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fushitoru · 4 months ago

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a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. ��Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!”

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

#aashi writes #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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vunblr · 7 months ago

Text

Roots and Branches

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Word Count: About 18.6k.

notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.

Lumberjack AU Masterlist

The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.

It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.

The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.

For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.

Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.

“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”

She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.

Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.

“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.

The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.

She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.

Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.

Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.

As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.

He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.

He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.

She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.

He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.

Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.

“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.

She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”

Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”

She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.

Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.

Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.

She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.

She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”

He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”

She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”

When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.

“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”

Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”

He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.

Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.

He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”

She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”

He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.

He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.

Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.

“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.

His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.

Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.

------------

She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.

It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.

Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.

By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.

“Figures,�� she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.

Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.

----------

Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.

After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.

At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.

“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.

She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”

Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”

After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.

Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.

The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”

Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”

“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”

Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”

Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.

“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.

She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”

Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”

Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.

“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”

“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”

She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.

The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”

Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.

Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”

“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.

As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”

“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”

Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”

Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”

The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.

Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.

As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.

A storm was coming.

It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.

He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.

Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.

It was shaping up to be one of those nights.

When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.

The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.

She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.

The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.

The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.

On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.

One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.

And then, unbidden, he thought of her.

The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.

------------

The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.

“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.

“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.

They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”

She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”

Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”

“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”

“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”

“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.

He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.

Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.

And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.

The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.

As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.

She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.

Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”

The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”

His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.

The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.

She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”

Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.

“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.

It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.

Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.

“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.

She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.

She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.

“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.

“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.

She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.

The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.

One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.

As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.

Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.

There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.

When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.

“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”

He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”

She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”

She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.

“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”

His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.

“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.

He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.

He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.

He was interested.

Shit.

Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.

On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.

And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.

He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?

Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.

For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.

And then there was Bucky.

Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.

Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.

-----------

Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.

So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.

The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.

Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.

“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”

Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.

He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.

“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”

Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“

“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”

For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”

----------

The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.

Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.

She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.

The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.

By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.

She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”

Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”

Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”

“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.

“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”

Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”

She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.

The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.

Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.

Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.

“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.

“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.

“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”

He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”

“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.

She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”

He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.

Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.

He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.

That should be illegal.

“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”

“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”

As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.

She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly

He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”

That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”

The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.

“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”

Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”

Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.

She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up. “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”

Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.

“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”

Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.

She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”

He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.

Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.

She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.

With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.

That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.

She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.

An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.

She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.

Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.

Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.

“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.

He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”

“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”

Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”

“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”

“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”

She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.

“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.

Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”

Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.

Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.

The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.

The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.

The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.

She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.

Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.

And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.

Don’t kid yourself.

The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.

God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.

Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.

----------

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.

“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”

Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.

Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.

“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.

It wasn’t Dorothy.

Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.

She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”

He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”

As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.

She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.

The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.

After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.

“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.

He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.

“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.

“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.

When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.

She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”

Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”

“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”

He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.

“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”

He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.

Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

---------

The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.

“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”

Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”

“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”

He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.

He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.

“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”

Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.

“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.

He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.

“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”

Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”

“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”

Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.

Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”

As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”

Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.

His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.

Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”

“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”

“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”

“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”

Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”

He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”

“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.

He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”

She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”

His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.

Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”

She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”

“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”

She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”

Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”

A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.

She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”

Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”

She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”

He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.

She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:

Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.

A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.

The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.

She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”

She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”

She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.

Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.

As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“This too clingy for you?”

A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.

“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.

Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.

His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.

The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.

Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”

She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.

He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”

She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.

She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.

“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”

She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”

A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.

He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”

Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.

Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”

Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”

Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”

Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.

Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”

Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.

“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”

And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.

“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.

“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.

His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”

Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.

Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”

Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”

“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.

His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.

“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”

Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”

She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.

“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.

She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.

He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Lumberjack!Bucky

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joelsgoldrush · 9 months ago

Text

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.”

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him.

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.”

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual.

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart.

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not.

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.”

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations, but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground.

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive.

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him.

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice?

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor.

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases.

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.”

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath.

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close.

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency.

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

2K notes · View notes

pitlanepeach · 27 days ago

Text

The Long Way Home I Chapter Three

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Are you ready? Because I'm not ready.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Harper regretted everything the minute they hit the incline.

"This was your idea," Oscar said, not even out of breath.

"I hate that you're actually good at this," she wheezed.

He grinned and reached for her wrist mid-stride. "We can stop."

"No." She panted. "If I stop now, I'll never start again. They'll have to airlift me out."

They were deep in the woods behind the school, the quiet part where no one really went except Oscar when he was doing his trainer-mandated endurance runs three times a week. It smelled like wet moss and pine needles and early autumn.

He slowed to a walk, just enough for her to match pace, then slung an arm lazily around her shoulders. She leaned into it, grateful and exhausted and warm in a way that had nothing to do with her temperature.

They didn't say anything for a while. Just breathed. Let the trees hush them.

Then, softly, "This is where I come when I need to think," he said.

Harper glanced up at him. "Or avoid people?"

"Same thing."

She smiled and nudged him. "You've been doing that more lately."

He shrugged. "It's been... a lot. Winning the British championship. Leading the WSK. Talking to teams. My dad's getting anxious about sponsors."

"And Mark?"

"Always calm. But I can tell he's pushing a bit harder now. It's all getting a bit more serious."

She nodded, quietly. "Yeah."

They walked until they hit a small clearing; soft grass, dappled light, the faint hum of wind through the trees.

Oscar dropped to the ground first, tugging her with him, and Harper let herself fall beside him. Their fingers tangled without thought. Her heartbeat still hadn't slowed.

"You really hate running, huh?" He teased.

She turned her head toward him. "I don't hate it."

He raised a brow.

"Okay, fine. I hate it. But I like being with you," she said, eyes soft.

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "That's a good enough reason to torture yourself?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against herself and she giggled breathily against him, shifting to her knees and pressing close to him.

And when she whispered, "Can we... just stay here a while?" He nodded, no questions, no pressure, just a gentle hand on the curve of her back.

They didn't... plan it.

They didn't even really speak about it as it happened.

They moved the way they always did — with instinct and quiet understanding, with laughter in the middle and too many nerves and awkward fumbling that quickly gave way to something softer.

They were teenagers, yes. But more than that — in that pretty little clearing, they became each other's firsts. And it wasn't perfect. It was fumbled and awkward and probably a bit out of order — but it felt right.

It felt like theirs.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in the grass and the quiet, Oscar drawing invisible lines on her shoulder, Harper tucked into his side like she belonged there and nowhere else.

"I don't think anything has ever felt that perfect," she whispered.

He kissed her again. But her lip. Made her giggle as he said, "You made it perfect."

—

Harper tiptoed into their bedroom just past curfew, hair messy, hoodie zipped up to her chin, and a dazed sort of softness clinging to her features like afterglow.

Jane was already in bed, face masked, glasses on, reading some dystopian paperback with a wildly dramatic title. She didn't look up.

"I know what you did," she sung.

Harper froze halfway across the room. "What?"

Jane turned a page. "Please. You've got pine needles in your hair and your skirt is on backwards.'"

Harper flushed. "Oh my God."

Jane finally looked at her. "Was it good?"

"...Yeah," Harper whispered, and then suddenly grinned, wide and a little overwhelmed. "Yeah, it was."

Jane set her book down and patted the edge of her bed. "Come here and tell me everything, you naughty, terrible girl."

Harper crossed the room in two steps, crawled under Jane's blanket like they were twelve again, and for the first time in a long time, let herself glow.

—

Monday morning, Harper's phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down to see the sender: Viard Admissions.

Opening it felt like swallowing a stone.

The email was clinical, polite — an official acceptance letter to the elite boarding school in Switzerland her mother had threatened. Lines about curriculum, dates, and fees, but beneath every word, Harper could feel the cold weight of control.

She stared at the screen, heart sinking.

The rest of the day was a blur. Her smiles felt forced. Her laughs, hollow.

At lunch, she barely touched her food. During math tutoring, her mind floated, distracted by the looming exile.

Oscar noticed.

He cornered her between classes, hands stuffed in his pockets, brows furrowed.

"Hey," he said gently, "you've been off all day. What's wrong?"

Harper shook her head, trying to hide the tightness in her throat.

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell me."

She hesitated, then finally exhaled. "My mum." she admitted, voice cracking. "She emailed my mu acceptance letter. To that school in Switzerland she was threatening me with the other week."

Oscar's jaw tightened. "That's shit," he said.

"Yeah," Harper whispered. "I feel like I've found somewhere I belong, and now she's trying to take it away."

Oscar reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You do belong," he said firmly. "Here. With me. And with our friends. People who care about you."

Harper blinked back tears, the knot inside her loosening just a little. "Thanks, Osc," she said softly.

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "We'll figure it out, yeah? Together."

—

Saturday evening, their bedroom was buzzing with whispered giggles and the fresh scent of cucumber.

Harper and Jane lounged on the floor, wrapped in fluffy blankets, their faces slick with a honey-avocado facemask as they binge-watched Mean Girls for the third time that week on Jane's laptop.

"Oi, we're coming in!" Matt's voice boomed from outside their door.

The door swung open to reveal Matt, Sam, and Alfie — each armed with their own packets of face masks and towels, looking both sheepish and excited.

"Um, what the hell are you guys doing here?" Jane asked, raising an eyebrow at them.

"We're your new beauty consultants," Sam grinned, holding up a jar of what looked like expensive aloe mask (which he'd definitely stolen from whichever girl he was currently dating).

Alfie was already spreading a pink goo over his cheeks, looking hilariously out of place in the girls' soft dorm lighting.

Harper laughed despite herself.

"Fine. Whatever. But only if you promise not to mess up the blankets," Jane bargained.

Matt plopped down on the floor, slapping a bit of mask on his nose and grinning. "Deal."

The night unfolded with half-serious skincare advice, sarcastic commentary on Mean Girls, and a lot of laughter.

At one point, Alfie tried to reenact the "You can't sit with us" line — but with a face mask so thick it practically obscured his words.

Harper messages Oscar a sneaky picture she'd taken of them.

Oscar: I asked them to keep an eye on you. Sry if they were annoying lol. Wish I was there x

Harper stared at the message and pulled her knees up to her chest with a hitched smile.

Harper: Thank you. Love you

She held her breath as he typed.

Oscar: Love you too.

And it was that easy.

—

Jane's birthday was always celebrated in style.

The music thrummed through the room, warm and electric. Harper spotted Oscar across the room, his eyes locking onto hers with something intense — a mix of nerves and something more.

He moved toward her, hand reaching out gently to take hers. She didn't hesitate.

They stepped onto the dance floor, bodies close but careful, hearts pounding louder than the beat.

Oscar's hand found her waist, steady and reassuring. Harper's fingers curled lightly around his neck, breath catching in her throat.

They swayed together, the world narrowing to just the two of them — the noise, the lights, the rest all fading away.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and Harper's pulse quickened. When their lips met, it was soft at first — tentative, like testing the water.

But the kiss deepened, filled with all the restless energy and longing they'd been holding back.

They pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

"Happy birthday, Jane," Harper whispered, smiling shyly.

Oscar grinned, his fingers brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Best party ever."

—

The door clicked softly behind them as Oscar guided Harper inside his bedroom, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

She pointedly ignored the insane amount of mess.

"If you get caught here, we're both fucked," he whispered, pulling her close.

"I won't get caught," Harper replied, snuggling into his side as they settled onto the rumpled bed.

Oscar wrapped an arm around her and tugged her flush against him.

Then Harper shifted, her voice soft but animated. "I started this new coding camp online. It's... complicated, but kind of awesome."

Oscar tilted his head, interested. "Yeah? What's it teaching you?"

"How to build games. It's a bit elementary, but I'm learning how to work with CSS more efficiently."

Oscar smiled, fingers tracing slow circles on her arm. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "That's pretty cool."

Harper hummed. "I know. I'll show you the video game when it's done. Won't be anything special, but it'll still be cool."

Oscar pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'm glad you're here."

Harper nodded, resting her head against his chest. "Me too."

—

Harper's stomach churned as she made her way through the quiet halls toward the headmaster's office. Her mind raced with possibilities — had her mum found out about the late-night escapades? Had somebody seen her sneaking out of the boys dorm? Was she in trouble?

She knocked lightly, then stepped inside.

The headmaster looked up, a warm smile on his face. "Harper, come in. Have a seat."

Her heart pounded, but she took the chair offered.

"I wanted to talk to you because I've been hearing some very good things," he said. "Your math level has improved significantly over the course of the term — and I understand that with dyscalculia, this is something to be very proud of."

Harper blinked, surprised.

"I understand that there's been some study sessions with a few of your classmates during your free time in the common rooms. A few teachers found the pinned-up schedules amusing. But that kind of initiative is impressive."

She let out a relieved breath, a smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, sir."

"It really is a fantastic turn around, Harper. Keep it up."

As she left the office, the tension eased from her shoulders.

Maybe things were looking up after all.

—

Oscar sat on the sofa in the common room, phone balanced on his knee, his parents' faces bright on the screen.

"It's been great to hear from you, mate," his dad said, smiling.

Oscar grinned. "Yeah. You too."

The door opened softly, and Harper stepped inside, still catching her breath from P.E., cheeks flushed.

She paused, then eased herself down next to Oscar, curling up against his side.

Oscar glanced at the screen and said, "Harper's here."

Oscar's mum smiled warmly. "Hello, Harper, sweetheart."

"Hi," Harper murmured, closing her eyes and resting her head on Oscar's shoulder.

Oscar slipped an arm around her, fingers gently brushing her hair.

The conversation continued quietly, but Harper drifted off, the soft rhythm of Oscar's voice and the warmth of the room lulling her into a calm nap.

—

The cafeteria was quiet, soft morning light filtering through the windows. Harper sat at their small table, pushing her usual bowl of Weetabix aside.

"I'm not really feeling up for that," she said softly. "Just some toast, yeah?"

Oscar looked up from his cereal, eyebrows knitting together in quiet concern but not pressing. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, sliding a plate across to her. "Whatever you want."

Harper nibbled at the edges, her stomach twisting uncomfortably, but she shrugged it off.

"Just feel a bit gross, probably nothing," she muttered, a bit frustrated. "Maybe it was that chilli we had last night. It tasted weird."

Oscar reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "If you want, I can find you some ginger tea? My mum always made me drink it when I got sick."

She smiled faintly, grateful for the thought. "I'll be fine. Thanks, though."

She shuffled closer to him throughout breakfast, until she was practically on his lap as the ready of the sleepy students came pouring in.

Jane slammed her tray down on the table and said, "Can you believe that the prom theme is going to be 'Pirates'. I mean — who the hell came up with that?"

Harper giggled against Oscar's shoulder.

—

The bell had just rung, and students spilled into the hallway. Harper was making her way slowly toward the common room when she spotted Oscar waiting near the door.

He caught her eye immediately and fell into step beside her.

"You feeling okay?" He asked quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Harper shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Better. Still a bit off, but it's nothing."

Oscar studied her for a moment, concern softening his features. "Want me to walk you back to your dorm? Or maybe grab some fresh air?"

She nodded, grateful for the offer. "Yeah, that'd be good."

They walked together, the afternoon sun warm on their backs, and Harper leaned just a little closer to him.

—

The last weeks of the school year felt heavier somehow — classes wrapped up, corridors buzzing with end-of-year chatter, but Harper's thoughts kept drifting.

She sat beside Oscar on the astroturf, the chill in the air making them both pull their jackets tighter.

"Four weeks," she murmured, voice soft. "That's how long you'll be gone."

Oscar nodded, eyes tracing the frost on the pitch. "I know. It'll feel like forever."

Harper looked down at her hands, twisting the little rope bracelet Oscar had given her. It was black and white; the colours of a chequered flag. The finish line.

"I'm going to miss you," she admitted, the words tasting strange but true.

Oscar reached over, fingers brushing hers. "I'll miss you too. But it's not forever. We've got FaceTime, texts..."

She smiled faintly, though the lump in her throat didn't go away. "Promise you won't forget about me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. It was ridiculous, but she was feeling just a tiny bit delicate.

"I promise, babe," Oscar said, squeezing her hand.

She took a deep breath and let his words settle something in her chest.

—

The snow had started falling just before dusk, blanketing the city in soft white as Harper and her mother walked briskly up Fifth Avenue. The holiday lights sparkled across shop windows, casting golden reflections against the ice-slicked pavement. It should have felt magical — it usually did — but this year, everything felt off.

Her mother was walking a few steps ahead, as always. Perfect posture, sleek gloves, eyes forward like she was leading a press conference instead of walking to her parents' townhouse.

"Straighten your scarf," she said without looking back. "You're not ten."

Harper didn't answer. She just adjusted the scarf, more out of habit than compliance.

Her grandparents' house was beautiful in that cold, museum-like way — all polished marble and antique chandeliers. They were kind enough, but Harper always felt like a stranger to them.

Dinner was stiff. Conversation danced around neutral topics — school, future plans, the weather in London — but never quite landed. Harper could feel her mother's eyes on her every time she spoke, like she was a sentence away from saying something inappropriate.

When dessert was served, Harper quietly excused herself and climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, her phone already in hand.

She laid across the bedspread, scrolling through old photos of her and Oscar — blurry selfies after he'd climbed out of his kart, the one where he'd fallen asleep during a maths session, the video of him trying orange marmalade for the first time and gagging like it was poison.

Her chest ached.

There was a message waiting for her.

Oscar: Made it to the beach before Mum could shove a Santa hat on me. Send help. Miss you.

She smiled, blinking hard.

Harper: You'd better FaceTime me tomorrow. Or I swear I'll swim to Australia just to see you.

—

Harper sat cross-legged on the guest bed, the soft hum of New York traffic muffled by snow and distance. Laughter floated up faintly from the living room downstairs — the clink of glasses, her grandfather's booming voice, her mother's delicate laugh, like porcelain.

She stared at her phone until it buzzed, the screen lighting up with one name.

FaceTime Incoming: Oscar

She answered immediately.

Oscar's face appeared, backlit by sunshine. He was sitting outside, shirtless and tanned, with the ocean glinting behind him.

"Merry Christmas," he said, grinning.

Harper smiled, the tightness in her chest easing a little just at the sound of his voice. "Merry Christmas, beach boy."

"Snow yet?"

"Everything's white. Including the tablecloth. And every single guest."

He huffed out a dry laugh. "You okay?"

Harper nodded, though it wasn't entirely true. "Better now."

He looked at her through the screen, really looked. "It's been weird not seeing you almost every day."

"It's horrible," she admitted, flopping back on the bed and bringing the phone with her. "She made me wear this velvet dress that itches like hell. I would sell my soul for a hoodie and one of your perfect plates of breakfast toast."

Oscar chuckled, lying back on a sun chair, mirroring her position. "We had a barbecue. Dad burned the sausages. Classic."

There was a pause — not awkward, but full.

"I miss you," Harper said softly, picking at a fraying thread on the sleeve of her dress.

"I miss you too," Oscar replied, quieter this time.

Neither of them said it, but it hung in the space between them: I love you — unspoken, but understood.

"We'll be back home soon," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Ten days."

"Not like I'm counting."

Oscar smiled. "I'll call you tonight. Properly. When the house is quiet."

"Okay."

"Go be elegant and miserable," he teased.

"And you go burn in the sun."

"I'm wearing SPF."

She smiled again, softer now, the ache still there, but bearable.

"Bye, Osc."

"Bye, Harps."

—

The train ride had been long. The platform cold. And Harper's suitcase wheel had started squeaking halfway across campus.

But none of that mattered the second she saw him.

He was already there — leaning against the gate near the common room, hoodie half-zipped, hair sun-lightened from two weeks under the Australian sky. He looked taller. Or maybe she just missed him that much.

Oscar straightened the second their eyes met.

Neither of them said anything at first. He just stepped forward and took her suitcase handle from her hand like it was second nature, like she hadn't been gone for 28 days, 16 FaceTimes, and countless messages.

Harper looked up at him, trying to smile but it wobbled. "Hey."

"Hi," he said, and his voice caught on it.

She opened her arms before she could think better of it, and he pulled her into him like he'd been holding his breath since December.

His nose tucked against her temple. "You're freezing," he murmured.

"You're warm," she whispered back.

They stood there for a while, unmoving, while students bustled past with post-holiday energy and distant laughter filled the air. None of it touched them.

Finally, Harper leaned back just enough to look up at him. "You got taller."

"You got sadder," he said gently. "But you're back now."

She nodded, eyes stinging. "I missed this."

"I missed you."

They didn't kiss — not here, not in-front of everyone — but his hand found hers and didn't let go as they walked the familiar path toward the dorms.

Back to routine. Back to toast and maths study and Astro nights and quiet, stolen moments.

Back to where they belonged.

—

Harper was half-draped across Jane's bed, a leftover Quality Street melting on her tongue, while Jane rooted through her suitcase with dramatic flair.

"I forgot how depressing the lighting is in this room," Jane muttered. "It's like they want us to slowly wilt."

"You're very tan though," Harper said through a yawn. "So it looks fine."

Jane straightened up triumphantly, holding up a pink silk scrunchie like it was a crown jewel. "There it is."

Harper blinked. "That's what you were hunting for?"

"Excuse you — this scrunchie survived the Atlantic Ocean." Jane dropped it on her desk and flopped beside Harper. "I swam on Christmas Day. It was freezing. I highly recommend getting your period before beach season. It was the first year I didn't have to stress about leaking in the Mediterranean and attracting sharks."

Harper smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

A beat.

And then another.

And then—

Her face drained of colour.

"Oh."

Jane tilted her head. "What?"

Harper sat up, very suddenly, like the air had gone too tight. "I haven't... I haven't had mine."

Jane blinked. "Like—"

"I didn't think about it, I just—" Harper's voice trailed off as she stared at the wall. "I've felt sick. Tired. I haven't wanted my Weetabix."

Jane was still for a beat, then reached out and put a steadying hand on Harper's knee. "Okay. Breathe. It could be stress. Travel. Life."

Harper nodded slowly, but her brain was moving a million miles an hour. "Yeah. Yeah. Totally. Stress."

But Jane could see it in her eyes.

That switch had flipped.

Something inside Harper knew — whether or not she was ready to say it out loud.

—

She didn't knock.

She didn't even hesitate.

Harper shoved open the door to the boys' dorm common room, heart in her throat, fingers trembling, her mind screaming in spirals. Oscar was on the floor with Alfie and Matt, half-focused on a Mario Kart match, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, looking so calm it almost made her dizzy.

He looked up immediately.

And stood up faster than she'd ever seen him move.

"Hey— Harps?"

She just stared at him for a second, trying to speak, trying to make the words form. She couldn't do this with anyone else. Only him.

"I—" Her voice broke. "Can we talk? Please?"

"Yeah. Of course." He was already crossing the room, grabbing her hand, guiding her down the hallway toward his room without another word. The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Oscar turned to her, brows knit with concern. "What happened? What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then forced the words out before she could second guess them.

"I think I might be pregnant."

Silence.

Not judgment, not panic — just... stillness. The way Oscar always went quiet before a race, centring himself.

Harper blinked fast. "I haven't had my period. I've been nauseous, tired, my brain's a mess. And I didn't notice— I didn't think—" Her voice cracked. "I'm not saying I am. But I might be. And I don't know what to do."

Oscar stepped forward and gently took her hands in his, grounding her.

"Okay," he said simply, his voice steady. "Fuck. Okay. We'll figure this out."

Harper let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. "I didn't know what to do. I just panicked."

Oscar's eyes softened. "Yeah but you did the right thing. You came to me."

She nodded, chest tight, and leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, warm and sure.

"Whatever happens," he murmured, "we'll handle it."

Harper sniffled. "I'm fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen."

He closer his eyes. "Shit, yeah. I know. Me too." He laughed.

Nothing about this situation was funny.

She couldn't help but laugh too, a warped, wet kind of sound.

—

The chemist in the village was almost empty. Harper kept her head down, winter hat pulled low, scarf wrapped high. Oscar stood beside her, tall and quiet, his hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over his hands. He didn't say much — didn't need to — just waited beside her.

They didn't look at the packaging too long. Just grabbed the one that looked familiar, Oscar paid in cash, and they left without a word.

—

Back at school, they slipped into the small student toilet block behind the science building — the one Oscar had jimmied the lock on once during a thunderstorm. It was quiet. Private. The only place that didn't feel like it had ears and eyes everywhere.

Harper set the box down on the sink with trembling hands.

"You don't have to stay," she whispered.

Oscar shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded. "Okay."

She went in, closed the door, and a moment later, came back out holding the test in shaking fingers. He didn't look at it. He just held her free hand and guided her to sit on the windowsill.

They set it down on the ledge between them.

A timer on Oscar's phone started counting down.

Two minutes.

Neither of them spoke.

Oscar's thumb stroked the inside of her palm, rhythmic and slow.

Harper stared at the test, as if watching it would make it kinder.

Her voice was barely a breath. "I'm scared."

"I know," Oscar said. "Me too."

Thirty seconds left.

The world outside the window was silver-grey, students scattered across the grass in the distance, oblivious. Everything felt fragile.

Fifteen seconds.

Ten.

Five.

Harper's grip tightened.

"Do we look?" She asked.

Oscar nodded once. "Together."

She reached for the test with trembling fingers.

—

The rain had started again. A soft pattering against the windows that filled the silence like a lullaby.

Oscar lay behind her on her narrow dorm bed, one arm around her waist, the other tucked beneath his head. Harper was curled into herself, facing the wall, her fingers gripping the edge of the duvet like it might keep her from floating away.

He hadn't said much when she showed him the test. Just took one look at her face, reached out, and pulled her into him.

Now he was just holding her.

Breathing with her.

Letting her be silent.

Her cheek was damp against the pillow, but she wasn't crying anymore. She felt wrung out, like all the air had been squeezed from her lungs, like her bones were vibrating with too many thoughts that had nowhere to go.

Oscar pressed his nose into the back of her shoulder. His voice was a whisper. "It's going to be okay."

She didn't answer. Just nodded once.

He didn't say it to convince her. He said it because it was the only thing he could offer — his calm. His presence. His belief in her, in them, in the idea that they'd somehow survive this.

His hand slid down to rest gently over hers.

She swallowed hard. "I don't know how far along I am."

"We'll figure it out."

She turned in his arms then, finally facing him, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. "I don't feel like a real person right now."

Oscar blinked slowly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Yeah. I feel a bit out of it too."

She let out a small, watery laugh.

And then she tucked her head into his chest, and he held her tighter, as if he could anchor her to something solid.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, it was quiet.

NEXT CHAPTER

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kinascum · 11 months ago

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TAG! - M. STURNIOLO

SYNOPSIS: What happens when your brother's best friend pushes your boundaries in a thrilling encounter?

CONTENTS: nls!reader, explicit sexual content, strong language, power dynamics, degradation, chasing? primal? idk, no actual piv, oral (male), semi-public, humiliation.

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

pt2 (chris)

You sit around the kitchen table of the cozy cabin, the glow of the moonlight spilling in through the windows, casting shadows across the well-worn Monopoly board. The laughter and banter of the evening's game slowly die down as the last few hotel properties are snatched up, and the bank is declared bankrupt. Your brother Nate, and his best friends, grin at each other, the competitive spirit still lingering in the air. It's late, and the yawns start to take over, signaling the end of the night.

The cabin's wooden floorboards creak as everyone heads to their designated sleeping areas. The fireplace crackles, casting a warm, flickering light across the room. You settle into your bed, but the excitement of the day keeps sleep at bay. The rustling of blankets and muffled snores from your brother's room reminds you that you're not the only one who remains restless.

The whispers of the night beckon you and you find yourself tiptoeing to the bedroom door. You peek into the hallway, noticing a sliver of light seeping out from under Matt's door. Curiosity piqued, you ease the door open to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, staring at the floor. "Can't sleep either?" he asks, looking up and catching your gaze.

"Yeah, it's like my brain won't shut up," you admit, stepping into the room. "Wanna go outside for some fresh air?"

Matt nods, a glint in his eye. "How about we play a game to pass the time?"

Intrigued, you follow him out into the cool night, the crunch of gravel underfoot. The moon casts a silver path down to the lake, where the water laps gently against the shore. The air is alive with the scent of pine and the distant sound of an owl's hoot.

"Okay, I'll chase you," he says with a smirk, "and if I catch you, I win."

You laugh, thinking it's just a way to burn off some energy. "What do I get if I win?"

"We'll see," he teases, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ready or not, here I come!"

And with that, he's off, his sneakers pounding the ground as he sprints towards you. You squeal, the thrill of the chase igniting your senses. As you dart away from him, the night air feels alive with electricity, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the kind of thrill you live for, the kind that makes you feel alive.

The game starts innocently enough, the two of you weg through the trees, laughing and panting. But as the minutes tick by, the adrenaline turns into something else. Something you've felt simmering between you for a while now, something you've been too scared to acknowledge. The wind carries the scent of him, a tantalizing mix of aftershave and pure masculine energy. Your skin tingles with anticipation, and you start to feel the heat building deep within you.

Matt's breath is hot on your neck as he catches up, his strong hands grabbing you around the waist. You gasp, feeling his solid body pressed against yours, the game turning into something much more primal. You can feel the heat of his body overcome yours, and it sends a shockwave through your core. This isn't just a game anymore; it's a dance of desire that you're both eager to explore.

He whispers in your ear, his voice thick with lust, "I win."

With a firm grip, he spins you around and pushes you to your knees. You look up at him, a mix of fear and excitement swirling in your eyes. He's serious. The gravity of the moment hits you like a ton of bricks, but you don't resist. You want this. You've wanted this for a long time.

He unbuckles his belt, the metal clinking in the stillness of the night, and unzips his pants, pulling out his hard cock. "You know how this goes," he murmurs, stroking himself, watching you with a hungry gaze. "You're gonna let me use that pretty little throat?"

Your heart races as you lean in, your mouth watering despite the fear. You wrap your lips around him, and he groans, his hand tangling in your hair. He's not gentle, pushing deeper into your mouth, his grip tightening with every moan. The taste of him fills your senses, a mix of salt and earth, and you can't help but feel a twinge of excitement. This isn't how you thought this night would go, but the way he's looking at you, the way he's holding you, it's like he's claiming you, and it turns you on more than you ever thought possible.

You try to keep up, but he's too much for you. You gag, and he laughs, a dark sound that sends shivers down your spine. "Look at you," he says, "such a good little slut, take it." Spit trails down your chin, and your eyes water, but you don't stop. You can't. The thrill of it all is too intense.

"I bet Nate never knew what a whore you are," he murmurs, his voice low aging. "Letting me fuck your mouth out here like some cheap hooker." His words are like a slap in the face, but they only serve to make you wetter. Your eyes narrow as your brows chisel in, but you're his, and you're letting him do this to you. It's a power play, and you're both acutely aware of it.

"Oh, you're mad?" He laughs. The sound of branches underfoot in the distance makes your heart leap. "Better hurry up," he says, his eyes glinting with excitement, "or Chris might find you like this and want a taste" The thought sends a jolt of fear and arousal through you. "Oh, but you'd love that, being used by both your brother's best friends?" Your mind races. What would Nate think if he found you like this? What would Nick do? The possibility of getting caught only adds to the thrill.

Matt's hand moves to your chin, holding it in a firm grip as he fucks your mouth harder, faster. "Take it, baby," he growls, his hips bucking against your face. "You like it, huh?" You nod, unable to speak with his cock lodged in your throat, you mumble around his shaft. You do love it. The degradation, the power he has over you in this moment, it's intoxicating.

Finally, with a grunt, he pulls out, coming all over your face and chest. You collapse back onto the ground, gasping for air, your heart racing and your eyes like storms behind shed tears. He wipes his dick off your shirt, smiling down at you like he's just conquered the world. "You've always been mine, don’t get mad now," he says, his voice full of satisfaction. He leans down, his hand on your jaw suddenly pulls away and the sing on your face is accompanied by the hot spit thrown at you. "Mine to use whenever I want."

The night air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, and you can't help but feel a little bit used. But you don't care. You're his, and that's all that matters. The tension between you is palpable, the line between friendship and something darker is now irrevocably blurred. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, tasting him on your lips, and wonder if this is the start of something new.

As you both catch your breath, the sound of footsteps grows louder. Panic flares in your chest. "we have to get back." You stumble to your feet, your legs wobbly from the intense experience. Matt chuckles, tucking himself back into his pants.

Together, you sneak back towards the cabin, your heart pounding in your ears. As you enter the cabin, you see the light from Nate's room is now off. Did he hear you? Did he know what was happening outside?

You slip into your bed, your body still humming with desire, your mind racing with thoughts of what's to come. The lines between friendship and lust have been crossed, and there's no going back.

tags! @sturnstvs @gxldenlush @immattsslut @slut4chriss @stasiesturn @jetaimevous @solarsturniolo @watercolorskyy @thedarkqueenofavalon @meowira @secretagentspy @shadowthesim @baileysturns

love, paz<3

#paxi talks #paxi's stuff #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo imagines #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo fanfiction #matt sturniolo gifs #matt sturniolo smut

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huntingcupid · 1 month ago

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THE PERFECT PAIR WITH JEUNG YOONCHAE

you ought to know that I think we're one and the same I don't think we could help it no, I don't think we could help it we don't talk much guess 'cause nothing has changed and I'm not sure I like it and I'm so tired of fighting

⌗ YOONCHAE — fem!reader, fluff, pining, somehow courting?, flirting, swearing, etc...

⌗ SYPNOSIS — the photoshoot went well, yet you felt a pair of eyes glued onto you, yoonchae, ever since you became friends with her she'd always get strangely flirty and shy

⌗ CUPID — request by @artistwitchgirl

your dad's job was one of the fun ones, the one you can brag around in class — you could meet literally anyone in the hybe company — name an idol you probably had a picture with them, it wasn't like you were annoying in the building or loud, actually you were cherished as the buildings daughter due to your age and how close you were to practically everyone

your father had asked you this morning to help him set up, since the company was preparing for katseye's first comeback gnarly — you had agreed since you had nothing to do at home and haven't met any of the girls, “can i bring my ipad?” you ask your father, yes you are an ipad kid but it's because of minecraft, “y/n last time you brought anything there you broke it, but i guess” your father replied just sighing knowing he wouldn't win over you

you smile and grab your bag going to the car, eating some chips — you flip through your dads “vision book�� aka what he wanted for the photoshoot, the members of katseye were beautiful, truly they had black and green as the main colors with striking clothing pieces, “damn this is experimental alright” you giggle, yet one of the members caught your eyes, yoonchae was it?

“dad how old is yoonchae?” you ask as your dad drove, he tried to remember tapping the steering wheel, “I'm pretty sure 17 — just about your age, you're just a few months older” your dad replied, you smile softly getting excited to meet someone your age in the company, the rest of the drive was peaceful with your dad playing some sza ( you put him on it ) — once you two arrived you took the elevator up to the 7th floor where the photoshoot room was

you help your father set up the props and background, adjusting some of the cameras to the perfect angle — out of curiosity you asked your dad where is katseye since you couldn't see them and haven't seen them yet, “dad, where are they?” you ask while adjusting a camera's lens to the perfect zoom, “oh they're just getting dressed and after that we will start, go sit and play on your ipad” your father replied, you nod walking to the corner and pulling out your ipad to continue building your tree house in minecraft

a few minutes passed and just as you were finishing the door clicks, and the girls enter, wow, they looked amazing, your dad smiled just as he envisioned he must've thought, sophia the leader helped around while the girls got in position, your eyes were on yoonchae though she looked beautiful and fresh even, with the dark makeup on she didn't look an ounce of intimidating but still managed to make it work

“okay look over here!” your dad says to the girls they look at your corner since it was where your father directed, yoonchae couldn't help but smile, when she saw you, you were pretty and looked nerdy hunched over your ipad in the corner sipping on banana milk — “okay solo shots now! — manon you first” your dad says after clicking the shutter three more times, the girls all left the room, except one, yoonchae, she walked up to you, extending her hands to your reach

“I'm yoonchae, and you are?” she shyly asked that sweet smile plastered on her face, she was taller than you had initially thought and as you stood up the height difference only made itself more obvious, “y/n, you're really pretty by the way” you smile at the girl, “what are you playing?” yoonchae asks peeking at your ipad — “minecraft!, do you play it too?” you ask the girl nods and you two eventually sat at the corner yet again

you two chat for a while sharing your snacks and even exchanging instagram users, the young girl was very curious about you, asking you your hobbies and if you often come here — “mhm, i like drawing, but i don't come here that often” you replied she nods thoughtfully — “oh, actually there is practice in a week can you come?, you can watch us” the girl smiles excitedly you nod just as she got called for her solo shot

that day you went home with her insta user and a build she made in minecraft, yoonchae was persistent that you went to practice to watch claiming it will be fun, your father was reviewing the pictures and you caught a glimpse of yoonchaes picture, you decided to try sketching it out on your sketchbook, with a few doodles the drawing came to life, capturing her infectious smile perfectly — you sighed feeling butterflies in your stomach, you wanted to ignore it

pretend that it was nothing, but the way she looked at you to, made you feel special and wanted, rather you didn't want to sound delusional so you just slept through the night rather than overthinking

meanwhile in the katz hotel room, yoonchae was getting teased by the other members — “ooh yoonchae, she's pretty” lara teases looking over the youngers shoulder to see the girl stalking your instagram, yoonchae hides the phone only to smile like a caught child, “wait isn't that the girl earlier, the photographers daughter?” megan says peeking too — yoonchae tries her best not to smile but she does

“what, she's just my friend!” yoonchae defends earning her sarcastic responses from the girls, “guy's its just her friend that she's getting flustered over!” manon sarcastically says earning her laughs from the rest, yoonchae only hides her face out of embarrassment and whines, “whatever guys” the youngest says

the day of the practice came, you wore baggy jeans and some baby tee, bringing your phone and sketchbook

you asked your dad to drive you which confused him, “i don't have a shoot today, why are you going?” your dad asks as you sat in the passenger seat, “oh i know, yoonchae invited me to watch their practice” you hum, your dad nods with that stupid smug smirk, you knew him too well and knew he was sensing something, “she's my friend dad!” you annoyingly replied — “sure….” your dad trailed, he drops you off in front of the building driving home right away

you chat the younger telling her you were here now, a few minutes pass and the doors open yoonchae running up to you, hugging you tightly which you reciprocated — her hands interlaced with yours as you two chat, making your way in the building to their floor

“soo.., the song is unreleased but i think you'll be a good secret keeper right?” yoonchae warns before you two enter the practice room, you nod smiling at her, entering the room the song boomed on the speakers as the girls warmed up — lara was first to notice you shooting the other girls a glance with a teasing smile on her lips

“ill sit here for a while” you murmur to the younger, waving to the other girls, during the practice yoonchae seemed locked in, no mistakes nor slip ups which also surprised the members, “no mistakes yoon? — you're trying to impress someone..hmmm!” megan teases, yoonchae blushes glancing at you, you smile at her which instantly melted the youngest on the spot

“y/n, yoons sweating can you help her?” sophia calls you, you look around taking your own towel and running up to the youngest — wiping her sweat away, the girl blushes deeper as the members secretly took pictures

after so the practice continued, you focus on the youngest drawing her, her eyes darted to you curios but didn't ask — after drawing her you added a little letter at the bottom, hiding the sketchbook after

“y/n can you record us?” manon asks, you nod grabbing a seat to stand on, the music cue starts and the girls were going smoothly until yoonchae glanced up and saw you smiling — she makes a mistake, which didn't go unnoticed by the members whom just shoot her a teasing grin, you retake about three times making sure they did perfect

during their waterbreak you went to the bathroom to fix your makeup, yoonchae obviously still curious about what you were drawing earlier takes a peek at you sketchbook that you had left previously — the first few pages were flowers and scenery, she hummed smiling tracing over the pencil lines, the girls noticed and also looked, they flipped to the end and saw it

your drawings of yoonchae and the stupid little letter you wrote at the bottom, the girls erupt into loud cheer, shaking yoonchae as the maknae was frozen in place

“oh my god!, does she really like me?” yoonchae asks the girls who all nod, “its so obvious!” daniela replied, soon you enter the room again seeing them crowded near your bag your sketchbook open, you blush out of embarrassment

“soo.., y/n do you like yoonchae?” sophia starts her motherly instinct kicking in, “will you treat her right?” megan follows — “if you hurt her ill haunt your every move” lara threat, yoonchae stops them and goes infront of you

“do you like me?” she asks you nod, closing your eyes scared of rejection and afraid of what she might say, “i like you too” she responds you open your eyes as her arms wrap around your torso resting her head on your shoulder — you hug back earning you a satisfied smile from the girls who took photos again, you kiss the top of yoonchaes head smiling as the girl giggles

“okay now when is it my turn?” lara just jokes — “as if manon doesn't baby you too” megan hits back which lara just blushes to the eldest member smiling, the girls shocked but still glued their eyes on you two especially their happy maknae

wc: 1.6k words

#katseye #wlw #fem!reader #katseye x reader #kpop #gg fics #jeung yoonchae #yoonchae #yoonchae katseye #katseye yoonchae

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gracie-eilish · 6 months ago

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oh my my my…

🌙💚✨🎄🥂

summary: you’ve been in love with your best friend claire’s older sister you’re whole life. but she never saw you as anything more than her little sisters awkward best friend. or so she thought… until you come home from college one semester and billie comes home from tour at the same time… and things are different.

a/n: billie is 24 in this and reader and claire are 21. billie is still billie, just add in claire with her and finneas. you and the o’connells have a close dynamic so it’s not weird for you to hang with the family while claire goes to bed or vice versa when she is at your house;) you haven’t seen billie since maybe she was 19 (touring and college kept you apart)

alsoooo i love hot older sister billie!! would you guys want like a prelude to this??

The house smelled like cinnamon and pine, the familiar warmth of the holidays wrapping around me as I lounged on the O’Connell family couch. Claire and I were sprawled out like we always were, eating snacks and laughing at cheesy Christmas movies. The glow from the tree lights reflected off the glasses of festive cocktails Maggie had let us make. It felt like old times—just Claire and me, like nothing had changed.

Except everything had changed.

We were both 21 now, adults in every sense of the word. College had shaped us into versions of ourselves we’d only dreamed of becoming as teenagers. Claire was thriving, confident and bubbly as ever, while I had finally grown into myself. I felt like the clumsy, awkward little kid who used to trail after Claire, Billie, and Finneas was long gone. I was finally… me.

But I hadn’t seen Billie in years.

She’d been busy touring, winning awards, and becoming a global icon while I was figuring out my life at school. And, if I was honest with myself, I was glad for the distance. For years, I’d been so hopelessly in love with her that it hurt. But somewhere between the late-night study sessions and messy dorm-room heartbreaks, I convinced myself I’d moved on.

Until today.

The door swung open with a flourish, the chilly December air rushing in as Billie stepped inside.

“Billie!” Claire yelled, launching herself off the couch and tackling her sister in a hug. The room filled with laughter and the sound of their excited chatter, but I stayed back, my drink clutched in my hands, watching them.

And then Billie’s eyes found mine.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

She looked the same but different—older, more mature, with that same air of effortless cool that had always made my stomach flutter. Her black hair, now long and layered, framed her face perfectly. Her jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, her light blue eyes intense and unreadable as they swept over me.

And I couldn’t help but notice the way her breath hitched for just a fraction of a second.

“Y/N?” she said, her voice lower than I remembered, like velvet.

“Hi, Billie,” I said, standing and giving her a small smile.

I could feel her gaze linger as I crossed the room to give her a polite hug. It was quick, casual—nothing out of the ordinary—but the way her hand brushed my back sent a shiver up my spine.

“You look… different,” Billie said, her voice almost hesitant as she pulled back.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a few years,” I said, tucking a strand of my short hair behind my ear. Her eyes flicked to the movement, lingering on my face for just a moment too long.

Claire pulled Billie into the kitchen, breaking the tension, and I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. She was just Claire’s sister. That’s all she was. Nothing more.

Except when she joined us in the living room, the air shifted.

We settled back into the couch, Billie now sitting next to me. The scent of her perfume—something woodsy and sweet—wrapped around me, making my head spin. She smelled… grown-up. Different from how I remembered.

Then again, everything about her felt different.

As we watched the movie, Billie kept sneaking glances at me. I could feel her eyes on me, the weight of her attention making my skin tingle. I tried to focus on the screen, but it was impossible. Every move she made, every small laugh or casual brush of her arm against mine, sent my mind spiraling.

Eventually, Claire yawned dramatically and stretched. “Alright, I’m beat,” she said, standing and heading toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

The door to her room clicked shut, and suddenly it was just Billie and me.

The silence was deafening.

I shifted on the couch, my leg brushing against hers accidentally, and the contact sent a jolt through me. “So,” I said, clearing my throat, “how’s life been? You know, with the whole being a global superstar thing.”

Billie chuckled softly, her voice low and warm. “It’s… a lot. But it’s good. I missed this, though. Being home.” Her eyes softened as she looked at me. “And seeing everyone again.”

I felt my cheeks heat under her gaze. “Yeah, it’s nice to be back,” I said, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the movie in the background.

“You’ve really changed, Y/N,” Billie said suddenly, her voice quiet but firm.

I glanced at her, my heart pounding. “Good change or bad change?”

Her lips quirked into a small smile. “Good change. Definitely good change.”

The way she looked at me then—like she was seeing me for the first time—made my breath catch. It was so different from the way she used to look at me when we were kids, when I was just Claire’s little best friend. Now, there was something else in her gaze. Something I couldn’t quite place but couldn’t ignore.

I tore my eyes away, trying to steady myself. “You’ve changed too,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Billie leaned back, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse race. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said, meeting her eyes. “But you’re still… you.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she reached for the remote and turned off the movie, leaving us in silence.

The tension between us was palpable, the kind you could feel in your chest, heavy and overwhelming. For years, I’d dreamed of being this close to her, of having her attention like this. And now that it was happening, I didn’t know what to do.

“So,” Billie said after a moment, her voice soft, “are you seeing anyone?”

The question caught me off guard. “No,” I said quickly, my heart skipping a beat. “Not right now.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, something unreadable in her gaze. “Good.”

The word hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning.

I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. But before I could think of anything, Billie shifted closer, her knee brushing against mine.

“You know,” she said, her voice low, “it’s weird seeing you like this. All grown up.”

I felt my cheeks flush, but I forced myself to meet her gaze. “Is that a good weird or a bad weird?” I squeaked out, basically repeating my earlier question.

Her lips curved into a slow, almost lazy smile, laughing at my obvious nerves. “Good weird,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Billie tilted her head, her dark hair falling over one shoulder as she studied me with a curious expression. “You cut your hair,” she said, gesturing toward my short hair. “You swore you’d never cut it. You would practically cry at the thought of getting your haircut even a tiny bit when you were little.”

I giggled a bit as I shrugged, feigning nonchalance even though her attention was making my pulse race. “People change.”

“Yeah,” Billie murmured, her voice soft, almost thoughtful. “You definitely have.”

Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and unrelenting, like she was trying to piece together every little detail she’d missed over the years. Finally, her gaze dropped to my ears, her lips twitching into a slight smirk.

“And the piercings?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who are you, and what did you do with little Y/N? I never thought you’d get more than just one little stud on each ear.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though the sound came out shakier than I intended. “I’ve been collecting them over the years. Do you not like them?”

Billie’s smile softened, her voice dropping an octave. “No, I do. They suit you.”

She leaned in slightly, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity as she inspected the small, sparkling studs and hoops lining my ears. My breath hitched as her face drew closer, her scent filling the space between us. Her fingers reached out, brushing against the shell of my ear as she tucked a strand of my hair behind it, revealing the stack of earrings.

Billie chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in her expression—something far from casual. Her hand lingered near my face, her thumb grazing my jawline before retreating, almost as if she realized what she was doing.

“You’ve really grown up, Y/N,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… new. Seeing you like this.”

The air between us was thick with tension, the kind that made my chest feel tight and my heart pound so hard I was sure she could hear it. Billie’s hand moved again, this time trailing through the ends of my short hair. She toyed with a strand, her fingers grazing my neck as she twirled it absentmindedly.

“This,” she said softly, her voice almost too quiet to hear. “It looks good on you. The short hair. I didn’t think I’d like it, but… I do.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just nodded, my throat tight as her fingers lingered, her touch light but deliberate.

“I’m serious,” Billie continued, her tone shifting, becoming almost reverent. “You’re not the same little kid who used to follow Claire and me around. You’re… different now. In a good way.”

My breath hitched as her hand dropped from my hair to my shoulder, her thumb brushing against my collarbone. She was so close now, her knee pressing lightly against mine, her dark eyes locked on mine like she was searching for something.

“Billie…” I started, but my voice faltered.

She tilted her head, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. “Yeah?” she asked, her voice so soft it sent a shiver down my spine.

“I…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. The tension between us was too much, the weight of it pressing down on me until I couldn’t think straight.

And then Billie closed the distance.

Her lips brushed against mine, soft and tentative at first, like she was testing the waters. But when I didn’t pull away—when I leaned in instead, my hands gripping the fabric of her hoodie—she kissed me fully, her lips warm and firm against mine.

The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of us in the dimly lit living room. Her hand slid up to cup my face, her fingers threading gently through the ends of my short hair as she deepened the kiss. It was slow and deliberate, like she was taking her time, savoring every moment.

When we finally pulled back, both of us were breathless, her forehead resting against mine. Neither of us said a word, the silence heavy but comfortable as her thumb brushed gently over my cheek.

“You really have grown up,” Billie whispered, her voice barely audible.

And just like that, everything between us had changed.

🌙💚✨🎄🥂

#billie eilish #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x you #fanfiction #wlw #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #taylor swift #debut #billie x reader #fluff

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viennakarma · 8 days ago

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Hope is a dangerous thing (for a woman like me)

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: When you hear Lewis' love grievances, while your own heart breaks, your own secrets spill out.

Word count: 5.5k

Tags: female!reader, best friend reader, unrequited feelings, pining, confessing feelings, reader needs a hug, lewis is a mess, hurt no comfort, complicated feelings, arguing, no happy ending, not beta read

Relationship: Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Note: Oh, look at me, posting twice in a week???? This is full angst, don't ask me how it came to be, I just had to take something off my chest I guess. I'm sorry if it's confusing or all over the place, emotions do be like that sometimes. Comments and feedback are welcomed.

Find me on Twitter! | HELP ME FIX MY LAPTOP ☕️

You and Lewis had been friends for so many years, more than a decade now. You had met through work, right when he started diving into his musical side. Back then, you were one of the most sought after musical producers and songwriters in America. You had met by chance through a mutual friend, and had gone into a studio right after, writing and recording some songs. The rest was history.

With a consolidated career now, you could afford to pick and choose whatever projects you wanted to work on, enjoying most of what life could offer. You were happy on all fronts, friends, family, career. But there was one single thing that never fixed itself.

Your love life.

Your last real, long term relationship had ended around four years before, after you were cheated on. Back then, you were a wreck. And Lewis, bless his heart, was a true angel throughout your low months after the breakup. That was the exact moment you two stopped being friends, and became best friends. He helped and supported you through the whole suffering after your breakup, and at the end of that year, you were the one supporting him after that god forsaken championship.

That was when everything changed for you.

That was when Lewis’ unwavering support changed everything about how you viewed him. How he became more than just your friend, and you couldn’t help but start to fall in love with his bright eyes and easy smile.

You had promised from the beginning that your friendship with Lewis was as real as it gets, and it was genuine. For a while, you hated yourself for that, for falling in love, for running your own view on that friendship that meant so much for both of you.

Now, now you had to watch him fall in love with someone else…

And the worst part? Was watching that someone not reciprocate his feelings. To break a heart that you’d give everything you could to have in your own hands, to cherish, to love.

Your own heart was in his hands, breaking alongside his, silently. But he didn’t need to know that, right? No, you were the best friend who he’d vent to, for advice, for support. And you would be exactly that.

You kicked the ground under your boots, both of you sitting on swings side by side in an old, almost abandoned park. You had lived in a flat right in front of that park many years before, and whenever you and Lewis wanted to talk, you’d go there, under the big willow tree, that offered some sort of privacy for deeper conversations. You had long moved away from that neighbourhood, but somehow, you’d always find yourselves back there, sitting on the rusty swing under the willow tree.

Lewis was hurting, spilling his heart out for you about the person he’d been pining for was ignoring him. The woman he’d met a couple of months before, who he’d been trying to win over was now ghosting him, and had recently shown up publicly with another famous athlete. You had tried to help, really, helping him find out her preferences, picking gifts and giving ideas on how to proceed. But she had apparently found someone else now.

You had watched all of it, from the first moment Lewis told you about her, eyes sparkling, to now, when the spark had faded into disappointment, heartbreak. As much as it hurt to watch him look at someone else with that admiration, it also hurt to see him hurting. But this is what friends are for, right?

“It’s not that she is busy,” you murmured, placing a comforting hand on his knee as he stared ahead, the rustling leaves of the willow. “She just isn’t willing to make time for you. She’s not the kind of person who’s going to see what’s right in front of her.”

Brutal honesty—that’s what he appreciated about you. No sugarcoating. Just honesty.

Lewis looked over at you thoughtfully, then turned his gaze back to the leaves. “Is everyone’s love that fleeting?” he asked softly, the pain in his eyes as clear as the moonlight.

Your feelings for him refused to fade, no matter how hard you tried to bury them. But you couldn’t tell him. After all, he was your best friend, right? And some things… some things were better left unsaid.

“No…” You paused thoughtfully, staring at the tree too, “not everyone’s.”

Lewis glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, arching an eyebrow at your cryptic response. He knew you were holding back something—something you weren't talking about. He was used to reading people, but you'd always been an exception. Sometimes, it was like trying to decipher a puzzle he couldn't seem to solve.

Lewis exhaled, kicking the ground like you had done under the swing, watching the dust rise and settle again, then gazing away into the still night air before turning to face you fully.

"Care to elaborate?" he prompted, the hint of a challenge lacing his tone.

“No,” You said softly, shaking your head, “there’s someone genuine out there for everyone, I guess. Or better, I hope…” You swallowed thickly. You knew none of that sounded like you.

His gaze lingered on you, studying the way you refused to meet his eyes, how your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. He knew there was more to this than you were letting on.

“Hope, huh?” He let out a mirthless chuckle, a hint of sarcasm coloring his words. "Since when did you get so damn optimistic, eh?"

He leaned back, hands flexing against the chords of the swing, his expression hardening a fraction.

“It isn’t like me, is it?” You chuckled, shaking your head. You had always been more cynical between the two of you, a realist, Lewis always says. And he was usually the optimistic one, you two balancing each other out on the friendship. Honesty and genuineness had always been a foundation to your friendship. Even if the truth sometimes hurt.

“Damn right it isn't.” He couldn’t help the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, eyes softening despite the heavy atmosphere between you.

He seemed to pause and think for a bit, “Why the sudden change of heart?”

He didn't believe for a second that you'd suddenly become an optimist out of nowhere. There was something beneath the surface, a reason behind your hope.

“I didn’t have a change of heart. I just think you’ll be fine, and you’ll find someone better than her…” You shrugged softly, the swing moving a tiny bit with the movement.

He rolled his eyes, the smallest hint of a laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, so you just suddenly got all optimistic about my love life, is that it?”

He watched you carefully, studying your averted gaze. Your words said one thing, but your body language told another story. Something was off.

Lewis shifted closer, his knee just barely bumping against yours. “Come on, spill it,” he said, nudging you lightly. “You’re acting even more cagey than usual. What's really on your mind?”

“Maybe I should start doing something about mine too,” You said, somberly.

“Your love life?” He asked, as if he had misheard you. His eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, and a hint of curiosity crept into his gaze. “So there is a special someone, eh” He leaned in, resting his forearms on his knees. “And here I thought I had all the juicy secrets.”

“No, I… I don’t know.” I laughed at his little joke, kicking the grass absentmindedly, “The other day, Sean asked me out.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by that bit of information.

“Sean, huh?” Sean was a friend of his, merely an acquaintance to you, Lewis himself had introduced you two. He’d always known you were popular among his friends, you had a way of charming everyone you met, despite refusing almost all of them and never really getting into a relationship with any of them. Trying to feign nonchalance, he shrugged casually. “And what did you tell him?”

“I refused, let him down gently. He’s a great guy, and would be a great boyfriend too. But… I don’t feel him like that,” You explained, that part was genuine, you just left out the reason why. The reason sitting right beside you.

He nodded slowly, processing your words and trying to understand the sudden relief washing over him. But a part of him couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit protective. You’d been through so much together, and the thought of you with someone who wouldn’t value the great person you were...

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and put on a nonchalant facade. “Why not? Sean is a solid pick.”

“I don’t see him like that.”

He studied you silently for a moment, watching the way your expression remained stoic. You wouldn’t look at him, instead staring fixedly at the grass beneath your feet.

His gaze darted from your face to your hands, clenched tightly on the plank of the swing at your sides. Clearly, there was more to this than just “not seeing him that way.”

He tilted his head, his voice quieter as he asked, “Is it because you've got someone else in mind?”

You just shook your head, holding back as always, hiding it, putting those damn feelings deep down, hiding them deep in the place where they were rooted, somewhere between your heart and lungs, fighting to come out like a dam about to break.

Lewis, though, couldn’t resist the urge to push a little further. The fact that you wouldn’t open up made him all the more curious. He shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours again.

“You know you can't keep secrets from me, right?” He said, his tone a mix of playful teasing and genuine concern. “Come on,” he nudged you with his elbow, “just spill it. Who’s the lucky guy who’s got your heart all tangled up?”

Something in your stomach froze. Like a train derailing, you felt the conversation turning to a point that could slip out of your control, so you tried to finish it, to lead it back to him or at least, to end the subject of your love life.

“It’s a mess. You don’t want to know about it. Bottom line is, he doesn’t want me,” You said with an exhale, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest.

Damn.

Those words cut through him like a knife, stabbing him square in the gut. It took all his willpower to keep his expression blank, hiding the sudden wave of emotion that washed over him. He was your best friend and he never, ever wanted you suffering for whatever reason. He cursed himself internally for caring so damn much, for feeling his heart ache at the thought of you pining for someone who didn’t want you.

“And how do you know that? Have you asked him?” Lewis continued pushing despite knowing you well enough to catch on your failed attempt to diverge the conversation.

You froze for a moment, staring ahead as you built up the courage. Like hanging from the edge of a cliff, losing grip as you slip down to a fall. This is it. This is the moment you rip the bandaid and change your friendship forever.

But you hesitated.

Years of friendship, years of loving him genuinely as a friend, and more recently, loving him as a man. Were you really ready for the impending change in your dynamic? In the most probable odds, you’d confess and he would say he doesn’t love you like that. In the least probable odds, the one you so desperately wanted to be true, he’d say he felt the same, or at least, he’d be open to try something more.

He noticed the shift in your demeanor, the way you froze in place. It raised a hundred different alarms in his mind. Something was going on, something big. He'd never seen you like this before. Lewis leaned in slightly, his gaze intense on your face, as if trying to read the thoughts silently screaming behind your blank expression.

“Hey…” he said softly, like speaking to a wounded animal, a tone he only used when he knew you were sad, his voice lower than usual. “You look like you want to say something.”

“He’s- he’s pining for someone else,” you said slowly, about the man you were in love with. About the one who, to him, was a faceless figure, and to you, it was the pretty brown eyes looking back at you with such softness, such care, that the knowledge everything was about to irrevocably change tore something in your chest.

Lewis felt for you, truthfully, suffering for whatever reason was the last thing he wanted for you. He let out an annoyed scoff, not at you, never at you, but at the man that dared to break your heart.

“Sounds like an idiot, if he’s chasing after someone else when you're right here.”

You knew Lewis was just cheering you up like he’d always done. The kindness and care he has always had for you, as your best friend.

“Idiot…” You repeated, whispering to yourself, realization that the moment was there, and you had to just- just say it, “The man I’m in love with… He doesn’t see me like that. He’s suffering for someone who doesn’t want him, confiding in me while I break my heart trying to fix his own.”

Finally, you stared at Lewis, your face saying everything your mouth couldn’t. Your eyes, shining in fear, longing that burned bright and the words that were stuck in your throat. Confessing the feeling you were forcing yourself to.

His heart skipped a beat as he met your gaze.

The intensity in your eyes, the raw emotion pouring out of you—it was a punch to the gut. He could see the pain you’d been hiding, the suffering you’d been going through while playing the role of a comforting friend.

It was at that moment that it clicked. He understood the weight behind your words, the silent confession you were making. He swallowed hard, the realization hitting him like a truck. You were talking about him. The man you were in love with was Lewis.

He felt a rush of emotions: surprise, disbelief, and yes, a hint of dread. But that was quickly suppressed by doubt. You were friends, just friends, and nothing more. Had been friends for the longest time, and the fact that you could have feelings for him, never even crossed his mind as a possibility.

He’d watched you date other people, he had seen you being happy, being adventurous, having fun, meeting people. But here you were, confessing your feelings for him, the dumbass who’d been pining after someone else.

You were burning in a new kind of shame under his gaze now, the words you dared to say now out in the open, impossible to take back, impossible to not be under his scrutiny. It was too late to back down now, what was left was just damage control.

“You don’t have to say anything…” You said, voice thick with all the unsaid feelings.

He shook his head, trying to find words, to grasp at what now was his reality. His best friend was in love with him and how goddamn stupid he’d been for chasing after a dead-end romance.

“You can't just drop a bomb like that and then tell me not to say anything,” He whispered, looking confused.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I don’t want to lose you, even as a friend...” You whispered, a lump lodged in your throat. Because your feelings for him meant nothing compared to your friendship.

The possibility of losing your best friend, of losing his random hours calls, late night trips to any store you two could get snacks and sweets no matter the country you were in, studio sessions just you and him playing around with music, lyrics and melodies. The thought of losing the man who’d held you when you thought you were going to dissolve in a pool of tears, the one that held your hair when you threw up, the man you held when the weight of the world landed heavily on his shoulders… The thought of losing that was more heartbreaking than any unrequited love.

“I can’t lose my best friend, Lewis…” You whispered and his heart broke in a completely different way.

“You're not going to lose me, you idiot,” he said gruffly, but there was that hint of affection in his tone. “I just... I need to process this.”

He was struggling to maintain his cool, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. This changed everything inside both of you, but he also didn’t want to lose the most consistent friendship he had in a long time.

“It’s okay, take however long you need,” You forced a smile but your stomach dropped with dread. Dreading to lose everything and even your friendship. You stood up, adjusting your coat, “it’s late, we should probably head home.”

He watched you stand up and adjust your coat, a pang of unease shooting through him. He knew you were masking your pain, forcing a smile like you always did. He hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to pull you back and needing to sort out his own thoughts.

“Wait,” he said, his voice soft as usual, “Can we... Can we talk about this again tomorrow?”

He needed time to process everything, to figure out what the hell he was feeling. But the thought of losing you, of pushing you away, was excruciating.

“Yeah, tomorrow night…” You nodded, taking a step back, “Good night, Lew. Don’t hate me, yeah?”

His chest tightened at your words, the thought of you thinking he would hate you. He couldn’t stand the idea of that, not when you meant so damn much to him.

“I could never hate you,” he said firmly, his voice rough. “Don't even think for a second I could.”

He took a step forward, the urge to reach out and pull you into a hug almost overpowering. But he stopped himself, his hands clenching tightly at his sides.

You nodded for a moment and left.

He watched you walk away, his mind swirling with a million thoughts and emotions. The night felt unbearably long as he tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was your face.

The look in your eyes when you'd confessed your feelings, the hope, the fear, the vulnerability. It was seared into his memory, playing on repeat in his mind.

The next day felt like the longest damn day of his life. He went through the motions, going through his routine, meetings, calls, planning schedules, but he was on autopilot, his mind elsewhere.

His usual sharp focus was replaced by a constant, nagging awareness of you. He found himself stealing glances at his phone hoping you’d text, searching for your number in his contact list, thumb hovering the little call button, hesitating, even though he knew he needed time to process everything.

The hours dragged on, the weight of unspoken words and unprocessed emotions almost unbearable by the time evening finally rolled around. That night, as he drove to the same park, his thoughts were still a mess.

As soon as Lewis arrived, he spotted you from a distance, sitting under the same tree where you’d had your conversation the night before. The sight of you sent a jolt through his chest. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before walking over. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his mind a swarm of nervous thoughts.

He stopped a few feet away and simply stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed on you. "You waited for me."

“I arrived not too long ago,” you told him with a tired smile after a restless night, after your confession had consumed you with guilt the whole night.

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the slight trembling. He took a deep breath before taking a seat next to you, on that same swing, settling down with a few inches of distance between you.

The quiet night air was filled with tension, a palpable weight settled over the two of you. He was acutely aware of your presence, hyper-aware of every move you made, every small intake of breath.

“So…?” You nudged him when the silence became unbearable.

He shifted, his eyes fixed on the grass beneath his shoes. The question hung in the air, and he knew he had to address the elephant in the room. He took another deep breath before finally looking up at you, his gaze steady despite the storm of emotions roiling inside.

"I've... I've been thinking about what you said last night."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to be honest with you, to lay his feelings bare, but he was scared of losing your friendship too, his feelings were all over the place and he wanted nothing but to reassure you, reassure you about how much you meant to him.

"It's a lot to process," he continued, his voice rough. "You... you surprised me, you know. I didn't..." He let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't think you'd ever feel that way about me."

“I know. I’ve been keeping it hidden.”

He looked at you, surprised by the admission. He'd had no idea you'd been keeping your feelings secret for a long time. “How long?” he asked quietly, unable to keep the question from his lips. "How long have you felt this way, and I was too blind to see?"

“A few months after my breakup four years ago. The support you offered me through my dark times… it meant so much. You’ve got no idea.”

He was taken aback by that response. Four years… four damn years, and he hadn't had a clue. He thought back to that period, the memory of your darker days, clinging to him like he was your life saving boat, letting him hold you to ease your heartache. He'd had no idea you'd been feeling something all along.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. All this time, you'd been harboring these feelings, and he'd been completely oblivious. It made him feel like an absolute idiot, like he'd missed the most obvious thing right in front of him. He clenched his jaw, his expression hardening with a mix of anger, frustration, and a pang of guilt.

"Four years...?" he repeated, his voice tight. "That's a long bloody time to keep something like that bottled up."

“I’m a pro,” You tried a silly joke, but your eyes watered.

The sight of your eyes watering, the sound of the tremor in your voice—it was almost his undoing. His heart clenched in his chest, the urge to reach out and pull you close nearly overwhelming him. He gritted his teeth, fighting against the wave of emotions threatening to spill over.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. "Four years. Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"

“You never gave any indication that you felt the same. And as of recently, you fell in love with that woman that rejected you… I… I don’t even know why I blurted it out last night.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration. He hated how damn right you were. He'd never shown any indication of returning your feelings, and then he'd gone and pined over someone else like a moron.

The irony of it all hit him like a truck, the realization of how blind he'd been. Having his heart broken by someone who didn’t reciprocate his feelings while doing the exact same to you.

His jaw clenched, his voice gruff and rough. "You blurted it out because you couldn't keep it in anymore, because it was eating you up inside," he said quietly. And he knew you, god, he did. He knew you well enough to know you were always one to keep to yourself and mature your ideas. He just never expected it to happen about him.

He shifted closer, closing a bit of the distance between you. The urge to reach out and take your hand was almost overwhelming, but he held himself back.

Lewis wanted to tell you everything, to make you understand how damn stupid he'd been. How he'd thrown away years worth of potential with you, focusing on someone who'd never wanted him in the first place. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"I was a fool. A complete and utter fool. I let myself get so wrapped up in someone who didn't even want me."

“It’s fine. I’m your friend, you had no obligation to see me as a potential romance,” You tried to comfort him.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing with suppressed frustration. You were being too understanding, too damn reasonable, and it was killing him. He couldn't stand how easy you made it seem, how you were just willing to brush off your feelings and continue being friends, like it was nothing.

"It's not fine," he said firmly, his voice a low growl. "Stop trying to downplay it. You feel something for me. Something more than just friendship."

“I’m not the first and won’t be the last. It’s not a big deal.”

He clenched his fists, his frustration reaching a new level. How could you be so goddamn casual about it? It was infuriating. You were downplaying your feelings like they were insignificant.

"Stop it," he grated out, his jaw tight. "Don't you bloody tell me it's not a big deal. It is a big deal, damn it. You've been harboring feelings for me for four years, and you're acting like it's nothing?"

He wanted to shake some sense into you, to make you understand just how maddening your nonchalant attitude was. He wanted to shout, to tell you that it bloody well mattered. But instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to rein in his rising anger.

“Four years,” he repeated again, his voice a low, hard whisper. "You've felt like this for several damn years, and you've been bottling it up all this time, pretending it doesn't matter… and you have the audacity to tell me it's not a big deal."

“Why are you angry?”

He clenched his jaw, his irritation flaring up once more. He couldn't fathom how you could ask that question with a hint of innocent confusion in your eyes.

"Why am I angry?" he growled, the words coming out in a tight whisper. "You're asking me why I'm angry? Because you've been harboring feelings for me for four bloody years, and I've been too damn blind to even realize it. Because you've been suffering in silence, hiding your emotions like it doesn't matter."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his features.

"You've been hurting, and what have I been doing? Pining after someone who doesn't want me. I've been chasing after a lost cause, while you've been here all this time, watching and hurting, and you still act like it's nothing. Nothing," he repeated, his tone growing more intense with each word.

“Your friendship means a lot to me, has always meant. And if I get to have a little bit of you through it, then so be it,” you whispered, like you were pleading, like you were afraid he’d end your friendship. But your reasoning only made him angrier.

Angry to find out he wasn’t as attuned to your emotions as he thought. Angry at himself for unknowingly hurting you while he pined for someone else and confided in you. Angry because he knew now things were changing forever.

The words felt like a stab to the goddamn heart. You were willing to settle for friendship, to take whatever scraps of his affection and attention you could get. It was maddening. He wanted to yell at you, to tell you that you deserved better. That he was a damn fool for not seeing what was right in front of him.

But instead, he gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching.

"You deserve more than a damn little bit of me. You deserve it all."

He shook his head, a bitter scoff leaving his lips.

"You're settling. You're settling for friendship when you should be demanding more, expecting more. I can't stand it… the way you're just… settling. Just taking what I'm willing to give you, because you think it's all you can get. It's bullshit. It's absolute bullshit."

You stood up, pacing before him, “I’m doing the best I can with the hand I was given.”

He watched you pace, his frustration growing even more. You were so damn resigned to your fate, accepting whatever scraps he happened to give you. He stood up too, his expression dark as he faced you.

"The best with the hand you were given," he repeated, his tone laced with bitter incredulity. "You're acting like you're trapped. Like you don't have any bloody choice. Like you're just a damn victim, forced to accept whatever I throw your way. It's bullshit, and you damn well know it."

“What’s the other choice, Lewis?!” You snapped at him, “Walking away? Abandoning the man I love?”

He stiffened, the sound of your voice cracking with emotion hitting him like a hammer to the chest.

"Yes! Yes, damn it!" he exploded, the words exploding out of him like a dam breaking. "That's the other option! Walking away, finding someone who would see you for who you are, who wouldn't treat you like a goddamn afterthought. Someone who would love you the way you goddamn deserve!"

You silenced, pressing your lips as his words landed right in your chest like a knife, “Is that it, then?”

The sight of your silent response, the way you recoiled at his words… it made his heart ache. But he couldn't back down now, not when he was finally airing his frustration. He took a step closer to you, closing the distance between you.

"Yes, damn it! Yes, that's it! Stop settling for scraps. Stop accepting whatever bullshit you get from me. You deserve someone who's going to put you first."

“And you won’t?” Your voice was small, the question hung in the air like a goddamn dagger, Lewis’ heart twisting in his chest.

He wanted to deny it, to protest, to say that hell yes, of course, he would put you first. But he couldn't. Not when he'd been such a damn fool, not when he'd been blind and stupid for so damn long. Not when he had already hurt you for so long. He looked away, clenching his jaw for a moment.

“No,” he finally answered, his voice coming out in a hoarse rasp. “I won't.”

You rubbed your forehead, nodding as your lips quivered. He watched you rub your forehead, the way your lips trembled betraying the pain you were trying to hide. Lewis wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and take away all your pain. But he didn't. He was the goddamn cause of it in the first place, the reason you were standing there, struggling to keep it together. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides, silently cursing himself for being such a dumb ass.

The silence was swallowing you both whole, like a black hole sucking the light from your friendship right before your eyes. It hurt like a knife twisting. You had thought your worst heartbreak had been in the past, but now, as you watched your person slip away right between your fingers… that was a new low.

“Hope really was out of character for me, right?” You smiled, looking at the ground. Your attempt at a smile, the way you averted your eyes to the ground… it was like a punch in the gut. It hurt like hell, seeing you trying to put on a brave face when he knew he was tearing you apart.

He wanted to deny it, to say that hope wasn't out of character for you… but he knew it would be a lie. You never lied to each other, that was the rule. He gritted his teeth, the words coming out in a rough whisper.

"Yeah… hope's pretty out of character for you."

“I’m sorry I ruined everything,” You whispered, still holding yourself up, somehow, barely hanging on, “I’ll see you around.”

Lewis watched you walk away, his heart in goddamn shreds.

He wanted to reach out, to stop you before you disappeared… but he didn't. He just stood there, frozen in place, watching the one person he cared about the most walk away. Once you disappeared, he finally let out a ragged breath, grunting to himself in frustration.

And he knew, things would never be the same again. That's what hurt the most.

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jjjjeonww · 4 months ago

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yoon jeonghan and his ridiculous ways of trying to make you his valentine.

~~7 years of jeonghan's life was spent pining over you, and each year on each valentine day had a special yet ridiculously cute way of him trying to make you his valentine. author's note: just a special something for valentines!! i know im like late to post something but i haven't had anyyy motivation for the past week so i guess this is an apology! pls enjoy <3!! tags!: ( @wonkierideul ... my nini <3 ) ( @kissbyoon first person that came to mind when i was writing this LOL!! my lili <3 )

every valentine's Day for the past seven years, jeonghan had been trying to find increasingly ridiculous ways to ask out his long-time crush, you. his friends would tease him mercilessly, but he remained undeterred, convinced that one day his grand gestures would win your heart. and here is all the silly ways he has tried! (and the way he had finally won you over)

Year 1: jeonghan's first attempt was hiring a skywriter to spell out "jeonghan loves y/n" in the sky above your college campus. however, the pilot had terrible penmanship, and the message looked like a string of nonsense scribbles. you just shook your head and chuckled when you saw it. Year 2: for your second valentine's day (as friends, you said.) , jeonghan tried to recreate their first meeting by "accidentally" bumping into you, hoping to sweep you off your feet. he rented a fake ambulance and hired an actor to play a stuntman. however, the actor lost his nerve at the last second, causing the crane to crash into a nearby tree. you just watched the chaotic scene unfold and couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous spectacle. Year 3: in your third year (again, as friends.), a group your mutual friends surprised you with a coordinated dance routine in the campus cafeteria. unfortunately, none of them had any rhythm or coordination, and it looked more like a pack of drunk penguins flailing around wildly. you tried to hold back your laughter as she watched the disastrous performance. Year 4: jeonghan had sent you a life-sized teddy bear holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates, with a note confessing his love. the problem was, the bear was so large that it wouldn't fit through yourr apartment door. you had to call maintenance to help you get it inside, and by the time they were done, the bear was missing half its stuffing. Year 5: for the fifth year, he had a billboard erected in your hometown, declaring his love for all to see. however, he forgot to account for the fact that your hometown was a small, conservative community. the billboard was vandalized with graffiti within hours of being put up. you saw a picture of it online and face-palmed at the ridiculousness of it all. Year 6: jeonghan chartered a hot air balloon to take you on a romantic flight. you were supposed to fly over a scenic valley, but the balloon got tangled in a grove of tall trees. instead of a romantic view, you had a bird's eye view of the inside of the canopy, with branches scratching the balloon. you couldn't stop giggling as you both slowly descended, the balloon deflating around them. Year 7: for your seventh valentine's day, he wanted to do something truly special and heartfelt, without the usual grand but ridiculous gestures. he spent weeks planning the perfect, cute way to ask you out and confess his seven-year (and counting) love for you.

on the morning of February 14th, heonghan showed up at your doorstep holding a single red rose and a small, heart-shaped box wrapped in shiny gold paper. when you opened the door, he the gift to you with a nervous smile.

"y/n, heh morning. and happy valentine's day!" he began, his voice trembling slightly, "so... i know i've tried to express my feelings for you in a lot of silly and ridiculous ways over the years and i know you've rejected me countless times, even when it wasn't valentine's... but this year, i wanted to do something simple and from the heart."

you opened the box to reveal a handwritten note inside, with a cute doodle of the two of you holding hands. "i drew this picture of us together because i want to be by your side, always. i want to go on adventures with you, share laughter and tears, and face whatever comes our way."

jeonghan looked up at you, his eyes filled with sincerity and love as you read the small note: "dear y/n, you are the most amazing person i know. your kindness, your intelligence, your beauty inside and out - it's everything i could ever want in a partner. i love you so much, and i want you to give me the chance to be yours. i don't just mean it just for valentine's day, i mean it from the bottom of my soul. i hope one day you give me that chance, where you can lay your soul bare and naked to me, for i have done the same to you. xoxo, your future boyfie, jeonghan!"

he took a deep breath after he saw your eyes drifting back to him, "so y/n, will you please go on a date with me? not just today, but every day, for as long as you'll have me?"

"you finally decided to do it simply hm?" you replied, eyes drifting down to the note again. jeonghan chuckled and nodded, "yeah..." you giggled and kissed your index and middle finger before tapping his cheek. then you placed your lips to the same spot where you had tapped it with your index and middle finger. he couldn't speak, it was as if you had broken him, well you did. now he's like a robot that can't function at all! his hand went up to his cheek, "oh my gosh... was that real?" you laughed and hugged him, "yes it was you silly." his hands instantly wrapped around you and he whispered, "finally, you're my valentine..."

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kumkaniudaku · 5 months ago

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Midterm

Summary: When Asia's in need of a few lessons regarding matters of the bedroom, her colleague and friend, Kelvin, offers his expertise.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC

Warnings: Mature Content (18+)

Word Count: 6k

MASTERLIST

Reading a congratulatory email with kind words and instructions to sign a lucrative offer was easy. Simply slip out of your third boring morning meeting, disappear into the surprisingly vacant courtyard, and spend no less than 30 minutes oscillating between excitement and sheer panic while clicking through pages of contracts to add your digital signature to an encrypted document. Kelvin followed the plan to the letter and then some.

The hard part was stifling the urge to scream at the birds and trees during peak business hours.

Voice low and eyes shifting in search of potential eavesdroppers, he sat in pensive silence to contemplate the gravity of his decision. In a little over a month, he'd be a Chicago resident. He'd wake up in his Chicago apartment, walk the Chicago streets, pass by Chicagoans on the way to his Chicago office, and then grab dinner ingredients at a Chicago grocery store. His license would change. Mail would need a new forwarding address. Updated voter registration, new doctors, a change in insurance, learning a transit system; change after change both excited and unnerved Kelvin all at once.

Part of him wanted to barge into his Head of Creative's office and slam his resignation on the table before clicking his heels together on the way out the door. Fuck this job. New and greener pastures were on the horizon! The other part, the terrified part of him that'd been worried sick since Saturday morning, couldn't even say the words out loud for fear that the wooden benches would absorb and tell his secret before he'd had time to craft poetic, well-thought-out lines.

In his mind, Kelvin thought he'd managed to maintain an impenetrable poker face. To a stranger or work acquaintance unschooled in Kelvin-ology, he could come across as convincing enough to overlook. For Asia, watching him from the communal kitchen, worry causing his knee to bounce in triple time told a different story.

"You know you can just go out there and talk to him, right?" Savannah's sarcastic introduction to an otherwise quiet moment cut through Asia's brain fog enough to garner attention as she shifted her weight from one side to the other. "I'm joking," Savannah laughed, trying to ease the tension between them. Asia's quick glance at the back of Kelvin's head provided the final number of a winning lottery sequence. "Wow, you really like him. Like, you two are a couple! I knew it."

Asia tried to remain casual as she crossed her arms and shrugged. "What are you talking about? Kel is my work friend."

"Must be a hell of a work friend for you to spend the night from his place. I noticed the cabinets, but I couldn't confirm until later that day when Kelvin took a meeting from the same place."

Savannah's cheeky grin sparked fear in Asia's heart. Widening her eyes, she craned her neck to see who may have heard her business in the area.

She leaned closer, keeping her voice low as she spoke. "You can't say that out loud," she cautioned. "We're being discreet!"

"Love you so much, Asia, but literally everyone knows."

"Everyone like who?"

"Asia," Savannah reiterated. "Every. One. The main crew has a group chat and everything. You just won me $20 bee-tee-dubbs. I'll share, promise."

Panic should've set in for Asia. Maybe dread and a tinge of fear. They'd broken another rule and crossed another carefully considered boundary in the pursuit of each other. Asia should've been nervous about how their not-so-secret pining had run through the office rumor mill and what it might mean for perceptions of her professionalism as one of the few Black women in the building. But relief was the only emotion worth exploring in the immediate aftermath of Savannah's revelation.

No more hiding. No more planning entrances five minutes apart or driving separate vehicles in busy morning traffic when one would suffice. They could share dinner leftovers during lunch and stop sneaking quiet giggles at jokes shared via text. No more hiding.

Relief helped Asia slowly release the extra air tightening her lungs and expanding her chest. She nodded at nothing in particular. "I expect my cut in all ones. It's for our strip club fund."

"Oooh, spicy," Savannah sang, stepping closer to speak in a hushed whisper. "So… how's it going with you two? How different is personal time Kelvin from work Kelvin?"

"Uh, I mean, you know. He's…you know."

Any sense of calm that offered a reprieve from an onslaught of complicated feelings was quickly replaced by the need to run out of the room and vomit. Knowing was one thing. Asking questions and wanting the scoop on something Asia deemed sacred and untouchable in conversation beyond what she chose to share was different.

Words sputtered from her lips as she tried to offer an explanation vague enough to get Savannah off her ass. The quiet roar of glass panes sliding on a metal track clipped Asia's start-and-stop sentence, turning all attention to Kelvin as he stepped in, looking like he'd just had his heart ripped in two and was trying but failing to keep his emotions intact. Savannah didn't seem to notice when she flagged him over. Asia couldn't take her eyes off his frown and sullen expression. Kelvin knew his face had betrayed him as soon as he was close enough for a thorough look at the questions knitting Asia's brows together.

Trying to play it cool, he swiftly pulled his hand out of his pocket and offered a wave to both ladies. "What's up?" A greeting he'd used a million times suddenly sounded bizarre. First mistake.

"Hiii!" Savannah's severe lack of subtly pulled a reluctant laugh from Kelvin before he shifted his gaze to focus on Asia.

"Asia. You good?"

She smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'm good. What about you? You good?"

"I'm good now, yeah."

Anxieties feasting on his mind momentarily paused in reverence for Asia's presence. A true breath of fresh air. One he'd fight tooth and nail to keep in his life, distance be damned.

Savannah stood between the pair and their smitten grins, looking back and forth to see who'd make the first move. "This is just the cutest shit ever. I can't take it." Googly eyes slowly turned into blank stares aimed in her direction. Hint taken. "No, you're so right. I should get out of here. Asia, remember to put the thing on the slide at some point. In the one deck."

"Bye, Savannah!" Kelvin and Asia watched Savannah awkwardly scurry off to do only God knows what until they were safely alone.

Without a buffer to fill in the gaps, all the nausea-inducing worry from the morning's events came flooding back for Kelvin in another crushing wave. Had he been thinking straight, he would've opted to save such delicate news for the privacy of his living room when all the thoughts sitting jumbled like Soul Train board letters were sorted into the proper place. Unfortunately, life-changing information sure to shake the still-wet foundation on which they'd built their relationship ran off with his rationale long ago.

Kelvin opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when words didn't come out. He tried again. Then, one more time before finally forcing, "I have…something to tell you," into the atmosphere.

Asia tilted her head in curiosity. "So do I. Is yours good news or bad news?"

"Doesn't matter," he answered, trying to smile through the rapid thudding in his ears. "You go first."

Don't press, Asia. Resist! An inner monologue determined to usher Asia away from the sins of her past forced back 101 questions to make way for her surprise. "You know how the Moët client is looking for new artists for that summer series activation?" Kelvin nodded, vaguely remembering project details he'd contributed to in a past life. Asia reached into her back pocket to showcase two laminated passes on lanyards. "I convinced Chris and Sid to give me their passes so we could pull up. Now, we don't have to go all the way to Australia to see RINI. Fun, right?"

Kelvin recognized the big reveal as something he should be excited about. And, had present circumstances not reared its ugly head, he'd have no trouble sharing Asia's toothy grin and silly dance. He tried to fight the heavy haze clouding his day by raising his hand for a high five and flashing a vacant smile. "That's great, baby. I'm excited. Really."

So much for honesty.

Asia couldn't hide her skepticism, pushing her eyebrows high, and Kelvin couldn't hide his discomfort, which made him fidget with the contents of his front pockets.

"Yeah," Asia answered, disappointment in his half-assed reaction instantly stealing the light in her eyes and turning her bright smile into a shell of itself. "Um, what was your news? Anything good?"

Tact was never Kelvin's strong point. Breakups over text and ghosting were more his speed, no matter how much he hated that fact about himself. What everyone else saw as sleazeball behavior reserved for fuckboys deserving of eternal banishment to hell, he saw as protecting feelings.

Promises were promises, and Asia was worth more than slipping back into bad habits. Kelvin had to rip the band-aid and deal with the residual blood later. "Remember the Chicago job?" he asked, wringing his hands.

Oh no. Intuition and a random tarot reader told Asia to be on the lookout for roadblocks, but, dammit, she thought that meant traffic on the interstate or an annoying client ask, not the nagging tug of the Midwest.

"Yeah," she answered cautiously.

Kelvin adjusted the hydrant-red beanie on his head and sighed. Rip. The. Band-Aid. "They…called me back with all my negotiation demands met. And…”

"You took the job."

Patience was never Asia's virtue. Why beat around the bush when they could lay all the bad shit on the table and try to salvage a few pieces good enough to keep for fond memories later?

"Yeah." The finished sentence turned an abstract concept into reality, weighing so heavily on him that he found looking Asia in the eye and lifting his head too difficult. He repeated after her in a low, measured voice, "I took the job."

Suddenly, Asia couldn't help but hyper-fixate on her surroundings. The low hum of two French door refrigerators holding employee lunches was annoying. It always had been, but today, it sounded like an army of flies buzzing around the mess Kelvin's news had created. Distant laughter made her nostrils flare. How dare someone find joy in a time like this? The kitchen was too big and too open to contain the grief rising within her. Then, the stupid ping of notifications on Kelvin's phone threatened to blow her gasket. The stimuli converged simultaneously, bringing fresh tears to prickle at her waterline.

Asia forced them all back while Kelvin waited for her to say something to prove she didn't hate him. She extended a closed fist in his direction to match a closed-mouth smile. "Congratulations, Kel. I'm so proud of you. If we were somewhere else, I'd hug you."

"Hug me to sneak in for a choke or a real hug?"

"A real one," Asia chuckled, the sound of it returning to her stilted and lacking the mirth she intended. "I know you're bored here. You gotta do what you gotta do, right?"

Past all the hurt feelings and rage bubbling in her chest, Asia couldn't allow herself to stomp out Kelvin's fire with negativity. She'd save that for a tearful phone call with Sabrina or a good cry in the shower. Kelvin needed reassurance that he'd made the right decision, not the moaning and wailing she had planned for a moment alone.

"Yeah…" Kelvin paused to scan Asia's face for any sign of an impending adverse reaction but found none before he answered. Nothing. Not a shred of any identifiable emotion presented itself to Kelvin. Anxiety gripped him again. "Asia, don't shut me out. I know you have questions and fuckin' feelings. C'mon. Don't leave me out here by myself."

"Not here." An almost undetectable waver in her voice was enough to shatter Kelvin's heart into a million pieces. He watched her blink back tears to speak again. "Can we just be happy, please? For a little longer?"

He sighed, accepting defeat. "Okay." A mental reminder to add 'needs a moment before tough conversations' to his running list of things to know about Asia ran through his brain like neon letters on a marquee.

His index and middle fingers brushed across his puckered lips, collecting affection he quickly passed on to Asia. She kissed the spot his lips once occupied as a silent promise to revisit the subject when heightened emotions had time to return to baseline.

"You hungry? My treat."

An olive branch. Collective ease passed between them once Kelvin flashed a toothy grin at Asia and gestured ahead of him toward the courtyard doors. "After you."

What Kelvin couldn't have in her raw, unfiltered thoughts, he was more than happy to gain in a spare moment of mindless chatter over sushi a block away.

Something was better than nothing.

If left up to Asia, Chicago and all its complications would disappear because of her commitment to ignoring them.

City sounds and radio chatter on Saturday evening had spent more time filling silent gaps of conversation than Kelvin and Asia had for two straight days. The elephant in the room quickly became the elephant at the dinner table late Thursday night when Asia side-stepped the topic to discuss Married at First Sight instead, the elephant in the bedroom when the thought of Chicago kept her mind wandering too much to enjoy Kelvin feasting between her legs, and the elephant in the backseat while she pretended not to notice her boyfriend stealing glances at the red light.

Given the chance, Asia could avoid broaching the topic for weeks. Kelvin, on the other hand, couldn't ignore issues festering into resentment day by day. Before long, he'd carefully label boxes and precious belongings to ship to their new home. Being on the brink of drastic change without a resolution wasn't an option.

Standstill traffic and a small car accident separating them from their destination provided the perfect opportunity to catch Asia in close quarters and force the issue. Kelvin took a deep breath and slowly turned the volume down on one of Tyler the Creators' piano-heavy tracks, earning a confused side-eye for his behavior.

"Everything okay," Asia asked, shifting her body towards Kelvin so he could feel the full weight of her annoyance.

He shrugged. "You tell me, Asia. I'm not the one tiptoeing around some really important shit right now. Is everything okay?"

"Kelvin, not right now. We can talk about it when we get back tonight."

Arms crossed at her chest, and a deep frown sent Asia retreating into herself, frustrating Kelvin to the point of no return. When he imagined the first roadblock in their relationship, hogging the covers or choosing the thermostat's temperature came to mind. He expected little hurdles to make room for the big stuff. The relationship-altering, make-or-break whammies either strengthened a couple or sent them careening toward total implosion. This behemoth was a tsunami of complications he didn't expect but wouldn't allow to throw him off course.

"You said that last night and the night before. I'm tired of 'tonights!' It's happening, Asia! We can't get around the shit. So, talk to me right now!" Kelvin's body vibrated in time with his hands gripping and releasing the steering wheel until he practiced in and out deep, soothing breaths brought him back off the ledge. Asia watched his shoulders slowly slump away from his ears before he reached over to rest a warm palm on her inner thigh to stroke his thumb against smooth denim, his eyes apologetic as he looked over at her. "I didn't ask you to be with me for no reason. Can we talk about what all this means for us?"

Asia rested her hand atop his to twist the ring on his finger while she tried to gather words and explanations she'd practiced for days on end. "I don't know."

In all her soul-searching and reckoning with the inevitable, she realized that she had no idea what the next steps were.

She always had the answers, the plan, and the foresight to know how to proceed in any situation. This one, though – this flurry of warm feelings filled with complicated explanations and head-spinning romance – she couldn't figure out. Not even when she turned to practical skills and timeline plotting to make it all make sense.

I don't know. Kelvin wasn't sure what he expected when he decided to corner Asia for an answer, but that wasn't it. Not knowing was worse than not caring. He could deal with the finality of no longer giving a fuck. However, the uncertainty in what he thought was a reasonably black-or-white scenario was unnerving. Kelvin let the gut punch settle until Asia spoke again to soothe the pain she'd inflicted.

"How…how would it work," She questioned in a small voice, her eyes low to avoid cracking the nerve she'd built. "Tell me you have a plan. Because, if you don't, I –"

Kelvin rushed to reassure her. "I have a plan. Trust me." For once in his life, Kelvin was moving intentionally. No stone left unturned; no possibility left up to chance. "I leave in six weeks. Give me two to get my shit together, and you're on the first flight into O'Hare."

"And after that?"

"We'll talk every morning and every night. Then I'm on my way to you every other week, baby. And every other month, I'll make sure you get to me. Nonstop flight. The price doesn't matter. All you need is a packed suitcase. Or not. You can be naked the whole time. That's fine by me."

Two nonstop flights a month, airport pickups and drop-offs every other week, Fridays in, Monday mornings out, constant connection over the phone when the physical was out of the question—simple enough. There was no fluff, only a concerted effort to make a less-than-ideal situation work. The happiness didn't have to die if they didn't let it.

Still, Asia wrestled with separating idyllic assumptions from reality. What happened when schedules presented challenges? Or when the weather interrupted? Did distance make the heart grow fonder or help intertwined lives push away the realities of life together hundreds of miles apart.

Kelvin could see the wheel turning for Asia while she mulled over his proposal from every angle. "Give me a little more time, okay?" Deflating. The air in Kelvin's sails came through his nose in a disappointed huff just as traffic began to pick up enough for steady motion. She held his hand in place, hoping he could feel the intention behind her hesitancy. "I'm not closing the door on us. I need to make sure we're prepared. That's all."

The absence of an enthusiastic yes wasn't a no – another tidbit to add to Kelvin's growing Asia file. He'd have to find comfort in the details to keep her in his life. And damn, did he want to keep her in his life. His plan had more legs, including a permanent address change for Asia.

"That's okay. Take your time," he answered as he laced their fingers together and brought the back of her hand to his lips. "Just don't leave me hanging like that again."

"I won't. I'm sorry."

Relationships came with a learning curve Asia had to experience to understand. No one in her life had prepared her for conflict resolution. Being an only child taught her how to play by herself and keep her secrets close to her chest. There was nothing in the manual about coexisting with another human she cared for more and more each day. She didn't know how to share items or feelings. But Kelvin made her want to try. That had to count for something.

Once tense quiet returned to the comfortable, wordless quality time Kelvin and Asia had come to enjoy, it followed them for miles to the venue until the need to mix and mingle took center stage.

In a room full of strangers intermixed with a few familiar faces, they moved around like a couple for the first time. Introductions as a tandem flowed naturally. Seeing them move from group to group hand in hand amused but didn't surprise team members who'd long had their suspicions confirmed by Savannah. 'Alvin' as one member of the group named them. Not their preferred choice, but good enough for the moment.

As alcohol flowed and inhibitions were disarmed, smooth crooning and soul-stirring baselines from the artist of the hour pushed tomorrow's problems further down the road.

Kelvin kept a hand on Asia's hip while she allowed her body to sway along with RINI's soulful cover of Leon Bridges' "That's What I Love." Hearing his voice beyond the warbling of his JBL speaker from Asia blasting music far too loudly reminded Kelvin of the first time she shared her new favorite artist with him. She made him listen to Ultraviolet twice all the way through, forcing him to commit more lyrics to memory than he ever did for any other artist. Truthfully, the music didn't hit the same when she wasn't in the room. He tried listening on his own, but it was missing something or someone to add the depth he needed to make the album spin worth his time.

Applause filled the room just after the final strum of RINI's guitar reverberated. Asia beamed from a spot toward the back. Asia claimed she was fine where she was, but Kelvin knew she was too scared to get close and act like a crazed fan. His lips found her temple for a quick kiss as RINI prepared to end his showcase.

"I gotta find a way to get out to the States more. This is great," he laughed, causing the audience to join him. "My time is ending, but I can't go without singing the song that put me on your radar. Big thanks to Moët for letting me spend some time with you tonight. I'm excited to get to work this summer. Until then, this is Meet Me in Amsterdam. I hope you enjoy."

Asia couldn't contain her squeal, earning a low laugh from Kelvin once the open notes of her favorite song began.

I would sail across the world

Row this boat from dusk till dawn

Kelvin and Asia had heard the song plenty of times together, so much so that Kelvin was tired of its slow drone and accompanying music video. Both RINI and Meet Me in Amsterdam were on his list of things he could live without and still die a happy man.

Until the lyrics started to circle too close to home. A plea for the songwriter's love to make the leap and meet him in a foreign land felt like a page ripped directly from Kelvin's journal. Had he possessed the talent, he would've sung into Asia's ear while she leaned against him, caught in the rapture of beautiful lyrics.

She didn't need Kelvin's additional vocal performance to know her partner had fallen victim to the magic. She was right there with him, letting the music speak where neither her heart nor mind could reach.

Won't you come closer; let it take over

I don't need anything; I just want you

"I just want you." The words came out before Asia could stop them. She was never one to fall into the melodrama of romance, but maybe she'd never had an adequate opportunity. Maybe all she needed was a few glasses of white wine and a man looking back at her like universes formed in her eyes to give in to what she'd always considered unrealistic and a little corny.

Kelvin wrapped an arm around her waist before dipping his head to meet her parted lips as she craned her neck to get a better look at his face. "You got me."

Turning in his arms, she faced him head-on. "I want to try. For you. Let's make it work."

"Every other week. I swear."

"I know. I believe you."

Rolling waves filled with blinding passion set their bodies aflame, connecting them for a kiss too searing to start and end in a room full of people. Some things were best experienced behind doors clumsily kicked closed after Kelvin and Asia burst through the door of his apartment connected at the mouth.

Small items clattered on the ground as they bumped into the wall, sending anything not bolted to Kelvin's entryway table scattering in the darkness. The moonlight streaming through his balcony door was the only light to illuminate their path. They couldn't care less. Kissing and fondling were their only priorities on the way to shedding extraneous clothing.

The bedroom was too far, and the couch didn't provide enough leverage for what Kelvin wanted to do for Asia. The counter was too high off the ground, unfortunately. The table, though, was perfect.

Kelvin thanked God for weightlifting as he hoisted Asia up into his arms, tongues still dancing as he walked them across the room. Asia used her forearm to swipe decorative mats and rattan charger plates to the floor so her backside could fill the empty space.

Soft panting and the light smack of lips coming together and separating rhythmically filled charged cold air. Asia flinched when Kelvin slipped his hand beneath her t-shirt to reach her bra's front clasp.

"Take this off. Hurry up," Kelvin demanded as he stepped back to pull his crewneck over his head. He didn't have time for frilly language and sweet kisses. Maybe later, when they'd calmed down from their high. This first fuck was for all the sessions they'd missed between quiet nights in and words left unsaid. A little something to take the edge off.

Zippers sliding down, garments rustling, and leather sliding out of thin loops made Kelvin's apartment sound like a department store dressing room until they were reconnected in mind and body.

Half-dressed with goosebumps pebbling an expanse of rich brown skin, lovers let their hands roam freely while they grinded against each other.

Asia moaned at the feel of teeth gently tugging her bottom lip before pulling away to breathe. "C'mon, Kel. Right now," she rushed on in one breath. "I need it."

"What about the condom? It'll only take a second." Kelvin asked, half-hoping but not expecting Asia to abandon her primary stipulation.

"Fuck a condom. C'mon."

The go-ahead to proceed with caution thrown to the wind put them on a path to the sort of carnal and fleshly satisfaction Kelvin's father warned him about before he left home at 18.

Sorry, dad. This shit feels way too good to miss out on, Kelvin thought to himself as he slid into Asia's warmth inch by inch. He was weightless for a moment, floating in otherworldly bliss while he fit himself inside her body. "Fuck," he whispered.

"Oh…yes. Yesyesyes." Asia's toes curled, gripping at nothing in a desperate attempt to remain tethered to the atmosphere. "Wait a second. Don't move." Crossing her ankles at the small of his back, Asia pulled Kelvin in a little deeper, smiling at the small groan he muffled against her skin. She just needed to feel him. In six weeks, they'd have to plan moments of intimacy and simulate sex through a screen, waiting for the day they could be together in the flesh. Tonight, with his body filling every dip and ridge like the final piece to a puzzle, they could kick the can down the road for a few more days. "Okay. I'm ready."

Agonizingly slow thrusts helped them get acquainted with one another in a new way. Kelvin lifted his head from the crook of Asia's neck, yearning to look her in the eyes for an added layer of closeness. He pecked her nose, lips, chin, cheeks, and lips again, trying to keep those three words at bay.

"Faster, baby." A firm request teetering on begging broke through Kelvin's haze while Asia tried to pull him into her body by his shoulders.

He smirked. "Oh, you can talk now?" His taunting made Asia squirm against him for extra friction before he stopped and held her in place. "You up for another lesson?"

"Mhmm," she forced out, hoping her compliance would get her closer to the real fun.

"You been quiet all week. Imma need to hear you tonight if you wanna cum."

A horny, exasperated sigh preceded a short whimper. "What? I don't know how t –"

"Yeah, you do," Kelvin encouraged. Tell me what you want, and then I'll give you what you need."

Near painful throbbing has Asia ready to agree to anything if it meant she could finally come off some of the pressure from a stressful week. Quick agreeance earned her a return to Kelvin's slow back and forth, a shiver hitting both their spines as he took a shallow dive inside.

Asia took a deep breath and tested her voice. "You - you feel so good?" She closed her eyes, hoping Kelvin would take pity on her feeble attempt only to be rewarded with nothing. She tried again. "Right there, baby."

"We'll be here all night. Relax. Be confident."

Relax. Be confident. The gentle reminder and suckling at her neck helped Asia partially release the valve on her nervousness. Kelvin rocked into her expert precision and care, waiting to hear more.

A choppy moan caught in her throat before she could speak again. "You fuck me so good. You really thought I was gonna let you get that far away from me?"

Kelvin groaned and sped up enough for Asia to notice. She smiled, palming the back of his head to keep him close.

"There it is," he whispered. "Keep goin', beautiful. Tell me some more."

Bingo. Electricity sparking between them opened up a whole new world of vocal possibility. "I want all you got tonight, baby. Can you do that for me? Fuck me until I can't take anymore?"

"Uh-huh. I got you."

Asia rubbed circles at the nape of his neck, feeling a jolt in her body from another change in pace. "Mmm. Deeper, baby. You can do better than that, right? For me?" Her provocation ignited a burning desire for Kelvin to perform. He needed the glory. Asia dropped her talking display long enough to moan through her man putting his entire being into testing the limits of his little circular wooden table.

If sweet talk couldn't get him to knock the rings out of her, goading him with a challenge undoubtedly did the trick. Scratching against his back, demanding more depth, more speed, and more kissing spurred Kelvin into fast, furious fucking.

In no time, they were close. Deliciously, dangerously close. No protection meant no staying for the final hoorah. He had to time his exit perfectly for the right mix of precision and mutual satisfaction. Though Kelvin seemed to care, Asia was just hitting her stride.

"I think about you all day, waiting for you to fuck me just like this. I want you so bad sometimes." Asia confessed while Kelvin fucked her on his toes. "Even at work, when we’re not supposed to. That’s when I need you the most.” Grabbing the sides of his face with both hands, Asia forced him to look her in the eye. "Be good for me, baby. Make me cum."

Instructions? A command? A simple slip of the tongue? Kelvin couldn't bring himself to waste brain power distinguishing. He needed to focus. Focus on Asia's nipples rubbing against his chest and how her breaths and his started to become one. Then, the light sheen of sweat helping their bodies slide against one another. He focused on the sticky coating of arousal inviting him to rub his thumbpad against her clit.

Asia squealed, then licked Kelvin's open mouth. He rasped out a command of his own. "Come on! Come on!" Resolve began to wane. Any longer, and they'd be in the nearest drug store taking the walk of shame toward the Plan B pills.

If the walls ever decided to talk, they'd blush when recounting the vision of Asia forcing Kelvin's mouth against one of her breasts, trying to balance the sting from his hand colliding with her thigh with his warm tongue tracing braille on her areola.

Her body seized, making it almost impossible for him to pull out. Every other week on a stuffy flying bus sounded like hell, but if he had this to look forward to after the wheels touched the tarmac, he could drum up some enthusiasm in no time.

At the last moment, Kelvin forced himself out of his favorite place on earth just in time for the fruits of a mind-bending orgasm to spill from his head onto Asia's inner thigh. Together, they watched fresh semen coat supple skin, their chests heaving and ears ringing. Kelvin couldn't speak. He could only watch as Asia gathered a small amount on her fingertip and swiped it against her tongue.

Kelvin moaned when Asia moaned to relish the sensory experience of his taste. "Did I pass?" Her question fell on deaf ears, with Kelvin more focused on gathering more semen on his fingers to pop into her mouth. She treated him to a show, sucking the digits clean. She spoke again. "Answer me, baby. Did I pass?"

"With flying colors," Kelvin finally answered. Asia smiled into a searing kiss, reveling in her accomplishment. A new skill had been unlocked, and one more accolade had been added to her mental trophy case.

Another lesson to take her mind off of the inevitable. At least until the morning rolled around to wash the fresh coat of paint she'd forced over a very real, immovable problem.

RINI blasting from phone speakers dampened behind the bathroom door reminded Asia of the night before and how she'd allowed the heat of the moment to lock her into a contract she'd neglected to read the fine print on.

Facing the bedroom window, Asia snuggled deeper into warm sheets and scanned the pros and cons list on her phone. Pro #1: She could eat deep-dish pizza every other month. Con #1: Her man wouldn't be nearby multiple days a week. Which was more important. She couldn't decide. Food or the comforts of stable, local partnership?

She had started typing a new con when Kelvin emerged from the bathroom naked and moisturized from head to toe. "You awake now?"

Fuck. Asia thought she had more time to plaster on her happy face. She used a pretend yawn as her buffer. "Yeah," she answered, faking the funk. "Good morning, baby."

"Morning." Unbrushed teeth could never stop Kelvin from getting his first kiss of the day. He nuzzled his nose against hers before speaking. "Sleep okay?"

"Mhm. You?"

He nodded and slipped into bed beside her. "For the most part. I gotta show you something, though." Kelvin reached back to retrieve his phone from the nightstand's charging station. A few taps against the screen presented a short list of apartment options for Asia's inspection. "I started looking at some spots in the middle of the night. This one has a crazy second room for an office. Look at that view."

A wall of windows overlooking the downtown cityscape made Asia's stomach churn. Reality smacked her in the face. He was leaving and waiting on her approval on an apartment she couldn't stand in a city she wished didn't exist.

"That's so nice, baby. You can get a nice couch in there as a gaming room, too."

Kelvin considered her suggestion and nodded. "Damn, that's a good idea. I need to take you with me when I look next week. You down?"

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, I'll come." Asia shook off her rapidly increasing heartbeat and scooched closer to rest her head on Kelvin's shoulder. "Can you show me another one?"

Enthusiasm fading into meaningless sounds turned Kelvin into Charlie Brown's teacher as he gushed over layouts and natural light. She nodded along to nothing in particular. Smile. Rub his arm. Act supportive. Be the perfect girl. Just be happy for a little longer.

Reply if you'd liked to be tagged. DM if you’d like to be removed.

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @hrlzy @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl @ariiijestertheklown @blyffe @tvchi @wabi-sabi1090 @flydotty @aldrigmer444 @ash-ketchumzzz @nayaesworld @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @writingsbytee @teddybeerz @trippyscotch @theogbadbitch @thevelvetwhispers @wowitsafemale @kindofaintrovert @sexysativa605 @jvzmine19 @turn-thy-paige @lapateeserie @simplyzeeka @supremechae @palmstreesallday @blackmoonchilee @ovohanna24 @prettypynklemonade @gwenda-fav @itsash-okay @sparklytemi @blackchickinthedesert @miyuhpapayuh

#kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr. smut

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star-girl69 · 1 year ago

Text

New Romantics

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!AphroditeCabin!Reader

—-

sypnosis: you and clarisse meet during a capture the flag game, In A Good Way prequel!!

a/n: IM SO GLAD EVERYONE LIKES MY CLARISSE FIC ☹️☹️☹️☹️ i have so many planned but i just wanted to say thank you all sm!!!! this one is so silly….. i hope you all enjoy!!

LMK IF YOU WANNA BE ON MY CLARISSE TAGLIST!!!!!!

New Romantics - Taylor Swift

warnings: violence, swearing, mentions of death and blood, insane clarisse bc she gets a LITTLE too into capture the flag, protective clarisse obvi i will never write a fic without her showing up, clarisse makes me SWOON if you couldn’t tell, not proofread we get turned into pine trees like thalia over here, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Your legs ache. You’ve been at Camp Half Blood all your life, but you just spent the entire school year doing absolutely nothing. It was an adjustment. You’re already being forced into the horrible tradition of capture the flag. You met up with your favorite and best friends Jackie and Tyla at the beginning of summer, and you’ve all been attached to the hip ever since.

The three of you thought you could escape to a random part of the woods and skip out.

It’s not like you were lazy, or couldn’t hold your own in a fight- but you had just taken turns doing each others nails yesterday, and it would be such a shame to see them all smudged and broken.

You were on the red team, so you watched as the incomparable Clarisse La Rue ran around instructing everyone what to do- completely skipping past the three of you. Jackie took it to heart, complaining about how she had lasted two minutes sparring with Clarisse once, and she had no right to label all Aphrodite kids as weak and useless.

You remember the night you finally made it to the crest of camp, blood staining your hands, your satyr protector dead on the ground behind you as some monster you didn’t know the name of chased after you.

The three of you thought maybe a nice walk at the edge of the woods would be nice, when suddenly a squadron of the blue team came running out trying to catch you as prisoners. It wasn’t a rule of the game, but it was generally expected that that the winner had more prisoners, or else the victory just didn’t seem right.

The blue team saw Aphrodite kids as easy targets to pick off.

This felt all too familiar to that stormy light, your pounding heart, looking around as everything crashed around you. One of them even jumped down from the freaking trees, and you screamed at the top of your lungs as all three of you sprinted off into different directions.

There was only one chasing behind you, a Hermes kid you didn’t know the name of, but he was fast on your tail.

Just as you had reached the crest of the hill, you screeched at the top of your lungs as you saw four figures in front of you. A satyr. Two girls. One boy.

“Not another one,” the stayr moaned, before beckoning you towards them. You stayed frozen in place. The monster was big and slow, but you could hear it approach.

The boy held out his hand.

“I promise,” he breathed, locking eyes with the smaller girl, maybe a year or two younger than you, before looking up at the older girl. You could tell she was battle hardened, she was ready to win this. “We’ll all make it to camp.”

Both monsters chasing you let out ear-piercing roars, and you quickly slapped your hand into his and sprinted away.

Thalia, you would later learn her name, didn’t survive that night. But you did. Luke did. Annabeth did.

The three of you will forever be bonded by that, even if you’re on different teams in capture the flag. Gods, you wish it was Luke chasing you right now- but it’s not.

You’ve forgotten everything about swords and fighting in exchange for the Russian Revolution and the Periodic Table. You hate school even more in this moment.

He reaches out towards you and you’re distracted by his hand touching your shoulder, heart pounding in your ears, and you trip right over a root and stumble before falling to the ground.

You faintly see the flash of bronze armor pass you, then you suddenly hear a body slam into the ground. You whip around, only to find a girl wearing a red-tipped helmet on top of the boy chasing you.

“Clarisse!” she shouts. “I got him!”

You breathe heavily, watching at the boy yells and tries to buck her off of him, but you faintly remember seeing her constantly around Clarisse. She must be another Ares kid, which means there’s no way she’s letting this Hermes kid gets away.

Clarisse saunters out of the woods on your left, looking between you and the boy on the ground.

You sit up on your hands, watching it all play out, not able to catch your breath.

She smiles, slow, like a cheshire cat.

Gods, why does she have to look like that? Why does she have to smile like that? Why does she have to make you feel this way?

Why doesn’t she just drop the spear and make out with you?

“So, this is the dummy who thinks it’s funny to chase around Aphrodite kids,” she says, slowing walking turns him. The girl holds up his head so he has to look at Clarisse. She places the end of her spear into the dirt. She leans down in front of him. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Aphrodite cabin is on the red team, right? Right?”

The girl tugs his head up and he winces, but nods.

“And who captains the red team? Cause I think it’s me, isn’t it?”

He’s learned his lesson. He nods quickly, now.

“I’m feeling nice today. Why don’t you apologize to the pretty girl, and maybe I won’t kill you.”

His eyes lock with yours. He says nothing.

“I said apologize, dumbass.”

He glares at Clarisse.

“You’re fucking insane.”

She laughs a bit. “It’s capture the flag, Zander, why are you not getting a little crazy? Chasing after Aphrodite kids is just embarrassing, honestly.”

“Fine,” he spits. “Fucking fine. I’m sorry.”

“Was that so hard?” she coos. She nods, and the girl let’s him go.

Holy Hades if that wasn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

He runs straight off into the woods after a moment, when he realizes they’re not gonna chase after him, not now at least.

The other girl turns to you. “You ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you dust off your knees. “There’s more of them by the edge, just so you know. Just north of the river.”

The girl smiles. “Gods, yes. Fuckin’ love destroying the Hermes cabin.”

Clarisse turns to you. She tilts her head to the side, watching you breath heavily on the ground. She sticks out your hand. Your grab it quick, scared she might pull away, and her hand is so warm and fits perfectly with yours. She pulls you up and you dust off your knees.

The other girl takes off running, following the boy, yelling for Clarisse to hurry up.

She smiles a bit, and you swear to Zeus her cheeks are a little flushed, you swear she looks at your lips for a second.

She brushes her thumb across her cheek.

“You’ve got some dirt on your face, gorgeous.”

She runs off before you can say anything, electrical spear crackling to life.

Oh, you fucking love capture the flag.

—-

clarisse “you’ve got some dirt on your face, gorgeous” la rue the woman you are

—-

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x you #pjo tv show #pjo x reader

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loafysainz · 5 months ago

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the parent trap (remake) | CS 55

cast: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: 100% fiction, remake, and this chapter lil bit longer

chap 1, chap 2, chap 3, chap 4, chap 5

PART 4 THE RIPPED PHOTO

All the campers marched like soldiers along the long forest path. Matheo and Mattia, the two boys facing “punishment,” trudged behind, clearly over it. At least the sun wasn’t blazing through the pine trees.

“Alright, everyone else can get back to your activities!” Mr. Hamilton yelled into his megaphone.

The campers cheered and bolted down the road. Mattia and Matheo stayed behind, exchanging annoyed looks as Mr. Hamilton pointed to their destination: a creaky old cabin that looked one strong wind away from collapse.

“Isolation cabin,” Mr. Hamilton declared.

“This place better not have ghosts,” Mattia muttered, adjusting his sunglasses.

Matheo rolled his eyes. “If there are ghosts, they’ll probably be more fun than you.”

***

The cabin creaked ominously as the boys settled in. Matheo unpacked with exaggerated flair, sticking Real Madrid posters on the walls. Mattia ignored him, focused on his card game.

“What are you even playing?” Matheo asked, squinting at the cards.

“Uno. Against myself. I’m winning,” Mattia replied without looking up.

Matheo rolled his eyes, then moved to open the window. A strong wind blew in, scattering his posters everywhere.

“Ugh, help me close this!” Matheo groaned.

Mattia stood, reluctantly helping. Together, they managed to shut the window.

“Thanks,” Matheo mumbled.

“No problem,” Mattia replied, sitting back down.

As they gathered Matheo’s scattered posters, Mattia raised an eyebrow at a particular one.

“What is that?”

“It’s Real Madrid merch,” Matheo said, clutching the poster protectively. “And this guy is Kylian Mbappe. He is my favorite player. Don’t judge.”

Mattia smirked. “Whatever makes you happy, buddy.”

Later, Matheo rummaged through his bag and pulled out a snack.

“Want some chips?”

Mattia shook his head. “I only eat chips with Nutella. You wouldn’t understand.”

Matheo froze. “Excuse me? I eat everything with Nutella. Even fries.”

“No way,” Mattia said, his jaw dropping.

Matheo grabbed a jar from his drawer triumphantly. “Believe it.”

Mattia stared. “Okay, now I trust you a little more. Just a little.”

The two laughed, dunking chips into Nutella like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Whats your dad like? I mean, is he the kind of father you can talk to or is he one of those workaholic types, who says I'll talk to you later, honey. But you know never really does. Well i hate that" Matheo asked casually with his expressive face and eating his chip.

Mattia chuckle a bit seeing Matheo face,

"I don't have a father, actually." he said with a bit bitter face.

"I mean, I had one once, I suppose. But my parents divorce since I was baby. My mom never even mentioned it. It's like he evaporated into thin air or something." Mattia said it with his voice getting quieter.

Matheo face shocked, his eyes widen, and his posture straightening, "Scary the way nobody stays together anymore."

"Tell me about it."

"How old are you?" Matheo asked.

“I'll be 10 on December 15th,” Mattia replied. “Why?”

Matheo froze. “That’s my birthday.”

Mattia raised an eyebrow. “Weird.”

***

The rain finally stopped, leaving behind that fresh, post-storm vibe. Matheo leaned against the cabin door, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle earlier. “Oh, hey, it stopped raining. Want to get a popsicle or something?” he asked casually, glancing at Mattia, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, lost in thought.

“What’s the matter?” Matheo pressed, noticing the faraway look in Mattia’s eyes.

Mattia sighed, tilting her head back. “What’s your mother like?” he asked suddenly.

Matheo blinked, caught off guard. “I never met her. She and my dad split up when I was a baby. Maybe even before—I’m not sure. He doesn’t like to talk about her.” He paused, fidgeting with his hands. “But I know she was really, really beautiful.”

Mattia squinted at him. “How do you know that?”

“Well,” Matheo said with a sheepish smile, “my dad had old picture of her hidden on his room. I’d always look at it, like, all the time. He finally caught me and just gave it to me.”

"Look, I’m thirsty. Sure you don’t want to hit the mess hall and grab something to drink?”

Mattia frowned, folding his arms. “Will you stop thinking about your stomach at a time like this?”

Matheo scoffed, hands on his hips. “A time like what?”

Matheo’s eyes widened. “Don’t you realize what’s happening?”

Matheo rolled his eyes dramatically. “No, Mattia, please tell me.”

Matheo hesitated, then shook his head, changing the subject. "Listen, I only have a mother, and you only have a father. You've never seen your mom, and I've never seen my dad. You have one old picture of your mom, and I have one old picture of my dad. But at least yours is probably a whole picture. Mine's a pathetic little thing, all crinkled and ripped right down the middle, and...

Matheo stood in stunned silence, the coincidence weighing heavily in the air.

“What are you doing in your trunk for?” Mattia asked, voice curious but edged with disbelief.

Wordlessly, the other pulled out a crinkled photograph, holding it up with trembling hands. “This... it’s a picture of my mum. And it’s ripped, too. Right down the middle.”

The first stared at the photo, their breath catching in their throat. Their voice was a whisper now. “Right down the middle.”

“Okay, this is freaky,” they said, their tone shaky. “On the count of three, we’ll hold them together. Deal?”

The other nodded, their hands still trembling. “Deal.”

“One... two... three.”

As the halves of the photos came together, the ripped edges fit perfectly. The faded image revealed a couple smiling brightly—Matheo’s father and Mattia’s mother. The realization hit them like a thunderbolt.

“That’s... my mom,” Mattia said, his voice barely audible.

“And thats my old man,” Mattia replied, unable to look away.

Their eyes locked, the truth settling in like a jigsaw finally completed.

#cs55 #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic

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vantetaes · 5 months ago

Text

BOOK WORM {PT TWO} 🫧🥂

ONYANKOPON X ARMIN X BLACK FEM READER

SUMMARY!!! continuation of book worm

WARNINGS!!! mutual yearning, oral {f}, threesome, competitive men, whiny men

start of christmas break rushed like a breath of fresh air for your friend group. everyone making plans for trips, indulging in everything they couldn’t with the hellish exams, and even finding physical attraction along the way. the weather finally cooling down to jacket attire and twinkling lights draped from businesses.

the air is thick and warm with the smell of spiced cider and half-burnt sugar cookies, mingling with the sharp tang of pine from the christmas tree.

the spiked cider pressed flush to your lips, drawing in the flavor while the scene around you grew more intense. eyes scanning the small crowd of companions, basking in the way the christmas tree lights kaleidoscoped off their skin, illuminating everyone in a warm glow of red and greens. jean slaps down a green reverse card, smirking as he looked over at historia, who’s hand had gotten smaller.

“sash’, you saw that right? fuckin’ cheater.” mikasa huffed, slamming down a black ‘draw four’, confusing the other game players. you throw your hands up, legs crossing as you lean more into the couch.

“it’s not your turn! how is he cheating when yo ass don’t even know the rules to the game?” connie bit back, pushing the card back to the girl who looked a few seconds away from sliding him across the table. the game continues clockwise, a few huffs as draw twos and fours were thrown out.

“just be saying shit.” jean mumbled, throwing out his red card.

helplessly, your eyes were latched onto the blonde haired boy. his long golden locs slipping from the clip you jokingly put on him earlier in the night. his hand held one card, tucked under the table.

“uno out.” armin says simply, placing the card into the wild stack, drawing attention to his now empty hand. everyone halts in movement, the roar of the group growing.

“i told yall someone was cheating!” sasha agrees with her black haired best friend, lips curled down in a pout while placing her losing hand down.

“how did i cheat when you can’t play?”

eren recollects the cards, starting to reshuffle the colorful deck. you take the last swig of the drink, clinking the empty bottle against your rings.

“anybody want something to drink?” asking the group collectively, everyone shakes their heads no, too focused on winning the next game.

standing from your spot on the couch, armin shuffles to get up, moving the blanket that covered his shoulders, eyes meeting yours.

“i’ll come grab my beer.”

you inch around the pillows that littered the ground, avoiding slipping with socks on the freshly waxed wood. armin follows behind carefully, eyes locked on the curls that extended to your lower back, almost swaying in the wind. the air you left behind wrapping him up in an intoxicating spiral.

he felt like he was in a fucking cartoon. it’s felt like being lifted into the air completely, following a glorious scent his nose and body followed.

“minnie?” recollecting his thoughts, his eyes snap to you, the light from the refrigerator the only source of sight. you’re holding out a glass, staring at the man in concern.

your eyes pinned on him. the light cascaded a gentle glow on the left side of your body.

taking the bottle, putting it right back on the granite countertop, he begins walking towards you, the shadow from his height casting over you. your feet inch, moving backwards to the wall.

“we can’t right now, min.” your voice small and hushed. with you pressed against the wall, he smiles down at you, lips glistening in the dimly lit area.

“just one kiss baby. they don’t gotta know.” his hands come up, sliding carefully under your shirt. cold fingers slowly caressing your skin, pinching the places he knows you’re a little more sensitive. closing the gap more, he finds himself leaning over into your ear. the gusts of wind from his nose sends chills down your back. you couldn’t take it.

ever since you and armin had sex, you’ve spent almost everyday together. no more classes, no more tutoring, means a lot of time to lay

“please armin-“

with a quick motion, his lips are pressed into yours. the mix of cider and beer cascaded your lips. swallowing you in as his lips deepen. arms finding rest on his shoulders, you could feel the warmth beginning to pool in your underwear, coating you in hunger for him.

“we gotta go back.” whispering against his hungry lips, the head of blonde just shakes.

“one more.” the entanglement felt like it went on forever, hands clawing messily in his hair as he lifts you by the waist off the floor.

without wanting to, he pulls away, forehead resting on yours before setting you down on your feet again.

“i want you tonight.”

without saying anything else, he takes the beer from the counter, motioning for you to walk in front of him. falling for his bait, his hand places a light slap on your butt, the motion causing your skirt to fly up a little.

everyone sat in their same positions, new cards in their hands and pleasant smiles across their faces. you opt to take the same spot, alone on one of the two leather couches historia designed with.

the doorbell rings, a jarring sound that cuts through the noise. historia and sasha hop up to answer, and you sink deeper into your spot, trying to focus on the new game starting up, already getting glimpses of everyone hand. the laughter fades, replaced by a murmur of voices. then you hear his name.

your stomach drops.

when he walks in, it feels like the room shifts, tilts even. his presence is magnetic, confident as always, broad shoulders clad in a dark coat still dusted with snow. he greets everyone with a warm smile, the kind that once made you feel like you were the only person in the room. but when his eyes land on you, something in them flickers.

“yn, nice surprise, didn’t think i’d see you here.” he says, his tone casual but lined with something sharper.

you force a smile, your hands gripping your glass like a lifeline.

“well, to be fair i didn’t think you’d come.”

he shrugs, his smile never quite reaching his eyes.

“historia invited me. hope that’s not a problem.”

“of course not!” you say, but your voice is too tight, hands begin to crate moisture.

the game starts, but the energy has shifted.

you knew your friends wanted you two back together. you knew that in the deepest parts of your body and mind, this wasn’t an accident.

onyankopon takes the spot next to you, legs wide as he adjust in the grey sweatpants. he was close, close enough that his knee brushes yours and you can smell the cologne he’s wearing. you can feel the weight of his presence, the unspoken questions hanging heavy between you.

you thought you were over it. but the man sitting beside you made it impossible.

across the room , armin is unusually quiet, his knuckles white as he grips his cards. your eyes flicker to him, noticing the seething anger he’s masking, face curling up slowly.

he watches as onyankopons fingers shamelessly danced over your arm, small conversation now consuming the both of you. how his eyes never left yours. how you were instinctively leaning into the man’s touch.

he hated onyankopon.

“so!” jean says after a particularly loud laugh from connie, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“how was finals for yall? stressful?”

the question feels innocent enough, but ony’s eyes are locked on you.

“same as always.” you reply quickly, too quickly.

“really? because you seem… different?” onyankopon presses, leaning in just slightly. you rear back a little, face furrowed in confusion.

the words are casual, but the undertone is unmistakable. your cheeks burn, and you glance at armin, who’s staring down at his cards like they hold all the answers in the world.

onyankopon doesn’t miss it.

his smile sharpens, twitching a little at the corners, his gaze flickering between you and the blonde.

“interesting.” he says softly, just loud enough for you to hear.

your chest tightens, the weight of his unspoken accusation pressing down on you.

the next round begins, but you can’t focus. your heart pounds in your ears, drowning out the chatter around you. onyankopon leans over, head almost resting on your shoulders.

as the night progressed, you, ony, eren, and connie sat on the balcony, passing around a thick blunt. watching as the smoke escapes and quickly gets pulled back in by ony, he taps the burning tip against a small ashtray. carefully handing it to you.

“see i need me something like that.” eren laughs, rolling up another blunt, turning his body to shield from the stray snowflakes.

“something like what?” connie asks, taking the blunt from you in rotation.

“like them! they ain’t even together and all up on each other!” ony rolls his eyes, catching a quick glance at you.

“yall acting like i cheated on her or something.” he shook his head, using the arm thrown over your shoulder to wipe away the snow.

to tell the truth, you and onyankopons relationship was the most solid one you’ve been in. ever. there was no doubt in your mind that you loved him.

unfortunately, he loved football. too much for his own good sometimes. from trying to schedule days to see you and work around his practice, and you having extra classes this semester. you both decided it would be better if you stayed friends.

eren tucks the fresh blunt behind his ear, finishing off the one that circled through the small group.

“im going in, it’s too fucking cold out here.” connie bites, standing from him spot on the patio furniture. quickly tucking his hands into his pockets, the boy rushes inside the warm apartment. eren looks at you and ony.

“want me to spark?”

“you want some more or are you okay?” ony asks you, full attention and eye contact. his deep brown eyes sparkle in the moonlit night, using one of his fingers to push your curl out of your lashes.

“um, im okay.” eren nods, grabbing his beer before standing.

“where you going?” ony asks, reaching for his beer to finish off.

“back in, my fucking face froze.” with that, he shuffled quickly back in, sliding the door closed.

“what you been up to? since, well-“

“i swear im not falling apart without you, onyankopon, texas’s greatest quarterback, prodigy since eleven, uh- may i go on?.” tone joking, he shoves you a little in the arm, holding onto you so you didn’t actually fall against the side of the sofa.

“im glad. y’know i always want you to be good.” he’s leaning forward, elbows in knees, eyes focused onto the moving city.

“then, can i ask you a question?” you whisper, able to see your breath in the air, watching as it rises.

“you know you can.” he reaffirms.

“why did you decide football was more important than me?” in taking a sharp breath, he turned to fully look at you.

“so you think that’s what that was, yn?” nodding your head and unsure ‘yes’, he begins to slide closer to you.

“i never wanted to choose between you or football. i just wanted to get where i am, right now. i wasn’t motivated enough for the sport. wasn’t motivated enough for you. i was doing terrible.” his eye shimmered, glossing over a bit as his body’s warmth began to radiate onto you. without thinking, your palm comes up to caress the man’s face, nails running against the smooth skin. legs side by side, onyankopon leans into your shoulder, embracing the cool gentle touch of your fingers.

“i never wanted this to happen.” he raises his head from your shoulder, faces inches apart.

“me neither.” you push out, eyes look down to his lips. “kiss me ony.”

his lips take over yours with passion. moving at the same rhythm, you begin to lay backwards, eyes snapping to check the door. wrapping your arms around his neck, he starts to nibble at your earlobe, teeth gently grazing. one of his hands rest on your thigh while the other rest on your waist.

releasing a small, restrained moan, the man hums with enjoyment.

“let me get you back baby. everything’s different now.” listening to his pleas was getting harder to do as he snaked his hands up your sweater. gently teasing your stiffened nipples between this fingers.

“let me lift this up.” you lift your body a little, allowing him to pull your sweater up.

god he wish he didn’t. there on your right breast was indeed a large, circular, maroon and dark purple mark. without saying anything, he just pulls your sweater back down, not completely sure what he just saw only knowing it was blowing his high.

“wanna go back?” he asks, grabbing his empty bottle. your body jolts into a sitting position, confusion filling your brain, and panties.

“uh, yeah sure.”

“what’s that?” he asks, genuine curiosity fills the question. his jeweled finger points to the glass you held. the orange-brownish liquid.

“spiked cider. wanna try it? i don’t think you’ll like it.”

“you don’t know that!”

this is why you should’ve avoided the man. subconsciously watching how simple it is for you to treat him as if he’s your boyfriend, still. his lips press against the cool bottle, taking in a sip before immediately curling his face up. a loud laughs slips from your mouth before you can catch it, earning a side eye from the man.

“i told you.”

armin clears his throat, taking down the rest of his beer before throwing another ‘uno’. his gaze meets with yours, something else filling him now. this draws onys attention too. noticing the smoke coming from armins ears and nose, he decides, why not?

“armin!” onyankopon says smoothly, leaning back in his spot, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“you’ve been quiet tonight. nervous about something?”

“what?” armin replies, voice a little tight, helping shuffle some of the colorful cards.

“yeah man i mean- what- what im saying is we usually talk a little more, what’s up?” his tone was sweet but intimidating.

the question is a loaded gun. the air in the room shifts. armins head snaps up, his eyes low, and for a split second, he looks at you. it’s a mistake. a terrible, damning mistake.

when he turns back to you, it’s with a look that cuts through you like a blade.

“very fucking interesting, yn.” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. but it’s loud enough.

“onyankopon, let’s go talk on the balcony.” you start, your voice shaky, desperate to diffuse whatever bomb is about to go off.

“no,” he interrupts, his tone calm but laced with steel. “i think i get it now.”

the room quiets, the playful chatter fading as your friends start to notice the tension radiating from your corner. historia glances over, concern flickering across her face. jean raises an eyebrow, and sasha freezes mid-bite of a cookie. mikasa and eren both place their cards down, glancing at one another.

“what’s.. going on?” connie asks, breaking the silence, his tone half-joking but uncertain, still high from the balcony session. mikasa just shakes her head, indicating for him to be quiet.

ony doesn’t answer. his eyes are locked on you, unrelenting, his voice steady when he speaks again.

“tell me something.” he says, leaning in just slightly, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“did it even mean anything? or was it just sex?”

“stop.” you whisper, your throat tightening, but it’s too late.

“or was it just convenient?” his words slice through the air, louder this time, the venom unmistakable.

the group stares now, all eyes darting between you, armin, and onyankopon. armin stiffens, his face pale as a sheet, his fingers clenching so tightly around his cards that they crumple.

“what’s he talking about?” sasha asks, her voice small, uncertain. crumbs of cookie falling from her glossed lips.

“yeah, are yall fucking each other or some-“ mikasa launches a used paper towel at the back of jeans head.

your vision blurs, heat rushing to your face as the walls feel like they’re caving in. you want to disappear, to melt into the floor and escape the unbearable weight of their stares.

but onyankopon doesn’t stop. he laughs, a bitter, hollow sound.

“don’t play fucking stupid.” he says, his voice sharp enough to cut.

“watch your mouth, onyankopon.” armin speaks, jaw clenched in anger.

“shut the fuck up, mommas boy. like i was saying.” eren opens his mouth a little.

“let me finish. it’s obvious, right? finals week, all that tension, you two couldn’t help yourselves, could you?”

“ony-” you choke out, pleading, but your voice falters.

armin finally breaks.

“im sorry man.” he says, barely above a whisper.

it’s like a bomb goes off. historia gasps, sasha’s jaw drops, and jean lets out a low whistle, muttering, “no way.”

the room erupts into chaos, voices overlapping as everyone reacts, but all you can focus on is onyankopon. his eyes hadn’t left yours.

“can we please do this outside? all of us.”

at the end of the night, which was shorty after, nothing was said. not even in the group chat.

a week to new years.

it’d been two weeks since you’d seen either of the boys. only talking to your friends about the situation once before they respected wishes and never brought it up again.

your slippers padded against the floors, echoing off your walls. pink and gold glitter covers your floor, a few shards of broken glass ornaments lay when the small pine used to decorate your apartment. soft rnb lulls in the background, keeping your mind preoccupied as you box away what decorations you didn’t break.

lola, your ragdoll, sprints down the hall before extending her limbs, stretching from her nap on the bedroom widow sill. she drops down onto her side, licking off a spot on her belly.

“wow, you work so hard, you must be so tired!” you say sarcastically, bending down at your knees, petting the cat. nudging you with the wet tip of her nose, she begins to purr.

“what would i do without my sweet lola baby? you know just how to distract me-“

the doorbell rings once. your cat rears up, sitting and looking directly at your front door, a small meow breaks from her. you wait two minutes before determining it was an accident.

but then it happens again. reaching for your phone, you quickly open the ring app. the doorbell camera catches armin, swaying side to side, fingers fidgeting with each other. wasting no time, you wander over to swing the door open. in the hallway, all you could see was him getting ready to walk away.

“yes?” you answer softly. he turns quickly in his heels, you could’ve sworn he was going to burn a hole to the next floor down. his blue eyes light up once they’ve seen yours.

“yn. can we please talk?”

inviting him in, you apologize for the mess.

“i’ve seen worse from you.” joking lightly, he takes a seat at the bar chairs, watching as you wipe off the glitter from your black lululemon set.

“haha, so funny. are you doing okay? why are you all the way on this side of town?” taking the chair next to him, you could tell the man was holding something in. hands gripped into fists, eyes locked ground, you couldn’t react before he took your face into his hands.

his plump pink lips press against yours, groaning at the feeling of you beginning to kiss back. you couldn’t help but to cave in. feeling how soft and warm his lips were against yours. he pulls away, still connecting your forehead with his.

“please, yn. you’re everything i’ve ever wanted.”

before you could open your mouth to say anything to the man, another ring at the door pulls you away. armin walks to the living room, taking a seat on the couch, watching as lola made biscuits in the throw blanket.

you swing the door open, eyes wide when you see onyankopon standing there, eyes low and red.

“what-“ he just pulls you in for a hug, lifting you off your feet. naturally, your legs swing around the man’s waist, feeling his large hand across your ass as he holds you up.

you’re wearing his favorite set, smelled like his favorite perfume of yours. the hug lasted well beyond a full minute , unmoving from the hall. his head dips down to the crook of your neck, groaning a little.

“ony, now’s a bad time. i have something to straighten out inside. come back over later?” you try to climb down from his hold only to be held tighter. he just shakes his head, kissing the exposed skin of your neck before placing you down gently.

“let me just come in, you wont even notice.” your lips fold inwards, turning to look at the adjacent door.

“look. to tell you the truth, armin showed up like two minutes before you did.” onyankopons face drops, a laugh starting but ultimately ending up in a harsh frown.

“so you chose him?” he asks, stepping away from the door.

“no. ony, i didn’t ‘choose’ him. i’m going to hear what he has to say, then he’s leaving. if you can be an adult and stay to talk, i’ll hear you out too.”

“you’re a fucking idiot, why would she want to wait sixteen years for you to pay off student loans when she can have it all right now?”

“until someone knocks that rock of a cranium on your shoulders hard enough.”

you stood in the kitchen, throwing away trash and cleaning up your area. them coming over wasn’t going to stop your cleaning day.

“i can hear you two!”

finishing off the counters of your kitchen, you head back to the living room. watching as both men sit quietly now, head hung in shame and guilt.

“okay since the men in here want to act like babies, i’ll start. armin i really enjoy your company, you’ve been my friend for a really long time now and i cherish that. you know that.” the blonde man looks up at you, an expression of knowing but also pain crossing his ocean blue eyes. walking over to sake a seat in your chair, lola follows behind, waiting for you to sit before she jumps up, curling into your lap. you eyes flick to onyankopon who has his head thrown back, arm shield his eyes.

“onyankopon. you need to understand that whatever me and armin did happened when we broke up. we weren’t texting, weren’t talking. i had given up already. but you know i love you too.”

“i get it, yn. just something about thinking of his hands over you just- i never wanted to break up.”

“yet you were quick to leave.” he pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, a bitter ‘ha!’ coming from his chest.

“yn. when we played there and talked, that was the most i’ve spoken to anyone personally in a really long time. you care about me, i care about you.”

“ugh i don’t know! it’s all just- complicated.” the two men make eye contact. a first, anger, hatred. then, as if they shared a brain, something shimmers in their eyes. onyankopon shifts in his seat, nodding at armin.

“then at least, let us make you feel better. you can tell us whoever you want when we’re done or we can just leave, princess.”

you’ve got to stop putting yourself in these positions.

armin sits in the chair you once occupied, watching intently, hand wrapped around himself as he stroked slowly. letting some saliva from his mouth fall onto his swollen tip. hands twisting to coat himself in the slick.

his eyes daze at how large onyankopons hands wrapped around your torso, holding your arms behind your back, as he bounced you on his length. lips attached to your swollen nipples, his eyes focused on your face above him.

“fuck, ony! just like that!” releasing your arms, he pulls you into a full sit on his dick. fingers digging into your waist. you feel it stretching and filling you up, pressing against your spot as the man nips at parts of your neck and chest. small red spots being left behind.

he picks you back up, holding you a little higher, using the leverage to fuck into you.

“look at me, ma. let me see how i’m making you feel.”

this was the position he used to love putting you in. showing off his strength but also how no matter what, he knew what was going to make you crumble.

“want your lil friend over here so he can see how to actually make you cum baby?” you whine, head lolling all the way backwards to look at armin. he was a mess under his own doing, shirt hoisted to his chin, hand still wrapped around his sticky skin. his eyes low, burning right into yours.

“oh fuck- i’m gonna cum! ony fuck! im-“ eyes rolling to the back of your head, youre shooting warm squirt all on the man’s bottom half. he lays you down on the couch, letting your orgasm shake your body while he rubs your side soft.

“come here.” onyankopon motions for armin to come over. the blonde man checks on you before turning to look at the other male.

“might as well go home.”

armin has you on your side, facing onyankopon straight on. his hand wrapped around your throat, other holding your leg up by the knee. his dick pumps slow, feeding you every inch of him while his lips suck at your exposed neck.

“min! min! oh my god-“ you cry out, feeling his he’s making your stomach bulge, your hands reaching behind to try to keep him from going so deep.

“keep your hands to yourself, baby.” he used his body strength to pull both of you up into a sitting position. with you facing your ex, armin folds your knees up to your chest, fucking into you from below.

“fuck- pussy so fucking nice to me baby.” he groans, slow strokes killing you.

“im so close armin please!”

onyankopon couldn’t lie. this was driving him crazy. watching as the drool falls from your pretty pink lips. how you’re pressed up against armin, his teeth marking your skin.

pumping his cock, his head falls backwards, listening to the moans fall from your lips. the sound of your pussy filling the space.

“im cumming! oouu shit, baby.” watching as the white ring formed around the base of armins cock becoming thicker as he continued to fuck into you. not caring about who you picked, just wanting you to feel your best.

“fuck- that’s not fair!” onyankopon watched as armin flipped you into a new position, aligning himself on top of you.

“stop being a fucking pussy and come help then.” armin bites back, positioning himself, he pushes into your clenching hole.

“ah! s-so sensitive i can’t take it!” you feel onyankopons hands rub from your breast, sliding up before taking control of your arms. holding you in place as armin beat you into the couch. the blonde digs his thumbs into the crease of your hips, dropping his cock into you.

“yes the fuck you can, ony go open her bedroom door.”

the two men help shuffle you down the hall, both grabbing at your body like vultures. you climb onto your bed, eyes locked with onyans. he fully strips himself, climbing right beside you. you attach your lips, humming into the kiss as his hands roam your tits.

“i missed you.” he whispers between a kiss, catching you off guard as armin turns your head the other way. he presses into you gently, fingers drawing faint lines on your spine.

“who do you want to fuck you, princess?” armin asks, watching as your head snaps back to onyankopon. the man wastes no time bringing you to his lap. lips reattached as he flips you onto your back.

“go sit behind her.” he instructs armin. the man climbs behind you, you feel his hard length against your back as your ex dips his head down.

his mouth places a few kisses on your bottom lips, begging a delicate as he possible could. he uses one hand, speeding you open before licking from your throbbing hole to the abused bud. letting some spit fall from his lips, his tongue spreads it around.

“oh! ony! love your fucking mouth so much.” armins hands play with your nipples, your hands up playing with his locks.

the man below sucks at the bud slow, eyes watching as your lips connect with armins. saliva coating both your faces in hungry affection. climbing back up, he pushes your legs back.

“hold them.” armin listens, holding your legs back while the other places himself at your entrance. his eyes watch you hungrily as he pushed inside, bottoming out.

“i know she missed me, look at how she’s taking me baby.”

he teasingly pulls out, watching as your mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, before sliding back in. your pussy making noises as he continues to fuck you into the mattress.

“doing so well for us baby, taking all his dick huh.” armins watching down at you, lips curled into a smile while his hands played with your nipples.

“how this shit feel baby? you missed this dick?” ony asks, head quirked to the side as he watched himself fill you up. you nod, lost in pleasure and close to yet another orgasm.

“uhn uhn let me hear you say it baby. tell me how much you missed me fucking this pussy.”

“i missed you so much, daddy- oh fuck! im so close please- i cant!” he doesn’t stop, relentlessly pounding into you, feeling your nails dig into his arms.

“yeah, give it to me ma, come with me.” before you know it he’s releasing long white ropes across his body while armin is turning you around on all fours. onyankopon climbs into the spot armin occupied, smiling down at you.

“you’re doing so good, mama. just one more okay?” his large hand comes up to slightly rub the side of your face. tears flood as you feel armin start to fill you up. your ex watches as your face contorts into pleasure, looking as you peer back at his acquaintance.

it’s like they both were trying to find something important. slow strokes stealing your soul as he hikes one of his legs up, pressing down on your back with both his hands.

you could feel him in places you didn’t even know existed. face rested on onyankopons hands, back arched, armin digging into you from behind. your body’s on fire.

the sound of his balls slapping against your abused clit fill the room. your moans turned to nothing but gasps of air and drool falling out the corner of your lips. eyes rolled back into your head.

“one more, princess. just one- shit- one more.” he reassured, hips dragging quicker.

“pussy so good. m’i making her feel good baby?” you nod, lost in pleasure. he could feel you clenching around him. how your hands shot out to grab hold on your exs chest as you release all over armin. clear liquid shoots out as you collapse. the two men move off the bed, sighing at your beaten frame.

“you take her to the shower, i’ll wash her sheets?”

onyankopon agrees, picking you up bridal style.

“let’s go princess.”

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aventurineswife · 6 months ago

Note

I HAVE ANOTHER IDEA

AVENTURINE X READER THEY MARRIED THEY HAVE A CHILD (or children idk) AND LIKE YEAH ITS CHRISTMAS AS A FAMILY AND AVENTURINE GETS EMOTIONAL

A Family of Our Own

Summary: You and Aventurine, now married, are celebrating Christmas as a family. Your life together has evolved beyond the high-stakes gambles and manipulative games that once defined Aventurine’s world. As you enjoy the holiday with your child, Aventurine becomes unexpectedly emotional. He reflects on his past, his trauma, and the family he never thought he'd have. In the warmth of the holiday and the love of his family, he grapples with feelings of gratitude, guilt, and the realization that happiness may finally be within his reach.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Winter Special, Family Fluff, Christmas Celebration, Emotional Vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort, Character Development, Domestic Life, Love and Healing.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma, Emotional moments, Brief references to violence in Aventurine’s past, Light angst (in Aventurine’s emotional struggles).

The flicker of golden lights from the Christmas tree cast a warm glow across the room, reflecting off the delicate glass ornaments. The soft hum of holiday music played in the background as your child giggled, unwrapping presents under the tree. Aventurine, dressed in a velvet green robe that matched the festive decor, sat on the couch, his usual confident smirk softened into a serene smile.

The air was filled with the scent of cinnamon and pine, a reminder that you had finally managed to convince Aventurine to let the holidays be about more than just the game of life he so often played. This year, it was different.

He leaned back, watching the scene unfold before him: your child holding up a glittering card-shaped ornament, exclaiming about how it was "just like Papa's lucky charm," and you, laughing softly as you adjusted the tree's golden star.

"Careful with that," he teased, his tone light but carrying a flicker of concern. "That ornament's as fragile as the odds in my favor when I first gambled on you."

You turned, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, you mean the safest bet you ever made?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, far removed from the sharp laugh he often wielded to mask his emotions. "Safe? Hardly. I was convinced I'd lose you the moment you realized what a mess I am."

Your child, curious and full of energy, interrupted with a wide-eyed question. "Papa, what's a gamble?"

Aventurine's eyes sparkled with amusement. "It's a game of chance, little one. Like when you open a present—you never know if it'll be something you love or something silly."

"Like socks?" they asked innocently.

"Exactly," he replied, his grin widening. "Except I don’t gamble on socks. I gamble on life. And your parent," he added, glancing at you, "was the highest-stakes game I've ever played."

You rolled your eyes playfully, settling beside him on the couch as your child became engrossed in their new toy. "And yet, you always seem to win."

His smile faltered for just a moment, his gaze growing distant as he reached for your hand. The weight of his past—the lies, the betrayals, the scars—lingered in the unspoken spaces between his words. "Not always," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "But this… this is a victory I never thought I'd have."

You squeezed his hand, grounding him. "You're here, Aventurine. With us. That's all that matters."

He exhaled slowly, his usual mask slipping away completely. "Do you know how terrifying it is? To love something so much, to have something to lose?"

Your child’s laughter filled the room again, and his eyes flickered toward them, shimmering with unshed tears. "I never thought I’d have this—a family, a home. It scares me, because it feels… fragile. Like if I blink, it’ll all disappear."

You rested your head on his shoulder, your voice steady and sure. "It’s real, Kakavasha. You’ve built this. We’ve built this. Together."

His name—his true name—spoken in your voice always unraveled him. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’re too good to me," he whispered.

"And yet, here we are," you replied, smiling. "Aventurine, the great gambler, finally learning that not every win comes with a price."

The night unfolded with warmth and laughter, the three of you sharing stories, unwrapping gifts, and basking in the glow of the season. When your child finally fell asleep under the twinkling lights, Aventurine carried them to their room, his steps careful, his expression softer than you’d ever seen.

Later, as you sat together by the fireplace, his arm draped around your shoulders, he spoke again, his voice thick with emotion.

"Thank you," he said simply, his eyes meeting yours.

"For what?" you asked, leaning into him.

"For showing me that some gambles aren’t about winning or losing," he replied, his smile small but genuine. "They’re about what you’re willing to risk. And for this—for you, for them—I’d risk everything a thousand times over."

You smiled, brushing a hand through his hair. "Merry Christmas, Aventurine."

He kissed your hand, his voice soft but steady. "Merry Christmas, my love."

For once, Aventurine didn’t feel the need to chase the thrill of the unknown. This was enough. This was everything.

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #winter special #family fluff #christmas celebration #emotional vulnerability #hurt/comfort #character development #domestic life #love and healing

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orangez3st · 27 days ago

Text

Something More

Clone Commando Fixer × GN!Reader

✧ Summary: It was really stupid of Fixer to ignore your affection. You're the kindest person in the world—he doesn't deserve you. But he's willing to change how he thinks about you.

✧ Tags & Warnings: pining, unrequited love, don't worry folks: eventual romance, domestic au, they live with walon vau, featuring lord mirdalan the strill, not gonna mention kyrimorut bcs author hasn't gone through the repcomm books and isn't too familiar w local mando culture

✧ Word Count: 4.8k

✧ A/N: First @deltasquadweek special coming right up!! 🗣️🗣️ This fic has been in my drafts for like. A couple of months. I hope this delivers for Alt Prompt Day 1; "You're hurt." Enjoy this one, vode! 💛💚

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Fixer (in-header image)

Settled behind a fallen tree with one knee digging into the soil, you squint—zeroing in—at your target every now and then, akin to a blaster's scope. The buck’s hide isn't as impressive as the past ones you've met, but judging by the visible weight of that beast, it would feed the entire Vau clan for days. That is, if Vau’s strill or Scorch would have sound minds not to be greedy.

Especially now that winter is nearly approaching. As fallen red-brown leaves amplify the sound of your footfalls in a series of satisfying crunch that tickles the back for your brain, everyone in the clan are running on their own errands. Mainly to stock the pantry with food and gather the crops, using the remaining heat for the sun to naturally make venison jerky in the way of your people—how you've always liked it. Vau finds it tolerable to his palate, so you guess it's a win.

Another win is that you're tasked with hunting today. The woods surrounding the compound is your arena—you had explored nearly the entirety of it in the first week here, breathing the air of the forest and the life in it. You've come from a world where your people worship forest spirits and you haven't quite forgone your beliefs. You're an excellent hunter and tracker, and that's another point in Vau's eyes.

Lord Mirdalan throws you hard glances, its golden head snarling back and forth between the buck ahead and yourself. If its teeth-baring and impatience glinting in its beady dark eyes tell you anything, it's a one word away from dashing forward in a blur, baring elongated teeth wider—deadlier, with the intent to incapacitate its game.

Your game.

“Alright alright,” you muse, gripping your bow in your hand and easing an arrow in. “I'm the one hunting, Mird’ika. I call the shots.”

The golden strill grumbles. Every blink and widening of its eyes can only indicate its mounting anxiety that their prey would run away any moment. And to be honest, yeah. Vau’s glare of disappointment flashes through your mind—he trusts you with his oldest friend—and you decide you're not going through one of those, or Sev’s bullying afterward. That man's quips are insufferable. He definitely got those from his buir.

“Yes it's your hunt too,” you whisper, as if you can read what's going through Mird’s mind. The strill lowers impossibly close to the ground upon your encouragement, ready to pounce at any given time.

Your game still fails to notice your and Mird's presence. A sparse group of ferns in front of you and hunting attire camouflage you well. Breathing in, you draw your arrow back, the coarse fletching brushes just shyly against your cheek, the sharp point zeroing in on your unsuspecting game a distance away from you. Broadside. Lungs. Heart.

Breathe out, and…

Fwt—THUCK!

Your arrow embeds deep on its broadside—the lungs. The buck jolts, its short antlers and hooves rearing into the air before dropping onto the forest soil—dead, from what you could tell. Hopping over your cover, you go to inspect your game, poking its eyelids with your bow. No flinch. Its beady eyes dull, void of life. Killed. Becoming clan food. Maybe tonight's dinner while it's fresh. Brushing a hand across its hide, you utter a small prayer of gratitude before working to collect your killing arrow.

Baring teeth next to you, Mird throws its impeachment in a long growl as if insulting you for not calling Oya! and letting it have its way with the buck. A big bite to the neck would've been nice instead of a fatal shot! Or at least that's what it thinks. You shake your head.

“It's ethical, Mird. Quick death.” You could never. Leaving an animal to die a slow painful death at your hands is an unforgivable sin in your belief system. The least you could do to atone is a slash of your hunting dagger as soon as possible. “Not gonna be sorry about that. But sorry I topped you, though.”

Mird slaps a golden paw at your boot, its gaze still hardened, demanding for retribution.

“Fine,” you chuckle fondly, dragging a hand through its golden hide, “Let's find a couple of quails for you to snack on, then?”

You hesitate when reaching for your rope, having initially intended to tie your game by the feet and drag it all the way back home. You don't really give a damn about balding the unimpressive hide in the process—a small defeat of this hunt. Fleshing is therapeutic, but it'd take a hell lot of time to dry in the sun, something you wouldn't do in autumn’s cloudy situation.

Your options shift between that or comming one of the boys to heave it up and over their broad shoulders. Maybe there's salvation in some parts of the hide, or the skull. The antlers could be another addition to Sev's fine collection. Speaking of Sev, he can't abandon his watch post somewhere around you (you know exactly where he is), so you hold out your hope in the other three.

By your feet, Mirdalan snarls demandingly for your promised quails.

“Stand by, Mird,” you mutter, fishing your comm out of your pocket at last, “I'll comm Boss to carry this back and we'll find your quail.”

“Need some assistance with that?”

You jump at the voice, hand falling to your hunting dagger at your hip but as soon as you register it as an obscured voice filtered through a helmet, your coiled muscles relax. Your eyes flit past the autumnal umber and scarlet of the forest, easily clocking beskar approaching you in a little, if not, cautious manner.

“Fixer.”

Mird circles around his legs in greeting with its tongue out and lolling. Oh it's definitely happy, and oblivious. Fixer is one of its favorites, as far as you know. The former commando nods once in greeting at you, the T-visor of his Mando helmet shifting between you and the dead buck. “Impressive game.”

You nod in thanks, your gaze distant. Something inside you, your heart, clenches and you prefer not to dwell on it. Not now. “I'd like the help, if you don't mind.”

Fixer can hear his breath in his own helmet—can hear the disappointment vaporizing out of his body and clogging the top of his head. Hearing how you've chosen to be distant from him, putting an end to all your soft advances on him altogether—it puts him in the most uncomfortable position.

And he blames himself for that. Thinking how ridiculous and in disbelief that someone as admirable as you could find something endearing in someone like him. Him. His way to recovery after his buir and vode found him—after undergoing torture from the Empire—hadn't been smooth. There are cracks in his mind and gaps in his memory—he’s suffered. Pained. Unworthy. Broken.

But you're kind. You’re a good person. Wanting the best for everyone, wanting to help however you can after Boss found you in one of the systems in the Outer Rim escaping slavery. You're forever in their debt. You're strong. In a way, both of you are similar. Wal’buir is clearly fond of you, but somehow for Fixer it wasn't enough.

He doesn't deserve you.

“I don't mind,” he finally says, tapping the tips of his gloved fingers against his thigh plate in near nervousness. He observes the buck again, helmet tilting downward. “Heading home?”

You ignore the way your heart clenches again at the word home. You live under the same roof with them, and that's just it. It too reminds you of the pain—the way Fixer never acknowledged you with more than a slight tilt of his head when you strolled past. Never more than a blink and few words when you smiled up at him, your chest warming at, simply, the sight of him. How much of a survivor he was, every scar telling you a story of perseverance.

So yeah, if only your feelings are reciprocated. It hurt that it never became something more. Even Scorch's teasing as your unofficial wingman wasn't helping—Fixer always shut it down before he could give it a chance to bloom and probably spark something in him, and then Boss looked at you apologetically every time it happened. You hate it. It embarrassed you, moreso when Vau knew. You have zero idea what they're saying in their stern and scolding Mando'a conversations, and you're hurt and embarrassed enough to bet on a correct guess.

You sigh heavily as you shoulder your bow. “You go ahead. I'm getting quails for Mird.” Pivoting on your heels, you travel deep into the woods, Vau's six-legged strill already waltzing ahead. You pause, the weight in your chest heavy and cold when you barely look over your shoulder, the words next coming out of you sounding equally cold and distant. “Thanks, Fixer.”

The former commando stares at your retreating figure, fists clenched by his side without him realizing. A long exhale rattles his helmet's speakers. He relaxes his fists, shoulders wilting when you've completely disappeared from the subject identifier of his HUD.

“Didn't that go well.”

Sev's footfalls are heavy, fallen leaves crunch under his boots, and the barrel of his sniping blaster rifle lies on one red-painted shoulder bell. Fixer's chest tightens—Sev’s been watching. Of course. Probably from binocs, most likely perching so still on his post up top on a tree under half-assed ghillie suit.

“Shouldn’t you be on your post?”

“Boss' turn.” And his turn with the crops. Somewhere in their domestic life Boss has turned into a passionate farmer through and through—suppose it's the Vhett genes getting the best of him. Sev studies the game, precisely at the broadside wound, his buy'ce bobbing ever so slightly in approval. You and Sev along with Vau share the love for game hunting. He looks up at Fixer, slinging the rifle across his body, and squats. “Go after them. I volunteer.”

Panic rises in him. He's not ready. He's not ready for another cold shoulder from you. “I'll let them be for now—”

“No you won't, di’kut. Can't stand the tension back at the yaim. You'll finish this,” Sev jabs a finger at him. “Meanwhile I'll tell Wal’buir where you’ve gone.”

“You won't.”

“Thin ice, Fix’ika.” Sev nods his buy’ce at the direction where you've gone. “Do something about it. You're here to mend it.”

It's not even a question followed by an aren't you? directed at him—it’s a statement. Encouragement. Or Sev's version of encouragement. Baffled by his own initial intentions that he's completely forgotten and the thunderstorm of conflicts brewing inside of him, words are caught in his throat. Fixer says nothing in return, and he can feel an eyebrow lift from his vod.

Sev snorts, lifting the buck over his shoulders with ease. “Sounds like I'm right this time.”

Then he's alone.

Nothing but the sound of nature around him, and his own thoughts.

Nothing but moving forward. So, he does. The forest blurs around him as he nearly absently follows your trail.

The opportunity has been presented, the chance given. Well, by Sev. More like a push rather than a generous chance, really. You didn't look like you're giving him a chance. You gave him a lot, but he brushed you off every single time.

Wasted.

Fixer can almost hear the threat coming from Sev, something like watch me being a sheb’spalon for an entire week if you both aren't coming out of the treeline smiling and looking lovesick with each other that'd make Wal’buir gag. Exaggerated threats, but might happen. Sev doesn't back down from his threats. That man had chosen the glaring red color for his commando armor for a reason.

After his rescue, once a former medic trainee, you came to him in the compound's infirmary every rotation, never missing one. Helping to check his vitals with Boss' help, always talking so softly because sounds annoyed his broken mind and broken body at the time, always making sure he had some calories in him. You took care of him. Scorch had teased you about being his private nurse, but you let out this deep belly laughter and said you'd rather be a hunting nomad instead, and that was the day you began to tell stories of your homeworld to comfort him. Or at least, what you could remember of its beauty. You escaped slavery in the Outer Rim. You were scarred. Just like him.

That also was the day he began to feel something. Something foreign. Something that made a connection between you and himself. Something that made him think about you when you weren't in the room with him. Something that made him long for you.

After he got back on his feet, you too helped him adjust with his new life, together with his vode, away from the Empire. You started going a little easier around him, no longer treating him like a fine fragile vase but just like any other of his brothers. You treat all of them equally, and you respect Vau. That's enough for him. So much value already. That should be enough for him to trust you fully now that he's got ahold of his mind and body. Right?

Yeah. But then you were doing that again. Speaking to him a little softer, gentler, than with the others. Your eyes gleaming when you smiled at him, somehow finding himself in your company. He knew what was going on. Not that it wasn't pleasant. He just doesn't deserve you. Didn't.

“Kandosii, Mird’ika!”

Your faint voice makes him stop in his trek. That's you. You sound happy. You belong. You love nature. It's a part of your belief. You value life—human life. He heard you sneaking into the infirmary late at night. Adjusting his pillows, tucking him in, patting his hand in reassurance, whispering get well soon’s that didn't sound empty, uttering a small prayer to your deities for his health in your native tongue.

Something about it is… private. Intimate, even. Important. Is he? Important? Significant? Like the amount of encrypted data he had sliced and obtained in the past?

Special. You deemed him special. Emphasis on deemed. Conflicts swallowed him so much that he turned a blind eye on you. Fixer wishes he could've had his eyes on you when your first frown of realization rests on your brows. It was too late for him. Maybe it could've been different. Maybe he could've mended it—changed himself and talked about it at last.

Why did he come here? He came for you. He's supposed to be at the workshop right now, but he raced against time and finished ahead of schedule once he heard his chance—you, alone, doing your errands. Might be a perfect time, maybe not. Because you've been avoiding him too. Gone has the glimmer in your eyes. Enter the cold shoulder and fake enthusiasm. You’re still being nice and polite as usual, but that's your baseline. There's no longer… closeness. That bond. The bond that you have built. You alone. He wasn't even trying. He wasn't present.

It is, perhaps the first time in years, the time he curses himself at a loss. Such a loss.

Yet unbeknownst to him, it's hurting you too. How does it feel trying to be, at the very least, nice for someone you once had a crush on? Drowned in shame for believing someone like Fixer could've reciprocated your feelings. You believed in him. He sounded amazing from what his brothers told you. Talented. Thorough. Appreciative. Careful. Methodical. Maybe you pushed your luck too far. He needed healing. Much longer, much more, more time. You know how it felt to be a tortured soul. You were one, anyway. So you stepped away. It was stupid. You were doing the right thing.

Crossing the stream, Mirdalan is obviously resisting to chomp deeper into the two quails you just shot as it brought them back to you. You insisted, with a little silly argument with the strill. The least you can do is plucking the feathers before Mird can enjoy its snack of pure meat and bones and no feathers.

With the birds still warm, it's quite easy. Mird takes time to devour them. After rinsing your hands with the current of the stream, you take your time to rest for a while, making a particular smooth rock your seat as you gaze out into the trees, which now mostly are barren of leaves. Autumn usually calms your mind—you love autumn—but now it's occupied with Fixer's situation.

The rustling of the thicket behind you prompts you to grab your bow and nock an arrow in less than two seconds. Fixer reveals himself, his hands free of the blaster strapped to his thigh and are raised meaning you no harm. No harm alright, but seeing him… hurts still. Your heart has been racing in your chest and shows no sign of calming down, but you try your best to collect yourself.

“Don't sneak up on me when I've got these with me,” you remind him, stashing your bow and arrow away. Mird seems undisturbed, its loud chewing filling what seems to be a bubble between the three of you. “You could've been mistaken for a beast. And shot.”

Fixer tilts his head. “You know this forest, though. Heard from Scorch you explored the entirety of it in a week.”

“Nearly,” you correct him.

He watches you. “Well. Are there any beasts?”

You put a relief in your tense muscles. “Not that I've encountered.” Shaking your head, you're unable to help the brief little smirk on your lips. “Not that I want to anyway.”

He catches that. The smallest lift of the corner of your lips. But your eyes look as they've always been for the past time—mirthless, in which the smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, and filled with void smugness.

Fixer warily brings himself closer, his hands falling to his side. You watch his movement, willing yourself to just calm down and maybe not throwing a punch across his face. Or helmet. That's made of beskar. Yeah, no.

You clench and unclench your bare fists, leaning your backside against the rock in another attempt to make yourself (appear) relaxed. His broad commando stature approaches you carefully, settling just a few feet away. The tip of his boots graze the grass that adorns the side of the stream, T-visor methodically sweeping the area—either to take in the view, or scanning for any hostiles out of habit.

Finding nothing to look at, you watch Mird instead. One quail gone, the other now gnawed between its maw.

“I've hurt you.”

Your attention turns to Fixer. You wish you could tell the storm of emotions that's brewing under his helmet—just a little glimpse that would've allowed you to feel a little bit more smug.

“You have,” you say.

Fixer manages not to recoil when you cross your arms. Not a good sign. Was that a horrible way to start at all? He just spat out what's been running around his mind. He's hurt you. He's hurt you. He's hurt you. A man of few words nowhere near Scorch, he wishes you can just understand. But he has to talk. Conveying his… feelings. You have no idea what's going through his mind and he doesn't want to be stuck in this hellhole forever—all he wants now is to see you looking at him again with the kind of joy that he knows—so he needs to talk.

“I understand if my actions have implied distaste toward you,” he starts, tension creeping up his shoulders. “I understand too that you're angry. You have every right to, because I was… I was being an asshole.” Great, now he's using Sev's words. “You’re hurt, and I didn't mean that. Never meant to.”

You swallow. This is the day you'd hope to come—although a moment too late. “But why did you?”

The question is confrontational, a little wavering if he trusts his audio receptors, but he can still hear the hurt in your voice, demanding for answers.

“I didn't know what to do about it. I was confused,” Fixer confesses. He stares down at his hands. “I was still recovering and you just showed so much kindness. You didn't even know me, but you cared.”

You open your mouth to intervene but he continues.

“You oversaw me. Took care of me. It was too much, I couldn't… I can't act otherwise but telling you how grateful I am. I never meant to push you away. I never meant to ignore you.” These are all messy, flurry of thoughts that he’d just spill, as if written down in points and he's stuck to explaining with it, no longer calculating and methodical with his approach. This is a foreign territory for him, you realize, and this is a show of weakness in the shape of dilemma. “I wanted to welcome you. I just didn't know how,” Fixer tries, his voice grows softer, “I'm… scared. If I misstep and everything comes crashing down.”

He offers his hope high up into the sky. He wants you to teach him how. He hopes you're there to navigate his path while holding his hand and because, Manda, he wants to know how that feels too, again, with something more etched deep in your hearts—not just to comfort him and ease his pain as a friend, no.

As something more.

“I don't think I could handle it. If I lose you.” He's mistepped. He's made everything crashing down on him. The weight of the guilt is not as heavy as beskar on his body. “But I already did, didn't I?”

Your next breath of air into your lungs is sharp, through the teeth, as you take in his confession. A revelation—a light, a beacon of hope in your soul reignited. Though you're unable to see him, empathy engulfs your judgement swifter than your arrow. His words, spilled out, as if he's already defeated, and as if whatever remains of your tattered bond that hadn't broken and vanished yet, you never want to hear him pained like this again.

Softly, you take a deep breath. “You didn't lose me.” Your exhale comes a little unstable. “It was just difficult to look at you, Fixer. I thought you didn't want any of this.”

“I couldn't be certain,” says his strained voice. Raising his hand, he taps the side of his helmet. “There was a lot to process back then.”

“I know,” you sigh, an apology for your impatience and enthusiasm back then is already on the tip of your tongue.

“You are so kind. You didn't even know me,” Fixer stresses, again, his T-visor staring blankly into you. But his cadence doesn't lie. He takes one step closer to you. You don't flinch. Then one more. And one more. Until he's only a couple feet away from you. His confidence burns bright and he can feel it—you can feel it. “Why?”

“You’re one of them. You know my history, if not most of it, and I owe your aliit so much,” you explain with confidence, “I was my village's medic trainee. You need all the help you can get to full recovery, either physically or mental.”

“And by falling in love with me too?”

If anything, his tone is no longer confrontational but amused. The weight on his shoulders slowly but surely lifts, and a puff of airy laughter escapes his lips when you sigh, almost exasperatedly and caught off guard by his harmless question, and darker colors begin to envelop your cheeks.

“You know that these things happen… sometimes naturally,” you try to reason despite flushed to bashfulness, throwing your gaze away from his scrutiny. Fixer raises both eyebrows. Somehow you must know what expression he's making under the helmet, he thinks, because you're looking at him again.

With nothing but Mird's low growls and the trickling stream as the sounds enveloping your bubble, his focus zeroes in to how the cool sun makes your skin and hair glow. He can almost see your beauty blending with nature itself, catching just how much your love toward it is reflected. Your big heart, your ceaseless care toward life. You're a gem, rare to the world, moreover in what the world has become now.

And you're choosing him, out of all people. Not even his own brothers. Him.

You breathe in your confidence again, fully believing that he is here, now, for you. The distance between the two of you is a slight lean away to be completely closed, and your chest thrums at the prospect. And so you take Fixer’s hand with both of yours, his balled fist falling apart upon your touch and his glove warming your cool hand.

“Naturally, hm?” he muses.

You grin. “You have manuals to go through first before seeing where this is gonna go?”

His helmet sways a little as if he's rolling his eyes. “I don't need a manual to navigate through this.”

Before another quip escapes you, Fixer grabs both your shoulders and leans his buy’ce against your forehead. Your eyes widen at the unexpected notion, and you're certain he can see, through his visor, your whirlwind of emotions flashing in your eyes—and really, so he does. You have no idea how fluttery his chest is, how wide his smile is, and how relieved he is somehow—he can't explain it—but there they all are.

You want to kiss him, and oh how badly you want to kiss him. But you can't just ask him to take his helmet off. He probably doesn't want to anyway—that's why he initiated the lingering kov’nyn, right? This will suffice for now. Having Fixer finally close to you—with you—the heat of his body and the material of his flight suit pressing into you… it’s more than enough.

“Fixer…” you murmur, your lungs feeling so heavy and light at the same time that you're about to float.

“Cyar’ika,” he returns, “Is this… okay?”

Despite your blush at the boldly said pet name, you hold in a snort, staring deep into his visor, hoping to meet his eyes behind as best as you can. “You said you didn't need any manuals.”

A pause. You're about two seconds too late to realize why he's reaching up to the edge of his helmet and before you know it, he's taking it off.

Fixer is handsome. His unruly curls are kissing his skin just above his eyebrows, and he smells like aftershave. White-lined scars from his time under the Empire's unforgiving hold on him litter across his face, the soft lines on his face and the amber in his eyes always seem to carry such a weight. Such a pain. Nevertheless his will to live and see his brothers again was stronger than his will to die in an Imperial hellhole. Either his clone programming or Vau’s teachings—Fixer’s strength to endure, will to heal, and overall steadfastness is obvious.

And so with such unsaid adoration, you close the distance between you by grabbing his face and pressing your lips against his—his helmet drops to the forest floor with a thud. Gently at first as you realize you've rendered him frozen, but Fixer winds both hands around you to pull you impossibly closer before returning the gesture with a sigh.

He feels and tastes like everything you could've ever imagined about him. He's careful as he kisses you, his lips dry but not cracked and becoming moistened as you attempt to quench your passionate hunger.

Your mind is fully awake as you tread carefully, following his level of comfort, running your fingers up and down softly along his cheek. Sparks continuously burst inside you as he moves his mouth against yours with vigor, as if something inside him bursts open, opening in the slightest bit in an attempt to discover how he'd like the softness of your bottom lip. A quiet, breathless noise escapes you, and just then your longtime crush pulls away, both of you gasping for air—each other's air again, eventually—the sparks in both of your eyes are now shining brighter.

“That was…” he trails off, speechless.

“Incredible,” you breathe, your wide pleased grin invites his own. The handsome sight tugs you to refrain yourself from kissing him senseless again right there and then.

“Mm,” he hums in agreement.

You tease him, “Not bad for someone who hadn’t got the time to go through the manuals.”

Chuckling, Fixer goes to gently cup the sides of your face, laying a peck to your lips that would definitely swell had he continued but he doesn't, before smiling at you. A painfully soft, sincere smile. You watch on, as you commit the lovely view to memory, as he says, “Thank you.”

“What for?” you frown, amused. “The kiss? You know you don't need to. We wanted that, and we still do.”

“Yeah, but not only that.” Fixer looks at you lovingly. “For everything.”

divider by me!

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