#doesn’t look right but. whatever. I’ll try and do another one my brain is just focusing on that Tony stark fic way to the point where I

[crueclown22]

anyways. sorry this isn’t very creative or anything my brain keeps tugging me away from it

wanted to participate and knowing me I’d forget to, so take an unfinished miku 🥲

[amethystarachnid]

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

[littlegochu]

"just friends" part 5 │ jjk 18+

"no feelings. no promises. just a night that didn’t end when it should’ve."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: friends with benefits, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we weren’t close. just mutuals. he was mia’s boyfriend’s friend — always quiet, always there, always looking like he didn’t care about anything. then we hooked up once. and then again. now it’s late-night texts, locked doors, and pretending not to look at each other during group hangouts. no feelings. no rules. just whatever this is. and yeah, maybe i’m in too deep — but if he is too, he’s not saying it either.

-

📧 @ jkarchive has posted [jungkooks main, photography account]

📧 @ y/shidden has posted [y/ns spam account]

"YOU GUYS FUCKED?"

Leon nearly chokes on his water bottle, one hand tightening on the steering wheel.

Mira jerks in her seat, staring at you like you just grew another head.

You sip your iced coffee like you didn’t just casually drop a bomb in the backseat. "Just figured it’d be worse if you found out mid-trip."

Leon glances at you in the rearview, mouth still open. "You’re telling me this now? While I’m driving?"

"Figured it’d keep you alert," you say.

"YOU GUYS FUCKED," he repeats, like his brain needs time to register it.

Mira is still staring. "Oh my god. Oh my god. I need to open a window."

"It’s not that deep," you mutter.

"It is exactly that deep," Leon says, eyes wide. "You’ve been walking around acting like nothing happened, and then you just—what? Drop that like a spoiler in the middle of season three?"

You shrug. "It was a while ago. It’s not a thing. Just… happened."

Leon shakes his head slowly, then exhales. "Okay. Alright. Okay. I need, like, a second. Jesus."

Mira finally blinks. "Are you okay?"

"No, I’m not okay," Leon says. "It's Jeon-fucking-Jungkook. This car ride is gonna kill me."

You laugh. A little. "Just don’t crash the car."

Leon throws his hands up. "Too late. Crashed emotionally. This whole weekend just got a plot twist."

"LEON, OH MY GOD!"

"What?" he laughs, hands steady on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview. "I’m just saying what we’re all thinking."

You blink, iced coffee halfway to your lips. "Excuse me?"

"You and Jungkook," he says, as if it’s obvious. "There’s no way that’s a platonic."

Mira groans. "Can you be normal for one road trip? One?"

"Nope," Leon says cheerfully, then nods toward you. "So, what’s the verdict? You guys hooked up, or are you still riding that denial train into hell?"

You take a long sip of your drink. "We’re just friends."

Leon raises a brow. "Right. That’s why you gave me a heads-up the second we confirmed this trip. ‘Just in case things are weird,’ remember that?"

Mira lets out a wheeze, trying to hide her laughter behind her hand. "Please stop. She’s already dying."

"Look, Y/N," Leon says, tone dipping into something almost serious. "You’re a grown woman. You can do what you want. But if you’re gonna mess around with Jungkook, at least don’t let it mess with your head. That guy... he’s a little too good at keeping people at arm’s length."

You glance out the window, jaw tight. "I know."

Leon softens. "Just don’t let him hurt you. Or I’ll run him over. With this car."

Mira rolls her eyes. "This car’s a Prius. You’d bounce off him."

"It’s the thought that counts."

-

They’re waiting outside a corner shop when you pull up—Jungkook in black slides, shorts, and a teal shirt clinging to him like it’s already been through one swim. Jimin beside him, scrolling his phone, sipping on a bottle of water.

Jungkook doesn’t smile when he sees you.

Your stomach flips.

He tosses his bag into the trunk. "Shotgun’s mine."

Leon shrugs. "Called it."

Mira helps Jimin shove his bag in. "Sorry. Middle seat for now."

Jimin climbs in with zero resistance, settling between you and Jungkook. He smells like laundry detergent and sunscreen. Familiar.

"Hey, stranger," he says lightly.

"Hey," you smile.

Jungkook says nothing.

The next thirty minutes are filled with light chatter. Jimin’s shoulder brushes yours occasionally, but it’s natural. You two have been over for years, and yet somehow never lost that comfortable rhythm. You laugh at his dumb commentary. He gently roasts your taste in snacks. It’s easy.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word.

"Remember that time Leon thought he could outswim a jet ski?" Jimin says.

"That jet ski came out of nowhere," Leon defends.

"You ran like a cartoon character," Mira laughs.

"He slipped on a pool noodle," you add, grinning.

Jimin chuckles beside you. "You still laugh like that, huh?"

You blink. "Like what?"

"You do this snort thing when it’s really funny," he says, and you immediately feel your face heat.

"Don’t expose me like this."

"It’s cute," he shrugs.

Jungkook doesn’t react.

And for all the jokes and the memories and the comfort of being squished in a car full of friends, there’s still something stiff on your right—silent, still, and watching everything with the kind of awareness that makes it hard to breathe.

You lean closer to Jimin without realizing it.

-

At the hour mark, you stop at a gas station with a little diner attached.

Everyone piles out. Stretching, yawning, Mira dragging Leon inside to find energy drinks. You head toward the restroom while Jimin buys gum.

When you come back, Jimin is already leaning into the car, giving Jungkook a shove.

"I’m done. Your turn, middle boy."

"Wait—what?" You freeze.

"Sorry," Jimin says, slipping into the far seat. "You’re up, champ."

ack on the road. Now it’s worse.

Jimin leans against the door and slips in his earbuds, dozing off easily, his head turned away. The car falls into a sleepy quiet, except for the occasional turn signal or the low hum of the tires against pavement.

You’re too aware. Of the space between you and Jungkook. Of the space that no longer exists.

His arm is barely grazing yours. His knee bumps yours every few minutes. It feels deliberate. Or maybe it’s not. You don’t know anymore. But it’s driving you insane.

You can feel his warmth. His silence. The way he hasn't looked at you once.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

You glance sideways—he’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Like he’s trying not to think. Or trying too hard.

The air feels heavier by the second.

Leon glances at the mirror again. He notices. Of course he does. But he says nothing this time. He just watches. Then looks away.

Jungkook shifts slightly, and his pinky brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

The third time, he leaves it there.

Neither of you says a word.

You don’t look at him.

But your pinky curls—just a little—until it hooks around his.

He doesn’t pull away.

-

When you blink awake, it takes a second to realize the car isn’t moving. The sky’s gone soft with early evening light, and the air inside is thick with leftover warmth.

You’re still in the middle seat, and Jimin’s head is lolling gently toward yours. He stirs around the same time you do, stretching with a grunt.

“Are we... here?” you mumble, groggy.

Jimin rubs his eyes. "Guess so."

You glance around. The parking area is quiet, trees swaying gently outside the open car windows. The others are gone.

They left you two in the car.

You blink down. Your hand is free now. Your pinky cold.

Was I holding Jungkook’s pinky? The thought slams into your chest.

Did he fall asleep like that? Did you?

Was it real or just—some kind of noncommittal moment? A stunt?

You rub your hand over your face. Why is it bothering me?

You barely have time to spiral deeper because Mira's voice cuts through the air. “Y/N! You guys up?”

You glance up to see her poking her head out of the cottage door, hair pulled up, a drink in her hand.

Jimin groans and opens the door beside him. “We were enjoying the AC, thanks.”

You follow him out, legs stiff, mind buzzing.

Mira waves you both toward the trunk. “Come grab your stuff before Leon steals all the good rooms.”

And just like that, you’re swept into the motion of arrival—stretching, unpacking, pretending like everything’s fine.

Even though your hand still remembers the weight of his.

-

The sun's lower by the time everyone’s unpacked, bags tossed into rooms, swimsuits swapped out for shorts and tank tops. You step outside with Mira, sunglasses perched on your head, and catch the tail end of Leon and Jimin messing around near the boat tied at the dock.

Jungkook is a little farther off, standing near the water with a towel slung over his shoulder, talking to one of Mira’s cousins. His shirt is still on—a fitted blue one that makes his arms look unfair, the fabric hugging his biceps like it’s clinging on for dear life. You look once, then immediately regret it. Then look again.

“Earth to Y/N,” Mira says, elbowing you. “We’re heading out in ten. Boat’s packed. Sunscreen?”

You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got it.”

She tosses you a bottle before jogging ahead. You linger near the porch steps, scrolling your phone half to kill time, half to pretend you're not watching him.

You open your camera and snap a photo without thinking—Jungkook standing beside Jimin, both laughing at something Leon said, sun sharp against their skin, wind in their hair. It’s stupidly perfect.

The boat rocks gently as everyone loads in—coolers clunking, towels being thrown around, someone blasting a summer playlist from a tiny waterproof speaker. Leon and Jimin are already bickering over who gets to steer, Mira is yelling at them to stop shaking the boat, and Jungkook moves quietly, untethering the rope with one hand, eyes flicking up just once—to you.

You pretend not to notice.

Mira pats the seat beside her but you slide into the front instead, next to the cooler. Distance.

The engine kicks up with a sputter and hum, and soon you’re skimming across the lake, wind curling through your hair and the sun casting everything in a soft, hazy gold. You lean into it. Let yourself drift.

Jimin breaks out a pack of drinks. Leon nearly spills one when a wave bumps the side of the boat.

“You’re gonna drown us all,” Mira says.

Leon: “If I go down, I’m taking the aux with me.”

Laughter rolls over the water. You sip your drink slowly, eyes trailing toward the back of the boat where Jungkook is perched on the edge, one leg bent, hand braced casually against the side.

He looks good. Relaxed, but not fully. Always a little distant. That blue shirt still on, clinging slightly from the mist, the sleeves pulled tight against his arms.

“Alright,” Jimin announces. “Everyone in. It’s officially too hot to pretend we’re chill. Let’s go.”

Mira stands. “Wait, not all at once!”

But Leon’s already mid-jump, crashing into the lake with a splash.

You stand and peel off your tank top, leaving your shorts on over your bikini. The water looks good—cool, inviting. Jimin dives in next, yelling something incoherent before disappearing under the surface.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes for just a second. Then shrugs his shirt off.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

You look away.

“Go,” Mira nudges.

You jump.

The cold is shocking in the best way. It steals the breath from your lungs, wraps around your legs and pulls you under. You surface with a gasp and a laugh, flicking water from your lashes, just in time to see Jungkook dive in cleanly—arms slicing through the surface like he’s done it a thousand times.

He pops up nearby, pushing his wet hair back with one hand.

You pretend not to notice how good he looks wet.

He doesn’t look at you. But he’s close.

Jimin splashes Leon. Mira yells something about sunscreen. The boat drifts nearby, anchored loosely.

You float, tilt your head back to stare at the sky, and try to forget the tension clinging to your ribs.

But under the water, you feel a brush—light. Intentional.

A hand grazing yours. Just for a second.

You exhale slowly, wiping your face, pretending nothing happened—pretending your heart didn’t skip a beat. But the water’s too clear, and Jungkook’s too close now. You catch a glimpse of his smirk just before he looks away, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Like he wants you to wonder.

You narrow your eyes. Is he teasing me?

He dives again, and when he surfaces, he sends a small splash your way—light, almost playful. You splash back without thinking, eyes sharp. He smirks again.

Definitely teasing.

You tread water, jaw tight. He acts like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t hold hands for an entire stretch of highway. Like that moment didn’t sit in your chest like a second heartbeat.

What is this? A joke to him? A game?

You look away, annoyed at yourself for caring.

authors note: i had this story already written but private on my wattpad, obviously added many tweaks so idk if the story is going to my expectations anymore i feel like its going to fast/getting boring but lmk and give me some suggestions!

part 6 here

[no-144444]

real- faking it au

꩜summary: lando comes home from Monza and something changes between you two

꩜pairing: fakeboyfriend! lando norris x fem! fakegirlfriend! actress! reader

Monza. Not exactly what he wanted. The whole weekend felt like a blip in his capabilities, in his team, in him. He was excited to get home, even if it was just for two days before he was off again. 

You were the last thing he expected to see in his apartment. And you were cooking. In his kitchen. 

“Hello…?” he spoke, finally catching your attention. 

“Hi,” you smiled back, cautious, but kind. He took another step inside. “Your weekend seemed shitty so I thought I’d… drop by. If that’s ok.”

“That’s fine,” his mouth worked before his brain and it rushed out. Fuck, he sounded desperate. “I mean- yeah. That’s totally cool with me.” 

“Cool,” you smiled. There was a lull for a moment. He went into his bedroom to empty his suitcase, you stayed cooking in the kitchen. There was something so… domestic about it all. So regular. Like this could really be your life. You pushed the thoughts away as he walked back out in a pair of shorts and a hoodie, looking over your shoulder.

“What are you making?” 

“Pasta alla vodka,” you explained. “Want to help?”

He shrugged and pulled his sleeves up. “What do I do, chef?” he chuckled, and you rolled your eyes, but there was an undeniable smile on your lips. 

“Just cut up the onions, if you don’t mind,” you instructed and turned your attention back to the pot in front of you. He followed your instructions, and handed them over as his eyes clouded with unshed tears. “Crying already, Norris?” you teased and he chuckled, washing his hands as the tears fell.

“Fuck off,” he shot back, but there was no venom behind it. “You gave me the hard job.”

“I’d hardly call cutting onions hard,” you scoffed.

“You’ve only been stirring the pot!” he shrieked. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s an important job,” you shooed him away, giggling. He stopped in his tracks. He watched you. The curve of your nose. The way you were still smiling. Your effortless beauty made his heart beat quicker. You turned your head and caught him looking. “What?” you chuckled. 

He didn’t know what to say. “Why did you come here?” he asked, his mouth working quicker than his brain. 

Your face changed into something unreadable and you turned your attention back to the pot. “Dunno,” you shrugged. “Just… thought it was the right thing to do.” 

He nodded. “It was,” he said before stepping in close to you. You kept your eyes on the pot, he kept his eyes on you. “I’m not crazy, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-” you started, but he cut you off. 

“This. Us. Everything we do. A fake girlfriend doesn’t come over to make me feel better after a bad race, a real one does. A fake girlfriend doesn’t listen to my fucking hundreds of voicenotes and talks through every talking point in her own, a real one does. A fake girlfriend doesn’t travel halfway across the world to see me, a real one does,” he listed, his voice strained, trying to make you see, to make you understand. 

“So you’re saying you want me to leave you alone?” your voice was small, smaller than he’d ever heard it. You still wouldn’t look at him. 

“No!” he practically shouted, making you flinch beside him. He chuckled, turning your body to face his, his hands on your waist. “I want us to be real. Y/n, I’ve been in love with you since day one. Every fucking day you’re the first thing on my mind. I want you. I have since the start.”

“Lando… the contract ends in 4 months-”

“We don’t have to,” he shook his head. “We can… stay together.”

“We won’t get the full payout unless we do the public break-up-”

“I’ll pay. Whatever the rest of the film budget is, I’ll pay,” he promised. He didn’t care what it took. He didn’t care what reasons you gave him. 

“I’m not going to make you pay,” you chuckled. “We can just… ‘fake break-up’,” you shrugged. His heart skipped a beat. 

“So… we’re together together, for real?” he smiled like a little boy getting his favourite toy. You smirked, and wrapped your arms around his neck, your lips meeting his as it had before, only this time it was different. He was yours. You were his. You were real.

He wasn’t letting you go.

navigation for my blog :)

mclaren masterlist

faking it au masterlist

taglist: (just comment to be added!)

@n3versatisfied @quinquinquincy @paucubarsisimp @htpssgavi @sarx164 @freyathehuntress

[artists-ally]

Can you plzz do a fluff fic with xaden x Reader x azriel?🫠

{Lonely Shade of Blue} Azriel X Reader x Xaden Riorson

(giiiiiirl i know this has been in my drafts for forever i am so so sorry) Okay. Hi. Hello my loves. I am back to dip my toes in the water, see how this goes yet again. Thank you, as always, for the support and for 1,000 FOLLOWERS!!!!! 🥳 I have covid at the moment and I'm feeling super awful and neglected and just want to be cuddled by two ginormous, tattooed hotties. So here's that. This is just fun and comforting, a little goofy and silly which is just what I need right now. Enjoy! Title inspired by this song.

Word Count: 2,366

Warnings: Illness, vomiting, yucky stuff that comes with being sick. Our beloved Shadow Daddies being over protective and considerate asf. One singular f-bomb.

Tagging: @bubybubsters @thelov3lybookworm @cyrygher @sarawritestories @berryzxx (my favorite moots to help me get back up on my feetsies)

Summary: You are sick. Very sick. And two Shadow Daddies shower you with care and affection.

~~~~~

I toss and turn. Shift and curl my knees up to my chest. Gods, something is so wrong. What doesn’t feel right? My brain finally catches up with the rest of my body and I groan in pain. My stomach is on fire, cramping and rolling with nausea. No. No no no.

Hunched over, I narrowly escape crashing into the doorway of the bathroom. My eyes can’t focus and my ears are starting to ring. The normally comforting scent of lemon and herb soap turns rotten on my tongue. My mouth fills with saliva as my knees slam into the tile before the toilet. 

Whatever had been left of last night's dinner makes its way up. Acid stings my throat as I heave again. And again. 

I’m shivering as I break into a cold sweat, a few tears running down my cheeks. For a moment, I let the cool water of the sink run over my wrists, and try to calm my racing heart. The tightening of my stomach has loosened, but there was potential for another round. 

My knees are wobbly, but then again so is pretty much everything else. I find some strength to flush the toilet and crawl back into bed. The sun is just peaking through the curtain, and yet again, I groan. 

Training. 

Fuck. That. 

I can feel the feverish haze settling over my entire body. The aches. The pains. The chills. This is not the time to be sick. The weather is just starting to get nice here in the Night Court and Velaris, spring solstice just a few weeks away. Why now? 

I fold my pillow under my head, and tug the blankets up to my chin. I know some time passes because different birds begin to chirp. I try to ignore the taste on my tongue, but I can’t, and my stomach rolls again. In seconds I’m back in front of the toilet, thankful I remembered to flush the first time.

Knock knock knock knock. 

“Yn? Are you ready to go?” Azriels soft but deep voice calls from the other side of the door. 

I looked over my shoulder and rolled my eyes, wiping the corner of my mouth on a towel. On much weaker legs I stand and pad to the door. Through droopy–and surely red–eyes, I stare up at Azriel. Xaden leaning against the wall behind him. “No,” is my very dry response. 

“Oh, honey what’s wrong?”

“You look awful,” Xaden peaks over Az’s shoulder, receiving an elbow to the ribs from the Shadowsinger.

“Next time I vomit I’ll make sure it’s in your nice, pretty Basgiath boots, Riorson.”

“Understood,” he mock-salutes. 

Azriel just rolls his eyes. “Lets get you back into bed, Yn.”

I turn, grateful for the give and support of my mattress. I curl into a ball, and Az tucks the blanket around me. Exhaustion overtakes me and I can’t keep my eyes open. I feel… okay. As long as I don’t think about it, or lick my lips… oh gosh the smell. 

“What else feels off?”

“Threw up, body feels like I fell out of a tree… very very warm.”

“Just woke up feeling this way?” Az tucked some hair behind my ear, the tip of his finger tracing the pointed edge. 

I nodded.

“Could be something viral. Have you been around anyone sick at the studio?” Xaden took a seat at the foot of my bed, gently rubbing up and down my thigh. 

I shook my head.

“You don’t have any nicks or cuts, do you? Could it be an infection?” 

The blanket shifts off of me as they search for any gashes. I know I don’t have any, but I’m not gonna fight them. I don’t think I could hide the scent of blood on me if I tried. They’d know. More than likely because they’d be the one to inflict it on me at a training session. Brutes.

“What did you have for dinner last night? As far as I know, no one else is sick, but I can check,” Azriel moves about, his big feet clunking across the wooden floor. 

“The fish,” I gagged, thankful it was just a belch that came up and nothing else. “And I had some harbor clams too. And that cheesy bread.”

Az hums in confirmation, and I feel the room's temperature drop as he sends out his shadows. The coolness settles over my legs and torso, soothing the raging fever beneath my skin. As well as some of the nausea. “Feyre says Rhys isn’t feeling great. He also had the fish. Has been quote on quote ‘shitting his brains out since early light’.”

“Please don’t talk about shitting please,” I croak, curling tighter towards my stomach. 

“Sorry, sorry.” I can hear the slight grin in his voice. “What do you need?”

“A new body. And a better immune system.”

“I don’t think we can do anything about either of those right this second, sweetheart. You’re probably gonna have to let it clear out of your system if it was something you ate. I’ll see if Madja has any recommendations. Xaden, there’s a bucket under the sink in the cabinet. Rinse it out and then just leave it next to the bed. No need for her to be walking back and forth. I’ll stop by the market and grab a couple things on my way to the healers. Anything specific you want?”

I opened one eyebrow and shot him a look.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Tell Madja she better have something or she’ll never taste my blueberry scones again.”

“I’ll make your threat very clear,” Az chuckles, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You are burning up.”

Xaden reaches across, pressing his palm into my cheek. “Okay, into the tub you go. There’s an aloe salve I use when I get burned, draws the heat right out. Should help some.” 

“Xaden?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Bucket. Now.”

“Shit!” 

I sit upright, arms shaking to push myself. I tuck my hair behind my ears, and in the flick of a finger, the strands are pulled back by a ringlet of shadow. The silver bucket is thrust into my lap and I grip the edge. I cough, gag, and am shocked at how much contents is still left in my stomach. I didn’t think I ate that much. 

“I’m so sorry, Yn,” Xaden soothed my back. “Get it all out, baby.”

This round takes its sweet old time. Az held up a cup of water to my lips. “Just rinse your mouth out.” I did as told, spitting it back out. Which, in turn, caused another heaving spell. After that, I rinsed once more, and pushed the bucket away before the scent could make me pass out. 

“I’ll go…” Xaden started, but trailed off. Az waved his hands and the bucket was shiny and polished once more. “...rinse it out. Man, why can’t my shadows do that? Thanks for nothing, Sgaeyl.”

I swore I could hear her roar from here. 

“If you think of anything you want, you know how to get in touch with me,” Azriel smiled softly, kneeling to the ground as he released my hair from its bind because he knows I don’t like it pulled back for long. His thumb trails over the bargain tattoo we share, the swirling details covering the majority of my lower left arm. 

I just nod, letting my chin rest on his shoulder. I let a few tears fall as he wraps his arms around me. Xaden meets my eyes, and I can see the way his throat bobs and his jaw tightens.

“You guys don’t have to–”

“There is no need for you to finish that sentence, sweetheart,” Xaden kneels next to us, thumbing my tears away.

“We don’t all have to be sick because of me.”

“We appreciate your valiance, but that’s ridiculous.”

“Whatever, just get to Madja, please?” I scoot back under the covers as Az stands, being tucked in once more. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, his wings brushing a gust of air around the room. 

“I’m gonna run a bath. Rose oil and vanilla?”

“Yes please,” I rasp, throat raw. 

I can hear the water splash into the basin. It’ll take a couple minutes to fill, and I’m already dreading moving. I let the gentle, rhythmic sounds beat against my pounding skull. I want it to be a soothing sound so badly, but it’s just not gonna happen. I must drift in and out for a little while because I’m being scooped up and set on the counter in the bathroom. Thankfully, he didn’t turn any bright lights on. Nor did he pour too much bubble solution into the tub.  

“Arms up, sleepy head,” he smiles down at me, lifting the hem of my shirt. His shirt, actually. I just do it, too weak to fight. But if he tickles my ribs like he normally does, he can kiss his crowned jewels goodbye. He must get my mental image down the bond because he giggles, and presses a plethora of kisses to my face when the shirt comes off. “I would never do that to you while you’re this sick, baby. I’m wicked, but I’m not outright evil.”

“Debateable.”

He just smirks. “Hop down, hold onto my shoulders for balance.” I scoot off and Xaden wraps an arm around my torso, keeping me steady as I step out of my shorts. He makes quick work of getting me into the foamy water, and I hiss at the temperature. 

“It’s way too cold, Xaden.”

“It’s not, I promise. You’re just burning up that bad. Gotta stay in at least ten minutes, Yn. Need to get your fever down so you start feeling a little better.”

My whole body quivers. My teeth chattering together uncontrollably. It certainly doesn’t help me relax. I must’ve asked a few times if it had been ten minutes yet. It takes an eternity, but eventually I’m wrapped in a fluffy towel and escorted back to the bed. Just as Xaden finishes getting me dressed and back under the covers, Az creeps back through the door, a bag looped on the crook of his elbow.

“You at least don’t look grey,” Az said, setting the medicinal bag on the chair next to the door. 

I just grumbled, rubbing my toes together between my socks. “Please tell me there is a cure in that bag.”

“All she was able to give me was some nausea drought. It’ll make you very sleepy, but it will settle your stomach and help you rest. There is also a hydration tonic so you don’t deplete all of your water. Madja said to drink as much water as you can, but she also knows your body will more than likely reject anything you put in it. Small quantities only. If symptoms persist like this for more than three days without any improvement, she’ll come down. Food poisoning, especially from seafood, seems to be the roughest according to her. And she’ll test you for any parasitic infections once you’re feeling a little better. Just to be sure.”

“Big words, lots of them,” I rub my burning eyes, willing them to settle on my boys. 

“You? Very sick. You take meds? Less sick.” Xaden explains. 

“She’s not three,” Azriel mumbles, rifling through the fabric bag. 

“No, but she’s our baby,” Xaden gently pinches the chub of my cheek. I swat his hand away, but he crawls right into bed next to me. Cocooning me in his scent and shadows. “So, in turn, we’ve gotta take care of her. And you know you want to.”

“Yes, I do, imbecile. And if it wasn’t because I love her so deeply, then it would be because I can physically feel how ill she actually is. I’m gonna put a dropper in your mouth, Yn. This is the nausea drought.”

I open my mouth and let him douse my tongue in the honey colored liquid. It tasted prominently like pears. But then it broke to something I didn’t appreciate and neither did my stomach. 

“Try to keep it down, sweetheart,” Xaden cooed. 

“Have some water,” Az sat me up, holding it up for me. “Small sips.”

I washed it down, “good gods what the fuck is in that?”

“Uhh,” Az looks at the small, unlabeled vial. “I honestly have no clue. It smells pretty alright.”

I cough a couple times, forcing it down down down. Thankfully, it stays, and it’s as if my stomach is encased with cotton. I can feel it soaking everything up and firming it up. I can relax my core and ease back down.

“Good?”

“Mhm,” I nod, letting out a big yawn. 

“Scooch,” Az motions with his hand, and Xaden wraps his arms around my middle and tugs. I’m pulled into the middle of the bed, nestled between the two of them. Dream-state is calling me quickly, and I spare a look at both of them. 

“Thanks you two.” 

“Of course, pretty girl,” Xaden kisses the top of my damp head. “Rest, you need it. We’ll be here when you wake.”

“Mmmmk,” I mumble, more than content to let the sounds of their breath and heartbeat send me off completely. One of them plays with my hair, the other gently laces their fingers through mine.

Comfort.

Care.

Home.

Between dreams, I catch bits and blurbs of conversations between them.

“This is the first time she’s ever been this sick. It really freaked me out to see her so… so pale.”

“Yeah,” Az responds. “Yeah my blood chilled. I’m glad Madja was able to give me something or I was gonna winnow you to Tyrrendor to get Brennan to see if he could mend her.”

“Probably not for illnesses. If she shatters a bone, sure. Absolutely. I’m not sure I could survive the sound of her bones snapping. No matter the circumstance.”

“Don’t make me think about that, Riorson.”

“Relax, Shadowsinger. I can feel your teeth cracking from here. She’s safe, safer than anywhere else she could possibly be.”

“Fucking right. You know, we pick on each other, but I’m glad you’re here. It’s hard when you’re gone. And we do a pretty good job keeping her out of trouble.”

“And getting into it.”

"Definitely."

"Definitely."

[pedriache]

2 hands 𖦹 Lando Norris !

Summary: You’d avoided talking to Lando about how you felt like you were the only one holding the responsibility together. It was draining, and it was beginning to consume you.

Word count: 955+

Disclaimer/s: Angst, hurt/comfort, resolve at the end!

B speaks! Hi Verry Pooh!! This is for you.

The door clicking open had your head raising. You watched as Lando walked inside the apartment, exhausted and clearly ready to go to bed. He’d had a busy week and was home for the first time in nearly two weeks.

You sat at the kitchen table, a small midnight snack sitting in front of you—not that you’d even touched it. Your brain was too busy swirling with negative thoughts that you couldn’t even stomach your favorite snack.

Lando dropped his bags on the ground, his footsteps soft as he approached you. “Hey. I’m home.”

You’d long sensed looked back at your phone, not bothering to make eye contact with him as you spoke, “yeah. I noticed.”

Eyebrows furrowing, he slides onto the seat across from you. “What’s wrong?”

You let out a low bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You know, you are always asking me that. But, when I try to tell you why.. you just disappear. Walk away before I can even begin to explain.”

The dimly lit room only added to the tension as Lando stared at you, flinching at the harshness in your words. “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Eyes finally moving up to him, you look at him. Really look at him. Noting the bags under his eyes and the crease in his forehead.

“Are you?” You start, “because I feel like I’m holding us together with my own two hands and you’re hardly meeting me half way.” You finish, voice cracking so quietly, Lando wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so tuned into you.

“Thats not fair.” The curly haired man replied, defensively. “You know how much my job expects from me—how much it means to me.”

Rubbing the bridge of your nose, your eyes clamp shut for a moment only to snap open to narrow on him. “I know how much racing means to you. But at what point am I allowed into this circle of what you care about?”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, providing no comfort to either of you.

Eyes softening, Lando’s hand twitches and clenches into a tight fist on the counter—like it had to physically restrain itself from reaching out to you.

“I don’t want to lose you.” He confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

Meeting his eyes, which were filled with unshed tears, you exhale slowly. “Then stop making me feel like I’m the only one who wants us to work out.”

There was another long beat where neither of you moved or spoke. The room felt like the oxygen was slowly seeping out and suffocating you. Neither of you dared to speak first and you watched as Lando’s fingers fidgeted on the counter.

You could see him mind racing as he tried to find the right words to say. The words that could fix this mess he’d created.

Standing abruptly, you grab your plate and move towards the trash can. “Forget it, Lando.” You speak, dumping the contents. “I’m tired. I can’t keep having this conversation over and over again.”

“No.”

The defiant word cut through the room like a knife. “You don’t get to walk away from this conversation—not when it’s the exact thing I did to get into this mess.”

You turn around to face him, exhaustion written into your every feature. “What do you want me to say? That it’s fine? That it doesn’t matter and that I’ll be over it in the morning?”

“I don’t want you to say it’s fine.” Lando shakes his head, standing from his seat to meet your gaze. His voice softer now, “I want you to tell me how I fix this. Whatever I need to do, I will. Just don’t walk away.”

Lando wasn’t defensive anymore, just vulnerable. He wasn’t searching for an excuse or an argument. He was asking—genuinely asking, if not pleading.

“Lando..” You let out a shaky breath, your resolve faltering. “I just need to know you care. That I am important to you. I don’t want anymore spaced out late night calls and rushed conversations, I want your presence.”

Slowly crossing the distance between you, as if he was scared you’d pull away, he reaches out, hands settling on your waist. His thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin, “You are everything to me. I’m sorry I’ve failed to show you that. You are the last person I want to fail, I’m sorry I’ve sucked at separating my job life from the love of my life.”

You swallow, hard. Eyes searching his for any insincerity. When you don’t find anything but raw and pure sincerity, mixed with regret and shame, your shoulders let go of their held tension.

“So, what now?” You whisper as you couldn’t bring yourself to exert any more emotions.

“I’ll show you.” Lando says, determination evident in his tone. He continued rubbing soothing motions on your exposed skin as he continued, “I’ll cut down on the media bullshit. Bring you to more races. Make time for you between everything. Whatever it takes, I will do it. Just give me the chance to prove it. Please?”

You could feel the truth in his words, especially when his voice cracked when he whispered ‘please?’.

The anger and frustration diminished in that moment. You nod slightly, “okay.”

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Lando presses a tender kiss to the top of your head. “I love you.” He murmurs against your hair.

Resting your head against his chest, you allow yourself to inhale his scent—one that had always grounded you whenever you needed it to. “I love you, too.”

likes, comments, and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future lando posts.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @lechrts @sakashq @h4vertzz @spidybaby @joaoflms

[writeriguess]

hi hi! i was hoping you could write a katsuki bakugo x autistic!reader who struggles with ARFID/sensory issues when it comes to food and eating? thank you very much!

Taste and Patience

You sit on the edge of the couch, fingers tangled in the hem of your sweatshirt, watching the microwave tick down the last fifteen seconds on a plate of plain white rice. That’s all you can stomach tonight. Again. Just rice.

It’s not even the warm, buttery kind that smells like something you’d imagine a comforting hug would taste like. No. It’s dry. No seasoning. No sauce. It smells like almost nothing. But at least it’s safe.

You hear the front door open, heavy boots clunking on the floor. Katsuki’s home.

“Oi,” he calls from the hallway, dropping his keys into the tray on the entry table like always. “You eat yet?”

You flinch. You don’t want to lie. But you’re not sure you can handle another conversation about this.

“Sort of,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Sort of?” he appears in the doorway, frowning. His eyes flick to the microwave as it beeps, then to the bowl in your hands as you pull it out. “Rice again?”

“Yeah,” you say, focusing way too hard on the way the steam curls from the bowl.

Katsuki walks closer, scratching the back of his neck. His voice softens. “You eat anything else today?”

You shake your head. “I tried. I—I made some toast but it was… it got weird in my mouth. Too scratchy.”

He squats down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. “Did you spit it out?”

You nod, shame crawling up the back of your neck like it always does when this happens. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to eat like a normal—”

“Hey.” His voice is firm. Not angry, but grounding. “Don’t talk like that.”

You blink at him. Your throat feels tight.

“I mean it,” he says, squeezing your knees a little. “There’s not a single damn thing wrong with you just ‘cause food feels like hell sometimes. You’re trying, right?”

You nod.

“That’s all I give a shit about. Okay?”

You look down at the bowl. “I hate that I’m like this. I wish I could just… eat whatever like everyone else does. Go out and not panic because the menu has too many things I don’t recognize. Not gag when something has the wrong texture.”

Bakugo doesn’t interrupt. He never does when you get like this—when the words come all messy and hard and your chest feels like it might collapse from how small you feel.

“I get so hungry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “But the thought of putting anything new in my mouth just makes me want to cry. Or puke. Sometimes both.”

He moves up onto the couch beside you, pulling you gently into his side. “You ever think I don’t get it?” he asks quietly.

You blink at him. “I mean… you don’t, though. You eat literally everything.”

He chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. “Yeah, but I’ve got shit I deal with too. Not the same, but I know what it’s like for your body to fight you. Or your brain. Or both.”

You stare at the rice in your bowl. It’s already cooling. You kind of don’t want it anymore.

“Wanna heat it back up?” he asks, noticing.

You shrug.

“Wanna put it away and just hang with me for a bit?”

You nod.

He takes the bowl from your hands without a word and slides it into the fridge. Then he comes back, sits beside you again, and puts his arm around your shoulder. You melt into him like you always do. Like his warmth is the one kind you can handle without flinching.

“You ever want help trying something new,” he murmurs after a few minutes, “we can do it together. You pick what it is. We can go slow. No pressure. And if you spit it out or can’t eat it, who gives a shit?”

“But what if I waste food?” you ask, voice small.

“I’ll eat it,” he smirks. “You know I’m a bottomless pit.”

You laugh weakly. “You are. You’re basically a black hole.”

“Damn right.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s steady. It always is.

“Hey, remember that plain udon we tried last month?” he says. “You liked that, right?”

“Yeah… the noodles were soft. Not slimy. And the broth was okay. Just mild enough.”

“We could try that again. Or I can make it at home, make it blander if you want.”

“Would you really do that?”

Bakugo snorts. “You think I wouldn’t fight god himself to make sure you eat something that doesn’t make you wanna scream?”

You smile. It’s small, but it’s there. “You’re kinda dramatic.”

“Damn right I am. You love that about me.”

You poke his side, and he grabs your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Thanks for not getting mad about it,” you say quietly.

“Why the hell would I get mad?”

“People do,” you mutter. “They think I’m being difficult. Or picky. Or manipulative.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” he says. “You’re not being anything but honest. And I’d rather you be honest than force yourself to eat something that makes you feel sick.”

You’re quiet for a while. Then—

“Maybe tomorrow we could try something. Just a little. One bite.”

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Maybe. If you make it.”

“Hell yeah, I’ll make it. I’ll make three versions so you can pick the one that feels right. I’ll even name ‘em something dumb like ‘Option A: Gentle as Hell’ or ‘Option C: You’re Gonna Hate It But I Made It Anyway.’”

You laugh again, genuinely this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I do.”

He holds you a little tighter. “And I love you. All of you. Even the parts that are picky, and sensitive, and terrified of toast.”

You snort. “I am terrified of toast.”

“And that’s valid.”

You rest there with him in silence for a while, the rice forgotten. The hunger still there, but not unbearable. Not when you feel this safe. Not when Katsuki’s beside you, promising that tomorrow—or next week, or next month—you can try again.

And you believe him. Because with him, you always feel brave enough to try.

[love-of-the-red-star]

That time I got reincarnated as an Aeon

(Series)

Chapter five: Discovery Channel (In which you find out you have fans)

Warnings: Idk sort of Hi3 lore spoilers? Void Archives is his own warning

Why the hell did you even bother to think you could fix the absolute red flag that’s the divine key sitting on the chair next to your bed?

The more the Kirschtaria look alike spoke, the more you were convinced he should have been booted off the train. Too bad you couldn’t let your intrusive thoughts win in the meantime— Welt doesn’t know just how worse this guy could get, shared goal be damned.

“Okay so uhh, you were with Welt to fight a bunch of people in the sky right?” You said, trying to go along with whatever the fuck he was saying— it wasn’t like you didn’t know what they were doing beforehand, but it was easier to pretend you didn’t know shit.

“Yes, and we were in luck because Himeko had saved us.” He said, smiling. For a moment you would have been utterly bamboozled but you knew better.

You thanked your new brain that functioned as fast as a supercomputer, because you knew everyone in this train would be dead meat if you were slow.

“I see… that’s good to know she managed to get to you in the nick of time then.” You told him with a light hearted laugh, you swore that the more he looked at you, the more suspicious he became. If you were going to kick this man off the train it would have to be a vote of majority, but since he wasn’t acting up just yet you were going to postpone that meeting.

He was still on your watchlist, though.

Void Archives opened a bottle of expensive looking whiskey and poured it on a cup, and then another, and handed one to you.

“A toast.” He said, but you heard “An offering of friendship”. It was at least good to know he knew he shouldn’t fuck around with you.

You accepted the glass, drank it and grimaced.

“Not a fan I see.” He shook his head as if to mourn your lack of taste in the finer things in life. But what would he know? He’s a cube.

“I don’t like it, but I can drink it.” The taste of the whiskey burned in your throat. “Tastes a little funny though.” You murmured, Void Archives didn’t react much to your statement and continued to drink til he emptied the bottle.

It took him an hour, but at least the empty bottle signified he overstayed his welcome in your room.

“Let us meet again tomorrow morning, I want to speak with you soon.” He told you before he left.

Good grief, what a creep.

———————————

You never did end up speaking to him, instead heading towards Welt Yang, who you want to vaguely warn.

“I know you knew Void longer than you know me,” you began, but you already know Welt was more likely to believe you than the cube. “But keep an eye on him, he gives me a bad feeling.” Plant the seed of doubt, slowly but surely, so that the damage to the express can be minimized.

“I’ll.. keep that in mind.” Welt inhaled, stiffly nodding at your words as you patted him on the back.

“Great! Also, if things come down to it, you have my say in kicking him off this train.” You grinned, waving before disintegrating into particles as you returned to your original body.

Famous last words to be spoken.

Because five years later, on a Christmas Eve of all occasions, shit happened. And Void Archives was booted off the train like the red Amogus on a community vote.

Was it chaotic? Yes. Was it like a court hearing than an actual community vote? Also yes.

You had plenty of evidence presented, including the first instance you invited him to your room— because what do you know, the whiskey he gave you was drugged.

He did plenty of horrible shit, and even Himeko, poor patient Himeko, had enough.

You felt a little bad for Welt though having to deal with the aftermath, needless to say, everyone, except you, needed therapy on that train.

On the upside, someone better did replace the blonde and that was Dan Heng who joined you a few weeks before Void Archives was booted off the express.

“Well,” you blinked. “That was something.” You said out loud as Dan Heng shook his head. “Sorry you had to meet that guy.”

Dan Heng brushed it off, instead focusing on staring at the Christmas dinner that Pompom prepared for everyone and poked the turkey on his plate with a fork, before properly digging in.

It wasn’t exactly an ideal way to start your holidays and welcoming someone in the crew properly in a celebration, but you supposed it’d have to do.

It was at least one less toxic bitch off the train.

——————

You didn’t expect you’d deal with your own information being displayed in the databank though. Dan Heng wasn’t creepy about it at least, not that he knew you were an Aeon— specifically, the Aeon that ate Akivili (you still feel bad about that).

“Libertas, huh.” You let out a snort as you read your own little book. In there, it was written on how you were discovered, and what you stood for, along with a group that eventually became your followers.

You hummed, thinking it was rather endearing to see the Avgin there as some of your believers. It was interesting on how you got a following, no matter how small, in the few decades you existed in this world.

It wasn’t just the Avgin, there were others who you did not know too who believed in you, and others who you did see when you had peered into planets to see what people were up to.

It was sweet in a way, for them to cling to you for belief as they sought true happiness in the way of freeing themselves and others.

You wanted to keep it that way.

You read into the pages more, finding out what kind of worship people dedicated to your path; there was a statue of you in one city in some planet hundreds of light years away, in another planet there was you in a tapestry, in another you had a statue and a painting inside of a massive church akin to the ones you saw in photos of Rome.

It was a little overwhelming, and you felt a little shy at the recent discovery of all of this.

You closed the book and put it back on its shelf, exiting Dan Heng’s room to ask Pompom for tea after helping them with their chores.

—————————

Unbeknownst to you, Dan Heng knew you were an Aeon— and an Aeon he believed in in some way when he had heard of you in the whispers of the guards in the recent years he’s stayed in the Shackling Prison. It wasn’t exactly difficult to piece things together with the context clues around the place, not to mention, Himeko did end up telling him.

You wouldn’t be angry about it, she said to him. You were apparently rather human-like, and kind.

Himeko wasn’t wrong, and Dan Heng was going to trust that judgement. Is he wary? Yes, you’re an Aeon after all, you were plenty big of a deal.

But Pompom didn’t seem to be scared of you, and Welt spoke to you with a sense of respect. You regarded everyone in this train with a certain familiarity— Dan Heng did feel like you were a bit strange due to the feeling of “uncanny valley” you gave him, but you were kind to him and you were welcoming.

He was welcome in this place, he had a place to stay, and a purpose, as meager as it was.

Dan Heng thinks things would be alright from now on.

————————

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI (HERE), Part VII, Part VIII

Yeeeee this took a bit!!! Thanks for the wait yall, I know it’s calm rn, but it’ll get rowdy again at some point I promise.

[corroded-hellfire]

I am humbly requesting Eddie wearing a shirt that says “nerds make the best lovers” and then proving it to bookworm!Reader.

Your request is my command. I hope I have done your idea justice!

Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral f!receiving, slight choking, soft dom!eddie, public sex (kinda?)

Words: 2.2k

Eddie struts into your first period English class with Ms. O’Donell, late as usual, and she doesn’t even glance away from the chalkboard she’s scribbling vocabulary words on to acknowledge his tardiness. On instinct, you smile at your boyfriend as he makes his way to his seat near you, but as your eyes scan over his shirt, heat blooms in your cheeks.

“Nerds Make the Best Lovers” his t-shirt claims in bold, gothic-style red lettering on the black tee. Eddie gives you a brazen wink and by the sound of all the snickering coming from students around you, you know other people have read the clothing’s pronouncement as well. Mortified, you bury your face in your hands, only peeking out to see if O’Donnell caught a glimpse of her least favorite student’s shirt. Luckily, O’Donnell gave up reading whatever shit his t-shirts said after her twentieth time or so sending Eddie to the front office for dress code violations. 

Eddie plops down in the seat next to yours and he shoots you another wink as if you hadn’t seen the first one he gave you when he walked in. Refusing to encourage any of this behavior, you don’t look your boyfriend’s way once the entirety of the class.

Once the period ends, however, Eddie won’t let you get away from him that easily. He jogs down the hallway to catch up with you and drapes a heavy arm over your shoulders.

“Where’s the fire, baby?” he asks. “Where ya headed in such a hurry?”

You shake your head in non-response and keep walking down the hallway, not sparing him a glance. Eventually, you come to a section of hallway that’s mostly emptied of people and you turn to face him, your shoes squeaking against the white linoleum floor beneath you at the tenacity of your spin.

“What is with that shirt, Eddie? Are you trying to embarrass me?”

“Embarrass you?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. “Baby, I’m just stating a fact. Nerds do make the best lovers. And I’m more than happy to give you a reminder…”

He trails a finger up your arm, and it sends a thrilling shiver down your spine. Any irritation or annoyance instantly melts away at his touch. Your resistance was already futile but Eddie putting his hands on you always seems to shut off any coherent part of your brain.

“A reminder, huh?” you coo, ensnared by his flirtations. 

“That’s right. I’ll show just how good this nerd can make you feel.” 

You decide to hell with it; there’s nothing particularly important going on today. Nothing that you couldn’t afford to miss, anyway. And even if there was? Eddie’s body pressed up against yours is worth a detention or a missed test.

“Should we head out to your van for this demonstration?” you ask. The number of times his old, beat down van has been out in the school parking lot, rocking back and forth from the two of you, is too high to count. Most of the times being while school is still in session.

“No, I’ve got somewhere better in mind.” Eddie tugs you by the wrist, leading you down the hall in the opposite direction. He comes to a halt in front of a familiar door and pulls you into the drama room. It’s abandoned and quiet as Eddie locks the door behind you. There’s some D&D paraphernalia scattered around the room, a few D20s that were left out on the table.

“Hmm, so the ultimate symbolism of your nerdiness, huh?” You tease as you sit yourself down on his throne at the head of the table. The seat is cold beneath you, but you refuse to let it show. 

Eddie stalks over to stand before you and rests a hand on either arm rest of the throne. He lowers his head to meet your gaze with his own challenging one.

“I suppose you think I’m going to kick you out,” he says, referring to the seat. “Not today, my lady. Today…” he lowers himself down to his knees. “Today you just sit back and enjoy my throne while I make you feel good.”

He makes quick work of yanking your jeans and panties off and tosses them somewhere behind him. A strong hand grips each of your calves and spreads your legs wide open, Eddie wasting no time before he’s licking a stripe up your folds.

“Oh, fuck,” you whine, fingers digging into the sturdy arm rests at your sides. 

Eddie smirks against your pussy as he begins to flick his tongue against your clit. He knows every one of your little tells and knows just the right speeds and pressures to apply to your bundle of nerves to get you just where he wants you to go.

Your fingers scramble to find purchase on the chair as pleasure floods your body, so Eddie laces one of his hands with yours to ground you. His mouth keeps working against your pussy and you do your best not to grind your hips up to meet his tongue. It’s so tempting but you know it will only draw out Eddie’s teasing in the long run. 

With his free hand, Eddie delicately trails one ringed finger around your entrance, going round and round, never breaching it though. The delicious whines spilling from your lips only encourage him on.

“Shit, you taste so good, baby. God, I love your pussy,” he murmurs from between your legs.

“Eddie,” you whimper desperately, eager for him to use his fingers already. Being a nerd might not necessarily make him the best lover, but being a guitar player does make for a magical experience when he fingers you.

“Mm?” he hums against your core.

“N-Need your f-fing—holy shit, yes.”

Eddie knew what you needed before you even said it. The two of you work so well together, both mind and body, that you’re like separate pieces of the same machine, headed towards the same goal.

Two thick fingers stretch you out, at your request, as Eddie raises his head slightly to suck on your clit. He curls his fingers up and gently brushes over the spot that he knows makes you see stars. Your own fingers tighten on the arms of the throne and your legs tense around Eddie’s head.

“Shit! Fuck, fuck, I’m coming!”

Eddie smirks against your clit as he helps you ride it out, with both his fingers and mouth. He loves watching you as you come down from your high; all out of breath and dewy from a thin layer of sweat. 

The loss of his fingers as he slips them out of you is quickly made okay as you watch him pop them in his mouth as you try and catch your breath. His cocky facial expressions would annoy you if you weren’t feeling so amazing from his damn mouth.

Once he’s licked you from his fingers, he reaches down and fumbles with the handcuff buckle on his belt.

“Made you feel so good and didn’t even take my cock out yet.”

“Wipe that…smirk off your face.” You try to sound assertive, but it falls flat in your blissed out state.

Eddie chuckles and leans in, wrapping one hand around your throat; not tight enough to restrict air, just enough for you to feel the pressure.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be making demands here, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. “Pretty sure you’d let me do whatever the hell I want to you right now, won’t you?” Both of you know the answer to that, but when you don’t give a verbal response, Eddie tightens his grip on your throat just slightly. “I said, won’t you?” he growls.

“Y-Yes,” you squeak out.

The sound pleases Eddie, and he smiles deviously as he releases your throat. He presses a sweet kiss to your cheek that’s a stark contrast to how he was just handling you.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, smugness clear in his tone.

He grabs your hands and yanks you up out of the throne. An involuntary yelp passes through your lips as he spins the two of you around and backs you up until your bare thighs bump into the table.

“Shirt off. Bra too,” Eddie orders.

You do as he says, Eddie’s eyes taking you in like the prey that you are to him with every move that you make.

Once you’re completely naked, Eddie presses his index finger right in the middle of your chest and gives just enough force for you to get the hint that he wants you to lie back.

The moment you get your ass on the table, large strong hands grab behind your knees and pull you towards the edge, so your back falls flat against the surface and your legs are able to wrap around your boyfriend’s lithe body. He pushes down his black jeans and boxers enough to line himself up with your entrance. But he doesn’t push in just yet.

“Say my fucking name, sweetheart,” he says as he leans over you.

“E-Eddie.”

“Louder. I want anyone walking by to know who’s in here making you feel so good.”

“Eddie!”

The man’s grip tightens on your legs and his cock just barely slips into you.

“I said louder. Are you going to be a good girl and listen to me or what?”

“Fuck, Eddie!”

He smirks in triumph at the way you scream his name.

“That’s my girl.”

He finally pushes inside of you, agonizingly slowly, his body towering over yours as he thrusts. Each time, he goes a little deeper, his eyes boring right into yours as he moves his hips. 

Your jaw drops open and small gasps escape your lips. You’re not sure what’s hotter: how Eddie’s pounding into you or how he’s staring into your eyes, not once breaking contact. 

Eddie groans as he finally bottoms out.

“Jesus Christ,” he swears. “Your pussy’s so fucking tight.”

No words whatsoever fill your mind as you lose yourself in the feeling of Eddie inside your walls. Your boyfriend notices this as well and another arrogant smirk grows on his lips while he stares down at you.

“Aw, already cock drunk, princess? Not a thought in that pretty little head of yours?”

You want so badly to refute it, but you don’t have the words to do so–only further proving his point.

The cool table feels nice against your back as your skin becomes sticky with sweat. Your hands slide from Eddie’s arms and your fingers grip the edge of the table.

Eddie notices the movement and doesn’t want you holding on to anything that isn’t him, though. His hands slide up your body and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Eddie,” you whine.

“Oh, she can speak,” Eddie coos.

“Eddie.”

“What is it, my love?”

“C-Close.”

Eddie holds both of your wrists in one hand while the other one snakes down and presses his thumb against your clit.

“Come on, baby,” Eddie goads. “Be my good girl and cum for me.”

“W-Want you to…with me,” you pant out between labored breaths. 

“Don’t worry,” Eddie says with a wry chuckle. “I’m right there with you.”

Eddie might be a complete menace sometimes, knowing exactly how to drive you crazy, but you know him just as well and know how to bring him to the brink. 

“I-Inside,” you pant. “Need you to cum inside me.”

“Jesus,” Eddie groans, squeezing his eyes closed and clenching his teeth as he tries to hold back.

“Please,” you beg.

“Well,” Eddie huffs with a laugh, “since you asked so nicely. Come on, princess. Let go.”

The twitch of Eddie inside of you and the feeling of him filling you up has you arching your back as sparks fly behind your eyelids and ecstasy radiates up your body.

“Eddie, yes.”

“Louder,” Eddie manages as he fucks his load into you.

“Eddie!”

The blissed out feeling from his orgasm and your shouting of his name puts a big, dopey grin on Eddie’s face.

“Shit, princess,” he says with a chuckle as he buries his head in your neck. You giggle as he presses kisses and nips at the skin there.

Eddie doesn’t make a move to get off of you, which you don’t mind one bit. You tangle your fingers in his frizzy locks and press kisses to the side of his head.

“So?” he eventually mumbles against your skin.

“So what?”

Eddie picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do nerds make the best lovers or what?” he asks, eyebrows waggling.

You can’t help but laugh as you nod your head in affirmation.

“Yes, Eddie. You have proven it to me.”

“Mmm, good,” he hums before he goes back to kissing your neck.

“What’re you doing?” you ask as the kisses become more and more intense.

He pulls back to look at you again.

“You really think the best lover is only going for one round?” He scoffs and goes back to kissing your neck.

“Thank God for nerds,” you mumble as your eyes slip closed.

[raven-senpai]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐨 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐀 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝟏𝟎𝟏

𝐆𝐞𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are an angel. He is a menace. You love order. He loves chaos. You work hard to achieve your goals. He is a born-talented genius. You try to cover your body language. He sees right through you. When you get stuck together in the same apartment, it’s even worse.

You study law. He and your brother study criminal psychology. You are a closed book to everyone but him. He knows you. Better than you know yourself. And in the end, that’s what’s gonna get you trouble.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬 & 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: College AU, Roommates AU, Enemies-To-Lovers, Slow Burn, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Brother’s Best Friend, Smartass People, Flirty Banter, Comedy & Crack, Mild Language, Smut with plot, Light Angst

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 & 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭

CHAPTER TWO

You haven’t seen Narumi since that awkward café encounter, and you’re praying he’s living in some far-off dorm. The last thing you want is him showing up at your doorstep—or worse, inside your apartment.

That morning, your phone buzzes. It’s a message from Soshiro: “Helping a friend. Back late.” You raise an eyebrow. Your brother, the usually responsible, mature criminal psychology student, skipping classes to help someone? There’s only one candidate for that “friend.” And it’s him—Captain Menace himself.

You roll your eyes but brush it off. Whatever.

You’ve been trying to focus all day. Between lectures that drone on like a malfunctioning robot and an endless pile of case studies, your brain’s been screaming for mercy. You swear your law professor has a personal vendetta against your sleep schedule. But hey, you love studying — even if it sometimes feels like your soul is slowly leaking out of your ears.

After a marathon of note-taking, caffeine-fueled panic, and dodging that one guy who thinks law school is the perfect place to loudly debate his conspiracy theories about the judiciary, you finally pack up and head home.

You fantasize about nothing more than collapsing into your bed, maybe binge-watching something that doesn’t involve contracts or court cases. Maybe even ordering takeout and ignoring your responsibilities for a glorious few hours.

You get to your apartment, the lights are off — perfect. Peace at last.

But then, that voice.

“Look who finally decided to show up. Cinderella, I was starting to think you’d moved to Narnia.”

You stop dead. Your brain races: Is this a nightmare? No, worse — it’s Narumi, perched on a stool in your kitchen, legs crossed, sipping a milkshake like he’s royalty.

You want to scream. Instead, your hand shoots out and grabs the biggest book nearby — your Introduction to Criminal Law textbook. It’s heavy, intimidating, and basically the perfect weapon.

You hurl it with everything you’ve got.

“Hey! Watch it!” Narumi ducks just in time, the smug smirk never leaving his face.

You storm in, trying to look furious but secretly stunned he’s not dead. “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen? And why are you drinking my milkshake?”

Narumi shrugs, the picture of innocent mischief. “I’m your new roommate. Moving in tonight.”

You blink. “Moving in? Like, permanently? Did your dorm burn down or something? Because, honestly, that sounds about right.”

Narumi grins, perfectly pleased with himself. “You’re a genius. One of my roommates attempted a ‘gourmet’ cooking experiment. Ended with the dorm catching fire. So here I am, homeless, hungry, and charming as ever.”

You stare at him, speechless for once.

Soshiro appears behind you, looking way too calm for the situation.

“Okay, I’ll explain,” he says, pulling out a chair like this is just another Tuesday. “Narumi’s dorm burned down — literally. He’s got nowhere to stay, and since he’s my friend and your nightmare, I figured... why not share the pain?”

You turn to your brother, mouth open in disbelief. “You planned this? Without consulting me?”

Soshiro shrugs. “You were busy being the model law student. Plus, he’s entertaining.”

Narumi raises his milkshake glass in a toast. “To annoying you until you beg for mercy.”

You groan, sinking into a chair. Great. Just great. You’re doomed.

Taglist: @mitsurisupporter @milabyxz @shadyyouthcloud @cjafjatkstke @fianur @sky-casino @lemonninq @raspberrizzz @lavishlyjayda @blackqueen2k17 @livlikelove @uobasu @sylviatherosairy @jammycheese @reth66@storacy @pikusururu @bubera974 @stormnightingale @emmathecouchpotato4583 @alebrasil0101 @amayakurusu13 @misakicchi @snowy-violet @daiyanomoichi @maria-trisha @cruziival72 @xtremlyxtra @xxeclipze @vesselofwinter @vandrirrand0m @ssolarsystm @her-majesty-horiko @karnellius @asamitaka1 @z0mb1tch33 @faro13 @hana-patata

[pankowcrumbs]

Protector X Steve Harrington

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

If there’s one thing I inherited from my dad, it’s stubbornness. Stubborn to the point of stupidity, Robin says. My dad Jim says it’s grit, like steel in the bones. Personally, I call it survival.

That stubborn streak is probably the only reason I haven’t strangled Steve Harrington yet.

“Careful, princess, wouldn’t want you to ruin those combat boots you oh-so-stylishly paired with your dad’s hand-me-down flannel,” Steve mutters, holding a branch aside with his bat as we trek deeper into the Upside Down woods.

I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Wow, thanks, Harrington. I’ll treasure your approval forever. Maybe even embroider it on a pillow.”

Robin snorts from behind me, trying to mask it as a cough. Nancy rolls her eyes, and Eddie, of course, eggs it on with a dramatic gasp.

“Y/n Hopper, don’t tell me you don’t secretly adore King Steve’s fashion critiques,” Eddie teases, swinging his chain like it’s a lasso. “What’s next? You two going to start a fashion column in the Hawkins Post?”

“I’d rather set myself on fire,” I mutter.

Steve tosses his hair like the smug bastard he is, though I catch the way his shoulders stiffen. He loves needling me, and for some reason, I keep giving him fuel.

It’s been like this since day one. Since the Scoops Ahoy days, when Robin introduced me to Steve like, "This is Y/n, my best friend, try not to be a dick."

I took one look at his hair and smug smile and thought: nope. And he, apparently, decided immediately that I was fun to irritate.

But right now, in the middle of the Upside Down, our little sparring matches feel sharper. There’s too much tension, too much adrenaline, too much… everything.

The air smells of metal and rot. The vines pulse underfoot. Every sound has me on edge.

We’re quiet for a while, the group moving as one, until I hear it: that shrieking screech that makes my blood turn to ice.

Demobats.

“Shit,” Steve hisses, already gripping his bat with nails.

I spin, heart pounding, as a cluster of them swoops from the trees. Robin yells something, Nancy fires, Eddie shouts, and I...stupid, stubborn me charge forward with my knife.

One of them barrels at me, claws scraping. I slash, barely nicking its leathery wing, but another blindsides me, its screech in my ear as teeth snap inches from my throat.

“Y/n!” Steve’s voice.

Then his body slams into mine, knocking me to the ground just as the bat whips past. My knife flies from my hand. The world flips upside down. Literally. And I realise he’s on top of me, shielding me with his whole body as the demobat crashes into a vine and shrieks away.

For a second, it’s just breathing. His chest against mine, heavy and fast. My fingers clutching his jacket without meaning to. His eyes locked on mine, so close I can see every fleck of hazel.

“Are you...are you okay?” he breathes, voice low, urgent.

“I...” My throat is dry. My brain short-circuits. I never short-circuit. “Yeah. I think so.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do I. His hair brushes my cheek, his nose just inches from mine, and it’s like the whole rotten world fades out. The vines stop pulsing. The screeches blur. All I can hear is his heartbeat hammering in rhythm with mine.

God, if someone doesn’t interrupt, I might do something incredibly stupid. Like kiss him.

“Uh, not to ruin the rom-com in hell moment,” Eddie’s voice cuts through, “but there are still, you know, bats trying to eat us alive?”

Steve jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. I scramble upright, face burning, brushing dirt from my hands as if that’s the most important thing in the universe.

“Thanks,” I mutter quickly, not looking at him. “For… you know. Saving me.”

His jaw ticks. He nods, too fast. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

I bolt for Robin before my heart explodes.

She gives me a look. The Look. Eyebrows arched, lips twitching, the kind of look only a best friend can deliver.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“I didn’t say anything,” she sing-songs.

“You were thinking it.”

“Oh, I was definitely thinking it.”

We keep moving, but my head won’t stop spinning.

Steve Harrington just saved my life. Not that he hasn’t saved people before, it’s practically his thing now, but this was me. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t think twice. He threw himself between me and a monster like it was instinct.

And that moment, that impossible heartbeat when he was above me, breath mingling with mine and I can’t shake it. I keep replaying it, against my will. The heat of him. The way his eyes softened for just a fraction of a second, like he wasn’t mocking me, like he actually…

No. Stop. It’s Steve. Steve, who calls me princess, who drives me insane with his smirk, who’s been my favourite person to fight with for years. He doesn’t like me. And I definitely don’t like him.

Except maybe I do.

God help me.

Later, when we finally pause to catch our breath, I sink onto a rock, rubbing at a scrape on my arm I didn’t even notice until now. Robin plops beside me, offering her canteen.

“You should’ve seen your face,” she says, nudging me. “When he tackled you. I thought you were going to combust.”

“I wasn’t going to combust,” I grumble, taking a sip. “I was surprised. That’s all.”

“Surprised at how close his face was to yours?” she teases.

I groan, shoving her shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

She just grins knowingly.

Across the clearing, Steve’s pacing, bat still in his hand, jaw set. Eddie’s telling him some ridiculous story, and Nancy’s reloading, calm as ever. But Steve’s eyes flick over, just for a second, catching mine. And I swear, the tension tightens all over again, like a taut string between us.

Robin follows my gaze and smirks. “Oh, you’re screwed.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

But deep down, I know she’s right.

My boots crunched on the ash-dusted floor as we moved through the dimness, weapons clutched too tightly in sweaty palms.

Robin was muttering something under her breath about how much she hated all of this, Nancy was walking ahead with her usual cool determination, Eddie was humming what I assumed was supposed to be “comforting battle music,” and Steve…

Steve Harrington was walking right beside me.

Because of course he was.

It didn’t matter that there were literally three other people he could pair up with...no, he just had to stick himself next to me. Like some kind of personal torment designed to test my patience.

“Try not to trip over your own feet this time,” Steve whispered under his breath, leaning down just enough for me to hear him.

I narrowed my eyes, glancing up at him. “Thanks for the reminder, Harrington. You know, after you nearly got strangled by vines last time, maybe you should be the one watching your step.”

He smirked, the kind of smug little curl of his lips that made me want to smack it off his face. “I was distracted. Saving your life tends to get in the way of watching where I’m walking.”

Heat rushed up my neck before I could stop it. He just had to bring that up, didn’t he? His arms around me, the way my chest had been pressed to his, our faces so close I’d felt his breath fan across my lips.

I shook the memory away quickly, gripping the bat in my hands tighter. “Please. You were just in the right place at the right time.”

He didn’t answer, but I caught the glint in his eyes. He was enjoying this.

Of course he was.

We kept moving, the group falling into tense silence as we crept through the decaying streets of Hawkins’s shadow self. It was familiar but twisted, like walking through a nightmare you couldn’t quite wake up from.

Nancy raised a hand suddenly, signalling us to stop. We froze.

The clicking came first. High-pitched, shrill, and all too close.

My stomach dropped.

“More demobats,” Robin mouthed, her face pale.

Nancy gestured frantically towards a half-collapsed building to our right. We bolted, ducking into what looked like the ruined shell of an old shop. The walls were caved in, dust and ash everywhere, but it was shelter.

“Quiet,” Nancy hissed, ushering us further in.

The bats swarmed outside, their wings a sickening flutter that made my skin crawl. My heart pounded so loud I was sure it would give us away. We had no choice but to cram into the narrowest corner of the rubble.

Robin squeezed in first, then Eddie, then Nancy… which left me and Steve pressed together in a space that was far too small for two people.

I ended up half-pinned against the wall, Steve’s chest flush to mine, his breath ghosting across my cheek.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whispered.

“Not my fault you take up so much space,” he murmured back.

My eyes widened, outrage sparking. “Excuse me? You’re twice my size, Harrington, don’t even start...”

“Shh,” he breathed, his hand suddenly covering mine on the bat. “They’re right outside.”

Sure enough, shadows flickered against the broken wall. I froze, my body going rigid against his. His hand stayed on mine, grounding me even though I hated to admit it.

Every second stretched unbearably. I could feel his heart thudding against my ribs, his chest rising and falling against mine. His eyes flicked down to meet mine, and for a terrifying moment, all the noise outside disappeared.

It was just me and him.

Too close. Too intense. His brown eyes darker in the shadows, fixed on me like he was trying to read every thought in my head.

I swallowed hard, breath shaky. “Steve…”

“Yeah?” His voice was barely audible.

But before I could even figure out what I was about to say, Eddie’s voice cut through the silence.

“Wow. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I just stumbled onto a soap opera. You two wanna kiss now, or should we wait until the monsters aren’t listening?”

I shoved Steve back so fast we both nearly toppled into the rubble. My face burned as I stormed past him, deliberately planting myself between Robin and Nancy.

Steve cleared his throat behind me, muttering, “You’re welcome, by the way. Saved your butt again.”

I didn’t even look at him. “I wasn’t the one about to kiss someone in front of a demobat welcoming committee.”

Robin leaned close to me, trying and failing to hide her grin. “Sooo… what was that, exactly?”

“Nothing,” I hissed. “Absolutely nothing.”

But the truth was still humming under my skin. The truth was the way my body had betrayed me heart racing, breath short, staring into his stupidly handsome face like I’d forgotten how to think.

Nothing, I told myself firmly.

Except it didn’t feel like nothing.

Later, when the danger passed and we kept moving, Steve hung back to walk beside me again. Typical.

“You know,” he said softly, “for someone who claims to hate me, you sure looked pretty interested back there.”

I shot him a glare sharp enough to kill. “In your dreams, Harrington.”

He only smirked, like he knew something I didn’t. “Maybe. But you were definitely looking.”

My cheeks flamed, and I spun on my heel to walk faster, determined to ignore him.

Behind me, I could hear Eddie whispering to Robin, “Told you, soap opera.”

Climbing through the disgusting ropes of the Upside Down gate is just grim. I can hear Eddie swearing about “gravity-defying freaky portals,” and Robin muttering about tetanus shots. Nancy, as always, is stone-faced determination.

Steve insists on going first. Of course he does. “I’ll make sure it’s safe,” he says, puffing his chest like some kind of knight in shining armour.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Yes, Harrington, because what could possibly go wrong? Falling onto a mattress? Truly heroic.”

He gives me that signature smirk, the one that makes me want to slap him and maybe laugh at the same time. “Someone’s got to set the standard.” And then, with a mock salute, he hauls himself through.

We all look up to the gate, watching him fall like Alice tumbling into Wonderland. He hits the mattress with a grunt but bounces up with that cocky grin. “Perfect landing. Who’s next?”

One by one, they go through. Robin, Nancy, Eddie. Which leaves me.

I hesitate just for a second. My legs feel like jelly, and not because of the fall. It’s the idea of going from hell to… well, another kind of hell. But Robin gives me a thumbs-up from below, and I take a deep breath before lowering myself in.

The world tilts. My stomach lurches. And then I’m falling

Strong hands catch me before I hit the mattress. I slam into a broad chest, arms wrapping around me instinctively.

Steve Harrington.

Of bloody course.

My breath comes out sharp, because his face is right there, closer than it should ever be. His hands linger on my waist like he doesn’t trust gravity to do its job. I can feel his heartbeat, fast and steady beneath me.

“I didn’t need you to catch me, Harrington,” I manage, voice a little breathless despite myself.

His mouth quirks, infuriatingly smug. “You’re welcome.”

I scramble out of his arms like they’re on fire. My cheeks burn. Before I can string another sarcastic retort together

“OH. MY. GOD.” Dustin’s voice cuts through like a megaphone. “Did we all see that?!”

Eddie throws his head back, laughing. “Oh, I saw it. Harrington playing the knight in shining hair. And our girl here practically swooning.”

“I was not swooning!” I snap, glaring daggers at them both.

“Sure, sure,” Eddie says, wagging his eyebrows. Dustin nods vigorously beside him. “The tension in this room? You could cut it with a sword.”

I let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a scream and storm out of the trailer before they can get another word in.

The cool night air slaps me in the face. It’s a relief, but it doesn’t cool the heat prickling across my cheeks. Bloody Steve Harrington. Always there, always smug, always...

“Hey, wait.”

I freeze as a hand lands gently on my shoulder. Not forceful, just enough to stop me walking off.

I turn, and there he is. Steve. Hair a mess, dirt smudged across his cheek, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. The cocky grin is gone.

“Sorry,” he says, and it sounds… real. Not sarcastic. Not teasing. Just him. “About catching you. About them… taking the piss.”

I swallow, unsure what to do with the sudden sincerity. For a beat, I just stare at him. His hand drops away slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare me off.

“It’s okay,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I expect. I look away, fiddling with the cuff of my sleeve. “I just… don’t like being laughed at.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “It’s not that they’re laughing at you, you know. They see something else.”

I know exactly what he means, but I’m not about to admit it. Instead, I breathe in deep and let it out shaky. “It’s just...” My throat tightens. “It’s been hard since Dad… ”

Talking about him feels like glass in my chest.

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Steve shifts, his voice low, steady. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. Losing him like that… I can’t imagine.”

My eyes sting. “He was… everything. Stubborn, protective, always there. Now it’s just gone. And I can’t… I can’t seem to move on.”

Steve steps closer, careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. His hand hovers near mine but doesn’t touch. “You don’t have to move on. You just… keep going. And I know that doesn’t fix it. But you’re not on your own. Not while I’m around.”

I look up at him, surprised. The sincerity in his eyes is disarming. No jokes. No smugness. Just Steve.

And for the first time since dad died, I don’t feel completely alone.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

He gives me a small smile. “Anytime.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. For a moment, I let myself just breathe, standing there with him under the stars.

Of course, the trailer door bursts open and Eddie’s voice cuts through. “Oi, lovebirds! You done with your dramatic heart-to-heart?”

I groan, bury my face in my hands, and mutter, “I hate him.”

But Steve just chuckles softly beside me. “Yeah,” he says, eyes still on me. “Me too.”

And somehow, that makes me smile.

When we came back the air in the Upside Down was thicker than ever, like breathing through damp wool. Every step crunched against ruined debris and twisted roots spreading out from Vecna’s lair. My lungs were burning, but my grip on the axe in my hand was tighter still. We’d stocked up on whatever we could find from the weapons stash in the real world, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

Steve was walking ahead, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. Robin was muttering quietly behind him, and Nancy moved like a woman with a mission steady, collected, determined to see this through.

Me? I was somewhere between determined and terrified.

“Stay close,” Steve murmured over his shoulder, eyes flicking back to me. He didn’t even bother directing the words at Robin or Nancy. Just me.

I rolled my eyes, mostly to cover the way my stomach twisted. “I am close. You want me to crawl up on your back or something?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea. At least then I’d know you weren’t wandering off trying to be a hero.”

“Heroics aren’t really my thing,” I muttered. “That’s your gig, Harrington.”

He smirked at that, and for a moment even with the vines pulsing under our boots I thought I caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Nancy’s whisper cut through. “There. The attic window look.”

Through the broken panes of the Creel house, Vecna’s red glow leaked into the black. The whole structure looked like it was rotting from the inside out, the vines clutching tighter and tighter around the wood as if it were alive.

Robin whispered, “We’re really doing this, huh?”

I forced my voice steady. “No turning back now.”

Steve glanced at me. “You stick by me.”

“I already said I would,” I shot back, a little sharper than I meant.

But he just nodded and tightened his grip on the nail-studded bat. “Good.”

Inside was worse. The smell hit me first like burnt flesh and mould. The floor groaned under us as we climbed the stairs. Every step brought us closer to Vecna’s lair, and I could feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck.

And then the screech hit. High, sharp, inhuman.

“Demobats,” Nancy hissed.

“Shit,” Steve muttered, pushing me back behind him instinctively. “Stay low.”

The bats swarmed down the hallway, wings cutting through the air like knives. Nancy fired, Robin screamed curses, and I swung with the axe, heart hammering. One of the bats came straight for me, claws out

And Steve’s bat smashed into it mid-flight, knocking it against the wall. He didn’t even look at me, just gritted out, “You’re welcome.”

I scowled, adrenaline fizzing. “I had it!”

“Sure you did, Hopper.”

But his hand brushed mine as he shifted closer, the smallest touch grounding me when everything else was chaos.

By the time we reached the attic, my arms ached and my throat was raw.

And there he was.

Vecna.

Suspended in his grotesque trance, vines webbing across the space, his skin pulsing as if something beneath it was alive. The sight of him made my stomach twist.

Nancy raised her gun. “Now.”

She fired. The shots tore through the silence, and Vecna jerked violently. The vines shuddered, screaming like living things.

“Move!” Steve barked, grabbing my arm as a vine lashed toward me. He yanked me down with him, the two of us crashing hard against the floor. My breath caught his chest pressed against mine, his face inches from mine.

For a moment, the battle fell away. His breath was ragged, eyes burning into mine, his hand still locked around my arm like he couldn’t bear to let go.

I swallowed, heart hammering louder than the gunfire.

Then a vine slammed into the floor beside us, and the spell broke.

“Shit!” I scrambled up, Steve dragging me with him, shoving me behind as another vine slashed across his arm. He hissed in pain, blood blooming instantly.

“Steve!” I panicked, grabbing his arm. “You’re hurt”

“I’m fine!” He gritted his teeth, swinging his bat again. “Just keep fighting!”

But I couldn’t stop glancing at him, at the blood, at the way he still shielded me even as his own strength faltered.

The room shook as Nancy’s bullets landed true, Robin hurling Molotovs that burst across the vines in flames. The stench was unbearable, but it was working.

“Y/n NOW!” Nancy shouted.

I tightened my grip on the axe, spotted a thick vine writhing across the floor, and swung with everything in me. The blade sank deep, severing it with a wet crunch.

Vecna screamed.

I stumbled back, chest heaving, and nearly fell only for Steve’s hand to catch my waist, steadying me.

“Easy,” he murmured, his face close enough for me to see the sweat glistening on his brow.

“Don’t” My voice cracked. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed, Harrington.”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, even with chaos raging around us. “Wasn’t planning on it, Hopper.”

And then he let go, launching forward again with his bottles of Flaming alcohol, like the big dumb hero he always had to be.

By the time Vecna finally fell blasted back by fire and bullets and screams I thought my heart might never slow down again.

The four of us stumbled out of the Creel house, coughing, shaking, covered in grime and blood. Steve’s arm was bleeding worse now, and I couldn’t stop hovering at his side, even as he brushed me off.

“I said I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding everywhere, Harrington,” I snapped, clutching his arm tighter. “That’s not fine!”

But instead of arguing, he just gave me this tired little smile. “You sound like your dad.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. My throat tightened.

And maybe he noticed, because his voice gentled. “Hey. We made it out. You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

Robin stumbled up beside us, wheezing. “Barely. But yeah, okay, sure. Totally fine.”

Nancy reloaded her gun with steady hands, already scanning the horizon. “We need to regroup with Dustin and Eddie.”

Steve nodded, then looked at me again really looked. “Stay close, yeah?”

And for once, I didn’t argue.

The smell of smoke and blood clung to the air like a punishment, coating my throat every time I tried to breathe. My legs burned from running, lungs stinging as Steve, Nancy, Robin and I pushed our way back through the Upside Down’s broken ruins towards Eddie’s trailer.

We knew it before we even got there. Something in Dustin’s scream, tearing through the silence, ripped the truth right into my chest before my eyes could see it.

By the time we stumbled close enough, I stopped dead.

Dustin was crumpled on the ground, arms around Eddie’s limp body, sobbing so hard it shattered something inside me. His voice was hoarse, almost broken beyond recognition, calling Eddie’s name like it could pull him back.

I froze stomach twisting. My heart was hammering, not from the run, but from the sheer unfairness of it. Eddie. The one who had been branded a coward. The one who had finally proved to everyone including himself that he wasn’t. He’d done the stupidly heroic thing. He’d stayed behind. And now...

Robin was the first to move, tears streaming silently as she knelt beside Dustin, whispering gently, coaxing him to let go just long enough for her and Nancy to pull him away. Dustin fought it, clinging to Eddie with a desperation that made me want to look away, but eventually he collapsed into Robin’s arms. Nancy was there too, supporting him on the other side, their voices soft and steady even through their own grief.

And then it was just me. Me and Steve and Eddie’s body.

The silence was suffocating. My vision blurred before I even realised the tears were falling. I dropped to my knees beside Eddie, my breath hitching as I looked at his face pale, still, far too quiet for someone who was always laughing or running his mouth.

“God, Eddie…” I whispered, choking on the lump in my throat. “You bloody idiot.”

I hadn’t even noticed Steve kneel down next to me until I felt his hand brush against mine. Gently, cautiously, as if afraid to startle me. When I turned, his eyes weren’t their usual cocky shade of smugness or irritation they were soft. Quiet. Hurting in the exact same way mine were.

A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and traitorous. I reached up quickly to swipe it away, but Steve’s hand moved faster.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under my eye. “Look at me.”

I did. Against my better judgement, I did. And it felt like my heart was split in two.

His eyes held mine, steady and grounding in a way I didn’t realise I needed. His voice stayed low, like it was just for me, shielding me from everything else for a fleeting second. “Don’t get lost in it, okay? We’ll… we’ll make sure his sacrifice meant something.”

I wanted to say something back. Something witty, sarcastic, anything to deflect the way my chest was caving in under the weight of all this but nothing came. Only another tear, another ragged breath.

Steve’s hand stayed there, thumb still brushing the corner of my eye. And suddenly I was aware of how close we were his knee against mine, the warmth of his palm against my face, his breath mixing with mine in the choking air of the trailer.

The tension was sharp enough to slice through the grief for half a heartbeat. I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to, even. His gaze flicked down to my lips, then back up to my eyes, and for a terrifying, electrifying second I thought...

But no. Not here. Not now.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, blinking hard as I steadied my voice. “We should… we should get him out of here. Give him… give him peace.”

Steve’s hand lingered for the briefest moment longer before he nodded and pulled back. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Together, we moved Eddie. Together, we worked in silence, the weight of grief pressing down heavier than the dust in the air. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of his hand still on my skin, the way his eyes had begged me to look at him.

And I knew then grief or no grief, Eddie or no Eddie something between me and Steve Harrington had shifted.

A few days later, the air was thick with the sound of boxes shutting, car doors slamming, and the soft shuffle of everyone trying to pretend like things were normal. Hawkins looked broken, the world scarred by fire and ash, but we were all doing our best to pack up and get out before the next wave of chaos hit.

Steve was by my side, helping me shove the last few bags into the trunk of Dad's old Chevy. Eleven hovered close, her quiet presence both grounding and fragile. Mike and Will were bickering about whose turn it was to sit in the middle seat, and Jonathan and Nancy fussed over what little food was left.

Steve brushed a bit of dust off his jeans, giving me that small half-smile he always did when he caught me overthinking. “You’re good, don’t worry. I’ll make it fit,” he said, wedging the last bag into the trunk like some kind of packing magician.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the distant sound of tyres crunching on gravel snapped my head up. Everyone stilled.

A beat later, a car pulled into the driveway. The door opened...then another.

Joyce.

And

“Dad?” The word tore out of me, raw and disbelieving. The box I’d been holding slipped from my hands, scattering clothes across the ground, but I didn’t care. My legs moved before my brain could catch up, carrying me across the yard.

Hopper stepped out, thinner, almost gaunt, but he was smiling really smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Kid,” he said, and that was all it took. I slammed into him, arms locking around his shoulders, clinging so tightly I was half afraid he’d disappear again. His laugh rumbled low in his chest, uneven but so achingly familiar.

“You’re so skinny,” I blurted into his shirt, pulling back just far enough to look at him. My tears blurred his face, but I could see the rough stubble, the sharp lines where weight had dropped away. “What did they do to you?”

He chuckled, rough and warm, brushing a hand over my hair. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here now. And I’ve got you. That’s all I care about.”

Joyce joined us, wrapping her arms around both of us, and for a moment it was just family again whole in a way I thought had been stolen forever.

I pulled back, wiping my face quickly, suddenly aware of the group behind us.

Steve stood a few feet away, watching with a softness in his eyes I wasn’t sure I deserved. He gave me the smallest nod, like go on, be with him.

Dad’s gaze followed mine, and I could feel it sharpen just a little. He already knew Steve knew his antics, his charm, his way of making everyone roll their eyes but the way he looked at us now was different. Protective. Alert. Like he could tell something had shifted between us.

“Hmm,” Dad muttered, folding his arms. He gave me a long look, then Steve, then me again, his expression a mix of amusement and that familiar, bordering-on-annoyed protective edge. “So… you two, huh?”

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “Dad”

Steve grinned, shifting slightly closer to me, that stupid Harrington confidence lighting up his features. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m not causing trouble.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed playfully, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “I’ll be the judge of that. Just… don’t hurt her, Harrington. You hear me?”

Steve held up his free hands, mock surrender. “Noted. Loud and clear.”

I groaned again, burying my face in my hands. “Kill me now.”

Steve smirked, leaning closer to whisper so only I could hear. “For what it’s worth… I think he already likes me.”

I shot him a look. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “But you didn’t deny it.”

[littlelamy]

🤗 anon here with another ideeaa! or suggestion, whatever youd like to call it!

you should do a small part two to your anxious reader blurb having a panic attack, maybe like- her explaining what actually happened to rafe, n then after a few days she finally gets the courage to see the pogues again and she starts to apologize :( even though it wasnt her fault- and then it all ends up in a good, happy ending teehee

a/n: 🤗 anonie, i hope you like it!

“it was stupid,” you say, already looking down, chewing your thumbnail raw. “i don’t even know why it hit me like that, it wasn’t anything big, just—”

“hey.” rafe’s voice cuts in, his hand finding your knee through the blanket you’ve wrapped yourself in like armor. “stop..don’t do that thing where you act like your brain betrayed you on purpose.”

you glance up, looking at him on the edge of the couch, close but still giving you space, even after two days of sleeping beside you.

“jj said something,” you finally whisper. “not even in a mean way. just some dumb joke about how i’m always the one who has a plan, and what would they do without me freaking out about everything first.”

you pause, biting the inside of your cheek. the knot in your chest tightens.

“it wasn’t even mean,” you repeat. “but i’d already been..off, all day. tired, i guess, or just…” you wave a hand at your own head, “you know. like that.”

rafe’s thumb draws circles on your knee, watching you look at him—his brow creases, like he’s feeling it in his own chest now.

“and it just hit me,” you say, quieter now. “like—i’m too much. even when they love me. even when they don’t mean it like that. i’m still the mess. the burden.”

rafe doesn’t say no right away. he lets the words sit there for a second, because you both know brushing them away too fast would only make you retreat again.

then he leans in, elbows on his knees, eyes locked to yours. “you are not a burden,” he says, slowly, like he needs you to feel every syllable. “you are a human being with anxiety. and those assholes—who, for the record, worship the ground you walk on—are lucky as hell to have you even when you’re falling apart.”

“i know they didn’t mean it,” you murmur. “i know. i just couldn’t stop spiraling. and then when i left, i felt like such a fucking idiot. i didn’t want them to see me like that. not again.”

rafe exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “i’ve seen you like that. i’ve seen every version of you. and you know what i thought the whole time?”

you raise an eyebrow, unsure you want to hear the answer.

“i thought, holy shit, she’s still fighting even when she thinks she’s losing.” he leans closer. “so fuck what jj said. and fuck the panic, too. you’re not broken. you just got hit harder that day.”

you’re quiet again, blinking fast. it’s hard to hear it like that. “i wanna go see them,” you say after a second. “i want to explain. i wanna..apologize.”

“no.” rafe’s voice is firm. “you can explain. that’s fine. but you’re not apologizing for your mental health like it’s a spilled drink.”

“but i scared them,” you say. “i just walked out. jj called me four times before i even realized my phone was vibrating. they were probably worried sick and didn’t know what the hell happened.”

“then tell them what happened,” he says gently. “tell them what it felt like, what set it off. but if any of them tries to make you feel like you owe them a sorry for being overwhelmed, i swear to God, i’ll drown them in that fuckin’ marsh.”

you snort, covering your mouth. “that’s very sweet of you.”

“i try.”

you go three days later. you’ve texted them first—jj, kiara, john b, and pope. 'hey, can we talk? i wanna explain.' they’d responded immediately, full of “yes please” and “we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

you’re shaking by the time you reach the chateau. your hands won’t stop fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie. rafe drives you there but waits outside, sprawled on the hood of his truck with a cigarette.

when you knock, the door swings open too fast and jj’s there, all wide eyed. “you came,” he breathes. leaning to the side, you see kie there too—pope and john b behind her, all looking like they don’t know whether to hug you or let you lead.

you step inside. your chest is tight but you’re breathing—that counts.

“i’m sorry i disappeared,” you say first, and rafe’s voice echoes in your mind—don’t apologize for the panic. so you correct yourself. “i wasn’t okay. i had a panic attack. i should’ve told someone, but i didn’t want to ruin the mood.”

jj’s face crumples. “you didn’t ruin anything. i was such a dick, i didn’t even think—”

“no, no, you weren’t,” you rush to say. “you made a joke. i just wasn’t in a place to laugh at it. that’s not your fault.”

pope sits beside you on the couch. “is there anything we can do next time? like if it happens again?”

your throat tightens. you nod. “just..let me step out if i need to. don’t chase me. just give me a second. and maybe..check on me a couple of minutes later?”

“always,” kiara says instantly. “you don’t ever have to hide that stuff from us. we’re your people.”

jj finally steps forward and hugs you, a little too hard. “you’re not the mess. pogues gotta stick together.”

you blink hard, clutching him back. outside, rafe leans against the truck, watching through the window. you give him the smallest nod, and he smiles back, mouthing 'i love you'.

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[its-time-to-write]

chapter 8

I wish I could explain to you the absolute feat it was to complete these chapters. I’ve been having a TIME lol but like,,, not a bad time? Just a busy one. I’ll probably be gone for a bit (but who actually knows) since I’ve got a few end-of-year projects that have been taking up my time and brain. And I don’t recall if I mentioned before, but I’m on a 2-year medication that causes SUCH bad brain fog. anyway. That’s enough over sharing. Here’s the rest of were you sent by someone?

table of contents

i’m not pretending in the way you are

It becomes a routine, Jamie coming over. It doesn’t help that Madeline (the fucking traitor) vaguely endorses the whole thing after girl’s night at Keeley’s. 

“I genuinely think he’s trying,” she says. “He goes to therapy, for fuck’s sake. That’s got to mean something.”

“Fuck you,” you reply good-naturedly and Madeline just poses for another selfie with Clare. 

But she’s right. He is trying, trying in a way he didn’t when you were together. He’s almost reliable, although you’d never say it to his face. He shows up with flowers, doesn’t push boundaries, and more often than not he makes dinner. 

And he’s fucking brilliant with Clare. It’s almost unfair how good he is, with no practice whatsoever. She loves him, smiles whenever she can see him and giggles when he holds her.

You take her to a game, once. Madeline comes too, wearing an oversized Rojas kit and a miniskirt. You just wear a red shirt and jeans, but Bean has a Tartt onesie. You see Keeley Jones from afar and barely dodge having to talk to her. Jamie finds you after the match and Madeline takes a picture of the three of you. Jamie has his arms wrapped around you and you’re smiling. It’s a real smile too, and the picture ends up on your fridge. You’re not sure how because you definitely didn’t put it there, but Madeline and Jamie are there often enough that it could have been either one of them. 

Most dinners devolve into fierce arguments between Jamie and Madeline about who love Clare the most, but you aren’t complaining. She’s sleeping through the night now, so you let them argue while glued to your computer.

Jamie has taken to holding your hand whenever he can manage it. He always was one for physical touch, and it’s nice. He hasn’t made a move beyond that and you’re not ready for that but whatever you have right now is working.

Georgie visits, and that’s strange. You’d only met her twice before, and now she’s in your house holding Clare while Jamie sits on the couch next to them. It feels like intruding almost, the way they all have the same face and the same smile, so you disappear upstairs. They won’t notice, you’re positive, but there’s a tap on the door to your room and instead of looking up to see Jamie, it’s Georgie. She comes in and sits at the end of your bed at your invitation and says, “Are you all right, love?”

You smile, the one you use for photographs. Not fake, but not real either. “Of course,” you reply. “I’m glad you could come meet Clare. You’re welcome back any time.”

Georgie squints. “It must be strange for you,” she says, “going from being all alone to having the other side of Clare’s family. It was hard enough for me when Simon came ‘round, much less Jamie. And Jamie was older, too, so the poor baby was always worried Simon was going to leave.”

You nod. You’re quite familiar with the story. You still aren’t sure Jamie trusts Simon, but maybe he wouldn’t trust anyone with his mum.

Which begs the question, do you really trust anyone with Clare? Jamie’s been lovely for a whole month, but a month isn’t long enough to really tell. You wonder if the threat of him leaving will always loom over your head.

“Jamie called me, you know,” Georgie says. “It was right after he met Clare. He wanted to know how to un-fuck up everything and I told him he might not be able to. He was a right little shit, I heard. I just told him what I would have liked when I was in your shoes, but I know it doesn’t magically fix everything.”

And that… that makes sense. Not that Jamie couldn’t have figured out how to make things better on his own, but he did it almost perfectly. It makes sense why everything he did seemed to anticipate all your needs. He’d asked someone who’d been in your shoes, and hadn’t gotten the help she might have wanted. 

“He loves you, you know,” Georgie continues. She doesn’t seem to feel the need to pressure you to speak, which is good because you don’t have much to say. “I mean, he really, truly, spectacularly loves you. He speaks about you in all of our conversations, always going on about how amazing you are at your job and as a mum.” That’s interesting. You hadn’t known Jamie spoke to Georgie about you, much less what he might have said. You know Georgie can be many things, but she isn’t a liar. 

She hesitates for a moment. “You don’t have to treat me like your mum, but I’d like to treat you as my daughter. I always hoped Jamie would choose someone who’d make him want to be better. He’s a sweet thing, he is, but he gets funny in the head sometimes, you know what I mean?”

You smile. “Jamie? Funny in the head? Say it isn’t so.”

Georgie laughs. “Ah, that Clare is going to have quite the sense humor between the two of you I’m sure. You’ll have to come ‘round up north when you can manage it. I know Simon would be absolutely delighted to meet you both.”

Your eyes flicker. That’s a big step. A very permanent, potentially painful step.

Georgie catches it and leans forward. “Love, I’m not just here because of the baby. I’m here because you’re someone Jamie cares about. Simon and I want to be a support system for you.” She smiles. “And of course, we don’t want to step on your toes. James’s parents were always trying to take Jamie, and I fucking hated it.”

You hear footsteps on the stairs and Jamie appears with Clare. “Oi,” he says, “you lot having a chat about me?”

“No,” you and Georgie chorus and Jamie just squints. “Fucking lying, you are. Can always tell.”

You hold your arms out for Clare. At this rate, the kid won’t be on the floor long enough to learn how to crawl.

“Cruel,” Jamie continues, and you roll your eyes. So dramatic, he is. “Anyway, came up to see if you’d like to go out to eat tonight. I can’t do the fuckin’ dishes. I need a break.”

“Lazybones,” Georgie says, and it’s different now than it was downstairs. It feels like family.

—

Georgie’s been gone a week and you’ve been roped into dinner at Jamie’s with Roy Kent and Keeley fucking Jones.

Thank fucking god Madeline’s there as well with her on-again off-again boy toy who’s probably her soulmate and who she will most likely marry when she’s in her forties because otherwise you’d lose your fucking shit.

It’s a strange dinner without the fact that you can’t stomach Keeley, because Roy fucking hates Jamie.

You’re pretty sure he tolerates you, and he definitely likes Clare because he holds her most of the night before you put her down in her room to sleep. 

The feeling’s mutual, because she cries the moment you take her from him.

You say, “You’re good with kids,” and Roy just shrugs.

Back at the dinner table, Madeline’s had to dig her nails into your thigh. She’s definitely going to leave crescent fingernail marks, but if it stops you from being rude, you won’t wiggle away.

Jamie’s oblivious. He just seems happy not to be alone in his giant, far too quiet house. It’s a relatively uneventful evening, although you’re not the biggest fan of the way Keeley tells stories about Jamie like he belongs to her, somehow. Or like you don’t exist.

By the time she and Roy leave, you’re exhausted. The last thing you want to do is wake Clare, drive her home, and try to get her to sleep again.

Madeline and Isaiah (aforementioned boy toy) leave soon after, and you call, “Use protection!” as they walk down the steps.

“Worked well for you, did it?” Isaiah asks and you flip him off, but you aren’t mad. Like you said, you’re relatively certain he’s Madeline’s soulmate and he’s been around long enough that he’s allowed to joke like that.

The door finally closes behind them and you’re ready to collapse. You turn to find Jamie with a similar expression and without conscious effort, you make your way into his arms.

You close your eyes and sigh as you rest your cheek on his chest.

He asks, “You tired?” and you nod. “Want to spend the night? Can make up the room next to Clare’s. Won’t take long.”

You shake your head, and you feel him deflate a little. “I don’t want the room next to Clare’s.”

Jamie pulls away a bit to gauge your expression. “You mean-?”

You nod. “I hate sleeping alone. It’s cold and stupid.”

Jamie says, “Hm,” and uses one hand to brush hair away from your face. Your gaze flicks to his lips for a moment, but he definitely sees it. You have just enough time to say, “We’re not having sex,” before he’s kissing you, and you think that maybe forgiving him isn’t such a terrible idea after all. 

But you’re too tired to explore that idea further so when he breaks away to get some air, you pull him upstairs and to his room where you both collapse on the bed and fall asleep intertwined.

[yunwangja]

undercurrents | signal no. 7

masterlist | next signal

you annoyingly sigh as you turn off your phone and put it in your pocket after re-reading your texts with samu an hour ago. you hated that he was right. as much as you hate to admit it, you needed that lecture.

unknowingly, you had a lot to think about this… friendship you have with kuroo. ever since you saw that match, you acted, well, a bit more ridiculous than usual. it doesn’t really help that he’s just across you eating fries, observing the hustle outside the food joint you were at.

because, it made sense. why are you getting so defensive when he asked you about how close you were getting these days? and why are you so worked up after seeing he treats other girls? if you think about it, you did like being around kuroo. why else would you always drag him to your stupid shenanigans?

your mind is conflicted as you secretly watch kuroo in front of you. is it really just because he teases you a lot? or… are you putting up your guard about how far this friendship would go?

but why would you feel that way? you try to rack your brain to find a reason.

wait. is it…?

nevermind.

you decide to brush it off. for now. you don’t want to think about it. you don’t have to go down on that rabbit hole.

you take a sip of your iced tea, trying to wash away any further thought. bottomline is, kuroo’s being a good friend to you. and you like that. and maybe, you wanted to look for signs that he did too, without actually asking it and embarrassing yourself.

maybe that’s why you’ve been acting this way. maybe. maybe.

you settle it down to that for now.

“yn, want some ice cream?” kuroo’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, grounding you back in the moment. you glance up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the easygoing nature of his offer. there’s a brief hesitation as you process his words, but eventually, you nod.

“yeah, sure,” you respond, your tone casual. you reach into your bag, fingers brushing against the familiar texture of your wallet as you prepare to pay for your treat. but before you can pull out any money, kuroo swiftly waves his hand, stopping you in your tracks.

“no, i’ll treat you. don’t worry about it,” he says with a dismissive wave, already standing up from his seat. it’s a small gesture, but one that feels surprisingly natural. as he moves to head to the counter, he turns back to you with a questioning look. “what flavor do you want?”

“strawberry, please,” you reply. kuroo’s lips twitch into a smirk as he tilts his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“so you’re a strawberry girl, huh?” he teases, the playful tone in his voice bringing out a light chuckle from you.

you roll your eyes, a smirk of your own forming. “yeah, whatever you call it,” you reply, leaning into the familiar banter. he just grins, clearly amused, and turns to head to the counter to place your order.

a few minutes later, kuroo returns, holding two cups of ice cream. he hands you your strawberry cup with a casual smile, and you take it with a quiet “thanks,” digging in almost immediately. the sweet, familiar taste of strawberry fills your mouth, and you savor it as a comforting reminder of simpler times.

kuroo takes a bite of his own ice cream, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand as he looks at you, his expression curious. “yn. really. what’s gotten into you?”

“nothing,” you reply, shrugging as you take another spoonful of ice cream. “aren’t you thankful i’m being good now?” you add with a playful smirk, trying to steer the conversation away from anything too serious.

kuroo chuckles, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “i very much am, but… it’s unusual,” he says, his tone light but probing. “you even let me choose the design for my own banner after you rejected it a million times.”

“i’m telling you, it’s better than tooru’s,” he continues, his eyes gleaming with a bit of playful mischief. you roll your eyes at his persistence, but there’s a small smile playing on your lips.

“you… deserve it, i guess,” you murmur, swirling your spoon around in your cup as you feel the weight of the words sink in. “since you actually came along with me. so. consider it a thank you,” you add with a casual shrug, trying to keep the mood light. you take another bite of ice cream, hoping the action will keep you grounded in the moment.

when you look up, you notice a surprised expression on kuroo’s face. his reaction catches you off guard, and he takes a moment before responding, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. “did i hear that right?”

“why are you so surprised?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at his reaction. “you’re acting as if i said something groundbreaking. i just let you choose what design you liked, kuroo.” your tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s a hint of defensiveness.

“yeah. but…” he pauses, a small, knowing grin forming on his lips. “you realize you chose to flatter me instead of putting tooru first this time, right?” his tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of sincerity that you can’t quite ignore.

your brows knit together in confusion, and you shake your head. “what are you talking about? i did not!” you protest, a bit more forcefully than you intended.

“that has nothing to do with this. tooru’s different, of course. but you’re also a friend. i didn’t choose you over him or anything,” you explain, your voice firm as you try to clarify your intentions. kuroo’s eyes widen slightly, as if he’s caught something significant in your words.

“you think of me as a friend?” he echoes, his voice soft with a hint of surprise. he dramatically covers his mouth with his hands, his eyes widening in mock shock. “oh my god.”

you roll your eyes, a smirk playing on your lips as you give him a light kick under the table. “shut up! what do you call this then?” you retort, your tone playful, trying to bring the conversation back to a more comfortable place.

kuroo laughs heartily, the sound easing the tension that had built up. he leans over the table, resting his arms on it as he gives you a sincere smile.

“yeah,” he says, his voice softening as he looks at you. “i guess we are.”

notes

the wheels are TURNING !! thank you samu

man as the writer of this smau i felt so bad for making kuroo such a yn simp when she's so >:( at him alll the time kasdashda but it's all for the plot i swear

anyway it's still progress !!!

taglist: @lvtilzs @rarararararq @iamfontenlos @kurooswifeyy @secretsunsetsociety @kagsnumnine @yumiecheesecrackers @tojirin @jaynawayna @noxva08 @zahrawr-writes-fanfics @urslytherin @mawenskiblue @smellysluna @cccccccccccleo

[sincerelystarry]

daisy jones & the six + camila x f!reader on her period headcanons

bc IM on my period and my tummy hurts and i need all of them and i have no brain juice to make words go for an actual oneshot

hcs below the cut bc i dont like it when my text posts get too long :(

⊱ billy dunne who doesn't really know how to help because he's never had sisters or anything but does know the gist of it bc he was raised by his mom (god bless marlene dunne) so he asks you what you need and gets whatever it is as long as you ask for it. heating pad? done. chocolate? here you go. cuddles? for as long as you want. he gets a little annoyed if you become clingy but tries his best not to show it bc you're suffering and probably don't need a complaining boyfriend. 

as soon as you're asleep he'll traipse off to write another song or do some other work again but once you’re up and calling out for him all sad and pleading like he practically teleports back to you like “what do you need. more pads/tampons? more chocolate? need me to reheat your pack?” and you just look up at him and say “just need you :(“ all sad and pouty and he’s in bed with you immediately all like “i wrote a new song, wanna hear it?” bc even when he’s taking care of you this guy does not shut up about work i fear. but it’s ok the song is abt you!!!

⊱ graham dunne who is fucking AWN IT. like he is ready with every menstrual product to ever exist and he’s a little blushy and awkward abt it because he’s not quite sure what your flow is and didn’t know how to ask but he’s trying his best. he’s got a bunch of different chocolates because he wants to make sure you have something you like and both tylenol AND ibuprofen bc he’s not quite sure which kind of medication works best for cramps.

he barely leaves your side the whole week and you always have to shoo him off to do other important things like go to work or feeding himself or something other than being a fucking mother hen. a few months, maybe a year into your relationship, there’s an established routine when it comes to your period, but he will start joking about getting married and starting a family already so you don’t have to deal with periods anymore. 

⊱ eddie roundtree who is actually kind of clueless abt this stuff but does genuinely care and will try his best to predict what you need. he refuses to actually ask you what kind of chocolate you like or what menstrual products you need because he’s determined to use context clues to pick it up. you always ogle a specific brand of chocolate at the grocery store so it has to be that kind right? and he swears the cardboard box of pads/tampons he saw in the recycling looked like this, so this is the right brand, yeah?

he does get it wrong a good amount of the time. but he also gets it right the other times so it’s okay!! it’s the thought that counts right? you don’t tell him if the chocolate he bought is the wrong flavor or if ibuprofen really works better than tylenol for your cramps, but he’s observant enough to figure it out and gets really touchy about it like “no no i’m the one that fucked up, it’s okay, i’ll just- i’ll throw it out and get you the right chocolate and the right meds” and he’s not trying to be a dick abt it like “ugh fine i guess i’ll get you new stuff” he just genuinely cares and wants to start over and do it right. after a few months of being together he figures it out eventually!!!

⊱ warren rojas who lowkey knows nothing about periods. he does not know how tampons work or why you want chocolate on your period and thinks “well cramps can’t be that bad right?” (you punch him in the stomach and he stands corrected). he does however, after you telling him that chocolate helps, makes you edibles in the form of brownies, saying that getting high will also help with mood swings probably. it doesn’t help, but it does get both of you high, so there’s a lot of giggly making out!

he will definitely ask dumb questions sometimes like “wait so- does tampon size refer to how tight your vagina is?” of which you will repeatedly swat at or lightly punch him for before chastising and reteaching him about it. after a few months he does learn and stops asking the dumb questions and no longer compares cramps to getting kicked in the balls (mostly bc you kept. kicking him in the balls lmao) and will get you heating pads and pain meds. despite the garden brownies not actually helping with mood swings it’s still a monthly tradition for the two of you to make a batch together whenever your period starts!

⊱ karen sirko who will openly talk about what she does to help with her own cramps and flow and shares little tips and tricks for you and helps you out by giving you little massages. she’ll try to convince you to get on birth control so you don’t have to deal with periods anymore, she did and she feels free as fuck. you always ask her what’s the point, because it’s not like she can get you pregnant anyway lmao. you do in fact laugh and kiss over that but she doubles down on getting you an IUD or something anyway.

the two of you have to keep your relationship a secret, because even though the band is supportive (and warren thinks it’s hot, much to your and karen’s distaste) the public is a lot less receptive. karen takes care of you under the guise of the two of you being close friends and that any girl on her period should have another girl to look after her, not a bunch of guys who know nothing about periods. the two of you occasionally will just have days where you’re cooped up inside the whole time (you’re roommates, obviously. nothing more.) and it’s just you and her kissing and cuddling and her taking care of you!!

⊱ daisy jones whose cycle syncs up with yours and thinks the best way to get rid of cramps is to get your body moving. not with boring exercise biking or running, but by dancing. she’ll help you with your makeup and let you borrow one of her halston's. she gets some food and painkillers in your stomach before whisking you off to some club or bar, getting some virgin drinks in you (she makes you stay off of alcohol when you’re on your period bc she knows first hand how drinks will make cramps worse) before dragging you off to the dance floor to get you moving. 

the movement does in fact help but you’re dead on your feet by the time the two of you get home so she runs the two of you a hot shower and you help each other wash the other’s hair. she’ll offer to make you dinner in bed afterwards but does in fact burn the pasta she attempts to make, so you end up ordering in chinese instead, breaking apart fortune cookies like wishbones on thanksgiving. whenever she gets the half with the fortune in it, she wishes for a kiss, of which she gets multiple of.

⊱ camila alvarez who is the ultimate doting girlfriend. she keeps a little calendar tracking both of your cycles. your pantry is stocked to the max with all the candies and snacks you could ask for. she constantly has heating packs on rotation so when one gets cold there’s another that’s good to go while the last one heats up again. she knows what menstrual products you use, from brand to flow size, and your medicinal cabinet has every over the counter pain killer she can find. 

she’ll always cook for you and you know the food is good bc you know those argentinian(? i’m going based off of the actress bc i can’t find shit for book/show canon camila’s ethnicity) family recipes will fucking pull through. after dinner the two of you will cuddle up on the couch watching shitty romcoms or soap reruns, feeding each other dessert and trading kisses until the two of you fall asleep under a shared blanket.

main masterlist — taglist 🏷️ : none yet !

[azrielslightintheshadows]

I've got you.

Azriel x f!Reader

Request; Right now I'm kinda going mad because of uni and I came up with this idea of the reader that is like studying something to help the inner circle, but she can't find anything (or whatever came up to your mind love) and Az, her mate, try to reassure her with cuddle/kisses and lot of fluff.

Warnings; Mentions of potential death, reader feels useless

Masterlist.

Hope this is what you had in mind love <3

The words on the tenth book you were currently reading seemed like foreign symbols, your brain had turned into a mush and you groaned as you massaged your temples. Nesta’s powers disappeared when she saved Feyre from death and everyone worried that it might have an impact on her health, thus you were searching every book you could find. Rhys and Feyre wanted to help but they were preoccupied by Nyx and everyone else made sure they were safe and handled the matters of the court.  

“Come on, you can finish the book” you whispered to yourself and flinched when a deep chuckle sounded from behind you. 

“You should take a break angel” your mate’s velvety voice filled your ears and you smiled softly. He moved closer and placed those beautiful scarred hands on your shoulders massaging them. 

“I can’t stop now, I haven’t found anything and we don’t know how much time we have if it actually messes with Nesta’s health” you said and your bottom lip trembled. Nesta managed to become one of your dearest friends and just the thought of something happening to her made you want to rip your hair off. The fact that you couldn’t find something to help her broke your heart in million pieces. 

“Calm down angel, we don’t know if she is in trouble for sure, maybe that’s why you can’t find anything” he said softly and pulled your chair back, he marked the page of the book and picked you up. 

“Everything’s going to be alright” he murmured in your hair and sat on the armchair next to the big window of the study. 

“I’ve read ten books and I can’t find anything. I feel so useless right now” you confessed and hid your face in his neck. 

“You’re not useless baby, you are the only one who’s trying to find something about the situation.” He paused for a second “I think that this makes everyone else useless.” 

You shook your head with a smile “don’t say that, you’re all busy” 

“We are but that doesn’t change that you are researching without any help. Give yourself some credit and take some time to relax before you burn your sneaky brain”  he pinched your side and you gasped. 

“Stop” you whined and hugged him harder making him chuckle and kiss the top of your head. Two cups of tea appeared on the coffee table next to you and Azriel hummed, he picked one and pinched your side again to make you look. 

“I’ll return to my book if you keep this up” you feigned an annoyed expression and he smirked.

“No you will do no such thing, this is Azriel time and I’m not sharing” he scolded. 

You took the cup from him and leaned back on his chest, peeking at the view outside and enjoying his warmth. Azriel was staring outside while his hand rubbed soothing circles on your back. 

After a while you sighed and looked at him 

“I have to continue…” you trailed off with a sad smile. 

“Let me help you” he smiled and carried you to the table. 

You spent the rest of the day checking every book, even Azriel’s shadows started flipping through books.

“They can read?” You asked.

“I don’t even know anymore, they surprise me every day” he shrugged.

You kept huffing and puffing, moving from one book to another trying to make some sense but nothing. Azriel looked frustrated too and even his shadows slithered back to him looking defeated. Your eyelids started dropping and you blinked, you couldn’t stop now. You picked another book and started reading. 

You felt something cold touching your back and you hissed.

“Shh it’s okay I’ve got you” Azriel whispered, you opened your eyes and realized that he had carried you to bed. He stripped his clothes and lied next to you, pulling you on his chest and letting a sigh. 

“Get some sleep angel, tomorrow we will continue the research together” he murmured and kissed your head. 

The next day you managed to find a book with a similar story, thankfully the fae who gave away his powers survived and you both cheered and walked hand in hand to the dining room to inform everyone. 

Just before you entered the dining room you glanced at Azriel with a lovesick smile 

“What would I do without you”

Hope you enjoyed it!

@hauntedwitch04