” he murmured. “Immensely.” Your chest ached not in a painful way, but in that annoying, wonderful way that came from realizing just how much you felt for him. Still, you refused to let him have the last word so easily. 

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Ugh. You’re so smug about it.”

“I believe the proper term is vindicated,” he corrected smoothly. You groaned, dramatically slumping against him like the weight of his self-satisfaction was simply too much to bear. “I take it back. I should have just written the essay.”

He chuckled, a rare, low sound, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “I would have graded it ruthlessly.”

“Of course you would have,” you mumbled, your forehead still resting against his shoulder.

His hand found the small of your back, resting there like a quiet reassurance. “But you chose the wiser path.”

You sighed dramatically. “I suppose.” He hummed, and the sound was almost fond. “You suppose?” You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze again, feeling warmth creep up your neck. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”

His fingers curled just slightly against your back, his voice dipping to something quieter. “No promises.” You leaned back just enough to take him in, eyes flickering over his features composed, unreadable, yet carrying the smallest flicker of something beneath the surface. Smug, as always. Secure in his victory. Well. That simply wouldn’t do. So, on pure impulse, without warning, without pretense. 

You kissed him again. It was nothing grand, nothing calculated or poetic. Just a soft press of your lips against his, a decision made without hesitation. And this time, it worked. You felt him freeze. The smirk he had been carrying so effortlessly vanished like mist under the sun, his composure breaking in a way you’d never seen before. His breath hitched, his fingers twitched slightly where they rested against you, he looked utterly caught off guard.

His face bloomed in warmth, color rushing to his cheeks in a way that felt almost surreal. Shadow Milk Cookie the Sage of Truth, the Fount of Knowledge, the ever-unshaken scholar was blushing. You pulled back just slightly, blinking at him. And then you grinned.

“Oh,” you mused, utterly delighted. “Oh. You’re flustered.” Shadow Milk Cookie cleared his throat, turning his face slightly, though the betrayal of color on his skin remained. “I-” He exhaled sharply, golden eyes darting away for a brief moment, as if trying to recollect himself. “That was unprompted.”

You laughed, light, full of something almost victorious. “Was it?” His gaze snapped back to you, sharp, narrowed but that warmth hadn’t left him. “You-” He exhaled again, softer this time, and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if trying to summon some divine patience. 

You merely rocked back slightly, resting your chin on your palm, studying him with all the amusement in the world. “I take it that means I won this round?”

His lips parted likely to counter with something witty, something to salvage his pride but no words came. Instead, after a long pause, he sighed. “You are…” He trailed off, as if searching for the exact right phrase, before shaking his head slightly, voice quieter when he finally spoke.

“…Absolutely impossible.”

You smiled. “So I’m told.” His gaze softened, and though the warmth hadn’t faded from his cheeks, there was something else in his expression now.

Something fond.

“…Indeed,” he murmured.

 That was perhaps the real victory. Your victorious grin lingered for a moment longer before, suddenly, realization struck like a bolt of lightning. Your eyes widened. “Oh!” Shadow Milk Cookie barely had time to react before you grabbed his hands, your excitement surging in an instant. “The Spire!”

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard by your sudden shift in energy. “…What about it?” You nearly bounced in place, your earlier mischief momentarily forgotten. “We got in! All of us! Me, Chai Latte, Earl Grey, Hazelnut Biscotti all of us got into the Spire of Knowledge!” 

“…You did.”

You beamed at him, nodding rapidly. “We did! I mean, I knew the others would get in, but me?” You laughed, somewhere between exhilarated and still slightly stunned. “I honestly thought I’d be scraping by if I got in at all. But then, bam my name was right there on the list.”

You squeezed his hands lightly, eyes shining. “It had to be your recommendation letter. That’s what did it.”

His brow arched slightly. “And here I thought your own merit played a role in it.” 

You scoffed playfully, nudging him with your shoulder. “Oh, please. We both know I was struggling not too long ago. The only reason I didn’t flunk my way straight into academic exile is because you’re a ridiculously good tutor.”

His lips curved ever so slightly, but his tone remained measured. “I recall saying you had potential. You simply needed guidance.”

“And, oh, what guidance it was,” you teased. “Your incredible patience, your endless wisdom your unparalleled ability to confuse me with riddles until I understood the material out of sheer spite” 

He let out a quiet hum, shaking his head in amusement. “I do not recall ‘spite-driven comprehension’ being a recognized academic method.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” He chuckled, and stars, you wished you could capture that sound, tuck it away somewhere safe. 

Your grin softened slightly, your excitement still bubbling beneath the surface but with something else now something grateful. “…Thank you,” you said, quieter this time. “Really. I wouldn’t be here without you.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, his golden eyes steady, warm. Then, with a voice equally as soft, he murmured,

“I simply illuminated the path. You were the one who walked it.” And damn it, he always had to make things sound poetic, didn’t he? You huffed, but your smile didn’t waver. Instead, you squeezed his hands once more, rocking back on your heels. “Okay, okay, enough of that should we celebrate? Because I personally think this calls for excessive amounts of dessert.”

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled, though his expression betrayed his amusement. “Excessive, you say?”

“Absolutely excessive,” you confirmed, determined. “We’re talking at least three pastries and a cup of tea so sweet it should be illegal.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “…And if I were to decline?”

You gasped, feigning offense. “I’d simply have to make up for your share. A sacrifice, truly, but one I’d be willing to bear.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, and finally he nodded.

“Very well,” he said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Lead the way, then.” And just like that, your victory tasted even sweeter. 

As you entered the dining hall, the first thing you noticed was complete and utter chaos.

“HAZELNUT BISCUOTTI COOKIE, YOU ABSOLUTE FIEND GET BACK HERE!”

Chai Latte Cookie’s furious voice rang through the air, followed by the thunderous sound of running footsteps. Students instinctively cleared out of the way as Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie sprinted past the tables, a guilty grin stretched across his face and a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand.

You blinked.

Shadow Milk Cookie, standing beside you, exhaled deeply, already looking regretful about following you here. Your gaze landed on Earl Grey Cookie, who stood completely unfazed near the buffet station, watching the scene unfold with all the emotional investment of someone observing a light drizzle. 

You approached him cautiously. “What’s going on?” Without missing a beat, Earl Grey Cookie, still holding his tray with perfect balance, responded, “Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie took the last almond puff pastry. Chai Latte Cookie was two seconds too late.”

You looked at him incredulously. “So, she’s trying to kill him over a pastry?”

“She’s making a point,” he corrected smoothly.

“I called dibs!” Chai Latte Cookie shouted, narrowly avoiding knocking over an entire stack of plates as she chased Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie in circles around the tables.

“It was a suggestion at best!” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie called back, absolutely delighted with himself.

“You knew I was going to get it!” she seethed.

Earl Grey Cookie gave a slight shrug. “She did mention it before we got here.” Shadow Milk Cookie, watching this absurd display, muttered under his breath, “I should not have come. I’ll turn a blind eye and walk off.” 

You patted his arm, grinning. “No, no. This is exactly what you needed.” Before he could reply, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie made the fatal mistake of slowing down just enough for Chai Latte Cookie to pounce. With a dramatic yelp, he toppled forward, and the remains of the pastry flew from his hands, landing unceremoniously on the floor. A collective gasp echoed across the dining hall.

Chai Latte Cookie froze. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stared at the ruined pastry, his expression one of deep regret. “No,” he whispered. Earl Grey Cookie sighed. “This is a tragedy.” Chai Latte Cookie slowly turned to Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, expression unreadable.

“You fool,” she murmured. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay. Now, before you do anything-” She lunged.

You sighed, shaking your head. 

Shadow Milk looked your way “Are they always like this?” Earl Grey Cookie took a calm sip of tea. “It happens more often than it should.”

Shadow Milk Cookie ignored him  massaging his temples, clearly questioning every decision that had led him to this moment. You nudged him playfully. “See? This is what a real meal looks like. A little food, a little fighting, a little public humiliation.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the commotion. “…This is why I take my meals alone.” You grinned. “Not today.” And with one last dramatic wail from Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie as Chai Latte Cookie rattled him by the collar, you led Shadow Milk Cookie forward straight into the madness.

The dining hall was alive, buzzing with the usual lunchtime chaos, but something about it felt warmer like an extension of something familiar. Shadow Milk Cookie, despite his usual air of composure, looked somewhat out of place at first, standing among the whirlwind that was your friends.

But then, the small things settled in the way Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie patted his back in greeting like he was just another one of you, the way Earl Grey Cookie shifted slightly to make room at the table without a second thought, the way Chai Latte Cookie practically threw an extra pastry on his plate as if daring him not to eat it. It was seamless. 

Effortless. Like he belonged. For a moment, you glanced at him just to see if he felt it too. His expression was unreadable, but there was something softer in his posture, in the way his fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table rather than retreating into his sleeves. Then, of course, Chai Latte Cookie ruined the moment.

“So,” she drawled, elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Is the lover’s quarrel over?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie choked on his drink. Earl Grey Cookie let out a tired sigh, already looking as if he wished to be anywhere else. 

Your entire body stiffened. Shadow Milk Cookie, to his credit, merely lifted an eyebrow, calm but unimpressed. You, however, absolutely did not have his composure.

“Chai” you hissed, eyes widening in horror.

“What?” She blinked at you innocently, as if she hadn’t just set fire to the table with her words. “I’m just checking in. You stormed off after him. Came back visibly shaken. Left again and now you return together? The narrative is narrating itself, babe.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, recovering from his near-death experience, grinned. “To be fair, she’s got a point.”

“She does not have a point,” you sputtered. “We-we weren’t even fighting-”

“Oh?” Chai Latte Cookie’s smile widened. “So, you were having a lovers’ moment then?” Shadow Milk Cookie exhaled deeply, reaching for his tea in a way that definitely suggested he was questioning his life choices. You, however, were floundering.

“That’s No That’s not-” 

You turned to Earl Grey Cookie, eyes pleading. “Say something.” Earl Grey Cookie, traitor that he was, simply took a slow sip of tea and said, “I think this is best left between you two.” 

Chai Latte Cookie beamed, satisfied. You groaned, dropping your head against the table. “I hate all of you.”

Shadow Milk Cookie, finally speaking, murmured with mild amusement, “I believe that is untrue.” You peeked up at him, only to find the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Your stomach flipped. Chai Latte Cookie wiggled her eyebrows. “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nodded sagely. “Undeniable.” You let out the longest sigh of your life.

This was going to be a long lunch. You lifted your head just in time to see Chai Latte Cookie grinning like the embodiment of mischief itself, Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie looking way too entertained, and Earl Grey Cookie sipping his tea with the kind of serene detachment that only came from thinking he was above this nonsense but still enjoying the spectacle. 

Shadow Milk Cookie, however, was the wild card. Because he was looking at you calm, measured but there was something in his gaze. Something knowing.

Something dangerous. “Well,” he mused, setting down his tea with an infuriating amount of elegance. “If we are to entertain the notion of a lover’s quarrel, one must consider the root of the conflict.” 

You froze. Chai Latte Cookie perked up. “Go on.”

“I have merely been waiting,” Shadow Milk Cookie continued smoothly, “for our dear scholar to provide an explanation. After all, there was a rather… passionate pursuit through the corridors earlier. And an equally passionate moment of hesitation.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie whistled. “Passionate, huh?” Your face burned. “That’s not what happened-”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Earl Grey Cookie finally chimed in, setting his cup down with practiced grace. “I seem to recall you gripping my hands rather fervently last night. Wouldn’t you say so?” Shadow milk cast him a glare.

You snapped toward him. “You are not helping!”

“I’m simply recounting the events as they happened,” Earl Grey Cookie replied, expression entirely neutral except for the slightest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Chai Latte Cookie gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her chest.

“Wait, wait, wait- so you were caught in a love triangle moment?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie leaned in. “Are you telling us we had front-row seats to some academic level romantic tension and nobody informed us?”

“There is no love triangle,” you said frantically, waving your hands in protest. “I just…Earl Grey Cookie is a good friend! I needed guidance! I-I-” You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, desperate. “Help me out here!”

But he simply tilted his head, expression unreadable. “…I fail to see the problem,” he murmured. You stared at him. “You fail to see the problem?” you repeated, betrayed.

“I fail to see how I have said anything untrue,” he replied smoothly. “After all, it is not I who reached for Earl Grey Cookie’s hands with such desperate longing”

“WHAT” You threw your arms up, half-ready to ascend into the astral plane out of sheer mortification. “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON MY SIDE.”

“Oh, I am,” Shadow Milk Cookie said, with the kind of smile that immediately set off alarms in your head. “Which is why I would never deny you your moment of reflection.”

“Oh my god” Chai Latte Cookie cackled. “Betrayal from within! I love it.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie wiped away a fake tear. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Earl Grey Cookie, traitor supreme, simply sipped his tea again, the very picture of composure. You buried your face in your hands.

“I hate all of you,” you groaned, muffled. Shadow Milk Cookie leaned in, voice as infuriatingly composed as ever. “Untrue,” he murmured, way too close to your ear. Your entire body betrayed you, heat crawling up your neck as you jerked upright and shoved your chair back.

“Absolutely not.”

Chai Latte Cookie gasped again, clutching Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s arm. “That! that was blushing. Tell me you saw that.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nodded rapidly. “Oh, absolutely saw that.”

“I don’t blush,” you lied through your teeth.

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow. “Curious, then, that your face is rather warm-looking at the moment.” 

You pointed an accusatory finger at Shadow Milk Cookie. “You-you are supposed to be wise and dignified and not a menace” He blinked at you, completely unbothered. “And yet, I have never made such a claim.” 

You gaped at him. Chai Latte Cookie laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes. Shadow Milk Cookie simply picked up his tea again, utterly victorious. And you swore to the gods that one day, somehow, you’d get back at him for this.

You let out a dramatic sigh, slumping back against your chair. “I thought your wrath was over,” you bemoaned, shooting a glance at Shadow Milk Cookie, who was taking an unhurried sip of his tea. 

“But clearly, you still have some lingering feelings.” He lowered his cup, tilting his head slightly, golden eyes watching you with something unreadable but undeniably intentional. “Lingering feelings?” he echoed, voice laced with an infuriating amount of amusement. “A fascinating observation.”

Chai Latte Cookie let out a quiet hmm of delight, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, I love when he gets like this.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who had been mid-bite into his pastry, nudged Chai Latte conspiratorially. “This is definitely payback.” You shot them both a glare before turning back to Shadow Milk Cookie, exasperated. “You can’t seriously still be upset.”

“I can and I am,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down with a deliberate clink. He turned his gaze to Earl Grey Cookie who, for once, was watching carefully, as if weighing the gravity of what was about to be said. “I would prefer if what I saw between you and my stargazer never happened again.”

The air around the table grew still. Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, met his gaze levelly. “Duly noted.” 

Your jaw dropped. “Duly noted?!” you spluttered. “That’s it?” 

Earl Grey simply picked up his tea again, utterly unshaken. “Would you rather I start a debate?” Chai Latte Cookie’s eyes widened slightly before she turned her entire attention onto you, a slow, devious grin spreading across her face. “Hold on. Hold on. What did he just call you?”

Your brain stalled. “What?” you blinked.

“What. Did. He. Just. Call. You?” Chai Latte Cookie repeated, leaning forward with the intensity of someone thriving off gossip. You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, only now realizing what exactly had left his lips.

“My Stargazer.” He repeated relishing in your humiliation. Your stomach dropped.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie whooped, clapping his hands together. “Oh, this is fantastic.” Chai Latte Cookie smacked the table, eyes gleaming with glee. “This is the best thing to happen all week.” You, meanwhile, were reeling.

You held up a hand. “What does that even mean?” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you with a look so smugly composed that it made you want to combust. “I assume you are capable of deciphering meaning from context, Stargazer.”

You gaped. “You’re doing this on purpose.” His lips twitched at the edges, and that was when you knew. Oh, he was enjoying this. He was deliberately making a show of this. And worse? Everyone else was enjoying it too.

“See, this is why he’s terrifying,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie laughed. “One moment, you think you’ve got control, and the next? He’s got you spinning in his little mind games.” 

Earl Grey Cookie, sipping his tea with the air of someone distantly entertained, merely hummed. “Impressive, really.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate it here.” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned just slightly toward you, voice low, calculated, teasing. “And yet,” he murmured, “you stay.” Your ears burned.

Chai Latte Cookie all but exploded into laughter, while Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie pounded the table in delight.Eventually, the laughter settled, the teasing ebbing into a comfortable hum of conversation. You exhaled, pressing your palms against your cheeks to dispel the lingering warmth of your embarrassment. Shadow Milk Cookie, still composed, still infuriatingly pleased with himself, had returned to sipping his tea as if nothing had happened at all. You cleared your throat, shifting in your seat. “So,” you said, forcing your voice into something normal. “The Spire.”

Chai Latte Cookie hummed, stretching her arms behind her head. “Finally switching to a serious topic?” she teased. 

You shot her a look before turning back to Shadow Milk Cookie. “What’s it going to be like? I mean, being the Fount of Knowledge.” His expression didn’t shift, but something flickered in his golden eyes, something thoughtful. He set his cup down, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “That remains to be seen.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie quirked a brow. “You don’t know?”

“There is no precedent,” Shadow Milk Cookie replied smoothly. “The Spire of Knowledge is newly established. It is an extension of the Academy, but unlike the traditional institutions, it will serve as a hub of research and discourse that reaches beyond these halls across lands, scholars, disciplines.” His fingers traced the rim of his cup absentmindedly. “A place where knowledge is meant to be ever-expanding. And with that, comes the responsibility of guiding it forward.”

Earl Grey Cookie studied him carefully. “That’s… a lot,” he said plainly. Shadow Milk Cookie nodded. “It is.” You leaned forward, resting your chin against your palm. “And the title? Fount of Knowledge…that’s permanent?”

“Presumably.”

You frowned. “That’s kind of a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Chai Latte Cookie chimed in. “Your name is going to be tied to an entire institution forever. No pressure.” Shadow Milk Cookie remained unbothered, but his pause was just long enough for you to notice.

“…Do you want that?” you asked softly. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “It is an honor,” he said after a moment.

“That’s not an answer.”

His gaze met yours, steady, unwavering. “Would you rather I embellish the truth?” You opened your mouth, then closed it. Fair point. 

Earl Grey Cookie took a measured sip of his tea before speaking. “Regardless of how you feel about it, you’re still becoming it. That means something.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet breath. “It does.” For a moment, the weight of it settled over the table. The reality of what was coming not just for him, but for all of you. The Spire was new, unknown, a place of possibility and uncertainty. You were entering it as students. 

He was stepping into it as something more. You tapped your fingers against the wood. “…Well,” you said, “at least you’ll have us there to pester you.”

Chai Latte Cookie grinned. “And that’s a promise.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nudged you. “We’ll make sure you don’t get too pretentious with your big fancy title.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie arched a brow. “You assume I am not already pretentious.” 

Earl Grey Cookie smirked faintly. “A fair assumption.” Laughter bubbled at the table again, and for a moment, the weight of everything felt lighter. The future was uncertain, the Spire was uncharted, but at least, in this moment, you were all still together. The conversation ebbed and flowed around the table, shifting between teasing and genuine curiosity, but beneath it all, there was something unspoken.

Shadow Milk Cookie was here. He was sitting here, in a space that was so effortlessly filled with warmth and chaos, with inside jokes and knowing glances, with hands brushing over the last piece of bread as if it were a sacred prize. 

He was here and though he was composed, though he was himself, there was still a subtle distance in the way he carried his presence. Not an unwillingness to be here. No, he had chosen to be here. But a quiet awareness that he was not entirely part of it. 

And your friends knew that. They had always known that. And yet, they tried. Not because he was the Sage of Truth. Not because he held a title that would soon be carved into the foundation of the Spire itself. Not because he was important in the way scholars wrote about in books. But because he was important to you.

It was subtle, the way they met him halfway. Earl Grey Cookie addressed him with the same sharp wit he used on the rest of you, never deferential, never intimidated, just equal, as if daring him to rise to the occasion. Though with some hesitation. 

Chai Latte Cookie, who had no fear of the grand or the dramatic, leaned into their teasing, calling him things like our resident philosopher with an easy kind of humor, even when she watched him with an assessing gaze, as if still deciding how to place him within your orbit. 

And Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie? He was the most obvious nudging your arm, casting you knowing grins, making bold declarations about keeping Shadow Milk humble despite his grand title, never quite treating him as some untouchable figure. 

If anything, he was the most comfortable in pulling him into the ridiculous mess that was your world. And for all that Shadow Milk Cookie carried; the weight of his wisdom. For all that he was; a being of patience and intellect and elegance he was unprepared for this.

For them.

For you.

You could see it in the way he listened, his fingers curled lightly around the edge of his cup, his posture perfectly composed but his eyes thoughtful. He did not interrupt. He did not reject their attempts.

But you could tell he was not used to this. To the way friendship could be as simple as being handed the last piece of bread without asking. To the way people could tease you because they liked you, not because they sought to challenge you. 

To the way belonging was sometimes built not on shared knowledge, but on effort on the way your friends tried to include him, on the way they adjusted the shape of your group, not to fit him in, but to make room for him. For you, this had always been normal. For him this was new.

You studied him for a moment, watching the way he processed it all the small gestures, the familiar touches, the way Chai Latte bumped your shoulder as she spoke, the way Hazelnut Biscotti stole a sip from your cup like it was second nature. And then, without thinking, you reached for Shadow Milk’s hand beneath the table.

It was a simple thing.

A touch. A reassurance.

But it was also a bridge.

His fingers curled around yours after only a moment’s hesitation, as if testing the weight of fit then settling, anchoring. He did not look at you, but he did not need to. The conversation continued. Your friends laughed. The table felt full. And Shadow Milk Cookie, for all his distance, for all his unreadable nature stayed.

A/N as you all can see even when I was studying I was working on this diligently, this really was one of the few things keeping me sane this exam season...I was going to do a summer semester but I'm good without it...

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

CRAZY

rafe cameron x fem!reader

(mood board does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)

SUMMARY: y/n knows exactly what makes rafe angry, and after a fight she uses it to her advantage.

based on this ask !! i hope it’s what you asked for anon, enjoy my lovely <3

(check out my other drew starkey & rafe cameron works here !!)

WARNINGS: lowkey a toxic relationship, cursing, rage has anger issues, reader is a teensy bit petty, angst but w/ a fluffy/soft ending though !! (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

THIRD PERSON +

The fight had been bad—bad enough that Y/N had stormed out of Rafe's truck, slamming the door behind her so hard the sound echoed through the empty parking lot.

Her chest heaved with frustration, fingers trembling as she dug into her bag for her phone. She needed space. She needed air. And, most of all, she needed to get away from Rafe before she said something she couldn't take back.

Their relationship had always been intense, an unrelenting push and pull that left them both breathless. Rafe loved hard, and he fought even harder, his jealousy and temper a storm she'd learned to navigate. Most of the time, she knew how to calm him down—knew exactly what to say to keep the fire from burning too hot. But tonight? Tonight, she didn't want to be the one to fix it.

Her finger hovered over the settings on her phone, her heart racing as she tapped the switch to turn off her location. She knew it would piss him off. That was exactly why she did it.

The messages started almost immediately.

Rafe🖤: Where the fuck are you?

Rafe🖤: Turn your location back on, Y/N.

Rafe🖤: Don't do this right now.

Y/N ignored them, walking the short distance to her house. She needed a night to herself, away from his sharp words and possessive hands. By the time she locked her front door behind her, her phone had blown up with missed calls, each one filling her with a strange mix of satisfaction and guilt.

She tossed it onto the couch and sighed, running a hand through her hair. She hated fighting with him. Hated the way it drained her, leaving her restless and exhausted all at once. But at the same time, she couldn't just keep letting him get away with his controlling tendencies.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A night of self-care—it was exactly what she needed.

—

Rafe was losing his mind.

He was pacing his bedroom, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists. He'd called her a dozen times, sent twice as many texts, and nothing. The read receipts taunted him. She was ignoring him on purpose.

His heart hammered in his chest, but it wasn't just anger. It was fear.

He knew Y/N, knew she was stubborn and fiery, but she wasn't reckless. She wouldn't just disappear—unless she wanted to prove a point.

"Fuck," he muttered, shoving his hands through his hair. He grabbed his keys off the nightstand and stalked out of his house. If she wasn't going to answer him, he'd go straight to where he thought she’d be.

—

Y/N had just finished painting her nails when the loud, insistent pounding on her front door made her jump.

She groaned, already knowing exactly who it was.

"Y/N. Open the goddamn door."

Rolling her eyes, she stayed where she was on the couch, letting him stew. She wasn't about to let him ruin her night of peace.

More knocking. Harder this time.

"Seriously?" she called out, still not moving. "Go home, Rafe."

"Not happening," he shot back, voice muffled but unmistakably pissed.

Y/N sighed, setting down her nail polish bottle with exaggerated patience. She padded to the door, taking her sweet time before unlocking it and swinging it open.

Rafe stood there, broad shoulders tense, blue eyes blazing with frustration. His chest was rising and falling with uneven breaths, like he'd been barely keeping himself together the whole drive over.

"You think this shit is funny?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

She arched a brow. "What are you talking about?"

He scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "You turned your location off, ignored my calls—what the fuck was I supposed to think, huh?"

She crossed her arms, unbothered. "That I wanted space?"

Rafe clenched his jaw, running a hand down his face. He was furious, but more than that, he was relieved. Seeing her standing there in pajamas, a face mask on, her nails half-painted—she hadn't been out doing something reckless. She hadn't been with someone else. She was just... here. Safe.

That realisation made his anger simmer just enough to be replaced with something else.

His shoulders dropped, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "You could've at least told me you were home."

Y/N sighed, some of her stubbornness fading at the exhaustion in his voice. "I just... needed a break, Rafe. From the fighting, from the way you get when you're mad." She shook her head. "I didn't want to deal with it tonight."

His lips pressed into a tight line, and for a moment, she thought he'd argue. But then he surprised her by exhaling slowly and nodding. "I get it," he muttered.

She blinked, caught off guard by his sudden agreement. "You do?"

"I don't like it," he admitted, his voice lower now. "But yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, the anger fading as something heavier took its place. "I just—I fucking hate not knowing where you are. It drives me crazy."

Y/N sighed, her frustration waning. She knew Rafe wasn't like this for no reason. He loved her, even if he didn't always know how to show it in a healthy way.

She stepped closer, hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I just... needed time to breathe."

Rafe looked down at her, his blue eyes searching hers. After a beat, he nodded again. Then, without a word, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her up in a tight embrace.

Y/N exhaled against his chest, feeling the tension between them ease just a little. He was still possessive, still overbearing, but he was trying. And for now, that was enough.

"Can I stay?" he mumbled into her hair.

She let out a soft chuckle. "You already let yourself in, so yeah."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his grip on her tightening. "I'll make it up to you."

Y/N pulled back slightly to look up at him. "Damn right you will."

He smirked, then pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "C'mon. Let's go to bed."

An hour later, they were tangled up together in her bed, limbs intertwined beneath the covers. Rafe's arms were wrapped securely around her, like he was afraid she'd disappear if he let go.

Y/N felt herself start to drift off, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. Despite everything—the fights, the chaos—she knew she wouldn't trade this for anything.

Because for all his flaws, Rafe Cameron loved her in a way that no one else ever could. And if he had his way—no one else ever would.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was a short little one, but i’m trying to get through as many request before i go on holiday !! the ‘sports car’ drew starkey fic may be posted when i return as i’ll be taking a tumblr break for that week :)

still send in any requests, i’ll be working through my inbox until then !! some of these i’ve been writing for a couple weeks i’ve just had writers block lmao

[cherrixpie]

NEMESIS

part four of five

↬ you were supposed to steer clear of mattheo riddle. Shame that he was just so irrestible.

↬ sfw; wc: 9.1k (good lord these keep getting longer); cw: violence, blood, broken bones, suggestiveness, swear words; tags: gryffindor!reader, muggleborn!reader, enemies to lovers

( masterlist )

The wind howled through the stands, tearing at banners of both red and green, as sheets of icy rain slashed down in relentless torrents. Over night, the weather had taken a dramatic shift, to the disfortune of any poor bloke who was on the pitch today. The pitch had turned into a mire of mud and puddles and looked more like a battlefield than the site of one of the most anticipated Quidditch matches of the season: Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Above, the players on their broomsticks were little more than blurred streaks of color, their shouts swallowed by the roaring of the storm. The sharp crack of a Bludger smashing into a broomstick echoed through the chaos, drawing gasps and cries from the diehard fans who clung stubbornly to the stands despite the weather.

Near the base of the stands, Madam Pomphrey hovered over you like an agitated owl as you sorted through the bandages and potions at hand. Ever since you'd started practical training in the Hospital wing to improve your chances to become a healer at the prestigious St. Mungos Hospital, you'd been assailing her at quidditch games. But you'd only ever had Gryffindors to look out for before.

“Playing in this weather is nothing short of lunacy,” Madam Pomphrey muttered, her words only heard over the howling wind because she stood so close to you. “The last thing I need is another student catching their death out here- or worse, ending up on one of my stretchers.”

Though you didn't say it out loud, you estimated the chances of that being close to zero. Not only the weather made this an exceptionally brutal game. It seemed as if the players translated the stress of playing in such conditions into pure violence, and the thick mist of rain only made the many fouls harder to detect. The game was turning more brutal by the minute. You did your very best to identify your friends, but only caught a glance of Harry hovering over the game, looking for the faint glint of the snitch through the fog and dodging the occasional bludger. And, of course, Ron, guarding the rings.

But your restless eyes didn't only scan the skies in search of your friends. Any time a Slytherin player passed the stands, you'd anxiously try to make out whether they were a beater, whether they were Mattheo. But he seemed to be amidst the center of the game. Sometimes you thought you spotted him when you recognized a figure with club that vaguely resembled him. Sometimes, you thought the figure looked back at you, but you couldn't be sure of anything when rain and fog clouded your vision and made it impossible to pin point anything.

Suddenly, another violent crack echoed through the stadium and the fans let out a collective gasp when the small, blurred figure of Gryffindor’s seeker slipped from his broom, having been violently hit with a bludger. Before even Madam Pomphrey could react, you, who'd been on your toes all game, cast a spell to slow his fall and took off over the field to meet him when he met the ground in a rather soft thud thanks to your spell. The nurse followed hot on your heels and together, you hoisted Harry up on your shoulders and helped him towards the sidelines as Madame Hooch signaled time-out.

The bludger must've hit Harry in the face at short distance, because it only took one look at his blood-smeared face and crooked nose to know the latter was broken. You had the vague idea it wouldn't be the last one toady. As Madam Pomphrey healed it with a flick of her wand, eliciting a crack from the nose as it sprung back in place and a pained groan from Harry, you recovered a diptam from your belt and leaned down in front of him to apply it to his face.

“That was Riddle,” said Harry bitterly as you healed the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities. The murtlap essence did wonders on his injuries, but still, your worried eyes scanned his face restlessly as Harry kept raging. “He's had his sights on me ever since we lifted off the damn ground! Dunno what's up with him, it's like he doesn't even care about the game anymore. He's a damn psychopath, he is.”

Before you had the chance to respond, three thuds announced the arrival of three other players and you turned to them as they approached. Madam Hooch lead them, she walked on large strides over to Harry to inspect the graveness of his injury. Behind her followed a highly enraged looking Malfoy, platinum hair clinging to his forehead, and Mattheo, seemingly relaxed though there was a storm brewing in his eyes that rivaled the one he and the others were facing above ground. Your eyes met and you froze mid movement when he, despite the situation, gave you a quick grin. Just like Harry and Malfoy, he was covered head to toe in mud and his hair was even more of a mess than usual, but you had to admit it suited him better than the other two.

“From such a short distance, my my,” raged Madam Hooch who was quite red in the face. As most teachers did, she directed her anger at some point over Mattheo's shoulder instead of looking him into the face. “That's a foul if I ever saw one. Gryffindor gets a penalty.”

“But Madam Hooch!” called Malfoy indignantly. “He only did his job, isn't it allowed for the beaters to use their clubs anymore?”

“On the bludgers, not on fellow players!” hissed Madam Hooch angrily. Malfoy stroke up another argument, beginning with the words "my father...", but Mattheo couldn't have cared less. So what if Gryffindor got a damn penalty, there was much more important things to be enraged about. Like the way you fussed over Potter, how worried you looked, how pretty you looked in your nurse uniform, a white dress that fell down to your knees paired with the most adorable nurse cap. Mattheo realized he liked white on you. In his world that was drowned in such darkness, you stood out amongst crowds like a glowing ember. As much as he hesitated to admit it, he felt lighter anytime he laid eyes on you.

“Mate, help me out here!” Malfoy pushed him, but he fell on deaf ears, because you had just glanced back at him. Your reproachful look almost made him smile. A few loose strands of hair fell from your nurse cap into your face and clung to your skin. Even if you were to glare at him, he'd much rather have you do that than go back to giving your attention to Potter, of all people. But alas, you turned back to him and wiped the paste off of his face, giving him a light slap on the back to get back on his broom.

If possible, the wind cut even sharper as the game went on. Even under the cover of the stands, theoretically providing protection from the rain, you were soon drenched to the bone. You'd even had to borrow a Gryffindor sweater from Dean because your uniform had started to become see-through, and the material wasn't thin. By now, everyone was just praying for one of the seekers to catch the snitch and win the game. Though Slytherin was in the lead, partially due to a newfound brutality from their beaters, if Harry caught the snitch soon, Gryffindor would still win.

Just when you dragged the box with the medical supplies further under the cover of the stands to prevent the bandages from soaking up- by the looks of the game you would need them plenty- it happened. You hadn't looked, preoccupied with your task, so the only indication that something was wrong was the shocked screams of the crowd. As you looked up to see what was going on, for the smallest split of a second, you could make out a seemingly rogue bludger rushing towards the stands, specifically, towards you. You didn't even have time to close your eyes or shield yourself from the impact when a flash of green shot through your field of vision and the crowd breathed a sigh of belief.

Rushing forwards, you gripped onto the barrier and looked up at the sky only to catch a glimpse of Mattheo's jersey until he disappeared into the mist once more. Gryffindor scored. As the red and golden covered stands to your left erupted in hollers and cheers, you were hit with the sudden realization that Mattheo had not only saved you from being hit by a bludger, but had also diverted from the Gryffindor chasers, allowing them to score. It didn't fit. He'd been playing with undeveloped ferocity the whole match and now passed up the chance to intercept Gryffindor scoring? But, you thought to yourself, heart still hammering in your chest from the shock, maybe you should just give up trying to make sense of Mattheo Riddle, when he'd so far proved to be everything you thought he wasn't.

Due to the doubled efforts of Nott’s solo runs and Mattheo's bludgers being a major hindrance to the Gryffindor chasers and messing up their formations, forcing them to scatter, Slytherin took the lead by a long shot. But still, if Harry caught the snitch now, they could still win.

You were focused on him that you didn't even catch the maneuver of the Gryffindor beaters. There was a resounding crack heard throughout the stadium, even through the splatter of rain, and one of the Slytherin beaters was slammed into one of the stand walls with such force he bounced off of it before hurling towards the ground. Seconds before the player could hit the ground, they managed to pull their broom up and towards the sky, but their face was full of blood.

Your brain needed a moment to comprehend the situation, but then you read the name on the back of the player’s jersey and the blood seemed to freeze in your veins. Oh God. It was Mattheo. Panic-stricken, you turned to Madam Hooch. Not only had this clearly been a foul, but Mattheo needed time out to get patched up. But Madam Hooch was preoccupied with overlooking the Slytherin chasers ramming through a Gryffindor formation and the endless sheets of rain seemed to obstruct her vision. The Slytherin stands roared in indignation, but Mattheo steadied his broom mid-air, wiped his sleeve over his face, which only seemed to make it worse, and got back into formation.

Even Madam Pomphrey, who had expressed her dislike of Mattheo several times, gasped worriedly. “The game needs time out! He can't play in this condition!”

Your insides felt like claws, reeling against your ribcage as a sudden assault of worry hit you. The impossible frustration of not being able to help, to have to watch Mattheo get back into the game with gritted teeth was suffocating. Past you would have been indifferent, maybe. Past you was an idiot. Your hands gripped the barrier so tightly your knuckles turned white, and you couldn't take your eyes off of Mattheo’s figure. The blood seemed to be obstructing his vision even more than the walk of downpour already did,

Why did you care so much? Why did worry over a boy like Mattheo Riddle eat you up from the inside? Though it was quite untrue, you doubted there was anyone like Mattheo Riddle. Maybe it was just easier to pretend that your concern, the fact that you cared so much, was illogical, than to admit to yourself that he wasn't just you-know-who’s son anymore. That your fear of him had subsided and given way to not only interest, but affection.

The thought scared you. You knew exactly what your friends would say if they knew that you cared for their mortal enemy. Hermoine would look at you with a mixture of disgust and worry, maybe she'd even feel betrayed. And Ron? He'd feel like you'd fratanized with the enemy, you knew he would be angry. What about Harry? He'd been so understanding yesterday, but only after you reassured him that you detested Mattheo. A lie. Mattheo was supposed to be your nemesis, too. But he wasn't anymore.

What was he to you? The question rummaged in your brain as you watched his figure anxiously, wincing any time he got too close to a bludger. In the forest, he'd been intriguing. In the kitchens, exciting. Then, in the library, and you felt almost ashamed to admit it, attractive. But that wasn't all. What you felt for Mattheo couldn't be summed up in mere interest or attraction. It was a coiled up snake in the deepest pits of your self that had raised his head slowly, before you'd even realized it. You couldn't pin-point it, you just knew you wanted to know everything about Mattheo there was to know, and, that you hated to see him hurt.

The Slytherins were now in the lead by one-hundred-and-sixty points, but you couldn't have cared less about the score. More than ever now, you hoped for the game to end so you could have a look at Mattheo. But when the whistle sounded shrilly through the stadium, it was only to announce another two penalties for Gryffindor after Malfoy had fouled Harry mid-dive, both of whom Ginny dunked.

And then, finally, Harry and Malfoy went into a dive and, under the victorious roars of the Gryffindors, Harry emerged holding the snitch over his head. The score board showed Gryffindor: 260 points - Slytherin: 250 points.

Mustering up little more than a sigh of relief, you hurried over to the cart with the bandages and healing potions, arming yourself with supplies as the players landed one after the other. More than half of them immediately made a beeline for the medical tent, to you and a very ill-tempered Madam Pomphrey who muttered something about high risk sports and student safety. It had been an exceptionally rough game, and most players were at least bruised up, at worst limping heavily and clutching their ribs. As they trailed in, your eyes frantically darted around in search of Mattheo, but you couldn't find him.

Soon, you were preoccupied with fixing up the Gryffindor chasers, but your quick, distracted glances around the tent told you that he wasn't here. But where could he be? Dread pooled in your stomach as you bandaged up Ginny’s left hand and applied murtlap essence to her fellow chaser’s cuts and bruises. Only more people seemed to trail in, but, bit by bit, you managed to send them all off again. Still, Mattheo hadn't showed. As you were just contemplating whether you could just walk into the snake’s den, aka the Slytherin changing rooms, and offer treatment, you felt someone’s hand on your shoulder.

You spun around and were faced with Theodore Nott, looking very wet and very moody. The sight of him calmed you somewhat, you knew he and Mattheo were close. Nott looked as grumpy and sinister as ever, but he didn't sound aggressive. “Are you free here?” he asked in his Italian accent and you nodded silently. His frown subsided somewhat. “Can you come with me? Mattheo’s refusing treatment.”

For a split second, you wondered whether Nott knew about Mattheo and you. Then, you mentally slapped yourself back into reality. There was nothing between Mattheo and you, other than a few late night encounters. He'd only asked for you because he didn't want to ask Madam Pomphrey, you supposed.

“Of course,” you said, a little more enthusiastically than would have been necessary, and quickly rounded up some medical supplies to stuff them into your bag. Then, you followed Nott out of the tent, through the downpour of rain and down the steps that led into the Slytherin’s changing rooms.

As you walked down the stairs, you passed a group of Slytherin players who shot you nasty, albeit unsurprised looks. Struggling to keep up with Nott’s long strides, you hurried after him and averted your eyes from the passing Slytherin's. In front of a door with the engraved words ‘changing rooms’, Nott halted his step and nodded towards it. “He's in there, make it quick.”

Nott took off after his friends and you were left standing before the door. For a few hesitant seconds, your fist hovered in the air in front of the wood, and for some silly reason, your heart was thumping like mad. Finally, you knocked. Due to your sudden surge of timidity, it was a soft, quiet sound, barely heard over the splatter on the roof. Still, a voice you recognized as Mattheo's called from inside, clearly audible. “Come in, princess.” As if it had been a command, your hand fell down to the handle, you pressed it down and the door swung open.

The first thing you noticed about the Slytherin changing rooms was that they were way tidier than the Gryffindor ones that you'd often visited after a game to fetch Harry and Ron. No empty bottles, no forgotten jerseys on the ground and it smelled surprisingly good for a sports changing room, though the distinct smell of smoke clung to the air. All seemed perfect in place- except for the a smashed-in locker on the left side and the boy that sat, smoking, on one of the benches.

Mattheo hadn't even made an effort to change yet, both his jersey and his face were seeping with blood. His nose looked broken and his lip was busted up, which didn't stop him from taking continuous drags out of his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. Wisps of smoke curled around him like ghostly shroud. His dark curls hung heavy and damp over his sharp features, framing the defiant smirk that tugged at his lips despite the pain evident in his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. His eyes, dark and unfazed, met yours with a flicker of something unreadable- half daring, half relief- as if, even now, bloodied and battered, he was too proud to let the hurt take hold. Or too used to it.

His heavy gaze felt disarming as you stood aimlessly in the doorway, faintly dripping with water falling from loose strands of your hair. Mustering up a small smile, you closed the door behind you and attempted to ignore the way his gaze burned into your back as you turned to the door. “What if I hadn't been me?” you asked in an effort to diffuse the situation of the weird tension in the air. “What if I'd been one of your friends? That would've been awkward.”

When you turned back to him, his gaze had softened almost indiscernibly. His cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes raked over your drenched and drippy figure before snapping back to your eyes with the self-assurance of a skilled predator cornering its prey. You met his eyes without blinking and the corner of his lips twitched slightly. “None of my friends knock as if they're scared somebody will hear it.”

Your lips curled. “Touché.” With slow, deliberate steps, you walked over to him and came to a halt before him, fingers closing tensely around the handle of your medical bag. Even just the parts of him you could see looked badly hurt, though he didn't show any signs of pain. Maybe he had CIPA syndrome. Or maybe he was just a masochist.

Mattheo caught your wandering gaze, blew a cloud of smoke your way and leaned back against the back of the bench expectantly, cigarette between his bloody fingers. “Well, then, I'm all yours.” A lazy grin played around his lips, in spite of the situation, and it was as attractive as it was infuriating.

Before he could react, you snatched the cigarette out of his fingers and discarded it into an ashtray near you before turning back to him. “It smells disgusting,” you let him know and he chuckled, raising his hands in faux surrender.

You felt hesitant to approach him, touch him, even though you had his consent. His dark eyes rooted you to your spot, made you unable to move. You wondered whether it was some sort of spell until he raised his brows. “Any day now, princess.”

“Don't rush me,” you whispered, averting your eyes and scrambling around in your medical kit for the right supplies. You layed out bandages and healing potions out on the bench opposite him and turned to him once more to tap your wand against his nose, murmuring “episkey” under your breath. With a disgusting cracking sound, it snapped back in place, but Mattheo didn't flinch, only continuing to stare up at you. With the same feeling of sticking your head into a snake den, you leaned down nervously to examine the wounds on his face, whether they needed stitching. The deep cut near his jaw did.

“Careful there, princess,” Mattheo murmured and your eyes snapped from the wound to his eyes, only inches away. “Someone might think you have un-pure intentions.”

You couldn't help the blush that painted your cheeks pink, more so due to his proximity than his words. Still, you brought some distance between you and searched in your bag for needle and thread. “My intentions couldn't be more pure,” you huffed and he laughed lightly from behind your back about a joke you couldn't understand. Or maybe, you did.

“That is true,” he lamented and you heard ruffling. You turned around quickly and snatched the pack of cigarettes out of his hands. He looked mildly surprised at the frown on your face.

“Come on,” you said, voice somewhere between annoyance and pleading. “are you really going to poison yourself while I try to patch you up?” Fitting the threat through the needle, you ignored his raised brows and concentrated your attention on the deep cut in his cheek. A damp towel in the other hand, you ran it over the wound to clean it and then leaned in closer. “This might hurt.”

He completely ignored the last part, but you could feel his eyes on you. Damn him, he was just so distracting. “Hm,” he hummed, as if in thought, and ignored your hiss to keep still. “One might almost think you care about me.”

“I do.”

Both you and him looked up in surprise, and you quickly looked away as his eyes stayed on you, almost hungrily. “Hold still,” you murmured, and finally, he complied, allowing you to insert the needle as gently as possible and start to surture the wound. It was almost scary how still he kept now. You desperately wished to break the silence that spread, that followed your words like a blanket of led pressing down upon the both of you. It was only the truth, you cared about him. You cared for him. You cared for Mattheo Riddle. In order to concentrate, you attempted to shut all that out, but the confession hung in the air between you, as impossible to ignore as he himself was.

Finally, you finished the last stitch and tied the suture with a surgeon’s knot off the side so it didn't touch the wound. A small part of you hoped desperately that Mattheo would overlook your slip up, maybe even forget it, but that, of course, was naive. When you put away thread and needle, grabbed the murtlap essence and walked back over to him, he looked up at you without the trace of a smile on his lips. “You care about me,” he repeated, not a question but a statement. His eyes fixed yours as he got a hold of your wrists. “More than you care about him?”

“Who?” you asked, perplexed by the severity in his tone. A hint of displeasure washed over his face, but it gave way to indifference after just a second. “Potter.”

“W- what?” you spluttered out, laughing nervously. How on earth were you supposed to answer that question? “He's my friend,” you said hesitantly and freed your wrists to dab some of the potion onto the tips of your fingers. As you leaned down, you froze mid motion when you felt hands on your waist. His hands on your waist. Large and warm and rough even through the fabric of your nurse uniform. His touch seemed to send sparks of electricity through your body that balled in your stomach and made your breath hitch.

“Go on,” he commanded quietly, and though they were trembling, you brushed your cream-smeared fingers over one of the bruises on his jaw. They travelled up over his cheek, tending to the scratches there, but you could hardly keep your attention on them when his eyes seemed to bore through your skull.

With a low voice, he muttered your name, your first name, and you were so shocked to hear him call you anything but ‘princess’ you did the smallest of double takes. “Is there anything more than that?” he asked, and he seemed more tense than before as his fingers curled into the flesh of your belly lightly. “Between you and him?”

Both the idea and the fact that you'd just been asked it by Mattheo Riddle of all people elicited a shocked little laugh from you. But he didn't laugh, only watched you with an expression that you might have mistaken for indifference if it hadn't been for the clenching of his jaw. “He's just a friend,” you clarified, your cheeks growing warm. “We're not- we've never- It's not like that,” you closed abashedly and put a bit of distance between you under the excuse of getting more murtlap. His hands fell from your waist as you walked over to the opposite bench, heat boiling in your face.

You tried to keep your expression composed as you got back to him to tend to the other side of his face, putting some murtlap over the stitches as well for good measure. This time, he didn't hold your waist, but when you were finished and brushed off the remaining essence on your skirt, he caught the hem between his fingers and his light tug caused you to stumble forwards in between his parted legs. His hand travelled upwards, tracing the curve of your hip without ever touching them and locked around the hem of your Gryffindor hoodie. There was a magnetic sort of darkness in his eyes when he looked up at you, two black holes that threatened to swallow you whole. “Take that off.”

In hindsight, you probably shouldn't ever have complied with his request. But his voice was so soft, his eyes so alluring, his whole being like a siren’s call. So you curled your fingers under your hoodie and, heart beating hard against your ribs, pulled it slowly over your head.

Mattheo's breath hitched as his gaze locked on you. The dim light of the changing room caught the soft outline of your figure beneath the thin, damp fabric, your nurse’s uniform clinging to you like a second skin, innocent in intention, but anything but now. The delicate outline of your bra was visible through the slightly see-through fabric. His throat tightened, a mix of a pang of guilt and a despicable surge of fire curling in his chest like smoke.

You looked so pure, so untouched by the edges of the world that had long since roughened him up. The contrast hit him like a bludger- your soft, careful hands that had just cleaned his wounds now pulling your hoodie over your head, oblivious to the firestorm you'd lit inside him. The urge to discard that Gryffindor hoodie and dress you in one of his jerseys, hiding the sacred sight beneath with a claim of his possession, was so overwhelming he clenched his fists, desperately trying to remind himself that you were not his, you were too good, too-

His train of thought was interrupted when you shifted slightly and folded your arms over your chest, only pressing your boobs together. He dragged his gaze away, but the weight of your unreachable warmth, your white-clad purity, lingered, carving through his battered core and leaving him feeling utterly undeserving.

When he looked away, you recoiled slightly and scolded yourself for thinking, hoping, he might react. But before you could put some distance between you, he looked up at you and his gaze locked you in place, making you freeze just as effectively as a pointed wand might have. Mattheo leaned forward and for a confused moment, you almost thought he was going to kiss you, but he only rose from his seat and walked past you.

Only when you heard shuffling behind you, you realized he was rummaging around your medical supplies. No, not rummaging, you realized when you looked over in alarm. He was cleaning up, packing all bandages and potions back into your bag.

“You don't have to do that!” you called and hastily approached to take the murtlap essence out of his hands. But he kept a firm grip on it and raised his brows at you with a mocking little smile. It seemed so out of place after the heavy tension between you in the room. “Hey, ‘m trying to do something nice here, princess!” With one glance, you assessed that Mattheo wasn't one for neatness, as he didn't assort the items in any order or symmetry whatsoever but merely threw them all into a heap and closed the lid. But still, the gesture was weirdly considerate and you couldn't help the little smile that crept onto your face.

“Thank you,” you smiled and he only nodded, averting his eyes. Right now, with your moist strands of hair sticking out of your nurse cap, your pretty little smile, the way the nurse uniform clung to your body, it was hard to withstand the urge to kiss you. Then again, what if he did? It'd all be over. It was etched into Mattheo by habit that if he got close enough to a girl to get intimate on any physical level, it was time for any strings to be cut loose as to not endanger the fragile balance that was what was left of his heart.

But it had never mattered to him, he'd kissed and fucked them anyway because he could, and it felt good, and then he was relieved when it was over. He’d never before held back. And in favor of what? Spending time in your presence? Pathetic, was what his father would call it. Mattheo couldn't explain it either, he just knew that, in this moment, his desire to be near you, to keep you, was stronger than the desire to rip your damn uniform off of you, explore the soft flesh beneath and give you the time of your fucking life right here on this bench.

You seemed hesitant as you grabbed the handle of your bag, your eyes raking over his torso. Of course, you were too good of a nurse and too smart of a woman to not guess what wounds he had to hide beneath. But for now, you couldn't see them.

“Thank you,” he said honestly, and the unfamiliar sound felt so natural when he said it to you. “For patching me up. Fine nurse you are.” He made no attempts to hide the flirty undertone and the lightest of blushes spread across your cheeks. He breathed it in like a drowning man.

With a barely concealed smirk and a “you're welcome,” you approached the door of the changing rooms.

Something like an iron fist closed around his insides as you opened the door and he couldn't hold back the words that stumbled from his lips. “Wait!” You froze and turned to him once more with an expectant look, and, as if he'd always known it, a stroke of genius found his way out of his mouth. “You know shit about muggles, right?”

A genuine grin formed on your lips. “I should hope so.”

“How ‘bout you tutor me in muggle studies then?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. With a light frown, you crossed your arms over your chest and he gave you a pleading look. “I'm gonna fail the class if I don't get my grades up asap.” Satisfied by the way he could practically see your resolve melt at the look he was giving you, his lips almost twitched but he bit down on it to hide any trace of his true intentions. In truth, he couldn't have cared less about muggle studies, but it was the perfect excuse.

“Fine,” you said, albeit begrudgingly, but you also gave him a little smile as you slipped out of the door, leaving only the vague smell of your perfume and a shaken up Mattheo behind.

Even though you had been apprehensive to the idea at first, tutoring Mattheo turned out to be something you started to look forward to every week. With every tutoring lesson, he seemed to be warming up to you more and more- and you did, too.

A few weeks into december, you found yourself laughing at his jokes and getting caught up in his brown eyes, that seemed softer than you'd ever perceived them. And you discovered that Mattheo was funny. He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that never failed to make you chuckle, even when you probably shouldn't have. Not only that, but he was also smarter than you'd ever given him credit for.

Previously, you'd thought of him as a mix of brute force and cunning, not unintelligent but thinking more so with his fists. But he was incredibly smart, and you felt not only a growing bond but also fondness in a not-so-platonic way. It also helped that confusion looked simply adorable on him, which was not a word you thought you'd ever apply to Mattheo Riddle.

“So,” he asked in one breath as he plopped down on the seat opposite you in your secluded corner in the library one snowy tuesday evening, “what the fuck is a movie?” Taken aback by his sudden arrival, you did a double take and quickly cleared the desk of your schoolwork to make space for his books and parchment as well. As he spread them out, your eyes got stuck on a few splatters of blood on his white shirt and you frowned. He, of course, didn't miss it, you saw it in the way he shifted his jacket to cover the stains, but didn't mention it further.

“Harry or Ron?” you asked, as you knew him well enough by now to know that the only instance in which he wouldn't brag about his brawls to you was when your friends were involved. He looked almost guilty when he glanced up at you. Almost.

“Both”

Rolling your eyes, you put your books aside and crossed your arms over the table. “So, movies, huh? Where might that word come from, ‘movies’?”

“Come on, princess, you know I hate word definitions,” he whined, resting his head on the propped up palm of his hand and making his best puppy eyes at you.

You chuckled about his behavior and gave a light slap to his forehead that made the curls fall into his eyes in the most irresistible fashion. “It's supposed to come from 'moving pictures’”

“But muggle pictures don't move,” Mattheo frowned, seemingly recalling what you'd taught him just last week.

You nodded. “No, they don't. You see, when muggle pictures move, they don't call them pictures, they call them videos. And they don't move in their own, but because muggles line up an unbelievably high number of pictures and then play them in order, so they look like they're moving. Of course, today, the technology is a little more advanced. But movies often span one if not several hours and they tell stories, like books. It's kind of… as if books came to life. They have a whole range of other means to archived their ends though, like camera perspective, many also have music that can emphasize moments and influence how you see them, actor's performances, lighting-”

You fell silent suddenly and cleared your throat. As so often when you explained muggle concepts to him, you had started to ramble on with increasing passion. Now, you looked back at Mattheo to apologize, but his gaze was locked on you and a light smile graced his lips. Your heart seemed to skip a beat and you quickly averted your eyes down to your book. “Sorry, that was- I'm rambling again.”

“Do you see me complaining?” Mattheo asked with raised brows and kicked your shin lightly under the table to make you look up at him. “So, what's your favorite of these things? These movies?”

“Impossible to answer,” you laughed outright and ran a hand through your hair. “There's so many that are just so good, I could never pick one.” The smile remained in your lips as you contemplated the movies you'd maybe have chosen, but none of them were better or worse than the next.

“So, you like them? Movies?” he asked, watching your features closely. These last weeks, you'd started exposing more of your emotions to him through free expression more than words, had taken down some of the walls you still had left around him. Though he didn't say it out loud, you could tell he appreciated it, because his eyes studied every change of expression rigorously, as though he'd receive everything you gave to him of yourself with insatiable hunger, though he didn't reciprocate them in the same way.

“Yes,” you replied, fiddling with your quill.

There was a slight furrow of his brows when he locked eyes with you. “But they don't exist in our world. So, you'd give them up?”

“Why would I have to give them up?” you countered and leaned back in your seat. “I think the way we talk about the muggle world and the wizarding world is completely wrong. We talk about them as if they are different universes entirely and not part of the same word, the same country. Look at me!” You performed an awkward motion indicating yourself. “I'm part of both, and I don't feel torn, I feel more complete.”

His eyes flickered between yours as he contemplated your words. In the short silence that followed, you glanced around to make sure no one had taken notice of your little outburst. You hadn't told anyone you were tutoring Mattheo, that you were meeting you-know-who’s son two times a week in one of the more secluded corners of the library. Your friends would freak out if they knew, you could picture their aghast expressions, they wouldn't understand that an irresistible force pulled you towards the boy sitting in front of you. How the tutoring lessons had turned into a game of pretend for you, as you tried to hide your growing fondness for him while opening up parts of yourself for him to see. A fragile balance. And whether intentional or not, you'd seen parts of him you'd never known, or maybe you'd heard them through the tone of his voice or the tapping of his hands.

“There are worlds within worlds,” Mattheo broke the silence, and you frowned. His serious look indicated that he wasn't merely talking about the muggle and the wizarding world. You caught his hands tightening ever so slightly around his book and bit down on your lower lip.

“I’d have to disagree. There are just collectives within collectives. If the limits of different worlds are separating us, we can just make it simple and give each other up.”

You'd made it personal, and you scolded yourself silently, glancing up at the clock despite not really seeing the time. Both you and him knew you had slipped up. When talking about issues slightly more serious than movies or superhero comics, which had amused Mattheo greatly, it was a fine line drawn in the sand neither of you could cross, a silent agreement.

The air felt weirdly tense whenever one of you- more often you than him- threatened to bring up the fact that the unmistakable divide between the two of you went far beyond little house quarrels and teasing. That there was a world behind those protective castle walls both of you drowned out whenever you were in each others presence. The clock showed ten past nine.

“Worried that you're going to break curfew again, princess?” God, how you hated yourself for loving the way he said it, that little nickname that you used to despise, and now it was all his.

“No,” you said, tearing your eyes away from the clock and back to him. Nothing in his sharp features indicated that he recognized the tension that had lingered in the air just moments before, but he was too perceptive of a person to have been unaware. It dawned on you that he was probably trying to make you less uncomfortable and nervously tapped your quill against your lips. Mattheo Riddle being considerate was dangerous, because every time he showed his gentle side, it evoked a hunger in you to see more of it.

“You sure?” he asked, a sly, teasing smile resting comfortably on his soft lips. Only now that you found yourself looking at them closer, you realized there was a cut on them, continuously seeping small drops of blood into the corner of his mouth. You suppressed the sudden and utterly mental urge to lean over and wipe it off with your sleeve. It was not the blood that you minded, though. Maybe his craziness was rubbing off on you, because you abruptly thought that you wouldn't mind having his blood on you. Yep, he was definitely rubbing off.

Then, you realized what you were doing, staring at his lips, and fumbled to answer his question. “We still have enough time until curfew, if we leave in half an hour, we'll still have more than enough time to get back to our dorms.” You realized you were babbling on to avoid his heated stare and looked back at him almost defiantly, daring him to tease you for it.

Mattheo didn't take his eyes off you as the corner of his lips quirked upwards lightly. “Look at you, little miss perfect. I'll bet you’ve never broken a single rule in your life before I came along.”

You shrugged, feigning indifference. “Maybe I don't feel the need to.” The ‘unlike you’ lay on the tip of your tongue, but you didn't need to say it out loud.

Mattheo grinned and shifted in his seat, his knee brushing yours under the table. “You're missing out. Breaking the rules is half the fun. The other half is not getting caught.” He watched you bite your lip, trying to conceal a little smile that threatened to creep onto your face. So, he'd been right, you had enjoyed your more risky encounters. Thinking back to the night in the library when you'd fled from madame pince, he remembered the way your breath had hitched when his hand had touched your neck. The way your soft skin had felt against his rough palms, your doe eyes glittering in the dim light.

Suddenly, there was shuffling in the shelf behind you and you shot around, holding your breath. The place you'd chosen for you tutoring lessons was hidden behind the shelf with the twelfth century economical wizarding records and every single tome in it was layered with a centimeter-thick layer of dust that had allocated there over centuries of disinterest. You'd thought it the perfect hiding spot. But after a few seconds of nervous glancing around and your heart racing as you listened into the silence, one of the school’s cats rounded the shelf and passed by you and Mattheo without a glance.

You breathed a sigh of relief who looked back at Mattheo who was watching you closely. “Dangerous, isn't it? Sitting here with me like this.” He twirled his wand around his fingers and leaned forward subtly, the motion alone making you feel as if he was cornering you against the shelf behind your back. “People would start talking.”

“About what?” you said dismissively and rummaged through your notes, just to have something to do with your hands. This tended to happen once you'd strayed from the topic at hand even slightly. Mattheo starting to tease you out of nowhere, and you struggling to keep up with his quickly changing moods that sometimes threatened to give you whiplash.

Mattheo leaned closer still and propped up his chin on his elbow, still wearing a casual grin. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe about how l've completely corrupted you with my evil charms.”

Your sighed with a mix of exasperation and amusement. Tapping your finger against your chin, you rolled around the words in your head before speaking. “You know I'm not treating this as, I don't know, something forbidden. I'm not scared of, how did you put it last week? Ah, yes, tarnishing my reputation. You're-” you hesitated, but then, your words reached out to him like a welcoming hand through cold and unfeeling fog. “You're not as bad as people think, by a far.”

A dry, almost bitter chuckle fell from his lips as he absentmindedly fiddled with the collar of his blood-stained shirt and bit down on the cut of his lip, drawing drops of red from it that trailed down to his chin without hinderance. This time, you couldn't resist the urge and leaned over the desk, extending a hesitant hand. Mattheo froze, not watching your approaching hand but you, but he didn't recoil either, so you wiped the blood from his chin with the hem of your shirt sleeve. The blood stood out prominently against the white of your shirt.

When you drew back your hand, his shot up like an attacking snake and closed around your wrist. With some sort of morbid fascination, it seemed, he stared at the tiny spot of scarlet, before his eyes snapped back up at you. His tone surprised you, you couldn't really place it, it was a mix of softness and chilling intensity. “You really think there's good in everyone, don't you?” he asked, piercing you with his brown eyes that were so unlike those of his father.

“I try to,” you said, attempting to sound humorous, but the chuckle dried on your lips and your voice swayed to softness as you held his gaze. He didn't have to ask, you could see the question burning in his eyes, so loud as if he'd screamed it. And you didn't even need to nod your head to make him understand that the answer was yes.

The winter holidays came and went. The lesson before departure day, he'd told you he'd stay in Hogwarts over Christmas, and you felt tempted to invite him over to yours for a split second before the cruel claws of reality dug into you and you merely wished him happy holidays.

There was a slight unease in you when you boarded the train, as if something was about to go horribly wrong. But when you arrived after the holidays and left the train alongside Harry, Ron and Hermoine, you spotted his shrouded figure in one corner of Hogsmeade train station, a soft curl of smoke rising from his dark profile. For a split second, you'd locked eyes with him and you couldn't help a smile of relief to see him again.

Because both of your friends started asking questions eventually, you often met up after curfew, though you still hushed around the halls nervously any time you did and earned a great deal of teasing from him for your timidity. From time to time, you managed to break into (you preferred the term sneak into) classrooms at night.

These weeks of sneaking around made you masters of discovering hidden chambers in every corner of the castles, and you were particularly careful and made sure Harry ‘forgot’ the marauders map somewhere in the common room or ‘lost’ it and found it again next morning under his bed. Frequently, you met up in the kitchens and you baked while telling Mattheo all about muggle cellphones, that he understood the concept of surprisingly quickly.

On one occasion, you even demonstrated them to him as you pretended to get lost in the sheer blizzard howling around the houses in Hogsmeade to meet him behind Madam Puddifoots and called your parents, fascinating Mattheo. This night, however, Mattheo had discovered a new room behind the entrance hall. The two of you had cozied up with blankets and candles on the couch, keeping a few inches distance at minimum. The dim candlelight was way too ripe for disaster.

“So, let me get this straight,” Mattheo said an hour and a half into your study session. “Muggles have metal, bird-shaped containers with which they can not only fly, but they actually do it.” You laughed at the incredulity in his voice, though a tad bit distracted by the shape of the record sleeve digging into your back. Because Hogwarts castle only had enchanted record players available, you'd asked your parents to send you one of your vintage vinyls you thought he might like, but you were hesitant, had told yourself that you'd just take it in case there was a record player in the chamber Mattheo had discovered. Well, there was.

“I don't really like planes either,” you said, smiling understandingly, “I even prefer brooms over them and you know how I feel about those.”

He hummed vaguely and glanced over at you. “What's got you so shifty, princess?” A sly grin spread over his features. “You got something hidden behind your back, don't you?” Infuriatingly good at reading you, he was, as ever. With a small sigh, you decided that he'd learned enough about muggle transportation for tonight and pulled the record sleeve out from out of your bag.

“Listen up,” you said, excitement and nervousness coiling in your stomach. “Do you remember when I told you about muggle music?” Though Mattheo had undoubtedly been preoccupied with watching your expression shift with passion and your hands gesticulate, drawing patterns into the air, he nodded. “Okay,” you said, nibbling on your lower lip, and held up the vinyl awkwardly. “I thought I might give you a taste of muggle music, only if you want, of course.”

He could tell you were anxious about playing him the track and raised his brows at your humming and hawing and nervously twitching fingers. “What are you waiting for, princess?” The abashed smile you gave him melted him in ways he'd never be caught admitting out loud.

Sometimes it was quite frightening how you made him feel, and more than once, he'd found himself laying awake at night, not only because of his chronic insomnia and returning nightmares but also torn between the reflexive urge to push away you and how you made him feel so utterly disarmed and vulnerable, and the irresistible desire to see you smile again and let your unconditional kindness wash over him, soothing the dark voices in his head.

By now, you'd walked over to the record player and inserted the vinyl. With a tap of your wand, it started spinning and the sounds of a guitar filled the room. The muggle guitarist played a few chords before starting to sing. When you lowered yourself down on the couch, you didn't bother with putting the usual space between the two of you. No, you seated yourself right beside him, so that he could feel the warmth of your body radiating against his like a hug. As the refrain set in, you put your head on his shoulder.

“And if a double-decker bus

Crashes into us

To die by your side

Is such a heavenly way to die”

Mattheo froze for a moment, his breath caught in his throat as your head gently shifted against his shoulder. The simple, unspoken gesture of affection sent a rush of warmth through him that was both startling and utterly intoxicating. He glanced down at you, his a dark eyes softening as they traced over the curve of your cheek, accentuated by the flickering candlelight, and your lashes resting light as feathers against your skin. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hesitant at first, afraid to disturb the fragile moment. Slowly, very slowly, his hand shifted, fingers brushing against the fabric of the couch before finding their place beside your arm, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of you.

“Take me out tonight

Take me anywhere, I don't care,

I don't care, I don't care”

He felt like one of the mythological figures you'd told him about. Mattheo had scoffed at Icarus' idiocy, but now, he felt like he could understand where he was coming from. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and teasing, betraying none of the blazing storm raging inside him. But even still, it was edged with a sincerity he couldn't quite hide. “Getting comfortable, are we?”

You only shuffled closer in response, but Mattheo had to suppress the urge to pull you in, wrap his arms around you, drag you into his lap for all the pleasure and calm it would give him. He was a selfish creature, but at this moment, he managed to stay perfectly still, safe for his fingers barely brushing over the fabric of your sleeve. Your breathing, having come in small, hasty little puffs before, slowed as you sat in silence, leaning on each other and listening to the lyrics filling up the space in your room you didn't fill with your words, because they would never be sufficient.

“There is a light that never goes out

There is a light that never goes out

There is a light that never goes out”

The song faded into silence and you started to move again. Mattheo hid his disappointment when you stood up from the couch to walk over to the record player. As you put the vinyl back into its sleeve, you turned back to him and for a few seconds, you merely watched each other in silence. Then, Mattheo rose as well and handed you your bag, that you took without looking at it.

Could it be that you felt the same reluctance to leave this room as he did? But you had to, his gaze flickered to the clock. Other than him, you had the chance to get some sleep tonight. So he threw one quick glance around the room, the floating candles, the sleeping portraits, the empty couch, leaned down to your level and pressed the lightest of kisses to your cheek. It was warm and soft under his lips, and he could hear your breath hitch in your throat. Damn little minx you were.

“Good night,” you said, quietly, and he returned your smile before opening the door for you, the feeling of your skin against his still lingering on his lips.

Maybe you both should have known it was going a bit too well. Maybe you'd become too self-assured in your nightly adventures. In any case, neither of you had caught the portrayed woman in the frame above the couch watching you through half-closed eyes, feigning sleep. As you closed the door behind you, she rose from her false slumber with a dirty secret in her hands- and a burning desire to spread it around the castle.

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[tinytownn]

the weight on my shoulders –

pt. i – what would you do for a granola bar? series masterlist

[post-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader]

word count: 3.8k

summary: joel gets caught in trouble, forcing him to flee the boston qz. a few days into his trip, he takes refuge in an abandoned shed where he finds you–scared, starving, and struggling to survive. despite his better judgement, he takes you with him on his journey.

content: violence and brief mentions of death???, pretty much no actual tlou lore except the infected, joel's outbreak day, and jackson (and a little bit of boston??), slow burn??, age gap (27 and 49), no use of y/n

a/n: i'm so excited for this series you guys get the chapter a day early idc!! i won't be putting a lot of warnings so nothing is spoiled, but any major tw will be listed!!

June 26th, 2025 –

The air was thick and humid, each step like sifting through a sea of tar. Making his way through the dense underbrush had proven to be difficult. Branches reached out, lashing Joel’s arms, but the heat made him too hazy to care. Sweat clung his clothes to his skin, his shirt two shades darker from the liquid. 

He was ultimately unprepared and the dry scratchy feeling that followed every staggered breath was a sour reminder of that. The search for any sort of shelter had gone on a couple days now and his hope was wearing thin. Night was closing in and he wasn’t sure if it was distant shadows, pure exhaustion, or a dream that formed the silhouette of a shed in the distance.

Hope surged through his chest, ignoring the ache in his limbs as he powered towards the building. It was an odd spot for a building–the middle of a thick forest that had long surrendered to the ways of nature–but that didn’t stop his legs from moving. He had nothing else to lose.

As he made his way to the entrance, he saw the door had long caved in, the remaining pieces of wooden scrap laid on the ground beneath his feet. Stepping onto the concrete flooring, his boots echoed through the small building. There was a wooden table and three legged chair tossed in the far corner and two bookshelves against the left wall–the rest of the items having succumbed to the hands of time.

Litter rustled underneath his feet–bits of cloth, wrappers, and leaves–while he looked for anything of value. His stomach was tight, relentlessly growling at the hopes of some sort of substance. 

Joel scanned the shelves, mostly empty other than dust bunnies and cobwebs, but a small can at the top of the second shelf caught his eye. It was hard to see, but the faded yellow and red label churned the acid in his stomach.

“C’mere you little shit,” he said, standing on his toes, his fingertips grazed the rusted metal lip. 

He nudged the can, trying to urge it towards him, but his force was too strong and the can fell on its side and began to roll to the ground. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Joel winced, expectantly awaiting the loud clunk of the can on concrete. But the sound never came. Instead, the can rolled off, out of sight, and landed with a soft thud. 

Instinctively, Joel reached an arm out, ready to retrieve the food he was so desperate for, until a low groan reverberated through the shed–bouncing off the walls. The noise was soft, but it had caught him so off guard it rang through his body, stilling every movement.

There was a small gap between the shelf and wall where the can had disappeared to. The corner was void of any light, but the sound assured Joel that something was there. 

His breath caught in his throat, debating if the mysterious can was worth facing whatever was possibly over there. But before he could even decide, the coaxing gurgle of his stomach urged his feet forward. 

His steps were slow, barely lifting his feet from the ground before shuffling them closer to the corner. Typically, he would’ve rushed in, seizing whoever was hiding before they could make any sudden moves–but this wasn’t a typical situation. Joel was weak, hungry, and exhausted from his last two days stranded in the woods. He only had the stained clothes on his back and the broken watch wrapped around his wrist. 

He couldn’t rely on his fists to protect him and he surely didn’t have a weapon, so he kept his movements quiet and steady. He squinted his eyes as they grew more adjusted to the dark. In the corner he could make out a human-like figure–slumped over and unconscious.

A sliver of moonlight slipped through the shattered window on the opposite wall, casting a slight glow on your face. Head hung low, Joel couldn’t tell if you were even alive. Your breaths, if any, were shallow. He couldn’t make out if he saw a gentle rise and fall of your chest through the blood soaked shirt that clung to your stomach. The pieces of skin that peeked through the caked crimson on your arms were pale, and a large, oozing gash dripped blood onto the concrete.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He didn’t know how he couldn’t hear it before, but seeing the reddened, aching muscle pulse made it deafening. 

Tearing his eyes from the bloodbath, he turned his focus back to his original goal. The can.

The stiffness of your body led him to believe you were, at least, unconscious–less trouble for him. A wavering hand reached out, fingertips grazing the lips of the can. When he lifted it however, his heart sank, the can rested in his palm with ease–weightless and empty.

“Goddammit,” he hissed.

Gripping the metal tight in his hands, knuckles turning white, Joel threw the can to the bookshelves. The can screamed out as it hit the wood, followed by the lingering scrape of metal on concrete as it retreated. 

Yet again, a low groan escaped your lips at the sudden noise. You weren’t entirely conscious, but the sound was enough to stir you from whatever daze your pain had you in. 

Joel held his breath as if that would make him disappear from the room. He held still, praying your head wouldn’t lift, like you were even able to, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. In his panicked glance at you however, he caught a glimpse of a tattered, blue plastic peeking out from your shirt pocket.

Another appealing possibility of food pressed another strained gurgle from his stomach. Weighing the possibilities, Joel had a decision to make.

As far as he could see, you weren’t making it out of here, practically dead where you sat. Blood covered most of your body and although your injury wasn’t life threatening, the lack of food, water, and medical supplies would take you out in days. You seemed too weak to even wrap your wound and infection would surely spread soon.

Joel was still able to move–he had made it all the way over here. And if he could get even just a bite of that granola bar it would give him the strength to find some actual shelter and supplies. Give him an actual chance at surviving. Or that’s what he tried to convince himself.

A few hours and Joel probably would had been in the same state as you. Exhaustion had already begun to tear at his resolve, the dry, scratchy feeling at the back of his throat a constant reminder of all the things he didn’t have. But here you lay, food almost out on display like it was fate for him to be here and see this.

It was decided. He needed this more than you did.

He pushed back whatever thoughts crept in to force him to change his mind. The prickling reminder of what had even gotten him here in the first place. How if he did this it would be like all of that didn’t matter and he was out here, stranded, for nothing.

None of that would matter anyways if he was dead though.

So his hand crept into your front pocket–swift and nimble–snatching the granola bar between his fingers, the plastic crinkling under his touch.

Once again, that haunting groan left your lips. This time stronger.

His movements were quick and deliberate, ready to get away from your lifeless body. The end of the world had shook Joel to his core, taking away everything important to him and showing him the darkest parts of this world. There wasn’t much that got to him anymore. But exhaustion and hunger played with his mind, it had been years since he was this weak. The events of the past two days weighed on him heavy, the screams of that girl ringing in his mind, and for just a second he could’ve swore he heard that same scream leave your parted lips.

Joel blinked in disbelief. His mind was playing tricks on him. Your head twitched upwards slightly, your lips moving, but not a sound coming out. 

Finally, through cracked and dried lips, you mustered out a soft, gravelly cry. “No…”

Shocked, Joel stayed crouched in place, as if you wouldn’t see if he stayed still enough. Guilt panged his chest, his hands tightening around the rustling plastic. He couldn’t believe you just spoke to him. 

He stayed silent, waiting for your voice just to prove it wasn’t a trick of the mind.

Then again, your voice pleaded–louder this time. “Please don’t…”

Joel didn’t know what in him had softened. He had grown used to the harsh realities of this new world, prepared to kill any threat needed to get by. But you weren’t a threat. You couldn’t even open your eyes to remember his face and track him down later. 

That didn’t stop his mind from racing…

“Please, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

The frail, broken voice rang out in his ears once again. The voice that hadn’t left his head–waking thoughts and dreams–for the past two excruciating days.

He felt sick to his stomach. The ache was still there, but the mind numbing need for food quickly turned to nausea. 

“Didn’t know you were even alive.” He didn’t know where the words came from–cold and stern–a complete contrast to everything he was feeling inside.

Joints cracked under the pressure of his hands on his knees, pushing himself to his feet. Without looking your way, he tossed the bar back into your lap. A tense silence hung in the air–thick and unpleasant–like if either of you were to say another word the floor would simply crumble to pieces.

Then a movement, strained and slow, caught the corner of Joel’s eye. You raised your head to meet his unwavering gaze. Dirt or blood–he couldn’t tell–smeared the left side of your face, caked and dried onto the skin. Desperation filled your eyes and beneath your lidded stare he could see a glimmer of hope he had lost years ago.

“Please…” you breathed out, voice still hoarse. “Don’t leave me here.”

Joel’s breath hitched.

Your hair clung to your face, eyes still on him, and sweat formed on your brow like the very act of keeping your head up was strenuous. The sight was plain pitiful–but Joel had no pity. You couldn’t survive in this world with pity.

When he had fled two days ago, Joel left with no supplies, no sense of where he was, and a vague destination. Leaving on such short notice, he wasn’t able to get a message through to his brother–his last known whereabouts being somewhere in Wyoming. Without a town or county to go by, Joel wasn’t confident he’d find Tommy, but it was the only plan he had. And if he wanted to give it his best shot, he needed to get there fast. Bringing you along would only slow him down.

He dragged a thoughtful hand over his beard like it would come up with some sort of answer. But all it brought him was more time to take in the scene before him. The torn and bloodied clothes, every surface of your body either scabbed with blood or clammy in sweat, and the pleading look in your eyes–begging him to stay.

He thought of Sarah for a moment.

Just a moment.

He shook his head. Quarantine life had made him partially forget what life was like in the wild, the choices you had to make–and the ones you didn’t get to. 

“Fine,” he spat, already turning his back to you. “But just until you’re back on your feet. I don’t have time for distractions so we go where I say and you do as I say. You hear me?”

You didn’t answer, only hung your head back down, sighing in relief.

Joel’s eyes flicked to the backpack you had hidden behind you, partially relying on it to prop you upright. 

“What’dya got in there?”

He reached for the bag, less careful than before, like you now owed him something. Snatching the backpack from your side, he was shocked at the weight and hurriedly fumbled with the zipper.

“Christ, girl,” he clicked his tongue as vast amounts of medical supplies, food, and clothes that spilled onto the floor. “Who the fuck did you piss off and steal from?”

Your head snapped, a sudden intensity in your eyes. “S’all mine. I didn’t steal from no one.”

He turned to you, brow raised. “Then what the hell’s the mat– Shit! You’re not infected are ya?”

Before the words even left his lips he was already backing away, bag clutched under his arm. 

“Does it look– Fuck!” The fabric clung to your wound had ripped off at the sudden movement, a wail of pain leaving your lips. “Some motherfucker stabbed me. I sprained my ankle trying to get away.”

Limply flailing your leg out in front of him, Joel could very clearly see even under the dim moonlight that your ankle was red and swollen. It looked painful to the touch and certainly untreated, you hissed the moment his fingers grazed the skin.

“Careful!”

Instinctively, you pulled back, but Joel certainly didn’t have the patience for this. He bit the inside of his cheek, giving you a moment to brace yourself while he gathered the necessary supplies from the bag–an old, ratty sliver of a towel and rolls of bandages. 

He reached out, grabbing your calf firm and purposefully, his calloused fingers digging into the skin. You wriggled in his grip, trying to escape the searing pain that came with his less than delicate touch. Your skin felt like it was a roaring campfire and every sense of pressure from Joel were like drops of water making you squelch and squirm.

Other than the occasional “Be still” or “Quit movin’”, Joel had stayed silent. Knotted brow, he focused intently on the swelling, securely fastening the bandage to stabilize the injury. 

Lifting your ankle slightly, tilting it so he could view it in the moonlight, he inspected his work. Satisfied with the wrappings, he pulled away, and you could feel relief wash over you now that your ankle had some sort of compression.

Curling his finger, he motioned you towards him with one swift, silent motion. You don’t know why or how, but you lifted your body, feeling almost weightless as if he was lifting you himself. By the time he had started working on the cut to your arm, you had succumbed to the pain, dwelling in the more warm and comforting aspects of his touch.

You didn’t know how long you were in there for, huddled into the dark corner, but each passing moment felt like your last. Each exhale was met with the lingering fear that maybe there would be no air to breathe in, that your heart, stuttering and frail, would no longer have the strength to beat. So when the bleeding stopped and the scorching pain finally subsided into a dull ache underneath the tenderly placed cloth, you found a brief solace within the moment. 

“Thank you,” you croaked out between harsh breaths.

Lips stretched thin, he nodded. “Don’t mention it.”

The day had been tiring for you, a bitter taste of distrust and betrayal left in your mouth. When the can had thudded into your lap, startling you awake, you were sure you were dead where you sat. It was obvious the man needed food, and in this state of the world people would do anything for just half of what you had stashed in your bag. His kindness was worth more than just mentioning.

But you stayed silent and relished in the moment.

It had been so long since someone had cared for you, dressed your wounds–and although his touch was harsh, it still felt nice to be cared for.

With a grunt, he placed his worn hands to the concrete, positioning himself away from you once he was done. 

“Should be good for a few days,” he threw the bandages back in the back, rummaging through for something. “You’ll have to rebandage it then.”

You nodded.

Silence fell over the room again, both of you too exhausted to speak. Metal quietly tinked against the zipper of the bag as Joel pulled out the canteen. He didn’t even shoot a glance your way before wrapping his lips around the opening, greedily gulping down the water. 

You watched the gruff stranger as he ate, ripping open a can of beans and tossing his head back. His face looked tired–dark circles encompassed his weary hazel eyes, his jaw was tight and movements sluggish. Relief washed over his face the second food touched his tongue, even though you knew the food that had been boiling within the depths of your bag in the summer heat couldn’t have tasted that great.

“What’s your name?” you finally asked, growing tired of the distanced silence.

His shoulders stiffened. He was busy in taking count of the supplies you had, clipping the sheathed hunting knife to his jeans, and your voice had taken him by surprise. He had left the half emptied canteen next to you, a silent offer that you graciously took, and your voice had regained a shocking amount of strength.

“Joel,” he said flatly, his eyes only meeting yours for a moment.

You nodded, whispering your name to him in response. It pained you to hear him repeat the words softly under his breath, a practice you had heard throughout the countless introductions this world brought you. You couldn’t help but wonder how long until he forgot your name too.

The night dragged on slowly. Both of you had found your respective places on the floor, using spare clothing and scrap towels as a makeshift pillow. 

Sleep didn’t come easy despite your exhaustion. You lay huddled in the same corner as before, a lingering distrust bubbling in your chest. Sure Joel had tended to your wounds, but he was still a stranger, a man–a strong one at that. 

Each time you closed your eyes, you pictured his figure looming above you–broad shoulders, threatening stare, and balled fists, ready for conflict. You tried to brush off the feeling, but this world had taught you that would be the very thing to lead to your demise. So you laid there, eyes focused on the rotting ceiling tiles. 

Occasionally, Joel would snore or stir peacefully in his sleep and your eyes would quickly snap to him as if he were a dangerous predator. But each time you were met with his unusually softened face, brow unfurrowed and jaw slack, sputtering out breathy snores. 

Exhaustion had caught up to you at some point in the night, swift and dangerous, pulling you into a deep sleep until the bright morning sun crept onto your face. You felt the stiffness in your back from sleeping on the concrete all night and the throbbing in your ankle reminded you of your injuries.

The memories of the night came flooding in, knocking down whatever dam kept the events at bay. Fear crept its way into your mind, frantically looking around for Joel and your belongings you so foolishly let him keep hold of. 

He was nowhere in sight.

“That son of a bitch!” 

Using the bookshelf, you pressed your palm to the dusty shelf and anchored your weight onto it. The rickety wood creaked under the pressure, but you were sure it would support you.

Snap!

The shelf, rotted and worn with time, caved in on itself, splitting in two. Before you could even react, concrete slammed against your ribs, head colliding to the ground with a thud. You yelped both in pain and shock, but thankful you hadn’t fallen on your arm.

The makeshift door–a long tattered and torn sheet Joel had draped over the entrance–swished to the side and heavy footsteps rushed in. 

Your heart pounded–more than it already was–the rhythmic thrumming accompanied by a deafeaning shrill. Breath still caught in your throat, lungs thrashing in its cage, you used every last bit of strength to face the intruder.

It was just Joel–and your backpack slung over his shoulder.

“What the hell are ya doin’, kid?” He snarled in a harsh whisper. “You tryin’ to get us killed?”

His demeanor had changed from yesterday. He shook with an undeniable rage and his jaw was so tense you thought it might snap. He lunged towards you, grabbing firmly at your arms, fingernails digging into the skin regardless of the blood that seeped beneath them.  

Darkness encapsulated your vision, the concrete cool against your skin as he dragged you to the deepest part of the corner. Holding you tight against his chest you could hear both your hearts beating opposite each other–his beating just as rapidly as yours.

“There’s noth-”

A hand, rough and calloused, slapped over your mouth. His nails dug into the angle of your mandible, clamping your jaw shut with a painful sting. The smell of lingering cigarette smoke stuck between his fingers and drifted its way into your nostrils each time you tried to bite out a word.

Minutes of pure silence passed, the only noise coming from your original protests and the crunching of leaves under wildlife. It was only until you felt Joel’s pulse return to a regular pace that he stirred, lifting his hand from your mouth.

“Those little friends of yours,” he grumbled, voice gravelly and unsure. “They’re still lookin’ for ya.”

You scratched at your jaw where you could feel the impressions of his fingernails. Quickly, you distanced yourself from Joel. A palpable anger radiated off of him and the displays of his strength were just making way.

“What are you talking about?” you spat, growing defensive.

He crossed his arms, eyes not once leaving yours. “Two men came up to me, askin’ for you.”

“How’d you know it was them?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “They could be asking for anybody.”

Joel was quick to bite back. “They used your name. Said you stole from them and ran off.” 

You stiffened. The distance was once again closing in.

They were still alive?

“Listen,” he said, grasping the straps around his shoulders. “I’m gonna need to start hearin’ the damn truth. Right now.”

It was your turn to furrow your brow, shooting him a menacing glare. “I told you I didn’t steal anything. They were trying to steal from me. And you don’t seem too hesitant to have a grab at my stuff either.”

Joel stood unmoving, his lips drawn tight, eyes surveying you while he pondered your sincerity. 

Slowly, he nodded. Brushing past you without a word, he started towards the window.

“We’ll leave at night. Can’t risk them seein’ you.”

Biting your lip, your gaze fell to your shoes. All your weight was being pushed on your good leg and still pain surged throughout your entire body. You weren’t sure how much distance you were going to be able to make.

“Where are we going?” You eventually asked.

“Wyoming.”

a special thanks to my taglist ♡ @anoverwhelmingdin @lowrisemiller @iamawkwardandshy (message me to be added or removed)

[dameronspector]

Philophobia (Part 12)

Pairings: Joaquin Torres x Stark!Reader, Sam Wilson x Platonic!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Platonic!Reader

Chapter Summary: You have a nasty nightmare and your knight in shining armour saves you. Joaquin is perfect for you. You’re two fools in love. You are so proud of Joaquin and you’re perfect for each other. You allow yourself to he vulnerable and loved on.

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, FLUFF. SO MUCH FLUFF, Confessions, Revisiting Past, Mentions of Depression and Phobias, Panic Attacks, Sleep Paralysis, Nightmare, Reader has PTSD, Reader is guilt ridden (they’re basically a younger version of Tony ☹️), Injuries, A lil miscommunication between the love birds, Joaquin loves Reader so much, Kissing, Joaquin is whipped, Nicknames, that’s all I think!

AN: my favourite chapter I’ve ever written for this series im serious.

You opened your eyes to a dark, dreary place.

It looked like a mine shaft, or something. You weren’t sure. All you knew, was that you could smell the perspiration and damp air, a faint sound of water dripping in the distance, a bitter cold permeating your bones, the sound of wind howling and that there were loud clangs.

As if metal was colliding with metal. A mix of groans and shouts accompanied those sounds, 3 adult voices overlapping in anger and frustration.

Groaning, you sat up and looked around the place, trying to decipher where you were. You didn’t have your suit or any weapon either, so your best bet was to be as discreet as possible.

The place was filled with tanks, pipes, huge machines, which all looked abandoned and out of use.

There was still that persistent chaos in the distant, loud noises echoing through the empty place, and you decided to check it out yourself.

You followed the sounds to a room that was so cold, you had to put your hands underneath your armpits to warm yourself.

There was something odd familiar about the scene. Like you’d seen this before. Like it has happened before.

As you rounded the corner, your eyes fell on the three figures aggressively fighting each other, with the snowy mountains in the backdrop that were visible through large hole in the wall, snowflakes drifting in due to the gaping.

The glint of a red and golden armour. The clang of a metallic shield that was painted in the classic red, white and royal blue colours. A flash of a shiny metallic arm, painted with a red star on the bicep.

You let out a loud gasp.

It was your dad, Steve and Bucky fighting.

The footage from the Siberian Hydra Base, that you saw 6 years ago. The one where they almost killed each other.

“No…no! Stop!”, you called out, trying to run towards them but your legs felt like cement, firmly rooted to your place.

And at the same moment, Steve striked Tony, slamming the shield against his arc reactor and you let out a cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you helplessly called out for him to stop.

“No! Stop it, please. All of you, stop it!”, you raised your hands to cover your ears to close off the sounds.

They didn’t hear you.

“(Name)”

Steve kept hitting Tony.

“Steve, Stop!”

“(Name)!”

Tony blasted Bucky’s arm off.

“No! Dad—I’m sorry, Buck, I’m-”

“(NAME)!”

You snapped your eyes open, breath coming out in harsh gasps.

Gone was the hydra base. Gone were the three men fighting to death in front of you. Gone was the biting cold.

Instead, warmth. Soft bed sheets. A toasty, cosy room and the comforting scent of citrus hit your nose.

Joaquin’s beautiful and worried face hovered above you, his gentle hands were resting on your shoulders and his eyes fluttered across your face in concern, pink lips tugged into a frown.

You blinked your eyes quickly to get rid of the daze and tears, looking up at Joaquin and around the room in confusion.

Was that a nightmare or sleep paralysis?

Joaquin’s warm hand came up to rest on your heated cheek, thumb brushing away stray tears.

“Hey, it’s okay. I got you, sweetheart”, he murmured softly, eyes tracking your every move.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, slowly grounding yourself by grasping his wrist tightly.

“I-I need to-”, you rasped, moving to sit up as Joaquin’s hand slid from your cheek to support your back instead, helping you settle against the head board.

You inhaled deeply and buried your head in your hands, digging the heels of them in your eyes to get rid of the nightmare that still clinged to you. The sounds of their screams, their metals, the howling of the wind, rung in your ears like a bell.

Cringing at how you’d embarrassed yourself in front of him again, you began apologising to Joaquin.

“Sorry. For this crap again, I’m-”

“What? No. Why are you apologising?”, he cut you off, hands resting on your knee in support, his voice pitched high in an incredulous tone. Like you’d personally offended him.

“I keep piling this on you…the constant panic attacks and shit. You don’t—you don’t have to look after me, Joaquin. I’m sorry, I keep putting you in such situations where you have to basically babysit me like- like I’m a fucking child”, you groaned, your voice muffled in your palms.

Joaquin frowned. How can you talk about yourself like this? Like you’re some burden?

“Can you please look at me?”, he quietly asked, wrapping a careful hand around your wrist.

“No.”

He sighed and shuffled closer to you, pressing his knees to yours and he crowded your space and gently tugged at your hands.

“Angel, come on”, he pleaded.

You paused. There was that nickname, again. And that got your attention enough to look up at him. He grinned softly.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”, you grumbled.

He blushed. His whole face turned a bright shade of red.

You smiled crookedly.

You were so close, that if any one of you moved even an inch, your lips would meet.

“Uh-don’t change the topic. Listen to me first”, he chided, albeit nervously, coughing at the end of his sentence before holding your hands in his, placing them on his thigh.

“I’m- I don’t ‘babysit’ you. I stay with you, willingly, because I care for you. Because I want to look after you. Because I-”, he licked his lips in nervousness, eyes focusing on your joined hands, thumbs caressing the back of yours.

“Because I hate seeing you in pain. If I could, I would take away all your pain, and shoulder it all on me.”

You stared at him, perplexed.

How can he just randomly say such deep and heart warming things out of nowhere? He surprised you everyday with his sensitivity and empathy.

He looked up and saw that your eyes were tearing up, again.

“Wait-wait wait, did I say something wrong? I’m sorry”, he sputtered, leaving a hand to wipe your tears away.

You let out a wet giggle and sniffled, Joaquin pausing in his movements and staring at you with wide eyes, drinking in how beautiful you looked, even with tears wetting your face and the low light of the room making it glow. That’s exactly why he called you ‘angel.’

If Sam or Bucky were here, they would’ve teased him for having actual heart eyes.

“No, you dumbass. You’re just-”, you sighed, looking at him with a smile stretching on your lips.

“You’re really cute, Torres.”

Joaquin’s mouth parted before he giggled, ducking his head shyly.

“Thank you. For everything”, you breathed out, hesitant hands squeezing his sure ones.

He looked up, a sweet smile lightening up his face, the moles around his mouth and cheeks raising up like checkpoints for you to trace.

“There’s a little somethin’…”, he suddenly pointed at his cheeks, signalling you about the same.

You frowned, “What? Where?”, raising a hand to wipe whatever was on your face, turning your head to the side.

Joaquin smirked at having successfully distracted you, before taking the opportunity to dive in and press a lingering kiss to your cheek.

You squealed as his lips puckered against your skin and departed with a loud smack.

“What was that for?!”, you whispered in surprise.

Joaquin simply shrugged and tugged you closer, your head tucked in the space between his neck and shoulder, a huge sigh leaving your mouth.

His arms embraced you oh so sweetly, the warmth of them almost lulling you back to sleep. He laid his cheek by your hairline, slowly rocking you back and forth.

It was quiet for a while, your breath hitting his collarbones in a warm kiss, his steady breathing and arms acting as a balm for the terror you’d experienced when you suddenly remembered about the new accessory he was wearing.

“You wear those glasses for fashion purposes or you actually need them?”, you murmured against his throat.

He froze, breath hitching for a moment.

“They’re prescribed”, he grumbled like a child, his lips brushing against your skin.

You snorted quietly, “What was that about?”

He stayed silent. You furrowed your brows and pulled away from him slightly, lifting your head to look at the pout on his face.

“Alright, who stole your candy?”, you teased, his hands splayed on your back, yours fisting in his shirt.

He whined. He actually whined like a petulant toddler.

“‘Cause they look stupid. I look like I should be in a chemistry lab instead of the Air Force.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting out in giggles.

“You—stop laughing! That’s not funny, they make me look like a fuckin’ nerd and I can’t not wear them, because I can’t see without them”, he groaned, poking your stomach lightly.

You only giggled louder.

“Oh, come on!”, he grumbled and lightly pushed you away, careful not to be too rough.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”, you held his hands by his firm chest, looking up at his pretty, spectacled face intensely, a sliver of smile still lingering on your lips. He furrowed his brows, a crease appearing in between them.

“You’re an idiot, because they only make you look prettier, Quino.”

It was comical how quickly his expression changed, making him look like a deer in headlights, his brown eyes blown wide like a newborn fawn, the glasses only enhancing their beauty.

It should’ve been a crime how gorgeous Joaquin Torres was, because he was ruining your life.

That familiar pink dust took over Joaquin’s face again, his heart racing against your interlaced hands on his chest as his eyes fluttered across your face.

He was slowly leaning in, your breathing faster as you half shut your eyes in anticipation and the moment was broken by the loud sound of his phone, the two of you jumping apart, your faces heating up.

“I uh—I’ve to take- must be Sam-”, he stuttered, reluctantly releasing your hands.

You pursed your lips and nodded, clearing your throat, “Yeah-yeah, of course.”

Joaquin nodded tersely before walking back to the couch, answering his phone right away.

“Hey, Sam. What’s up…—-Yeah, sure.

You guys alright?

Okay, that’s good.

Will bring some first aid—Yep. See you. Bye.”

You looked at Joaquin expectantly after he ended the call.

“They’re asking us to meet at that GRC camp in 15, with some first aid. They…got into an altercation with Walker. Sam said they’ll share the rest when we get there”, he sighed.

You nodded in understanding.

“I’ll freshen up till then, hope that’s okay?”, you asked while getting off the bed.

“Of course, please. I’ll pack the supplies. Take your time, angel”, he softly replied, the slip up going unnoticed by him.

You blushed and nodded hastily, rushing into the bathroom with a change of clothes.

-

So, in the 15 minutes spent inside the bathroom, you’d changed in a comfortable pair of trousers and a sleeveless shirt, your dad’s leather jacket layered on top and outside the bathroom, Joaquin had received a call from his team leader that he’d have to go back on a mission with them. And he’d have to go back tonight itself.

Joaquin was a hardworking man. And he was disciplined, even if he didn’t look like it at times. He made sure he fulfilled all of his duties promptly and perfectly. Be it working for Sam or doing his job as a soldier, he wasn’t someone who slacked for no reason.

But, the thought of leaving you behind, especially after the nightmare you’d had today, was making an ache spread across his chest and lungs, capturing over his heart fully.

He’d seen the way your body had seized up before erupting in tremors, and the sobs, oh god, the painful sobs that left your mouth, they were unbearable to witness for him.

All he wanted to do, was keep you close to him. Your funny and witty quips, your attempts at hiding your blush away from him, your sweet smile and contagious laughter, yojr strength and courage—you had him completely. And he wasn’t sure he could handle leaving you behind while you suffered alone.

His throat hurt with a truth that he’s known for a long time.

He loved you. So much.

He wasn’t sure, how to break the news to you, because he would have wear his army uniform and you’d know, right away.

“Joaquin?”

And there you were. Looking as radiant as ever, your sharp eyes observing his tensed body language closely.

He almost smiled in adoration. You were too intelligent and observant to be lied to. And he was too gone for you to be able to lie to you without fumbling.

You quirked an eyebrow.

“Are you okay?”

There it was.

You slowly made your way over to him, standing right in front of him as he kept staring at you the whole time.

“Yeah, why?”, he asked casually.

“Dunno. You’re all tense and stuff. And you’re rubbing your fingers against each other so, you either did something stupid or you wanna say something”, you shrugged.

He chuckled in disbelief at your observation of him, “Are you that obsessed with me?”

You glared at him half heartedly, “Oh, you’re soooo funny. Just say it, flyboy.”

Joaquin’s smile disappeared, a sad little look taking over his face, lips tugged into a frown and eyes flickering across the room, avoiding your gaze at all costs.

“I uh—I’ve to go.”

You blinked, “You have to go? Where?”

He cleared his throat, putting his hands on his hips and staring at his feet, “They’ve called me in for a mission.”

It was your turn to frown, as you still couldn’t catch on, “Who? Sam?”

Joaquin let out a humourless chuckle, before finally meeting your eyes.

“No, angel. My team leader has called me in. I gotta go to DC. Got a meeting there, and then a mission in Dubai.”

You paused, your heart falling into a pit as you took the information in.

“…When are you leaving?”, you asked hesitantly.

He sighed, a hand dragging down his face, “Tonight. Don’t know when I’ll return.”

“Oh”, you whispered, a hand coming up to massage the inside of your wrist where you could feel your heart beat, eyes darting across the room in unease.

“Yeah”, he said quietly, glossy eyes looking at you in adoration and longing, body coiled tightly in tension and anticipation.

You swallowed, tightening your hand around your wrist before exhaling gently.

“Well, good luck, Jay”, you tried to give him a smile. It came off as jagged and fake.

Joaquin frowned, his heart stuttering to a halt in his rib cage. Had he read it wrong? Did you not feel as deeply for him, as he did for you? Did you not feel like your heart was going to explode in pain from the thought of separating with each other, like his own heart did?

No. That can’t be it. You’d never play with someone’s feelings like this.

“You-you’ll be okay?”, his voice fragile with worry, hands twitching to bring you close to him.

You sniffled before looking up at him, expression schooled into a calm and relaxed look, years of PR training making it easier for you to slip back into that persona.

As if this didn’t just break your heart. As if your body wasn’t having a weird reaction to separating from him for god knows how long.

“Always”, and you flashed him that classic ‘I’m-actually-not-okay-but-I-have-to-act-like-it-so-that-I-don’t-freak-out’ smile.

Thanks for the acting skills, dad, you thought.

Joaquin blinked in surprise, pursing his lips as he nodded tersely to dissipate the awkwardness, “Yeah-yeah. Cool. That’s great”, he gave you a tight lipped smile.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence before you decided to speak up.

“We should leave. They’re probably injured, so..”, you trailed off.

“Yes. Uh-let’s leave”, he agreed, hands busying themselves with picking up the first aid and his bags.

You pursed your lips and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there, staring at your retrieving figure longingly. The same dejecting thoughts choking him: Had he just messed this up? Did he read it all wrong? He wasn’t that naïve, right?

He desperately hoped he wasn’t because he wouldn’t survive the heartbreak, at all.

-

As soon as you entered the camp, your eyes fell on Bucky and Sam’s bruised faces. Bucky’s were already healing a bit, all thanks to his serum. Sam’s face was still covered in blue and purple splotches, a slight limp in his walk.

“What the hell happened?”, you announced as you made your way to them, Joaquin lingering by a police officer as he assessed the situation.

Sam and Bucky exchanged looks.

“Well, we beat Walker’s ass and then he proceeded to beat ours, so”, Bucky deadpanned in that bored tone of his.

Sam clicked his tongue in annoyance, “Man, come on.”

You narrowed your eyes at Bucky, “I know that, smartass. Why did you do that, is what I’m asking.”

“We tried talking him down. He’s gone insane. Didn’t listen to a word and just started throwin’ hands”, Sam sighed.

You clenched your jaw, “Someone needs to get that loser arrested.”

Sam scoffed, Bucky shook his head.

“Well, what about Karli?”, you prodded.

“The GRC is conducting raids to try and find Karli, but so far they’ve only found her followers. They’ve searched this camp, and just like the last camp, nothing. She’s gone. We’ll never find her”, Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Joaquin walked over, standing next to you before pointing at Bucky.

“Hey, you got your sleeve back. Are you off to take care of Zemo?”

You snorted. Joaquin felt his heart lurch at that.

Bucky didn’t find that funny, so he just walked away, irritated.

“All right, good to know you survived”, Joaquin quipped, watching Bucky walk away.

Sam sighed.

“Don’t mind him”, you consoled Joaquin and squeezed his arm. Joaquin stared at you in yearning.

“What’s our next steps, Torres?”, Sam asked, dropping a bag by the table.

Joaquin shrugged, “Captain America killing a foreign national in public, it’s kinda like a big deal. Like international incident big. Folks, uh, higher up on the payroll are all over it now. So, unfortunately… they’re taking jurisdiction”, he was relaying all the information like a computer, his eyes trained on the bag that Sam had dropped, circling it slowly.

“Yeah”, Sam rasped, leaning back against the table.

You kept your eyes on Joaquin, taking in his curious movements.

He picked up the bag, “What happened to these?”, muttering in concern before setting the bag on top of the table opposite you, the bag opening to display Sam’s falcon wings.

They’d broken down. Again.

You furrowed your brows in concern, walking over to stand by Joaquin, “Oh, they need a complete do-over”, you mumbled absently.

Sam watched you two fuss over the wings in amusement. Both of you had the same expression on your faces.

“So is there anything we can do?”, he asked Joaquin.

“Not really. As you can see, they’ve cordoned off the whole camp, and Karli’s a ghost. After what went down, she is laying extra low. Like, under-underground”, Joaquin pursed his lips in thought before continuing.

Sam shook his head, “And that’s why it makes sense for us to get involved. The longer we let her regroup, the harder it’s gonna be to find her. She’s got people helping her from all over the world, on all platforms.”

Joaquin pursed his lips, “She’s really, really good at this thing.”

“Yeah”, Sam agreed.

You stood there, zoned out, because you were too busy admiring how good he looked in that uniform. The only man to do so.

The conversation you’d had sometime ago was still fresh, and a strange limbo had set over you two. One where there were awkward silences and a thick tension, but your quips and jokes didn’t end.

Joaquin turned his attention back to the wings, “How’d these break?”

His concern for the wings was absolutely adorable, making a tiny smile break out on your face as Sam caught his fixation with the wings, too, and he merely sighed in exhaustion.

And then, he decided to say something in that low, laid back voice of his, that made you feel like you should’ve kissed him stupid when you had the chance to.

“Anyway, all we can do now is sit tight and just chill. Sometimes, there’s nothing to do until there’s something to do.”

You stared at him wide eyed, your expression softened with fondness for this man.

Sam caught that, a knowing smirk stretching across his lips.

“That’s bizarrely wise”, he teased Joaquin, who let out a bashful laugh, his bright teeth fully on display, brown eyes shining like warm pools of honey and cheeks sweetly swollen.

“Well, I’m a bizarrely wise man, Sam.”

You were gone for.

Your heart did a back flip, stomach erupted in butterflies, your chest overflowing with a sudden wave of admiration, happiness and—

Love.

The thought was so overwhelming, that you weren’t sure if you wanted to cry, scream or laugh. Maybe all three.

Was it the impending separation? Or was this just an amalgamation of all the suppressed emotions and feelings you’d been harbouring against him ever since you met him?

“Yeah, all right”, Sam joined in the chuckles before patting Joaquin on the back.

“Thanks, Torres.”

Joaquin grinned, “For sure.”

“(Name)?”

You jumped as Sam’s voice snapped you out of your daydreaming, Joaquin looking over to you in worry.

“Yeah?”, you cleared your throat.

Sam gave you a look.

“Say your goodbyes and come find me”, he suggested, a hand resting over your shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous, as if he knew what was happening.

You nodded fervently, “Yep. I will.”

Sam gave you a smile and walked away, before Joaquin called him back, “Wait, yo, you forgot the wings.”

Sam paused, looking at you and Joaquin before grinning like a cheshire cat.

Your heart raced against your chest.

“Keep ’em”, Sam announced before walking away, leaving behind an awe-struck Joaquin and an ecstatic you.

Because what do you mean, two of the most important men in your life were finally ready to own who they’re meant to be?

You couldn’t stop the huge smile from splitting your face, turning around to watch as Joaquin ran his hands across the wings, the motion so delicate, so full of admiration and respect, that it made your eyes brim with tears.

The conversation you’d had with him in Berlin and back at Sam’s apartment, still ringing in your ears. How fondly he’d spoke of wanting to be like Sam, how he wanted to fly and be as free as Sam was. How he wants to help the underdogs.

Your lungs expanded with pride and love, so much love, for this ambitious, determined, kind and beautiful man.

You nudged him with your shoulder, bringing his attention to you.

“You’ve got tough competition in the skies, bird boy. You better pull up your socks”, you joked, your voice a little shaky.

His glassy eyes narrowed, before he laughed in realisation, nudging you back gently.

“I’ve got a good instructor”, he teased back, the air around you sticky with lightness and warmth, while you bit the inside of your cheek to keep the huge smile from breaking out.

-

The warmth didn’t last long, as it was soon the time for goodbye.

Maybe you were being dramatic. But you’d wanted him to be with you, instead of going off in some other country where you had no ways to check on him, unless he got the clearance to.

The dull ache in your chest returned, blooming across your entire body as you got closer and closer to the door of the camp, where he’d be picked up by a military issued escort.

He wasn’t doing any better, his hands were constantly fidgeting with the straps of his bags, eyes darting around the place like a ping pong ball bouncing off a table, his shoulders brushing with yours every now and then.

The tension was thick. One of you had to say something before any of you did something stupid.

“So, that’s me”, he murmured as the two of you neared the main entrance.

You gave him a tight lipped smile, “Yeah. I-Take care, Joaquin.”

Joaquin stared at you, “Yeah, I will.”

You turned your head to the side to avoid looking at him.

He cleared his throat, “No hugs for me?”, he joked, voice lilting with hope.

You hesitated.

He took it in the wrong way. Shaking his head in dejection, he began walking towards the car when you suddenly grabbed his wrist, the one holding the wings.

He whipped his head around to look at you.

“Wait. I’m—It’s not-”, your voice wavered. You took a minute to breathe before continuing, hand still holding his wrist, thumb pressed again his racing heart beat.

His mouth fell open. You pursed your lips, closing your eyes in an attempt to gather your thoughts.

“Okay. I’m not-I’m not good at this. Expressing my feelings, I mean. But I’m gonna try. For you. Because if I don’t say it now, I won’t ever. Can I?”, you let out in a breath, eyes wide with request.

Joaquin was stunned, but he managed to give you a nod, eyebrows creased in anticipation and confusion, both.

You released his hand, putting them in the pockets of your jacket instead for comfort.

“Well. You—everything that you’ve done for me so far, it’s meant a lot to me, Joaquin. I-I don’t know what I did to deserve your kindness, when I’ve been nothing but off putting since we met but, I appreciate it a lot.”

Joaquin tensed. This was the moment where you tell him that you only see him as a friend. As a shoulder to cry on. And that he’d been way too clingy.

You continued, eyes trained at your shoes, “And um-you’ve become very special to me”, your voice cracked at ‘special’.

Joaquin’s heart thundered.

“I just want you to know that I-uh…I like you. A lot. More than I should or deserve.”

Joaquin was dead, he was sure. He was imagining it, right?. There’s no way you returned his feelings, right? He couldn’t even move if he wanted to.

“I understand if-if you don’t wanna pursue this further but-I just-”

“Stop”, he blurted out abruptly.

You jumped, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Sorry, sorry-I just-stop. Please. Give me a second-” he sputtered, dropping the bags on the floor with a dull thud, hands coming up to rest on your face.

You stared at him in shock, glossy eyes wide and mouth agape, hands resting on his elbows to steady yourself.

“Okay, first of all. Don’t talk about yourself like that, angel, please”, he murmured, face set into a deep frown as if the mere thought of someone bad mouthing you hurt him.

Your lips twitched.

“And, ‘if I don’t wanna pursue this’? I’ve been waiting for you to say this, are you serious? Like, I’d made my peace with the fact that you might not like me back, and I was ready to wait for you, even then. (Name)-”, he broke out in a fit of disbelieving giggles, his eyes shining with earnestness and adoration, hands bringing your face closer to his.

“What?”, you blurted out, heart stopping momentarily, hands coming up to grasp his wrists.

“You’re a beautiful, beautiful fool. But you’re my beautiful fool”, he breathed out, his brown eyes never leaving your face for even a second, thumbs smoothing out the skin beneath your eyes, while your bottom lip wobbled a bit.

Then he continued with a shaky voice.

“I like you, too. So much”, you felt your eyes brim with tears.

“It’s kinda funny, because Sam and Bucky have been on my ass to ask you out since forever. In fact, Sam was personally steering the ship to get us to start dating”, he chuckled towards the end of it.

You scrunched your nose and grumbled, “Oh, I know, those two have been very nosy lately.”

Joaquin smiled, eyes twinkling with joy.

You looked at him shyly, brushing away a stray curl from his forehead before brushing your hand through the buzzed side of his hair, tangling it into the curls after.

He leaned into it like a cat asking for more pets.

“I just—”

You couldn’t finish your sentence further, because Joaquin put a hand on the nape of your neck and pushed you closer, smashing his lips onto yours and drawing out a squeal from you.

His other hand wrapped around your waist, bringing you impossibly closer to his chest, the hand on your neck warm and steady, him dipping you a little to kiss you deeper, nose smushed against yours.

Your hand fully disappeared into the curls at the back of his head, nails scratching at his scalp, which drew a content hum from him, your other hand fisting his shirt at the chest.

He was, basically, devouring you, but in a gentle and loving way that only Joaquin was capable of. His soft, plush lips massaging yours with equal parts tenderness and fervour. At one point he swiped his tongue on your bottom lip, swallowing the quiet moan that escaped your mouth before you two had to separate for air.

Both of you were breathless, foreheads leaning against each other, your eyes still closed as if you were trying to commit this moment to memory.

Joaquin nudged your nose with his, a hand curling behind your ear to keep you there.

Your chin quivered as the situation loomed over you again, bringing a shaky hand up to cup his jaw tenderly, pulling away slightly to see his face better, he had a dopey expression on his face, drunk on your lips and devotion for you, his cheeks were splotched in that familiar pink colour again.

“You can’t say all that, and kiss me like that, just to run away in the next few minutes”, you teased in a wobbly voice.

His face fell, eyebrows creasing tightly as if your words had physically harmed him. Eyes wide and heart beating faster than ever, he started rambling away, hands cradling your face back in his palms.

“Wait, no no no. I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t request to be on this mission or anything, I swear, all I wanna do is be next to you but, you know how it is, I can’t say no because—”

You cut him off with a firm kiss to his lips, shutting him up effectively, as he returned it gently.

“I know, Quino. I get it. I just…I’m just gonna miss you, is all”, you circled your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in the curls at his nape, keeping your gaze trained at his collarbones to avoid eye contact.

A gentle hand raised your head back up, brown pools of honey looking into your glassy ones with full attention.

“I know. Me too, angel. I’ll miss you so much, I’m gonna lose my mind. But I’ll be back before you know it, I swear. I’ll try to contact you as much as I can, hm? Is that okay with you?”, his low, slightly scratchy voice mumbled, thumb running back and forth on your jawline.

Swallowing your tears and sudden neediness, you nodded, pushing forward to press a lingering kiss to his heated cheek, and he leaned into it, keeping you there with his strong arms going around your waist.

He was dangerous, because he was turning you into a pile of mush, a part of yours that had been dormant for a while now. But he made you feel safe, your body automatically craving for his warmth and soft embrace, as if it was a balm for all of your troubles and pains.

And you weren’t going to fight it.

The last time you had missed out on saying things, it’s cost you three of your family members and a person you loved dearly. You’re not missing out on the chance to freely love this amazing man in front of you.

“Come back to me soon, bird boy. I’ll be waiting”, you whispered against his ear, pulling him in for a tight hug, your face buried in his neck.

He splayed his hands on your back, a content sigh leaving his mouth as he pressed his face into your shoulder, lips slightly puckered to press a kiss to it.

He’d almost said it today. Almost. But your comfort was more important to him, so he’ll shut up and wait until you’re ready to say it. He’s more than happy to wither away and wait for you, than scare you away and feel like dying.

The car’s horn made you jump apart from each other, Joaquin holding your hands tightly in his before lifting his bags up. You watched him with a fond smile.

“What?”, he asked as he adjusted his bag, grinning at you in a goofy way.

You smiled and shook your head, “Nothing. I’m really happy for you. Nobody deserves them more than you”, you referred to the wings.

He froze, a slight wet sheen coating his eyes before he whined, “You’re not making this easier, angel.”

You chuckled and ruffled his hair, “Sorry, sorry.”

He moved in close to press three feverish kisses to your lips and one on your cheek, before running away towards the car.

Not even 10 seconds later, you received a text from him:

Flyboy: wait, we’re dating now, right? Like, relationship dating and not casual-limbo dating?

You snorted. He was ridiculously cute.

You: idek where do u pick up those terms from, but yes ofcourse ☺️

Flyboy: ok that’s good thank god 🙏

Flyboy: i made that up

Flyboy: miss u already 😘

Blushing furiously, you sent back a heart and practically skipped over to Sam, feeling lighter than you ever did in the last few years.

-

BONUS

Joaquin let out a giddy laugh at your texts, replaying the kiss and your tender touch, your praise and adoration for him, the way you looked so vulnerable in front of him, and he thought: he was honoured to be able to see you like this.

Happy, bright, smiling and not afraid to express yourself.

Like you’d finally let yourself be cared for and loved on. Like you’d ser yourself free.

And oh, he’ll do anything to protect you against anything wrong.

His cheeks hurt with how much he’d been smiling, how you’d look like you were more happy than him about the wings and how you’d initiated the hug. He felt like he was lit up from inside.

And you’d find out later, that your contact name in Joaquin’s phone was saved as ‘Girasol 🌻’ because you were his light.

Part 13

-

AN: THEY R MY BABIES.

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[niniwritesxo]

26:42

nam-gyu x fem reader

summary:

what happens when nam-gyu finds you in a vulnerable state in the key and knives game?

——————————————————————————

the lights were flickering above you like something out of a nightmare.

metal groaned in the distance. screams echoed off the walls,

you didn’t want to die in a place like this.

no one did.

your hand wrapped around the key like it could protect you, but it was cold and sharp against your palm. it was a triangle. you had no idea what door it opened. you had no idea where to go.

you just knew you had to stay quiet.

stay hidden.

a pipe burst somewhere, making you jump, and you took off down another hall, sand under your feet, dust in your throat, adrenaline burning like acid.

the game was simple.

player with a key hide. players with a knife hunt.

and somewhere in the maze, there was a certain someone looking for you.

———-

26:42

you turned a corner too fast

and slammed straight into him.

tall. lean. eyes wild.

nam-gyu.

player 124.

his hand caught your shoulder instantly, shoving you back against the wall with a thud, and the glint of metal flashed between you.

the knife was real. not plastic. not a prop.

long, stained already.

and aimed at your throat.

he didn’t say anything for a second.

just looked at you. like he was trying to decide something.

or maybe just enjoying how scared you looked.

“you’re shaking,” he muttered finally, tilting his head.

his voice was too calm.

off.

you couldn’t breathe.

his grip on your shoulder tightened.

his eyes flicked down.

“key?”

you didn’t answer.

your fingers clenched around it.

“come on,” he smiled that unnerving, tilted smile like his brain was splitting in two.

“show me.”

you slowly opened your hand.

triangle key. silver. trembling.

he whistled, low.

“lucky girl. you might make it out.”

he lifted the knife.

you flinched.

“i could take it,” he said, voice turning sharp like the blade. “so that way you can’t even find the exit and someone else will finish you off.”

you froze.

your back was flat to the wall.

he leaned in closer. you could smell sweat. blood and whatever the hell this place was doing to him.

then he laughed.

low. twisted. like something breaking inside his chest.

“but damn,” he muttered. “you’re hot when you’re scared.”

his eyes scanned your face, the way your lips were parted, your breath caught.

“maybe i don’t wanna kill you yet.”

your heart slammed against your ribs.

“what?”

“shh‘’

he pressed a finger to your lips.

“don’t ruin it.”

———

22:13

he didn’t stab you.

he didn’t take the key.

instead, he stepped back slowly, his eyes still on you, like a wolf playing with its food.

“you should run, triangle girl,” he said softly.

“before i change my mind.”

your legs nearly gave out, but somehow you turned and ran.

every step felt like your spine would split open.

he didn’t chase you.

but you could still feel him.

watching.

somewhere in the maze.

00:09

you found the triangle door.

you shoved the key in with shaking hands.

it opened.

barely.

you crawled through it like an animal, lungs about to explode.

you didn’t even hear the siren.

you just collapsed.

alive.

barely.

and that’s when you heard a loud voice making everyone look up.

‘player 124 passed’

——————————————————————————

y’all know i HAD to write about season three nam-gyu because i am so obsessed help

a/n: english is not my first language so if you see any mistakes or misspellings my apologies! ⭐️🕯️

[sharieb]

Held in the Hollowed Fragments 2: Don’t Leave Me in the Fog

Pairing: LADS x non-mc! (you)

Genre: Angst (hurt/ no comfort)

Word count: 846

Music inspiration: Dark on Me by Starset. (listen at your own risk while reading)

Previous Next

NO! COME BACK! I’M SORRY! DON’T LEAVE ME ALL ALONE, PLEASE!!!

He jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs, lungs seizing as if he'd just surfaced from deep underwater. Cold sweat clung to his skin, soaking the sheets, anchoring him in a reality that felt no less suffocating than the dream.

That dream. Again.

Dragging a trembling hand over his face, he sat upright, disoriented. The remnants of sleep still wrapped around his mind like thick fog, muting everything but the echo of her absence.

Outside, a thunderstorm howled against the windowpane — rain falling in relentless sheets, as if the sky, too, was grieving something it had long since lost. The wind groaned through the cracks in the walls. There was no sunrise or sunset, no hint of morning or dusk. Just grey.

He glanced at his phone. Thirty unread messages. Twelve missed calls. Some work. Some personal. All irrelevant. Their words could never reach him in the place he was sinking.

Time left before responsibilities demanded his attention: two hours.

But the very thought of rising — of putting on a face, of pretending — filled his gut with lead. Instead, he laid back down, the cold side of the bed stretching into an abyss beside him. Once a space for warmth and company, it was now a graveyard of silence.

He stared at the ceiling, hollow-eyed.

He hated days like this — hated the way they strangled him slowly, how they always began with that dream and ended with him frayed, volatile, barely functional. Days like these always ended in regret. In failure.

He had learned to fear them.

Stillness consumed him. His eyes unfocused. What had he dreamt again? He tried to remember, clawing at the edges of his fading memory, but the specifics slipped through his grasp like sand through desperate fingers.

Except for one detail — the only constant.

A woman.

Always with her back turned. Always in the distance. Always surrounded by a fog so dense it devoured everything but her silhouette.

He never saw her face. He never knew her name. But each time, the ache to reach her grew worse. The desperation to run, to scream, to drag her back into his arms — unbearable. He knew she was important. Essential. Like oxygen. Like the warmth of the sun on skin that had only known winter.

But no matter how fast he chased after her, no matter how loudly he cried out…

The fog swallowed her. Every time.

Leaving him stranded. Alone. Lost in a formless world with no direction, no compass, and no escape.

MC was always there for him, yes, but it's different now.

She brought him warmth. Laughter. Love. Her presence made the storm bearable. For a moment, he’d forget the cold. Forget the fog.

But she couldn’t reach into the places where the darkness pooled. Couldn’t hold him there. And eventually, she always faded too.

Like a dream within a dream. A blessing too brief. A life raft too fragile.

She was light — but not the lighthouse he was searching for.

He needed more than fleeting comfort. He needed sanctuary. Safety. A place to rest the weight of all the things he never said out loud — the demons he kept caged behind forced smiles, the pain he never let surface.

All his life, he had borne them alone.

And now, as his soul treaded water, MC kept him from drowning — barely — but she couldn’t stop the ship from sinking.

Maybe that was why the dreams came. Maybe that woman — that stranger in the fog — wasn’t just a figment. Maybe she was the key to everything. A fragment of something lost, or someone forgotten.

Or maybe…

She was the part of him that still believed escape was possible.

His eyelids grew heavy again. Sleep crept in like mist through the cracks. And before he could resist, he was pulled under once more.

"WAIT! PLEASE, DON’T LEAVE ME!"

His own voice echoed through the void, hoarse and fractured, as he sprinted through the fog. Each breath burned. His chest ached. His legs trembled.

But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

She was there. Just ahead. His dark star. His fallen moon. The gravity that once held him together.

Her figure glowed faintly, just enough to give him hope, enough to destroy him when she disappeared again.

He screamed her name — the one he could never remember when awake — as if the sound alone could bind her to this world.

He begged.

Just once. Turn around. Just once. Let me see your face. Just once, don't vanish.

But, as always, she didn't turn.

And the fog surged forward, greedily pulling her away, erasing her light, devouring her whole.

She was gone.

And he was alone again.

Frozen in place, all he could do was collapse to his knees, chest hollow, hands trembling in defeat. The warmth of her presence — extinguished. The dream — broken. The silence — complete.

The light of his precious moon had gone dark on him.