#okay I mean like. I’m home for half and then back here for half for internship

[hyunjincanraptoo]

I know you mostly do hyunjin fics but I was wondering if you could to a bangchan one? I was looking for one I was thinking of and I couldn't find it and I thought I'd ask you because your fics are so good! Could you try to make a first time with chan one? Kind of like your hyunjin one that you made buy a chan version of it idk I've just been so dululu lately and I need a fic like that, but if your but please dont rush if your doing other things♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Bed of roses- B.CH

First of all, hey!! I am SO sorry it took so long. I love your ideas, they are always great. And honestly at this point I am writing for all members + ateez hehe

And in second place, I want to dedicate this fic to beautiful @ktxoxoxo. Feliz cumpleaños, baby! I promised you a bed of roses and here it's hehe Wish you all the happiness in the world and I hope you had a great day 💜

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: smut

Alexa, play Bed of roses by Bon Jovi

You didn’t mean to break the bed, but in your defense, the bug was huge.

One moment you were peacefully folding laundry, the next you were shrieking and jumping on your bed like it was a lifeboat and you were on Titanic. And apparently, your bedframe wasn't built for dramatic bug escaping adventures.

It cracked beneath your weight with a crunch. Not totally broken, but enough to collapse slightly.

Which is how you ended up sitting on the floor, texting your new boyfriend in absolute shame.

You:

I broke my bed cause of a bug 💀

Channie:

😭 How big was the bug??

You:

Big enough for me to panic and jump like an olympic gymnast

Channie:

I’m coming over, babe

We’re going to IKEA

“Okay, but I thought you'd laugh more”, you say as he pulls into the parking lot, “Like, isn’t this the kind of thing you'd roast me for?”

Chan hums, “It is, but also I’m gonna romanticize this. We’re going to IKEA together like a new married couple”

You blink at him.

He grins, “Don’t tell me you never imagined walking around those fake rooms holding hands, pretending we’re furnishing our home?”

“Okay. Maybe once. Or twice”

He hops out and comes to your side of the car, lacing his fingers with yours the moment you step out, “Good! Let’s get delulu over furniture”

You roll your eyes. But your giggle anyway

•°. *࿐

It begins in the kitchens.

“Oh, I could totally see us making breakfast here”, he says, tapping a marble counter, “You scrambling eggs while I steal kisses and burn the toast”

“In your fantasy, I’m the one cooking?!"

“I’m better at kissing”

You blush and move on, but he follows with a lazy hand on the small of your back.

“Look at this one”, he says, pointing to a tub, “Our kids could splash around in here”

You choke, “Kids?!”

He shrugs, amused by your expression, “Too soon?”

You poke his chest him, “Way too soon”

He pouts playfully, eyes warm. “Fine. Just imagine you in it. Bubbles, candles and me on the rug beside it, feeding you strawberries”

You laugh, “You romantic menace”

But the worst is the bed section. He sits down on a queen sized one and pats the space beside him.

You sit.

Chan leans back, legs wide, arms resting behind his head like he belongs there.

“I could definitely see us making kids on this one”

Your breath catches.

He glances over with a smug grin, but it softens when he sees your expression— flushed, quiet, hopeful.

“Too much?”, he asks gently.

You shake your head, trying to stay cool, “Just... haven’t thought that far ahead”

He leans in, brushing his fingers against your knee, “No pressure. I like where we are”

You nod, “I like it too”

•°. *࿐

You buy the bed. And Chan insists on paying for half of it.

“I’ll cover half”, Chan says as he hoists one of the heavier boxes into the trunk.

You arch a brow. “You sure? I broke the bed”

He grin,. “And I helped you pick a new one. That makes it ours now”

You narrow your eyes, “Are you trying to co-own my furniture?”

He shrugs, slamming the trunk closed, “Maybe I just want you to think of me every time you get in bed”

Your jaw drops, “Christopher Bang!”

“What?”, he says innocently, but the smirk is anything but innocent

“I love you”

He walks past you, enlacing your pinkies together as he heads to the driver’s side, “I love you too, baby”

•°. *࿐

That night, you stay over at his place.

He tosses you one of his oversized shirts, makes you dinner, and kisses you slowly on the couch before pulling you into bed. It’s soft, domestic, like you’ve done this a hundred times already.

The next morning, he drives you to work, one hand on the wheel, the other lazily holding yours. As you unbuckle to get out, he tugs your wrist gently and leans over to kiss you, probably a little longer than necessary.

“Have a good day”, he murmurs. “And don’t worry, I’ll have the bed ready when you come home”

You blink, “Really? You don’t have to”

He just winks, “I’ve got you, baby”.

And with that, you spend the whole shift thinking about your disgustingly sweet boyfriend.

•°. *࿐

When you get home, the lights are low and your apartment smells like roses.

You blink at the trail of petals leading to your bedroom and then stop in the doorway— your new bed is built, fluffed, blankets folded neatly.

Chan stands beside it with a boyish smile, rubbing the back of his neck, “Hey...”

“Chan… what’s that?”

“I just… I thought I’d surprise you. Build it while you were gone. And the rest, well... I got carried away”

You step inside, eyes darting around, “This is... beautiful”

He shrugs, “No pressure or anything. I know we still haven’t… you know. But I just thought maybe…. new bed, new memories”

You look at him— his eyes are kind, gentle, nervous. And you know you want him too.

Not just because of the bed. You want him because he showed up, hands full of Allen keys and roses. Because he doesn't judge when you break the bed because of bugs and also dreams big. Because he makes IKEA’s aisles feel like home.

You walk to him slowly

“Can I kiss you?”, you ask.

His breath stutters, “Please”

You kiss him deep— full of all the things you didn’t say in the kitchen aisle, the tub aisle, the bedroom aisle.

He pulls you closer by the hips, mouth hungry but patient. You feel his hands spread wide on your back, guiding you gently to the bed like you’re sacred.

Clothes come off slowly. First his shirt, then yours. His fingers tremble slightly as they trace the curve of your waist.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, kneeling between your thighs.

You nod, “I’ve never been more sure”

He kisses down your neck, your collarbones, the sensitive skin just above your breast. You arch into him, heart pounding like a drum.

He takes his time. Every touch is mindful, every breath shared. He groans when you touch him, eyes closing.

“I got you”, he breathes, “We’ll go slow”

He lies back slowly, guiding you to straddle him but not the way you expect.

Instead, he tugs you down with him until your back is flush against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist, your thighs wrap around his hips. You're cradled in his body like you're made to fit there like his lap, his hands, his chest were always meant for you.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, his breath warming the shell of your ear.

You nod, pulse racing. “More than okay”

You reach between your bodies to help guide him in— careful, your breath catching as he slides into you from behind.

A shared gasp leaves both your mouths.

The stretch, the closeness, the sound of his moan against your neck—it’s overwhelming in the most delicious way.

His arms tighten around your waist, and you feel his lips press to your shoulder as he starts to move. Slow, rolling hips beneath you. He thrusts up gently, and the rhythm is steady, sure, tender.

Your head tips back against his shoulder.

“You feel so good”, he breathes, voice wrecked, one hand sliding up to cup your breast while the other holds your stomach close, “I want you like this forever”

You whisper his name, trembling slightly as pleasure builds. It’s deeper like this. Fuller. Every drag of him inside you makes your body curl back into him tighter.

He keeps you safe.

Your fingers lace with his at your stomach, squeezing as the pace picks up— soft wet sounds and shallow gasps filling the room, his lips open against your jaw, groaning your name.

You come first, your body arching, chest heaving, legs shaking around him as he whispers encouragements into your skin.

“That’s it, baby… just like that. Can’t believe you are all mine”

He follows soon after, hips stuttering, breath hitching as he holds you tighter— burying himself as deep as he can go with a strangled moan. His warmth fills you slowly, pulsing inside while you lie there— still trembling, still wrapped in his arms.

Neither of you speak right away.

Only the sound of shared breaths, kisses pressed lazily to your shoulder, his fingers drawing shapes over your stomach where your hands still rest.

“I’ve never…, he begins softly, voice still unsteady, “felt anything like that before”

You smile, “Yeah. Me neither”

You turn your face to him, “Thanks for building the bed, baby”

He chuckles, heart melting silently, “Guess we built something else tonight too”

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep, @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin , @yxna-bliss

[vainvenus]

code red. | charles leclerc + alexandra saint mleux | pt.1

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader x Alexandra Saint Mleux

Synopsis: You and Charles meet up for lunch to get to know each other and shake off any awkwardness before the season starts.

Includings: Charles centered chapter, pretty fluffy, gentle teasing, subtle comforting + flirting, anxious behavior, themes of self doubt, charlie and alex being obsessed

An: Don't worry guys well get some Alex and reader love soon, trust

@samantha-chicago

Monaco was unusually calm for a weekend. The sun warm, breeze light, the quiet hum of city life drifting through the air like background music.

Charles sat at a corner table of a small, tucked-away café just above the harbor. The kind of place tourists rarely found. The kind of place with iron chairs that creaked a little and tomato plants growing in clay pots against the wall.

He had suggested, said that it wouldn't be too packed since it wasn't a local spot. He knew that you would like the sound of that.

He got there early. Water glass half-empty, thumb tapping nervously against the table.

And then you arrived.

Not loud. Not even dressed to impress. Just… there.

You were wearing a soft cream sweater tucked into dark jeans, your styled simply yet unintentionally graceful. You looked like you were trying not to draw attention, though Charles had a hard time looking away.

He stood as you approached, offering a small, warm smile.

“Hi." You said softly.

“Bonsoir. You found it okay?”

You nodded, fingers brushing against the sleeve of your sweater.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “I figured somewhere off-grid would be better than a packed touristy cafe.”

You sat carefully glancing away from him, as if you were afraid the chair might not be meant for you.

“Thank you. It’s…nice. Quiet.”

Charles smiled. “I thought that might be your style.”

You blinked at him. “You did?”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “I may have…looked through your page a little. I'm also good at reading people.”

Your eyes dropped to the table. “My page PR stuff mostly.”

“It still tells you something." He said gently. “The photos you keep versus the ones you post. I wonder what photos you keep for just your eyes.”

"Maybe one day you'll see." You murmured and he smiled at that.

He let you study the menu without pushing. When the waiter came, you asked for a specific kind of pasta, asking for light cilantro. Your voice just above a whisper. Charles ordered for himself then folded his hands loosely on the table.

“How're you liking Monaco so far?” He asked, leaning in a little.

“Oh it's gorgeous. I haven't been back for a while but I'm here visiting a friend.” You replied. "Trying to decide if I should get a home here."

“You should." He said. "Most of the drivers live here and it'd make it easier for you to connect with them. Plus, no taxes." He joked with a small chuckle.

And although he mentioned you connecting with the other drivers he hated the thought of that. You didn't need to socialize with anyone else on the grid besides him.

“I just don’t want to be recorded all the time." You sighed. "I know Monaco has no paparazzi but...it's like a gold mine to find a driver.”

Charles tilted his head. “You should get used to it.”

Your lips pressed into a tight line. He backtracked, voice softening.

“I just mean…it’s not something you can stop now. You’re with Ferrari. That alone makes people watch, living in Monaco wouldn't change much."

You looked up at him slowly. “I didn’t expect them to pick me.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not…loud or flashy like the other rookies this year. It kind of makes me feel like I'm falling behind or something." You sighed.

Charles leaned forward, his voice low. “You don’t have to be loud to be great. You're a F2 champion, that says enough."

You blinked at him. For a moment, you looked like you didn’t believe him. But your shoulders relaxed just a little.

When lunch arrived the conversation stayed light. He asked about your favorite circuits, your earliest memories of karting, what your helmet colors meant.

You didn’t offer stories unless asked, but when you did, they were quietly poetic. Little glimpses of long nights in cold paddocks. Mornings where your dad made you coffee before races. The moment you got the call from Ferrari and didn’t speak for ten seconds because you thought it was a mistake.

Charles listened like every word mattered. Because to him, it most certainly did.

At one point, you paused mid-bite, eyes flicking toward the sidewalk.

There were two people with phones out, casually pretending not to take pictures.

You shrank slightly into your chair, keeping your gaze down on your plate as you spun your fork around your food.

Charles noticed instantly.

“Hey.” He said softly. “You okay?”

You nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line before you glanced back over at the window.

He followed your gaze, then turned back to you.

“You’ll get used to it.” He said gently.

You were used to the fame from F2 from F1 was other worldly. The fans were so much more intense and unapologetically themselves in the worst ways sometimes. “The cameras. The looks. The attention. It’s annoying, but it’s part of it now.”

You looked down. “I don’t want people making things up. I've seen so many gossip pages and I don't want to cause a problem for my PR team already."

“They will anyway." He said with a shrug. Charles had had his fair share of tabloids that spewed rumors that were far from the truth. “Let them. You just stay exactly like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you." He said simply. “You don’t need to worry about rumors when you know the truth and when you know who you are."

You raised a brow. "Which is?"

He paused, giving you a once-over that lingered just a second too long before his eyes found yours again.

Warm, full of something soft and kind. Like he was looking at the girl who didn’t just hang the moon and stars, but made the whole sky spin just for him "Perfect. Ferrari wouldn't have signed you if they thought otherwise.”

You stared at him for a moment, something unreadable flickering in your eyes.

Then you smiled.

Small, real, and almost private.

“Thank you.”

The silence after was warm.

When the check came, Charles didn't even allow you to look at it before he snatched it up and pulled out one of his cards from his wallet. And when you tried to offer your card, Charles just shook his head with that teasing glint in his eye.

"Charles! I can pay for my own meal." You shook your head as he had a tight hold on the check, waving his hand as you tried to give him your card.

“I'm paying and that's final.” He said, leaning back. “You can pay me back by not outqualifying me at Australia.”

You laughed like really laughed. For the first time that day.

And Charles? He could've recorded it and listened to it every single day.

★

The door hadn’t even clicked shut before Alexandra called from the kitchen, “Well?”

Charles let out a soft laugh, tossing his keys into the dish by the entry. “You didn’t even give me time to take off my shoes.”

“Because I know you.” She said, poking her head around the corner, a grin already forming. “You’re smiling.”

“I always smile.”

“Not like that,” She teased, setting down her glass and leaning against the counter. “That’s a she’s so pretty and I’m a little obsessed smile.”

Charles didn’t deny it. He walked into the kitchen, still in his jacket, hair a little windblown. His face had that softness it always carried when something— or someone got under his skin in the best way.

“She’s…” He paused, looking for the right word. “Quiet. Really quiet. But in a way that makes you want to wait for what she’ll say next.”

Alex's brow lifted. “So a little mysterious?"

“She barely talked unless I asked, but when she did—” He shook his head with a smile, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. “It’s like she’s scared to take up space. But she should.”

Alex’s grin grew. “You’re whipped.”

"How could I not be? She's...perfect."

Alexandra couldn't help the smile continued to grow on her lips. “What’d you talk about?”

“Karting. Her helmet design. Her reaction to being told the news. How she doesn’t like people looking at her.”

“Rotten luck.” Alex said, hopping up to sit on the counter. “She’s with Ferrari. They’re going to look.”

“I told her that." Charles said, smiling like he still hadn’t quite come down from it. “Told her she didn’t need to change. That she already belongs.”

There was a small beat of silence before Alex said, “You’re already so protective.”

He gave a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “She just makes you want to be.”

Alexandra huffed. “I want to meet her.”

Charles hummed. "You will, mon amour. You will."

There was a beat of silence before Alex spoke again.

“Do you think she knows how cute she is?”

Charles looked away with a soft chuckle, then back to Alex. “I don’t think she knows anything good about herself. From how talented she is to how cute she is."

And that sat between them for a moment. A quiet truth neither of them liked.

Alexandra slid off the counter and touched his arm. “Then lucky for her, she has us.”

"Lucky indeed."

[sualette]

hi!!! i just found ur page and I AM IN LOVE.

I don't know if ur taking reqs or not but I'd love to see u write something like a second chance thing with exhusband!jake with like angst and smut. THANKS

HI WHAT THANK YOU SM !! + my comeback

warnings : smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), second chance ??

you didn’t mean to end up at his door.

but the city felt too cold, your chest felt too tight, and the only number you could dial when your hands were shaking was his.

he looked surprised when he opened the door. hair messy. shirtless. gray sweatpants slung dangerously low.

“...you okay?”

your throat clenched. “no.”

he stepped aside without a word.

and you walked back into the place you used to call home.

same scent. same hallway.

same picture frame on the shelf — your wedding photo. still dusty. still facing out.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said after a beat, voice low. careful.

you laughed—bitter. broken. “i know.”

he stared at you. like you were a ghost. like he’d been haunted by you every night since the divorce.

“i tried to move on.” you whispered it like a secret.

his jaw tensed. “did you?”

you shook your head.

silence. thick. heavy. painful.

and then he crossed the room and kissed you like he hated you for showing up, hated you for leaving, hated himself for not stopping you.

your back hit the wall. his hands slid into your hair, gripping tight, tilting your head back so he could bite at your bottom lip, steal every gasp.

“you don’t get to show up like this and look at me like that,” he muttered against your mouth, breath hot, voice sharp.

“like what?”

“like you miss me.”

you whimpered when his hands dragged down your waist. “i do.”

he growled low in his throat—a sound of frustration. grief. want.

“take it off,” he ordered. fingers already yanking at your shirt. “everything.”

you didn’t argue. just stripped. and he watched you like it hurt.

"fuck," he breathed when you stood bare in front of him. “still so fucking pretty. still mine.”

“jake…” your voice cracked.

he kissed you again, hard, and this time he didn’t stop.

you ended up half-dressed in his sheets, legs spread for him, his mouth between your thighs like he’d been starving.

he sucked your clit with slow pressure, two fingers deep inside you, curling until you were panting his name like a prayer.

“that’s it,” he murmured. “god, i missed how you sound.”

you tugged at his hair. “please.”

he came up, mouth shiny, eyes dark. “you want me to fuck you?”

you nodded. desperate. “please, jake.”

he slid in without teasing—one slow, thick thrust that made your back arch and your mouth drop open.

“still fit me so good,” he groaned into your neck. “like your body never forgot.”

you clung to him—nails down his back, thighs locked around his waist, heart shattered all over again.

he thrust into you like he had something to prove. rough. deep. his hand wrapped around your throat just enough to hold your gaze.

“tell me you didn’t stop thinking about me,” he whispered.

“i didn’t,” you choked out.

“tell me you still love me.”

you cried. nodded. whimpered, “i love you, jake.”

his hips stuttered. his hand slid down to your stomach, pressing where he was deepest inside you.

“feel that?” he panted. “i’m right here. i always was.”

you pulled him in for a kiss—sloppy, teary, needy —as he fucked you harder. your orgasm hit like a wave, legs trembling, fingers gripping the sheets.

he didn’t stop. kept thrusting through it. chasing his own high with a raw, ruined look on his face.

“can i?” he breathed. “inside?”

you nodded. too overwhelmed to speak.

and he came with a broken moan—buried deep, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

when it was over, he didn’t move. just stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you sweaty and quiet and exhausted.

“you never stopped being mine,” he whispered.

and you didn’t dare argue.

© sualette

[hedwig221b]

I recently realized that I’ve literally never read a teen wolf ff despite being a huge fan of the show and sterek. So now I’m on the hunt for a rlly good one to start with but I’m having a bit of trouble finding one that not only fits what I’m looking for but actually has good writing (no offense to the authors I just want my first one to be a good one that hooks me like Crimson Rivers hooked me into the marauders fandom😅)

so could you recommend me some that aren’t aus, not necessarily canon but canon is okay, werewolf or human stiles, with sterek (I do love a slow burn but doesn’t have to be), maybe some of your favorites?

What an honor to introduce you to sterek fanfiction omg! Here is a list of what I consider sterek classics (the canon kind), my beloved 💖

Hide Of A Life War by Etharei

“We have received confirmation that there is a hostage situation in progress at a warehouse compound two hours out of Los Angeles, following a multiple-vehicle pileup on Highway 101 this morning...” The one in which Stiles has lived to (legal) adulthood and, along the way, become a bit of a badass himself.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows by owlpostagain

“Derek,” Stiles groans. “You have me. You’ve always had me, you absolute moron, how many physically impossible feats of life-saving heroics do I have to perform before you get it?”

between the click of the light and the start of the dream by thepsychicclam

A twig snaps, and then Stiles hears breathing and the rustle of leaves. He strains to get a better glimpse into the darkness, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing but a black void. It's Stiles' senior year, and he's trying to concentrate on normal things - like the lacrosse championship, spring break, prom, graduation (and definitely not Derek) - when he starts having nightmares and waking up in the middle of nowhere. Oh yeah, and he's being haunted by a hag. Great.

Home by TheTypewriterGirl

January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father’s death. The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was. So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in?

I Know Where Babies Come From, Derek by DiscontentedWinter

Stiles finds a baby on the porch. It looks exactly like him. Well, this is awkward.

And You Say You're Alone by bi_leigh_bi

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

stuck in reverse by crazyassmurdererwall (smartalli)

Look, Derek is the worst. Everyone knows that. Their fearless leader is a total and complete failwolf. Which means the rest of them? Are kind of the worst too. They’re a ramshackle, slap dashed, sorry excuse for a pack that’s about a half second away from getting one of them killed. And this is a problem, because Stiles would really like to survive high school. Thanks. Still, nobody deserves what Derek has gone through. Nobody. And it’s about time somebody told him that.

Pale Horses by Jana_C 

Being bitten had never been on his to-do list, but he could deal with that. Helping Derek Hale become a competent Alpha, though, that was so not in his job description.

Truth and Consequences by KouriArashi

“The place you give the Bite has meaning," Derek says. "Biting someone on the side is to make them your beta. It makes them your subordinate, but it also invites them into the pack with the full protection of the alpha. Biting someone on the legs indicates that you’re turning them to an omega. And biting someone on the arm, particularly the wrist, turns someone as your equal. It’s a mating ritual.” Stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of granola. “A what?”

A Similar String by snarkatthemoon 

Strong bonds made for a strong pack, and he needed a strong pack. They spent a long time in silence, Derek thinking hard about how he was going to cement the bonds. It needed to be done, and not just because they had the threat of the witch hanging over them, but for the good of the pack. It felt like hours had passed by the time he came around; he had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Stiles moving around on the couch so that his head was resting on Derek’s thigh, his long legs hanging over the arm on the far end. He wasn’t sleeping, but his eyes were closed and his heartbeat wasn’t as fast as it usually was, as if he was just on the edge of sleep. It should have felt weird, having Stiles in such close contact, but Derek found that it really didn’t feel weird at all. His head was a comforting weight in Derek’s lap, another anchor tethering him and keeping him calm and in control. . Or, the one where Derek meets a witch, gets his betas back, and seemingly develops a sense of humour. Also, Stiles is totally magic, manages to accidentally join a werewolf pack, and asks too many goddamn questions. What could possibly go wrong?

The One You Choose by Asterekmess (Livinginfictions)

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

Hold Me Close (I'm Falling Apart) by ajeepandleather

“Wolves without an emissary are naturally turbulent because their instincts are wild. Subconsciously, you’ve been balancing them, but you aren’t tied to the pack so you aren’t getting a balance in return.” “So, they’re bleeding me dry. Always knew they were parasites.” Stiles smiled dryly. “You’ll need to attach yourself to an alpha soon. There are risks for an unbalanced druid.” “Like?” “Well, a disruption in balance may show itself in several ways. It’s a disruption in nature, so nature will twist and alter in an attempt to right itself.” “What does that mean?” Stiles was getting anxious. The vet was avoiding giving direct answers and that never meant anything good. “You’re magic is heavily entwined with your will, and your will is parallel to your mind.” “I’ll go insane.”

Not Your Disney Romance by Wrennefer (Wrenegadeone)

After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

spiderweb of lies by pineneedlepants

Derek gets a chance to gain his alpha powers back. The only one throwing a wrench in those plans is Scott.

Sparks and shadows by Nival_Vixen 

Stiles has to figure out a way to maintain a balance between his spark and the darkness inside of him.

The Roads Not Followed by SylvieW

Scott decides to leave Beacon HIlls with Allison and her father. Stiles is left alone to deal with the supernatural troubles of his home town, so he turns to Derek. Years later, Scott’s new pack is threatened, and the only ones who can help them are the Hale pack and Derek’s powerful mate.

It’s Not Pretend When It’s Real by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“At least we got this far,” Stiles argued. “Could’ve been worse. For now, they know he’s taken by someone in the pack.” “Mm hm,” Lydia said, giving him a look. “You realize that you are now going to have to pretend to date Derek, right?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh no, what a hardship. That sucks, boo hoo.” He motioned Derek emphatically. “He’s like, my best friend.” “Hey!” Scott insisted. “He’s like, my second best friend,” Stiles amended. “It’s fine, we’ll figure it out. Right?” He turned to grin at Derek, who was scowling at him.

Running Up That Hill by maypoison

“Even before the pack joined together, Scott was trying to protect you. And he still is trying to protect you, even if it means leaving you out of all this.” Stiles does roll his eyes at that. “Yeah, but it didn’t work did it. I was still involved, and so was my Dad. We were nearly killed by Matt, and then Gerard.” “My point is, people change. Relationships aren’t always perfect. Scott's tried to kill me before." Stiles raises an eyebrow. "So, you’re saying that someone trying to kill you is just a small flaw in a relationship?" “We’re werewolves.” Derek answers with a shrug, as if that was a perfectly good explanation.

It Was a Wednesday by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?” Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping. Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death. “Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least. “Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?” “Yes.” “Why?” “How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

Protect and Serve by MoonlitMemories

Stiles discovers the Nemeton starting to grow again in the preserve on Hale land. What does that mean for the pack? More importantly: why does the Nemeton seem so attached to Stiles?

The More That I Know You (the more I want to) by LadySlytherin

When death, in the form of hunters, comes for a family of Kelpies seeking refuge in the Preserve - in Hale territory - the Hale Pack is too late to save them. Before he dies, the male Kelpie presses a precious bundle into Stiles’ arms and begs the Emissary to take responsibility for it, which an initially reluctant Stiles does. When he agreed, Stiles had no idea what the sight of him with a baby would do to his esteemed Alpha, Derek. If he’d known, he might not have been so reluctant to agree.

Wolf Cub by moodwriter

A strange wolf is not supposed to touch another pack’s cub and that’s why, on a rescue mission, it’s Stiles’ job to take care of the wolf cub who’s curious about everything and everyone. Stiles is not used to werewolf children, and the pack is not used to Stiles taking care of a child. Their Alpha gets very confused about this, too.

Thanks for Thumper, But I Prefer Cheeseburgers by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

The wolf’s head whipped around so fast, Stiles felt like he was watching The Exorcist. Stiles wondered if he could just stand still enough to make the wolf think he was a tree. A very bright red and jean-clad tree. He doubted it, but one could hope. He knew it was a lost cause when the wolf turned fully, lips pulled back from its sharp teeth—so very sharp, good fucking Lord!—and began walking towards Stiles. “I didn’t see anything!” Stiles shouted, both hands out in front of himself and sweat instantly breaking out across his skin. “I swear to you! I didn’t see anything! I didn’t see anything! I won’t tell anyone! I won’t! I’ll keep this to myself, until the day I die! I promise! I promise!”

I know you mentioned no aus, but it would be a crime for me not to mention these absolute treasures that are staples in sterek fanfiction experience. The characters are on point, and the writing is magnificent

Don't Savage The Messenger by exclamation

There is an uneasy truce between the werewolves in the woods and the humans who live in Beacon Hills, protected by a magical boundary that gives warning any time a werewolf crosses it. Then the sheriff is taken by the werewolves and his son offers himself in exchange. Stiles promises to serve the werewolf pack, not knowing what horrible use they might have for him. But it turns out his most useful skill is the ability to cross the boundary line between humans and werewolves. Life with the werewolves is nothing like he feared and the werewolves themselves are nothing like the hunters' stories would have him believe.

Actions Speak Louder than Words by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.” That was a bad word. Not found. Have. Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment. One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.

Divided We Stand by KouriArashi

Derek is being pressured by his family to pick a mate, and somehow stumbles into a choice that they didn't expect and aren't sure they approve of....

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!” Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her. “What?! What was that sound?!” “You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder. “Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!” “Mike,” she argued. “Who’s Mike?” Scott asked. “Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

My, What Big Shoulders You Have (The Better to Help You Carry the Weight) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) 

“Talia was just telling me an interesting story,” his dad informed him. Stiles didn’t have the nerve to glance over at him, because he knew no matter how much he argued, the proof was all there. The wolves had found him, Parrish had picked him up on the side of the road, he had a fucking picture on his phone. He was screwed. No point in arguing, all it’d do is piss his father off even more. “You don’t say,” Stiles offered slowly. “What uh—you know, I like stories. Is it a uh, good one?” “It seems to be a matter of opinion,” Talia said with another kind smile. “I hear you had quite the night last night.” Okay, time to cut his losses. He was already fucked, all he could do was apologize and hope she didn’t press for him to get fined and arrested. Given he was her husband’s friend’s son, he had high hopes. “I’m really sorry,” Stiles blurted out. “It was stupid and-and irresponsible and just—I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed into your territory. I should’ve known better, I do know better! It was a complete lapse in judgement and I am just—I am so sorry.”

Cloaked in Gold by kaistrex (weishen)

Stiles' world tilts, the bed dipping as a weight settles over him, caging him in. Growling. His eyes flutter open in distant confusion as hot air sweeps over his throat and he stares up at twin beams of gold shining inches from his face. Werewolf. Stiles does the only thing he can. “DAD!” The werewolf jumps at the sudden shout, blanketing him tighter, and it’s only seconds until his dad is in his bedroom doorway with Melissa close behind, flicking on the light. Stiles' mouth drops open as he stares up at the thick eyebrows, sharp nose and perfectly groomed stubble of a golden-eyed and fanged Derek Hale. - When son of the Alpha, Derek Hale, ends up in his bed in heat, Stiles decides to use it to his advantage and secure the Bite for his sick stepbrother. As he and his family are welcomed into the Hale pack, Stiles grows closer to Derek than he'd ever dreamed he'd get, but with the fanged Soulbite of a born wolf on Derek's neck, he knows he's just setting himself up for heartbreak. Derek has a Soulmate out there, and it definitely isn't Stiles.

Waiting by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Not wanting to think on it too much, Stiles took a step forward and passed his hand between the bars, moving the bleeding side closer to Derek’s mouth. “Not too close, he bites.” Stiles snatched his hand away just as Derek had been about to lick at it. The snarl he got in response was not comforting. “He what?” Stiles asked nervously, turning to Deaton. The man looked a little amused. “Don’t worry, only if he doesn’t like you.” “Well, he probably hates me, now!” Stiles insisted, turning back to Derek. He looked extremely displeased.

The Boy and the Beast by Dira Sudis (dsudis)

In which events in Beacon Hills go rather differently from the start, and a Beauty and the Beast (ish) story ensues. (Scott is not a teacup and no one sings about their feelings.)

[masterlist link]

[afroslacks]

Hiii idk if you’re still taking requests but I was wondering if you could do something where Micheal during an interview for Sinners he accidentally lets it out that when building smokes character that he had to draw from his own experiences in fatherhood. Which shocks the public because no one knew he was married let alone had a kid.

So he decided to put out at one of the premieres with his wife (reader) and nearly one year old baby (baby was born during filming in 2024)

Sorry if that doesn’t make sense🥹

Sinner’s press tour is up and running. The cast has been everywhere for the last couple of days. Michael, Wunmi, and Hailee are seated across from a female journalist who just entered the building. The journalist sits down with a warm smile on her face and white flashcards in her hands.

“Hello everyone, you all look so good today!” she says warmly, hoping to make everyone feel comfortable.

Michael is seated in the middle between both actresses, nodding his head while adjusting his chain and the special watch that has a message engraved from you. He always wears the watch because it brings him comfort on days like this—days when he’s extremely busy and wishes he could be with you and your baby girl, who was born recently.

“Thank you, we’re happy to be here,” he replies with a beautiful smile, gesturing toward the journalist.

“Truly,” Wunmi adds softly, nudging Michael’s shoulder as a subtle signal of gratitude for actively engaging—even though she knows his mind is at home.

Hailee sits there smiling as she rocks back and forth with her legs crossed in her chair. The journalist clears her throat.

“Now that we’ve got pleasantries out of the way, let’s get started, shall we?”

All three actors agree silently.

The journalist asks, “So Michael, since you’re playing two different characters in this film, how were you able to differentiate the twins, specifically in their relationships with Annie and Mary? Because the relationships are completely separate from one another.”

Michael nods as he takes in her question, preparing his response.

“That’s a good question. Stack is the more impulsive, hot-headed twin, so you can imagine his relationships with women being the same. He’s seen as a womanizer—breaking women’s hearts and moving on. But it’s also seen as a front, because Mary is the woman he wants. He has to act a certain way to deny himself his desire for her. When they do get together, you can definitely feel the tension and passion between them.”

After the first half of his answer, he clears his throat before continuing.

“Smoke, on the other hand, is the calmer twin. He typically keeps to himself. The trauma they experienced impacted him a lot more, so he retreats emotionally. I wouldn’t consider him much of a womanizer, because the only woman who stole his heart is Annie. Their relationship is deeper—they have history, and he’s the father of her child. He welcomed fatherhood. I’m the same way—”

His eyes go wide, and he shuts his mouth the moment he realizes his mistake.

The journalist furrows her brows. “I’m sorry? What do you mean you feel the same?” she asks.

Michael mentally rolls his eyes, realizing he now has to talk his way out of the mess he just created.

Wunmi quickly steps in. “What he means is, since he eventually wants to become a dad, he’s ready for the idea of fatherhood. Right, Michael?” She turns to him, giving him a flawless save.

He perks up, smiling at the interviewers. “Of course! My bad, I’m just really tired right now, so the words are coming out a mess,” he explains.

The journalist glances between the cast members, unsure if they’re being honest. After a moment, she lets it go, understanding that people make mistakes.

“Oh, okay. For a second, I thought you were a father.”

Wunmi, Michael, and Hailee nervously laugh, trying to steer attention away from Michael’s slip-up.

One hour later, after the interview is posted, Michael’s words start circulating online.

You’re sitting at your mansion on the couch, watching television while fiddling with the large diamond on your finger. The baby sleeps quietly in the crib next to you. Your best friend sends you a link to the clip with a message that says: "Check it out."

Pressing the link, you watch the clip. You scoff, shaking your head.

“I know this nigga didn’t just open his mouth,” you mutter, typing a message to your husband telling him to call you as soon as he’s free.

You and Michael have been together for five years total—dating for two and married for three. You recently had your baby after waiting a while to enjoy each other’s company. You met at a work event and immediately hit it off, but decided to keep your romance out of the public eye so you could enjoy your relationship in peace. You both agreed to hold off on telling the public for as long as possible.

But… that might not be an option anymore.

As you sit on the couch, you scroll through the comments—and people are not letting that slip slide at all:

I knew he had a family. That’s why we don’t see him much.

Michael, let me find out you’re married. I’m gonna find your wife.

Oh no, I’m not sharing my man.

Hello, I’m the wife he has a secret family with. So y’all can back off—thank ya!

It don’t matter if you’re married—we can still make it work, baby.

Whoever he’s with is lucky. They get Smoke AND Stack.

Where is the wife? I’m trying to find her.

That’s just a few of the comments. You take a deep breath to calm your beating heart.

Your phone lights up with “Hubby” flashing on the screen. Swiping green, his face appears.

“Hey, baby,” he greets nervously, noticing your scowl.

“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me. Michael, what the hell was that?” you ask, stepping into a quiet area of the house so the baby can keep sleeping.

“I’m sorry—I slipped up. I stopped myself as soon as I said it,” he apologizes, hating to see anything other than happiness and pleasure on your beautiful face.

You roll your eyes so hard they might fall out and hit the floor.

“You better do damage control. We agreed to keep this private.” The threat is crystal clear in your tone.

After a few moments of silence, he mutters, “Or… you could come with me to one of the premieres?”

You pause. Silence fills the air.

“Michael, are you serious right now?” you ask, brows furrowed.

He scoffs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We agreed to be private to protect ourselves from the public. And now you want to throw that out?” You clarify to process what he’s saying.

“I know, baby. But I don’t wanna hide forever. I want to let the world know I’m taken and happy—so they’ll back off. We don’t have to be super public. Just let them know one good time, then keep it moving,” Michael confesses, hoping you’ll agree.

You sigh deeply. “Fine. But the baby can’t come—it’s too loud, and I don’t feel comfortable showing her.”

“Thank you, baby. I love you,” he says, smiling.

“I love you too, punk.”

[carolina-thiell]

Crash Landing (Into You) · Jack Abbott x Plus Size!Reader · Part 2.

Title: Crash Landing (Into You) – Part 2 Character: Jack Abbott Pairing: Jack Abbott x Plus Size!Reader (Adriana) Format: Fic (Part 2 of 3) Word Count: ~2.2k Genre: Smut, Domestic Intimacy, Fluff, Emotional Reassurance Warnings: Sexual content, soft praise kink, explicit intimacy, vulnerability, post-shift softness Status: Part 2 of 3 Summary: The sun is up, but Jack isn’t leaving Adriana’s bed. What starts with quiet laughter and sleepy smiles turns into something slower, deeper—another kind of surrender. In the soft light of morning, Jack lets go of his armor, and Adriana reminds him what it feels like to be seen, wanted, and held. This isn’t just recovery—it’s intimacy, peace, and pancakes in the making.

Read part 1 HERE. Read part 3 HERE.

Part 2: Soft Reentry.

12:39 PM: Adriana’s Bedroom.

The sun spilled in through half-open blinds, painting golden stripes across her duvet. Jack stirred first still warm, still naked and one arm slung lazily around Adriana’s waist. Her skin was soft under his palm and her breath slow, deep.

She shifted sleepily and mumbled:

—Mmm. Is the ER on fire?

Jack kissed her shoulder.

—No and I’m not leaving this bed unless someone’s missing a femoral artery.

She turned toward him, smiling without opening her eyes.

—Hi, handsome.

He grinned.

—Hi, beautiful.

He let his gaze wander: her cheek smushed into the pillow, the swell of her chest rising under the blanket and the soft expanse of thigh peeking through. His voice dropped.

—God, you’re gorgeous in the morning.

She laughed.

—You’re biased and sleep drunk.

—Nope; wide awake, rock hard and deeply in love.

He rolled on top of her, bracing his weight on his forearms. Their bodies aligned, slow and natural.

—Tell me to stop and I will, but I’m dying to touch you again.

Adriana’s eyes met his,

—Then don’t stop.

Jack kissed her; it wasn’t rushed or desperate. He had all the time in the world to memorize her. He moved the covers aside and trailed kisses down her neck, her chest, her belly and pausing to whisper:

—All of this is mine, right?

She nodded, breathe catching.

—All yours.

He groaned; traced lazy circles on her hips, worshipping every inch. Her belly, her thighs and the way her breath stuttered when he pressed inside her slowly, fully. They moved together like music no one else could hear.

—You feel like home — Jack whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

—And you feel like peace — she answered, cupping his jaw.

Each thrust was steady, deep; he praised her in murmurs:

—So warm and soft; you take me so perfectly. You make me forget the rest of the world, Adriana. My girl; my good, beautiful girl.

She moaned his name, slow and reverent. Held his face and let him see everything. Their climax came quiet but shaking; both of them clinging, gasping and kissing through it.

Jack didn't move for a long time after; he kept brushing her hair back, looking at her like she was a miracle.

—You okay? —he asked softly.

—More than okay. You?

He nodded.

—Yeah, I’m still Jack. But you make me feel like more than just that.

She kissed him slow.

—You are. You're not just the guy who saves lives and you're the guy who makes me feel safe in mine.

He pulled her closer, chest to chest.

—I don’t know what I did to deserve you.

She smiled.

—Probably something stupid. But I’m not giving you back.

He kissed her again, with a little smile of his own.

—Good. Because I was about to make pancakes and eat them off your thighs.

Author’s Note: This is Part 2 of 3 of Crash Landing (Into You). Thank you so much for the love on Part 1! As always, English is not my first language, so any grammatical errors are my own. I welcome kind and constructive criticism, it means a lot. 💛

[chan-hvgs]

Okay the part 1 was cute and fluffy where we got to see the reader meeting seungmin and the fluff stuff where he helped her translate and dropped her back home. The reader is shy after this and starts doing her research on stray kids and their music and content. She really sees seungmin as a good human being and all members love and accept her. So she takes the passion for learning Korean on her own so that she communicates with members and so she asks seungmin questions about how you became an idol and what made so passionate about. Seungmin asks her on a date in a shy manner. They have their first date on the mall without minnie being recognized she wears heels and a dress that makes minnie heart flutter so the reader tells her life journey and all of sudden she faces a show bite without telling her. Minnie being soft he is lifts reader in her arms she is shocked checking to see whether anyone recognize him she feels fluttered and touched

The photos above are not mine! They're from pinterest and belong to their rightful owners.

Ship(s)/Characters: Kim Seungmin x Fem!Reader, Ot8

Word count:1,348

CW: Fluff, mentions of food, friends to lovers, *Some info may not be accurate, Its just what the internet told me/ Or its just fiction completely!, injuries (Very lightly described blisters),

Bold is texted

Summary: You came to Seoul to pursue your dreams as a graphic designer and animation. You met a certain someone while you were there, what happens now? 

Pt.1 here!

It had been a week since you had that game night with Seungmin and his friends. You had been texting throughout the week and you had to admit, you really liked the boy. You had unpacked and were finally getting comfortable in Korea, having already fallen into a system. 

Currently you were taking a break from your Korean studies using the books Felix provided you with (and they were really helping, you'd have to thank him next time you see him), but instead of flipping pages you were sitting in front of your computer, Google open, your lips parted in shock. You scrolled through different pages about Stray Kids, having searched them on a whim when a nagging feeling wouldn't leave you– And now… That little liar. He wasn’t just a fan of Stray Kids, he WAS a part of Stray Kids. And his friends, the friends you were joking and laughing with weren't just his friends– They were his groupmates. You leaned back in your chair, no wonder Chan was so suspicious of you, being the leader and all, you wouldn't expect anything less. But why’d Seungmin keep this a secret? I mean sure he hinted at it but did he think you’d start treating him differently? Get obsessed?  Well you wouldn’t be shocked, he must have had some pretty terrible experiences to not tell you directly. You tapped your phone nervously, debating telling him you knew but decided to go ahead and bite the bullet.

You:

Hey…

Can we talk…?

Seungmin:

What? You tired of me already 🙏

You:

You know that’s not it..

You’re a vocalist of Stray Kids?

You watched as his text bubble appeared and reappeared multiple times, once, twice, three times before finally revealing a message. 

Seungmin:

So.. You figured it out. I'm so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

I was just scared. You don’t know just how scary some people can be.

You:

I’m not mad Minnie,  I understand. 

I don’t care that you're an idol. I like hanging out with you because you’re you.

Seungmin:

Thanks… I’m sorry again.

Do you want to hang out? There’s a mall I want to show you.

You:

Oh? Asking me on a date?

Your smile widened as his reply appeared

Seungmin:

If that's what you want to call it, then yeah it’s a date. See you at 5.

You smile, cheeks heating up as you look at the text. A date.. An actual date. The heart throb wore off when you realized the time. You only had about an hour and a half to get ready. Pulling yourself out of bed you quickly showered and began getting ready, your phone playing a Stray Kids playlist, you might as well get familiar now. Brushing out your hair and doing your makeup, casual but still nice. You wore one of your prettier dresses, blue and floral, and the shoes to go with it were a pair of dainty heels with bows on the buckles. You picked your phone up and winced when you realized the time, 4:55. You did one last once over in your full-length mirror, spraying yourself down with perfume before grabbing a purse and dropping your phone, lip gloss and wallet into it just as there was a knock on your door. You rushed to open it and there he was, dressed in a beige sweater and light wash jeans, white converse on his feet, A small bouquet of beautiful roses in his hand. You watch his face flush a light color of pink up to his ears as he takes you in. 

He blinked, quickly snapped out of it when he realized he was staring. Holding the bouquet in your direction “These are for you” He smiled shyly as you took them, fingers grazing his for a split second. They smelt heavenly, and they were so beautiful. “I’m gonna put these in a vase if you wanna step inside?” He smiled, stepping inside your apartment as you filled a vase with water, he looked around for a second “This is a really nice place” You nodded, smiling. “Yeah… My job provided it. It’s really big for an apartment” You set the vase by a window and moved towards the door again, looking over when Seungmin offered his hand, looking away. You smiled, taking it as he led you out the door and started towards the mall.

On your way to the mall you looked over at the male, who was obviously more flustered and reserved than he was the last time you walked together, your hand still in his. “So… “ You said gently “What made you decide to become an idol” You didn't want to come off as pushy but you were genuinely curious and he looked happy to have a conversation starter. “Well when I was younger I wanted to be a professional baseball player” He giggled a little, but you could see the longing in hius eyes “But plans fell through because of–- injuries and… other things so I turned towards entertainment. My friends convinced me to audition for JYP and now I’m here” You nodded with a smile, he obviously gave you a short, cut blank explanation but it was enough fpr now. By the time he finished talking, we’d reached the entrance of the mall. 

You realized Seungmin didn’t have a mask on and you looked at him curiously “Aren’t you worried about getting recognized?" You asked, voice low. He shrugged, walking over into a store. “This mall isn't very popular, and it's 5pm on a Tuesday so I’m not too worried. Idols come here more often than you'd think” You nodded, letting go of Seungmin’s hand as she looked around the store. He stood beside you, looking at you, eyes wandering your form. “So.. what about you?” he smiled “I told you about me so it’s your turn” You smiled "I've already told you most of it.” He shrugged “Still” So you told him about growing up in Japan and what led you to your current job and how you got the offer that brought you to Korea. The two of you walked store to store as he listened to you, nodding along, occasionally asking you a question or two, his hand holding yours anytime you weren’t using it, You could even swear you could see hearts in his eyes as he listened. 

 It wasn’t until you stopped at a food court and sat down to get something to eat that you felt the pain radiating from your heel. Sure, you knew wearing heels when you would be walking around wasn't the best idea and now you had a painful blister covering your heel. Seungmin came over with two Korean corn dogs and handed one to you, eating one himself. The two of you ate in relative silence, having talked so much while shopping. And when you finished eating Seungmin stood to continue, offering his hand. He must've noticed the look on your face and the way you falter when you stood because he immediately put his hand on your shoulder. “Hey, you ok?” You nodded with a smile. “Yeah… just have a blister from these heels” He looked down with a nod. “Then let's call it here for the night, yeah?” You smiled at his consideration and started walking when suddenly his hands were on your waist and your feet were off the ground. You looked at Seungmin, his face was flushed, his ears basically glowing, obviously flustered by his own actions, but he continued to carry you as if you weighed nothing. Warmth bloomed in your chest, the closeness, the gesture—it all felt like a dream.

Seungmin carried you all the way home, not once putting you down once until he reached the front of your apartment, allowing you to open the door. You walked in and turned around, Seungmin still red from embarrassment with the smallest smile on his face. You smile, eyes meeting his. “Let's do this again?” Seungmin nodded, smiling so widely it made your chest ache “of course” 

(A/N: Pt.2 yay! I hope you like it @vernorica123 ! It was fun to write! Sorry this took me so long to get out! I had no motivation and was a little burnt out but hopefully I'm back now! Thank everyone so much for the support I've had recently! As always, feel free to send requests and remember to eat, drink some water and get rest! Have a great day/afternoon/night! I love y’all!-🐝)

[black-and-yellow]

As you wish. Here is the 16th chapter under the cut(draft so it's subject to change) for your viewing pleasure.

Bone apple teeth.

Ch.16

Cass drew her coat tighter around her shoulders and kicked at the thick central leg of the pedestal table in front of her.

She gritted her teeth and impatiently checked the time again. Mal was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.

She glanced around the establishment. A ramshackle takeaway joint a few streets away from the hotel. It had an overwhelming stench of grease, but whoever was back in the kitchen could whip up a mean chow mein.

Cass shrank back into her seat in the corner. There was nobody else here and she’d finished eating a while ago. She was getting a little worried that she’d be asked to leave before her company even arrived.

She was about to start picking at the remnants of her meal in the cardboard takeout box on the table when the bell at the door chimed and the tall, lanky figure of a man ducked inside.

His hair was scruffy, black streaked with a few stray greys, and a respirator mask covered the lower half of his face. The various belts and drapes of his long coat trailed behind him as he made a beeline over to the only occupied table in the place.

Cass’ heartbeat quickened. The situation felt a little more real when he was stood right before her. He looked down at her, one eye bright green, the other clouded over with a cataract.

“Cassiopeia?”

“Um. Yeah.”

The man’s face brightened. At least, by what Cass could see of it, and he held out a bony hand.

“Mallory Doyle. Sorry I’m late... had to grab some juice... Brought you some, too,” he said as they shook hands, and then deposited two cans of orange juice on the table with a heavy thud. He swept down onto the chair opposite Cass and pulled his mask down from his face. “Good to meet you in person. Sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”

“It’s okay. Thanks for agreeing to all this, by the way.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Mallory waved a hand as he dug an old laptop out of his bag, “To tell you the truth, I don’t think I could pass up the offer to work on some android systems. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime type deal, y’know?”

Cass scoffed quietly and couldn’t help but smile.

“Not back in my town, it’s not,” she told him, and held up four fingers, “I know four androids back home.”

Mallory’s eyebrows raised in astonishment as he flipped open his laptop, which looked as if it had seen much better days.

“Four, you said?”

“Leo, Felix, Henry, and Mason of course.”

“Well, I… I’m at a loss for words, Cassiopeia.”

“You can call me Cass. Everyone else does,” Cass told him. Then the reason she was here re-entered her mind and she quickly dug around in her pocket for the drive Felix had given her and placed it gently on the table.

Mallory’s eyes flicked to the drive, up to Cass, and then back again.

“Is that it? The data?”

“Yeah.” Cass cleared her throat. It pained her a little to hand it over, to watch him pick it up, and cling onto the hope that it was the right thing to do.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Mallory seemed to have picked up on the tension she was feeling, “She’s in good hands.” He held his hands up as if to prove it and gave her little grin as he plugged the drive into his laptop.

That was what doctors always said, Cass remembered. What doctors said when things were looking grim, and they knew they couldn’t make any promises. She fidgeted in her seat, the suspense killing her slowly, keenly watching Mallory’s expression from the corner of her eye.

“Here we go…” he said as everything loaded up, then she watched his eyes grow wider, flickering around the screen like a cat watching a laser pointer. He coughed once in surprise, which then cascaded into a series of wheezing chokes until he pulled his mask back up over his mouth and steadied his breathing, valves clicking open and shut.

“Sorry, this is…” he shook his head and rasped out a short laugh, “I’ve seen some unconventional code in my time, but this…”

Cass’ face fell.

“Is it bad? Is it really bad?”

“No, no, it’s… I mean it is, but no, I can work with this.” Mallory hunched over to take a closer look at the screen, brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to decipher how the language itself even functioned.

Cass watched and chewed her lip. Judging by the look on his face, this wasn’t a good start.

“Man…” she thought to herself, turning away, “What made me think this would work..?”

Seeming to pick up on her agitation, Mallory’s gaze flicked up from the screen to her face, and back down again.

“Tell me about your android friends.”

Cass looked up again, a little surprised at Mallory’s sincere curiosity. It hadn’t really occurred to her before that living with androids wasn’t so common amongst the general population.

“Well… There’s Felix, he’s very shy. He tends to get pushed around by people a lot since he’s so reserved, but my friend Orion has been helping him come out of his shell a bit. He’s really sweet once you get to know him. Then there’s Leo…” a smile crept back onto Cass’ face, “Complete hopeless romantic. Always dressed like he’s attending some fancy-schmancy event. He’s a singer at the pub in town, you should hear him. Great cook, too, he hosted dinner for all of us the other night as a welcome to Henry. I’ve only just met Henry, but he’s great, even though he works for my brother, and he’s been a real help with all this… stuff. And Mason…” It occurred to her that in that tiny box in front of her was everything that made Mason who she was, her entire self all stripped down to bare bones. DNA, Mallory had likened it to. She lightly nudged the hard drive on the table, “That’s Mason.”

Mallory sat back in his chair and regarded her for a minute, hands still hovering over his keyboard, and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you’ve pretty much met her already, right?” Cass clarified, “Looking through all that.”

“Don’t do her such a disservice, Cass,” Mallory told her, returning to his work, “I might know the basic components that make up Mason’s character, but I haven’t met her, I don’t know what she’s really like. Androids are more than the sum of their parts, just like us.”

Cass cracked a smile. Mallory’s evident respect for androids put her mind at rest a little, knowing Mason – or, her code – was in safe hands.

“She likes espressos,” Cass said at last. “And learning things, and fixing stuff. And she saved my life when I was a kid. She’s sort of been my guardian ever since. Like a kind of rock.”

Cass hardly remembered the fire at this point. She had only the vaguest recollection of being pulled to safety, standing out on the drive at the front of the house while Mason slipped back into the furnace devouring it to find her father. She returned alone, of course, with the left half of her face dripping off like cake batter. The years surrounding the event all seemed like a fuzzy, far-off bad dream. But she knew Mason was there through all of it.

“She must care about you a lot.”

“That’s not what my brother would say.”

“Your brother…” Mallory mused, “You mentioned him before. What’s he like?”

Cass gave a groan and grabbed her drink from the table, fiddling with the tab on the can in her hands, shaking her head.

“I can’t stand him,” she admitted, “This whole thing is his fault.”

Mallory gave her a look like he wanted her to continue, so she did.

“I only met him a few days ago. He went to boarding school when I was a baby, so I don’t remember anything about him from when we were kids. I was so excited when I found out he was coming to visit. I did everything I could to welcome him, I tried so hard to be a good sister, but…” She shrugged, “He’s always hated Mason, I don’t know why. Well, I do know why, sort of, but I don’t really get it. Anyway, he… he’s the one who made this virus.”

She decided against mentioning Atlas’ plans for ‘Project Cirrus’. Best to focus on one world-shattering event at a time.

For a minute the only sound was the muffled sizzling noise of the kitchen behind them and the hum of neon lights around the ceiling. Outside, a quiet back street, travelled only by those local to the area, who knew where they were going, lined with shuttered shops and the occasional apartment building. A pocket of relative silence in the clamouring city. Homely, even.

“I’m sorry.” Mallory shook his head in a mournful sort of manner, “A lot of androids are quite unlike like your friends back home. They’re utilitarian, specifically programmed with a distinct lack of personality. A professional detachment, you might say. But your father made something special.”

“I know.”

“Cass…” He addressed her soberly, with a sudden seriousness to his demeanour, and he reached over to place a bony hand on her shoulder. “We’re gonna get her back.”

(bonus Cass doodles for fun)

Would anyone enjoy an excerpt from my (original) book I've been working on. Just for funsies. Just for sillies perhaps. If you will.

[exopelagic]

I know the world is cruel because I finally wanna draw again and yet I am forced to pack :(

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ explicit sexual content, daddy kink, caretaking.

He expected to find you distracted. 

You didn’t text or call after breakfast, or your usual lunch time, but he was too bogged down with work to get off base to physically check in, lay eyes on you, make sure you’re alright. If you’re distracted enough you forgot to text, he’s worried it means you’ve lost track of the day completely, forgotten to eat or drink something other than coffee. Your little blue icon on the map tells him you’re definitely at work, but that’s all he has until he’s able to get away. 

When he does, and he slips through the back door of the bakery into the kitchen, he finds a scene he did not expect- 

and immediately knows the rules you broke today won’t result in a punishment. 

At least, not tonight. 

You’re standing at your work table, the rectangular butcher’s block that nearly stretches the span of the room, hands covering your face, hyperventilating. You’re covered in flour and there’s dried batter on your elbows, your neck, your clothes, a chaotic mess strewn across the tabletop.  

He calls your name softly and you turn with wide, wet eyes, a trembling lower lip. 

“What-” you nearly trip over yourself to get to him, falling into his arms, your tear stained face pressing against his chest, your own heaving. “Shhh, you’re okay, you're okay.” The front door swings open and Mara is there, pointing at the table, you, before making a motion with her hand like she’s cutting air in front of neck with a grim expression. Whatever it was, or is, it’s derailed the day completely, left you in tatters. He wishes you would have just called him, followed your rules so he could have helped, been here for you, with you, supported you. He nods at her, and cups your face, tries to tilt it up into his as you sob. "Okay, shhh, I've got you, I'm here. Let me look at you baby, let me see your eyes." They're laden with tears, broken with stress and anxiety, everything in you shaking and sparking like a live wire.

“I b-b-broke the ov-oven this morning,” you cry, clinging to his shirt, “I tried to- t-tried to fix it but... and I broke m-my rules..” His heart chips a little bit at the raw distress in your voice, the way your chest heaves like you’ve just run a marathon. He has to fix it, soothe it, bring you back and take care of you, of everything, properly.

“Okay sweetheart, you're alright,” Your face turns, ear pressing over where his heart thumps in his chest, and he automatically covers the other one with his palm, blocking out the world around you but continuing to murmur softly so you can feel the vibration of his words as he rubs your back. “You’re alright baby, everything’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” 

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry, m-my rules-"  

“We’re not going to worry about the rules or what happened with them right now. We're going to get you home and taken care of, and we’ll talk about the rules when you’re feeling better. Do you understand?” You shake your head, still struggling to take a deep breath. “What is your number one rule baby, tell me.” 

“Listen to daddy.” 

“Good girl. I will tell you when it’s time to think about what happened today with your rules. Do you understand me?” You sniffle, but nod. 

“Yes daddy.” 

“Left arm.” One of the reasons he bought this house over the other ones is the tub. It’s massive, jacuzzi style with jets, perfect for a soak, or a scrub, which is what’s happening now. He turns your fingers up, runs the washcloth across them until the flour beneath is gone, soaping you all the way up to your shoulders, your collarbone that’s half hidden by bubbles. 

“Thank you.” He kisses your forehead. 

“Thank you for letting me take care of you, sleepy girl.” Once he got you out of your dirty clothes and into the bath you calmed considerably, exhaustion quickly setting in once you hit the hot water. 

“You’re welcome daddy.” A small mischievous smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and he chuckles. Sass.

He trails the washcloth across your chest and you arch your back a little bit, turning into the fabric as it brushes your nipples. 

“Alright?” This is not the moment to push you. Emotionally off balance and vulnerable, it would do more harm than good to test your limits. 

“Yeah,” your teeth find your bottom lip, and he moves downward, across your belly to your mons. You moan, hips flexing, looking for more between your legs and he rubs your cheek. 

“Do you want daddy to make you feel good sweet girl?” 

“Yes please.” He lets the washcloth sink to the bottom of the tub. 

“Open your knees f’me, like that, good girl.” He takes it slow. He’d ask you to get out if he thought you’d be comfortable, but he doesn’t want to move you, disturb how relaxed you are. When he slides down your pussy to your hole, he’s relieved to find you’re very wet, and there will be enough to last until the water in the tub starts to dissolve it, though he’ll have to be quick. You whine, wiggling as he thumbs your clit, middle finger of the same hand carefully pressing inside you to the first knuckle, the surprised gasp on your lips swallowed by his own. You’re already clenching down around him, trying to bring his finger deeper. So bloody tight.

“Ah-” He works up to his second knuckle, watching your expression, the crease of your eyebrows, the flutter of your lashes. Your grip tightens to the side of the tub, walls squeezing him as he slides all the way, circling your clit and angling upward inside you, dragging along your walls like he’s motioning for you to come here, all of his touch flexing in tandem. Your face is twisting, almost like you’re trying to resist, mentally digging your heels in. You’re getting in your own head, trying to shove your orgasm away, running from it. Punishing yourself.

He knows what you need.

“You had such a hard day didn’t you baby,” you whimper, "you worked so hard today, and daddy’s girl deserves to feel good after having such a bad day.” He passes over your clit in a faster rhythm, again and again as he strokes in and out of your pussy, bringing you to the edge. 

 “I-” 

“It’s okay sweetheart, you can come. Show daddy how good you are and come on my hand.” A lever is pulled, a dam released.

“Oh- oh, fuck,” your feet kick, water sloshes, and your face is like heaven, expressive and euphoric, just for him. “I’m coming, I’m…” your muscles tense and he stays with you, wringing every drop of your pleasure free until you go limp, chest heaving. 

After a while, he finds the washcloth. He methodically picks up where he left off, starting between your thighs, and then soaping the rest of you, making sure he gets all the remnants of the day cleaned off.  You smile, a little loopy, eyelids heavy. Time to get out. “No sleeping in the tub, c’mon.” 

“But-” 

“No buts. Up.” You pout. It’s adorable, and he’s a sucker, but the risk of you falling asleep is too great. “I’ll let you stay in until you’re all wrinkled next time, but you can barely hold your head up right now. Come on.”

He gets you dried off and into some clothes, pajama bottoms and one of his t-shirts before settling you in bed with a cup of tea, bare feet sticking out from the blankets so he can rub them, trying to knead away some of the tension in your arches. 

“You need better shoes.” 

“Mmmh, I know.” You had turned your switch on, but it sits abandoned now as you drain your chamomile just before snuggling down into the pillows, slowly losing your battle to sleep. “Daddy...” 

“”I’m here baby.” You sigh and reach blindly, looking for him with closed eyes. 

“Can you hold me?” It’s not even a question, you own him.

“Of course.” He slides in behind you and you turn, nestling your nose against his neck. A whole world, right here. An entire life, his, curled up in his arms, the safest place you'll ever be.

“Night.” Half yawn, half sigh, completely exhausted. He brushes his lips across your forehead. 

“Goodnight sweet girl.” 

[flwrstqr]

COMING HOME ✶ WHEN YOU CRY

𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗖────𝗂'𝖽 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

【 𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐒 】 𝑙’ enhypen x fem ! rea 7OO established relationship fluff comfort a tiny bit of angst 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 skinship, petnames ˊᯅˋ ｡｡ daily clicks

다니⠀⦂ this is for my @jiwuu ♡ summer started meaning i will post way more often hopefully >< ( last year summer flashbacks..)

LEE HEESEUNG

“baby… are you seriously crying right now?” heeseung whispers, half-laughing as he pulls you into his chest, the credits rolling while tears roll down your cheeks. “it’s just a movie,” he teases gently, thumb brushing under your eye, and you sniff, pouting harder. “shut up,” you mumble, hiding your face, but he just grins, tilting your chin up. he peppers soft kisses across your face—your forehead, your damp cheek, your knuckles. “still crying?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “’cause i’ll keep kissing you till you forget the plot.” you breathe out a shaky laugh, heart fluttering despite yourself, and he kisses you again. “there she is,” he whispers smugly, tucking you under his chin. “my pretty girl.”

PARK JAY

“c’mere, baby,” jay murmurs, voice velvet-soft as he pulls you gently into his lap, arms looping around your waist like he’s scared you’ll disappear. your cheeks are warm and damp, but he doesn’t flinch—just presses a kiss to your temple and lets you curl into his chest, burying your face there while his fingers stroke your spine. he hums something soft under his breath. “don’t cry, sweetheart. you want me to get you that bag you were looking at last week? the pretty one with the bow?” he whispers against your temple. “i’ll buy you ten if it makes you smile again.” he cups your jaw so gently it almost makes you cry again. “i’ve got you, princess,” he says, thumb brushing away your tears.

SIM JAKE

“baby? wait—did i do something?” jake’s voice is frantic the second he sees your tears, eyes going wide like you just broke his entire heart. “did i say something? did i hurt you? please tell me, angel, i didn’t mean to—” you shake your head and hiccup, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “oh thank god,” he whispers, pulling you into his chest. “you wanna lie down? or ice cream? or that plushie you liked last week? i’ll buy you ten,” he rambles, “just say the word, angel. i’ll do anything. just don’t be sad.”

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon shows up at your door within minutes, breathless, cheeks flushed from the cold, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “i heard you were crying,” he mumbles, voice quiet as his eyes flicker over your tear-streaked face, “so i brought you these.” you don’t even speak—just fall into his arms, and he catches you instantly, hands on your waist. he presses a kiss to your hair, heart racing beneath your cheek. “it’s okay,” he whispers, not much else—just that. over and over. “it’s okay, baby. i’m here.” because even if he can’t always find the words, his love doesn’t need explaining. and tonight, that’s enough. he is enough.

KIM SUNOO

sunoo’s lips instantly pout when he sees your teary eyes. “oh no, no, don’t cry, angel,” he whispers, cupping your face with both hands so gently it makes you cry harder. “it breaks my heart when you’re sad,” he murmurs. “you’re too precious for tears, okay?” he guides you to sit on the couch and letting you curl up. his arms wrap around you snugly while he hums something soft, cheek resting against your head. “let me take care of you,” he coos, rubbing your back.

YANG JUNGWON

jungwon kneels in front of you without saying a word at first, his brows pulled together in quiet worry as he reaches up to gently tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a little just to hold your face. “hey, look at me, baby,” he says softly, thumb brushing under your eye to catch a tear before it falls. “what’s going on, hm?” his voice is so calm, it only makes your chest tighten more. “you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. just… let me be here, okay?” he pulls you into his arms, your face buried in his neck. i’ve got you. always.” “seeing you cry makes me want to fix the whole damn universe.”

NISHIMURA RIKI

"aww, baby," riki coos, brushing a thumb under your eye, catching the tear before it slips — and of course, the little shit’s smirking. "crying already? i didn't even do anything that mean." he pulls you into his lap anyway, arms wrapping snug around your waist. "should i kiss it better? maybe here—" he plants one on your jaw, "—or here—" a kiss on your nose. you grumble, hiding your face in his hoodie, but he’s relentless. “no hiding. i wanna see that pout. it’s cute.” you shove him, and he grins wide. “there’s that almost-smile. c’mon, baby, give me the real one. or i’ll really start being annoying.”

[monicaalexandraaa]

The way I dropped everything to read this. Just perfect.

"You meant it, didn’t you?" she asked finally, her voice softer than the wind.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, because there wasn’t any use for that. Nothing needed to go unsaid.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that, honest,” he said. “Somewhere between the morphine and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t broken, I knew. Maybe even before that – I don’t know what I’m saying. But yes. I meant it.”

I loved this^ little bit so much. I loved every line really. Them dancing, the morning after, the moment between Harry and his sister and mother, just all of it. I feel so much for this story and I’m in complete awe over it🩷🩷

FRONTLINES: AWAITING - Part Two a harry styles x original character story.word count: 10,068 content warning: mental health struggles, fade to black sex, foreplay, alcohol use, gender norms depiction in 1940s, war discussion

summary: after months apart, Harry and Clare reunite in a London pub, where the weight of their letters gives way to quiet touches, laughter, and rekindled intimacy.

author's note: due to tumblr's limit of lines per post, you are getting TWO new updates from frontlines today - keep an eye out for part three soon! hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it <3

READ "FRONTLINES: PART ONE" HERE

__________________________________________________

May, 1943 – London

They broke apart slowly, as if neither of them were quite ready to let go.

Clare’s hands lingered on Harry’s arms, her fingers brushing the soft fabric of his uniform, as if testing whether he was real. He looked down at her with something between a smile and disbelief, his eyes still glazed with the kind of relief that only came after long-held hope.

“You look…” he started, pulling back enough to see her, holding her waist as he admired the beautiful dress and the way she wore it. “Like a beginning I didn’t think I’d get.”

Clare smiled, knowing she was blushing already. “I nearly didn’t wear the dress – I thought it would be a bit much, maybe.”

“Glad you didn't decide against it."

It took them an awkward moment to move away from one another, but Harry took her hand in his and lead her back to the table he had gotten for them – just in case she came. He pulled her chair out for her, and she sat, legs tucked neatly beneath the table, a little breathless at the way that she was here.

Clare watched as he sat back down, his uniform pressed, shoulders tight. His complexion was clean; showered and groomed. He moved with much more ease than he had when he left the hospital. Her eyes fell to the scar that ran across his ear to his jaw, not as deep and certainly becoming lighter.

"Did you really iron your shirt just for me?”

He leaned in slightly, eyes melting across her like he had never seen a woman so beautiful. “Spent thirty minutes and burned my thumb. Worth it, though, innit?”

She laughed, the sound light and warm to his ears. She had been so uptight; so to herself in the hospital without allowing anyone in. Except him – he knew that smile, that laugh. But seeing it out here, so freely, was something that he couldn’t believe.

A server appeared and took their order—two pints and whatever was hot from the kitchen. When the server disappeared again, they sat in the soft hum of the pub, studying each other like it was the first time.

“You look better,” she said, leaning her arms against the table.

“I feel better,” he replied, then added more quietly, “especially now.”

Clare’s hand drifted across the table, her fingers brushing his. He caught them gently, lacing their hands together. He glanced down, then back up into her eyes.

“I wasn’t sure you’d say yes," he bit on his lip and flashed he eyes back up to her.

“To the drink?”

“To everything.”

She bit her lip, knowing it may smudge her lipstick, but knowing that she might be doing that tonight anyways.

“I wasn’t sure you would keep your promise to reach out and send a letter,” she admitted. “But I’d kept hope.”

He smiled, nodding to her. “Kept my promise. I’m a man of my word.”

She tilted her head, almost in admiration. “So, what do we do now?”

Harry thought for a long moment. Then, with that half-crooked grin of his, he said, “We find out what peace looks like,” He tilted his head a bit to mimic hers, "But was hoping you'd be okay with doing that together."

Clare fluttered her lashes in blinking, giving a hint of a smile before she nodded. “It would be an honor to do it with you.”

Their drinks arrived, the soft clink of glasses marking the pause between past and possibility. A small silence settled in as they took each other in, more certain now than they had been moments before.

Clare tilted her head again, curiosity flickering across her features. “How was it, being home?”

Harry exhaled, then looked down for a moment at the ring of condensation on his glass. “Strange,” he admitted. “Good… but strange.”

He glanced up at her again, then leaned back in his seat, fingers loosely laced over his stomach.

“My mum didn’t stop crying for a solid ten minutes when I hopped off the train. She kept touching my face like I might vanish. My dad looked like he was going to say something but never did. Just gave me this long look and said, ‘Alright, then,’ like that meant everything.”

Clare smiled softly, listening. She rested her elbows on the table, as improper as it was, and practically leaned into his storytelling.

“My sister tackled me at the station. The kids, they made signs. Bright colors, little figure drawings. My niece gave me a drawing of us holding hands under a rainbow. Nearly undid me.”

He paused as if trying to bring the memory back to his thoughts. There was a gentleness in his voice that hadn’t been there weeks ago. A steadiness that came from standing on his own soil again.

“But it’s hard, too,” he continued. “Because I sit there, watching Beth crawl into my lap, and I can’t stop thinking about the men who didn’t make it back. Dean. All the others. Fathers. Husbands. I came back with burns, a fracture and busted muscle. But I’m whole. I’m breathing. And sometimes that feels like a betrayal.”

Clare reached out, asking for his hand before he fell into her touch.

“You survived,” she said. “That’s not something to carry with shame, Harry. You need to have pride in it.”

“I know,” he murmured, eyes narrowing at where they touched. “But sometimes it still settles on me, in the quiet.”

She let her thumb sweep gently across his knuckles. He looked down at their hands, then back at her.

“And then,” he said, voice quiet now as his eyes lifted back to her face, “I think about you. And this moment. And I remember I’m allowed to want more than just surviving.”

Clare’s breath caught at his realization; she had been planting the seeds for months, wanting him to see the way she saw. It was never bringing the men back, but there would be a significant journey of self-reflection on the way there. 

The room around them faded. It didn’t matter that the bar was filling up, or that jazz players were playing faintly. It didn’t matter that outside the war still loomed like smoke in the distance.

All that mattered was that they sat there in their own company, relishing in each other’s orbits. The time went by so quickly, but so did the drinks. Harry was having a glass of whiskey, Clare having another pint as they watched the way that the soldiers danced along to the jazz.

Women being twirled, men dipping the women into formations and laughing and chattering about the night. These nights felt… stronger, like there was a camaraderie in the room. Everyone in that room had lost something but was gaining this memory now.

Harry leaned across the table, a bit flushed from the whisky and the way Clare kept smiling at him like he’d just said something brilliant.

“You know,” he said, voice low and a little cheeky, “you never let me show you how much better I’ve gotten.”

She raised a brow, intrigued at his statement. “Better?”

He pushed back his chair, not bothering to hide the cocky little grin creeping across his face. “Physically. My legs, my shoulder, I can move. Dance, even.”

Clare let out a small, dry laugh as she took another sip of her drink, “Oh, is that so? I think this may be that soldier who was so full of himself before he got to hospital that I was talking about.”

He extended a hand toward her, palm open and waiting like he had been waiting for months. “Let me prove it to you.”

Clare let out a soft laugh, shaking her head but taking his hand anyway. “You are trouble, Harry Styles,” she muttered.

“Always have been,” He told her, leaning into whisper in her ear, “And it's Lieutenant Styles to you, miss.”

He pulled her close, gentle but sure, and stepped into the rhythm like it hadn’t been months since he’d danced. He moved with that natural swing she just knew he had in him — not flawless, but full of soul and swagger and something she couldn't keep her eyes off. His hips, his rhythm and his feeling of life breathing back into him. His hand pressed warm and firm against her back as he twirled her once, then caught her again with a breathless laugh.

“Harry!” she grinned, with surprise, throwing her head back with a laugh, “you show-off.”

“You’re the one keeping me upright,” he said, then dipped her slightly, just enough to make her squeal and cling to his shoulders. “See? Good as new. All thanks to you.”

The band picked up pace, a trumpet blaring wild and bright, and Harry spun her again, their laughter tangling with the music. Around them, boots stomped, glasses clinked, and the war – for a few rare minutes – felt far away.

As the song slowed, he drew her close, their chests pressed together, his breath warm against her cheek as he let his lips settle next to her ear.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured, loud enough over the music as he pulled her in and swung her around, “Way too beautiful.”

She smiled against the curve of his jaw. “You’re not too bad yourself, Lieutenant.”

They danced, not with an ounce of precision, but with ease. He twirled her once offbeat, but she laughed and didn’t care. He guided her with the same care he had used to hold himself up only months before. But now his body moved confidently, only a slight hesitation in the left leg when he stepped backwards, but she carefully watched, and he knew the limits to push.

“See?” he murmured. “Not bad, huh? I’m not broken anymore.”

She leaned in close, letting her cheek brush his. “You were never broken. Just bent.”

He chuckled, but it was low and dangerous, something smoldering underneath as he let his hand brush away some of the hair from her cheek. “You better be careful—I might start thinking you like me.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes; her lips parted in playful mockery. “You’re lucky I’m still thinking at all.”

The jazz grew louder; the pub spun in warmth and laughter and spilled drink. He bent, whispered against the shell of her ear, as he let the whiskey talk for a moment, “Let’s get out of here.”

She raised an eyebrow, a bit of a shock but not completely abandoning those plans. Something in her burst with a heightened energy that she couldn’t explain; it felt way almost scandalous to feel that way. “Trying your luck, Lieutenant?”

He shrugged, boyish and flushed, a look that was new on him but that fit him so well. It showed how young he was; what he looked forward to. “Only slightly. You came all this way, after all.”

“Do you say that to all the nurses you take dancing?” she teased, her voice warm, pushing on his chest.

“Only the ones I’m hoping to marry,” he said.

She stopped moving. Right there in the middle of the song, her fingers still loosely clasped in his, she froze and looked up at him. Her heart clenched, then fluttered. The music carried on around them, oblivious. He looked just as startled, almost like it was an intrusive thought that shouldn’t have been said.

“Too much?” he asked quickly, running a hand through his hair with a sheepish wince. “I didn’t—I mean, that was meant to be a joke, or-or to make you laugh.”

She blinked, unable to make sense of something as such. In most honesty, she didn’t know that he would say something as such. “No, I—Harry.”

“I’ve just... I’ve missed you,” he said, quieter now. “And I want—I’m,” He paused for another moment, taking in a breath with a humorless laugh, “I just – I just think I’m speaking rubbish now.” 

Clare stepped closer again, the space between them vanishing. She reached for his hand, lifted it between them, and pressed her lips to his knuckles. The scars and all.

“Let’s go to my flat,” she whispered.

Their fingers laced like it was the most natural thing in the world; she grabbed her purse; he grabbed his jacket. The door swung shut behind them, sealing in the smoke and the brass of jazz and laughter, letting the night fall around them like a hush.

The streets were quiet under the haze of wartime curfew, but the lamps still glowed low along the cobbled stone walk. Somewhere in the distance, the tail end of a brass tune drifted out of a pub window before the door swung shut and the city fell back into hush. But they walked the rest of the way in silence, her arm linked through his, her head light with the flow of the alcohol – too many pints, she was certain, and certainty of no words left unspoken.

Clare walked beside Harry, arms folded lightly against the chill. Her heels clicked against the pavement, rhythm steady, but her smile hadn’t left her lips since they stepped out into the night.

Harry glanced over, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. “You’ve gone real quiet.”

She tilted upwards as she kept moving in rhythm with him. “I’m just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit, I’ve found,” he murmured, bumping her shoulder with his. “What about?”

Clare hesitated. “About how strange it is to feel… happy. After everything.”

He slowed a little, letting the space around them draw in closer to keep them lasting there longer. “Strange, good, or strange bad?”

She gave a small shrug, holding onto his bicep as she pulled herself closer to him. “Strange like I’m not sure I trust it yet. But also like I don’t want it to stop.”

They paused beneath the light of a streetlamp, the air smelling faintly of coal and rain and gasoline. Harry turned to face her, one hand reaching up, brushing a dark strand of hair away from her cheek with a gentleness that felt almost reverent. It was odd to have him standing in front of her; she wasn’t used to seeing him in such a way.

“You know,” he said quietly, calloused fingers moving over the softness of her pink cheek, “you never really think about what you’ll miss most when everything falls apart. The little things. Like this.”

“Streetlamps?” she teased, looking upwards, giggling as she did so.

He chuckled. “No—but that giggle,” He shook his head almost like he didn’t believe he just got to hear her, “The sound of your voice when you pretend you don’t want to laugh at my jokes.”

“I never laugh at your jokes,” Clare said, though her mouth betrayed her, biting on her lip.

“You did tonight.”

She looked at him then, seeing the way that his eyelids dropped almost like he had been placed in a romantic haze of destruction. At the way his eyes softened when he was tired. The fine line at his brow that hadn’t quite faded. The scar still pink along the edge of his jaw, but her eyes were focused on his own green ones.

“Tell me something real,” she said, softer now, “Something you haven’t said in that hospital bed, but something you wanted to say.”

Harry took a breath, then another. Looked past her for a moment, then back again.

Clare stole a glance at him. His hair was ruffled from dancing, and his cheeks were flushed—not just from the whiskey or the heat, but something else. It was something shared. The corners of his mouth curled, just barely, like he was holding onto something too precious to name.

Like he had already said it. Tonight, even.

"You meant it, didn’t you?" she asked finally, her voice softer than the wind.

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, because there wasn’t any use for that. Nothing needed to go unsaid.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that, honest,” he said. “Somewhere between the morphine and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t broken, I knew. Maybe even before that – I don’t know what I’m saying. But yes. I meant it.”

She bit her lip. Her eyes burned, not from sadness but something stranger. Gratitude, maybe, wonder. How easily something like hope could bloom even here, in the shadow of war. Her heart raced like a schoolgirl with a crush, not realizing what he had been doing to her. Maybe she was so wound up in the sadness that she was looking for comfort in someone that was going to look at her like the stars only aligned in her orbit.

And he did.

“Come on, Loverboy,” she pulled on his arm, back towards her flat. “I want to hear more about it in the private confines of my flat, if you don’t mind.”

Harry bit on his lip as he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, teasing her, “You say that to all the Lieutenants you invite back to your flat, don’t you?”  

“Only the bent ones.”

Their laughter echoed down the cobbled side street as they wove arm in arm, a bit tipsy and entirely smitten.

Harry bumped her shoulder with his as they walked. “You know,” he said, glancing sideways at her, “if I’d known dancing would earn me an invite back to your flat, I’d have learned how to waltz months ago.”

Clare gave him a playful shove, letting her smile on her face even though her cheeks hurt from how much she’d been smiling. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, a chuckle followed. “You’ve got me drunk and dizzy, and I haven’t even stepped inside yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dizzy from one dance?”

“Dizzy from you,” he said without missing a beat. Then, after a pause: “And the whisky. But mostly you.”

Clare laughed, her cheeks already pink from the wind and drink. He stopped walking suddenly, tugging her back by the hand with just enough force to spin her halfway into him. She nearly stumbled, and he caught her by the waist, steadying her against his chest.

“You know what I was thinking,” he said, voice lower now, the kind of voice meant only for her in the dark. “If I don’t behave tonight… and I mean really don’t behave—”

“Yes?” she challenged, breathless from the sudden closeness.

He smirked, eyes gleaming. “—I’m blaming it entirely on your legs. That dress. And the fact that I haven’t touched you in far too bloody long.”

Clare gave a scandalized sort of laugh, but it cracked in the middle when he leaned down and kissed her—firm and warm and unhurried. The kind of kiss that made the world tilt just slightly off its axis.

She melted into it for a beat, gripping his shirt, forgetting about the street, the hour, everything.

When she finally pulled back, she was smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers. “Just wildly infatuated by you.”

She exhaled through a quiet laugh, and with a tug of his hand, she nodded toward the end of the street. “Come on, then. Let’s get you inside before you start saying even more things you’ll regret in the morning.”

He followed, still grinning like he’d won something. “Darling, I’m planning on remembering every word.”

+++

The stairwell echoed with their laughter as Clare fumbled with her keys, Harry crowding close behind her, the smell of him, smoke, beer, and something clean curling around her like warmth on a cold night.

“You live up another flight?” he asked, slightly breathless, one hand on the wall, the other dangerously close to her waist. While his leg didn’t necessary still hurt, he could feel a slow ache in the muscle as it worked. He hadn’t been this rough on it since he returned home.

“Yes, well,” she said over her shoulder, smirking as she finally found the right key before they approached her front door. “Keeps the riff-raff out if you’re up higher off the ground.”

“Oh, is that what I am now?” His breath was close to her neck, playful and slurred with just enough drink to make his voice go soft around the edges. “Riff-raff?”

She turned slightly as the door clicked open, their faces inches apart. “I don’t usually invite handsome men up to my flat, you know.”

Harry’s brows raised as he grinned. “No?”

“No,” she whispered, stepping inside, heart hammering somewhere near her ribs. “So behave yourself.”

“No promises, miss.”

She reached for the lamp near the entry, the soft light casting a bright hue over the cozy sitting room. Harry followed her in, pausing just inside the threshold, gaze flicking to the books stacked near the fireplace, the flowers wilting in a chipped vase, the small, quiet life she’d built for herself.

Then his eyes landed on her again.

“You’re nervous,” she said, teasing, even though her own pulse felt like a drumbeat.

Harry shook his head, pushing his hands through his hair as he licked over his lips, “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” she said, reaching for his lapel and tugging him forward.

That was all the invitation he needed.

Their mouths met in a kiss that was warm and searching, with a flicker of something deeper, hungrier beneath the sweetness. It had been too long since either of them had done this, and while he knew he wouldn’t forget, he didn’t want to mess up.

His hands found her waist, and hers slipped up into his hair as she sighed against his lips, leaning into the way he touched her like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “I really love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” she whispered back, laughing softly.

“That and the view,” he said, turning his head to investigate the living room that they hadn’t even approached before tangling in each other, “though it’s getting harder to concentrate on anything but you.”

She kissed him again, slower this time, surer, and when he backed her gently against the wall just inside her flat, she didn’t stop him.

Her back met the wall with a soft thud, and the kiss deepened with a slower, molten, shaped by all the words kind of touch they hadn’t felt during those months apart. His hands were broad and careful at her waist, thumbs brushing up on her belted waist like he was checking if she still felt the same beneath his touch.

Clare’s fingers slid from the curls at the nape of his neck down to his collar, tugging gently at the fabric, needing to feel him, not just remember him. He tasted like alcohol and tobacco and some part of home she hadn’t realized she’d been aching for. His nose nudged hers as he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“I—I didn’t know how much I needed this,” he said, voice low, roughened by restraint. “You. The way you sigh when I touch you like this—” He dragged his fingers along the curve of her ribs, grazing the sides of her breasts just enough to make her breath hitch.

She arched into him, her lips brushing his jaw. “Harry…”

He leaned in again, kissing her like she was air and he hadn’t had a proper breath in weeks. Her coat fell first, shoulders slipping out as he worked at the buttons on her back with slow, deliberate care, letting it puddle at her feet. She pulled at his jacket, and it landed beside hers. Her hands flattened against his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his unifrom, and he let her feel the thrum of his heartbeat under her palms.

“Still wearing too many clothes,” he muttered, grinning as he pressed open-mouthed kisses down the line of her throat.

“And whose fault is that?” she murmured, fingers sliding to pull it from the tucked position in his belt, warm against bare skin.

They undressed each other slowly, as if memorizing every reveal. A tug of fabric here, a kiss placed just beneath a collarbone there. His hands roamed like he was tracing a map of her body he already knew by heart, rediscovering it with reverence. Her dress fluttered to the floor, followed by the soft rasp of his belt being undone. Their bodies brushed in the in-between moments, bare skin meeting with a heat that made her shiver.

When he finally lifted her, she let out a small gasp, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.

The wall met her back again, solid and grounding.

Clare’s hands slid up his chest, fingertips brushing over the firm plane of muscle beneath his shirt. His body was warm, alive, and hers to hold. Harry kissed her like he hadn’t in months—like every inch of him remembered what it was to want.

“You drive me mad, d’you know that?” he murmured against her jaw, his voice low and rough, curling hot against her skin. “Months of writing you. Dreaming about you. And now I’ve got you in front of me, and I can’t think straight.”

She trembled—subtly, but he noticed.

“Is this all right?” he asked, hands still careful at her waist, as if reining himself in.

She nodded, breath catching as he trailed kisses down her neck, each one slower than the last. Her back arched just slightly, instinctively, as though her body were waking up to something it hadn’t quite known before.

And then he said it—soft, sinful: “I want to hear what you sound like when you can’t think either.”

Her knees weakened, and the room tilted in a way that made her dizzy. Every nerve felt heightened, tuned to the smallest things—his breath at her collar, his fingers slipping just beneath the hem of her dress, the deliberate pace of his movements like he already knew what she liked, even if she hadn’t known herself.

It wasn’t frantic, it was calculated and firm and solid.

Clare’s lips were parted, pulse fluttering in her throat. She gasped when his hand slid up her thigh, and Harry kissed her again, whispering her name like it was both a question and a promise.

She clutched at his shirt, trying to catch her breath, not quite understanding how her body had turned so completely molten under his touch. It was like nothing she’d felt before—like something unlocking inside her that had always been just out of reach.

“Harry…” she whispered, not sure if she meant to stop him or ask for more.

But when he looked at her, his gaze dark with wanting and still soft with love, she knew—this wasn’t just desire. It was the weight of waiting. The ache of missing. The quiet vow that after everything they’d been through, they’d never have to be alone again.

“Harry,” she whispered again, her nose brushing his temple. “Don’t forget—I’m still a lady.”

He pulled back enough to meet her eyes, mischief gleaming beneath the heat in his gaze.

“A lady, hm?” he murmured, letting his lips trail down the side of her neck. “Funny… I seem to remember a certain lady telling me she liked being pinned just like this.”

She gasped, half-scandalized, half-aroused, and he grinned against her skin, teeth grazing her collarbone.

“I’m not a tramp,” she said, breathless, but smiling.

“No,” he agreed, his voice gravel and silk. “You don’t invite Lieutenants up here often, I heard you.”

Then he kissed her again, deeper now as though the months apart had carved a hollow in him that only she could fill.

She softened in his arms, pressing her face into the curve of his neck as her body adjusted to the feel of his again; his weight, his breath, the solid warmth of him between her thighs. His hands cupped beneath her, holding her like something precious even as his mouth moved against her collarbone, reverent and unhurried.

She could feel it in the way he touched her—not just hunger, but hesitation too, as if he were still surprised she was real. Still surprised she hadn’t vanished.

Clare’s fingers curled against his scalp, her voice low and honest in the dark.

“It’s been a long time,” she whispered. “Since anyone’s touched me like this.”

Harry paused, his lips grazing just beneath her ear. He didn’t pull back—only stilled, letting the moment sit between them like something sacred.

“Same,” he said. His voice was soft, but it held a certain ache. “Longer than I care to admit.”

She leaned back, enough to see his face, eyes wide and searching.

“Not just because of the war,” he added. “Though that didn’t help. I just… I haven’t wanted to, I guess.”

Clare swallowed, the back of her throat tightening.

“I thought it was just me,” she murmured. “That maybe I’d forgotten how to want someone. But then you came crashing into the ward, half-conscious and swearing at every nurse who tried to help—and I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

He laughed quietly, forehead falling to hers. “Well, that’s romantic.”

“I said looking, not liking,” she teased, smiling. “The liking came after.”

He tilted his head, brushing her hair back with the backs of his fingers. “Still. I should count myself lucky. You let me in. And now…”

His hand moved to her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek.

“I don’t want to pretend this is nothing,” he said. “Because it’s not. I don’t want to just have you for a night and then go back to letters and wondering.”

Clare nodded. Her chest ached in the best, most dangerous way.

“I don’t want that either,” she said.

He kissed her again, deeper now, his hand splayed at her back as if to keep her close, as if any inch of distance might undo them. The kiss didn’t ask for permission this time—it was a confession, quiet and steady.

She clung to him, one hand at his jaw, the other splayed across his chest, feeling his heart thrum against her palm. When he walked them toward the bedroom, her arms still looped around his neck, neither of them said a word.

There was nothing left to explain.

It wasn’t just about need anymore—it was about choosing each other, in the soft, unspoken way people do when they’re no longer afraid to be seen.

And when he laid her down and knelt beside her like he wasn’t sure where to begin, Clare pulled him close and whispered, “Start slow.”

He did. And it wasn’t perfect—not in the way novels or films might claim it should be. There were pauses, and soft laughter, and places where his fingers trembled. But there was nothing performative in the way he touched her, nothing careless in the way she opened beneath him.

It was just them. Flesh and breath and every moment they had survived until now, tangled together in a room that finally felt like somewhere to belong.

The Morning After

The morning crept in gently, the kind of light that didn’t demand anything of you—just filtered through the pale curtains that weren’t doing much to keep the light out, brushing against bare skin and the soft rise and fall of breath.

Clare sat at the small table by the window, her knees tucked to her chest, Harry’s shirt falling halfway down her thighs. The kettle had long since stopped hissing, and two mugs of tea sat on the sill, forgotten for the moment.

He stirred in the bed behind her, the sheets shifting with the rustle of his arm moving across the mattress.

“Are you alive over there?” she asked without turning.

There was a soft, muffled sound—half a grunt, half a laugh. “Barely,” he said, voice thick with sleep. “You’ve got a terrible mattress here.”

Clare grinned as she took a sip of her tea. “You weren’t complaining about the mattress last night.”

She glanced over her shoulder in time to catch him blinking at her from beneath the tousled mess of his hair. The sheet had slid low on his hips, and for a man who’d once been bruised and stitched and half-starved when he first arrived in her ward, he looked heartbreakingly whole now.

And entirely, infuriatingly naked.

Harry reached for the mug she’d left him on the nightstand. “Did we lose count of how many times we—"

“Yes,” Clare cut in, smirking. “And no, it wasn’t a morphine dream. It really did happen over and over again.”

He groaned quietly into the mug. “God help your reputation with your neighbors below you.”

Clare stood and padded across the room, hair cascading over her shoulders as she left them in loose curls to make an effortless style over her.

“Oh, I’m ruined,��� she said dramatically. “There’ll be whispers. I’ll be branded the sort of woman who brings Lieutenants home, scarlet letter and all that. Scandal of the block.”

He looked up and over at her then, and whatever amusement had curled his mouth faded into something softer; something real.

“I still can’t believe I’m here,” he spoke again, voice quiet.

Clare folded herself onto the edge of the bed, her hand reaching for his. “Neither can I,” she admitted. “When I saw you at the bar, clean-shaven and upright… I half thought I was imagining you. And then you smiled, and—well. That was that.”

Harry squeezed her fingers, leaning against the headboard. “It’s strange. Back home I felt like a ghost in my own house. I could hear my niece laugh and still feel like I was listening from a thousand miles off.”

He looked down, thumb brushing across the back of her hand. “But here… with you… it’s like something settled.”

Clare leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, the smell of him—soap, sleep, and something warm, making her chest ache in the best way.

“You’re not a ghost,” she whispered. “You made it back.”

Harry tilted his head and kissed her, slow and thoughtful, like he had all the time in the world.

When they pulled apart, Clare gave him a wicked grin. “Still, I’ll never live it down. Bringing a man to my flat on a Friday night.”

Harry quirked a brow. “You want me to leave through the window? Save your dignity?”

Clare laughed and shoved him lightly, standing off of the bed to move back into the kitchen to finish her read of the paper. “Too late for that, Lieutenant. You’ve already ruined a few parts of me.”

Now she returned from the kitchen with the newspaper folded under one arm, the light filtering through the window was pale and uncertain, casting long shadows across the floorboards. The air between them smelled of Earl Grey, toast, and the faint trace of last night’s heat.

Clare climbed back into bed and handed Harry the paper. He sat up, one knee bent, the sheet pooled around his waist. The headline caught his eye immediately with the boldness that always caught his eyes:

MAJOR BOMBINGS CONTINUE IN NAZI-OCCUPIED FRANCE — CASUALTIES RISING.

He unfolded the pages slowly, the newsprint catching at his fingertips, the creases cutting through photographs of crumbled buildings and men in helmets pushing through rubble. Clare leaned back against the pillows, watching him. She didn’t say anything right away—just sipped her tea, waiting.

Harry’s jaw tightened as he scanned the column, shaking his head with disgust at the realities that they lived.

“My God,” he muttered, low and sharp.

“What is it?” she asked gently, even though she could already guess.

“Strasbourg. Rouen. Whole blocks decimated,” he said, shaking his head. “Says they’re targeting munitions and rail lines, but—” He exhaled through his nose. “Families live there. People.”

His hand curled around the edge of the paper.

Clare leaned forward and touched his wrist. “Harry.”

He looked at her then, eyes darker than they’d been a moment before.

“This goddamn war is sick,” he said. “The way they make it sound clean in print. Like a strategy. Like it’s not hundreds of lives we’ll never hear about again.”

She didn’t answer right away. She knew he wasn’t asking for comfort—just trying not to feel the ground shift under him again. He closed the paper, set it aside, and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he added, softer then as he knew that his emotions had built up. “I don’t want to ruin this. I just—” He looked at her, shoulders tense as he leaned against the pillows with her. “Some mornings it hits harder than others.”

Clare reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. “You don’t have to apologize.”

They sat like that for a while—still, quiet, the space between them filled with everything they didn’t need to say. Finally, she leaned into his shoulder, kissing it softly as just a way to let him know that she was there.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her temple, and acknowledgement that he felt her too.

The war hadn’t ended. The headlines still screamed and burned and bruised. But in this narrow bed, in this quiet flat above a sleepy London street, there was tea, and warmth, and someone to hold onto. And for now, that had to be enough.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes on the ceiling, “there were days I felt lucky to be up there. In the air. The world was just... different from up high. Like all the madnesses below couldn’t quite reach you.”

Clare shifted closer, her chin brushing his shoulder. “Did you love it?”

“Parts of it,” he said. “The flying. The camaraderie. Dean’s terrible singing. Bennett always trying to barter rations for chocolate. It wasn’t all horror, you know? We were just boys trying to feel brave. Sometimes we did—sometimes I thought I was the shit.”

His voice had gone quieter, a wistfulness settling into the edges of it. Clare didn’t interrupt.

“I still dream about it, sometimes,” he said with a smile, not a frown. “Not the worst bits. Sometimes I’m just flying. No mission, no flak. Just sky, just silence.”

Clare’s fingers stilled against his chest. “Do you miss it?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I miss who I was before it ended.”

He turned his head to look at her, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, let his fingers linger against her cheek.

“But I wouldn’t trade it. Not if it meant I never met you.”

Her eyes softened. “Harry.”

“I mean it. I don’t know what I believe about fate, or God, or second chances—but you… you feel like all of those things.”

She leaned forward, her lips brushing his in a slow, drawn-out kiss that let her tongue taste the tea on his lips. They lay that way for a while, limbs entwined beneath the covers, hearts steadying against one another.

Outside, the city exhaled. Inside, so did they. And in the hush between breaths, the weight of war and memory gave way, just for the night, to warmth, to closeness, to a kind of peace neither of them had known in far too long.

May, 1943 - 3 Weeks After London

The afternoon lull had settled over the ward. The sheets were folded, supplies restocked, tea cups rinsed and left to dry on a corner tray. Outside the open windows, the sound of a passing tram buzzed low and steady as if trying to calm them.

Clare had stepped away from the nurses’ station for only a moment — long enough to deliver morphine and check in on one of the new admissions. When she returned, she found Margaret and Jean crowded around her end of the desk, heads bowed low in conspiratorial hush.

“Alright,” Clare said, arching a brow, “what are you two whispering about like schoolgirls?”

Margaret, with her red-hair and little shame, looked up with a grin far too wide. Jean held up a folded envelope, distinctly familiar, with Clare’s name written in the bold, looping hand she now knew as Harry’s.

“Someone left her love letter sitting right on the tray,” Jean sang, wiggling it between her fingers.

Clare’s stomach dropped and flipped all at once. “Give me that,” she said, snatching it with a mortified flush already blooming up her neck. “You’ve opened it?”

“Of course we did,” Margaret said, entirely unrepentant. “You left it under the ration forms. It was practically begging to be read.”

“It wasn’t sealed,” Jean added in, defending themselves. “And technically, you shouldn’t be getting letters from former patients unless it’s medical follow-up.”

Clare groaned and pressed the letter to her chest as she took it from the envelope to scan her eyes over his handwriting. “You’re both awful.”

“He says he misses you,” Jean added with a wink. “Terribly.”

“He also says he’s been dreaming of you in that navy dress,” Margaret piped up. “Sounds… intimate.”

Clare looked skyward, resisting the urge to laugh at their antics, wondering if she should just leave or melt into the floor. “My goodness, if you tell Sister Beryl—”

“We wouldn’t dare,” Jean interrupted solemnly. “Not unless she asks nicely.”

The teasing was relentless, but Clare was too warmed by the weight of the letter in her hands to mind.

Harry’s handwriting pulled at her chest, familiar now, like a voice she could hear in the quiet. She had not seen him in just over three weeks, as he returned to Manchester from their solo trip in London. At first, they wrote every other day, their words pouring out across distance like stitched seams, recounting memories, reliving quiet glances, filling the gaps with imagined futures.

But something about ink and paper had begun to fray. It was all too slow, far too distant.

She missed him. Not just the version of him who had been healing and sullen in the ward, but the man who smiled against her collarbone, who read to her in half-whispers and left jam smudges on her breakfast tray.

Three weeks without his voice was beginning to feel like an ache, she found.

He had written this one the night after her last reply had arrived late — “a cruel form of punishment,” he’d called it, and she could picture him sulking dramatically as he penned the words by candlelight. He teased her about forgetting him already, then followed it with something tender:

“Come back to me soon, Clare. I know you’ve work to do and people to look after. But I feel a bit lost without you, if I’m honest. I’d never admit that to anyone else. You, though… you get the truth.”

She’d read that line five times. Six, maybe. Letters just weren’t enough, not anymore—not when she knew what she could have if they were able to spend a life together, just the two of them.

Clare tried to tuck the letter out of sight, but Margaret leaned in across the desk, voice dropping as she eyed her, looking for solid information

“So. Did you really meet him for drinks in London?”

Clare said nothing, just busied herself with aligning the pens beside the logbook.

“Oh, she did,” Jean said, nudging Margaret with her elbow as they took her silence for confirmation. “You should’ve seen her that night — hair done, perfume on, out of uniform for the first time in ages. All for Lieutenant Styles.”

Clare looked up slowly, knowing that if she ignored it, her cheeks may stay a subtle shade of pink rather than a beet red she could feel coming on. “Do either of you ever get tired of speculating about things that aren’t your business?”

“No,” Margaret replied brightly, sitting in her chair, “I’m too much of a romantic.”

Jean smirked, knowing that Clare was being vague for good reason. “Don’t pretend he didn’t flirt with you for a month straight. That man watched you walk away like he was memorizing it for later.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Clare said, trying for a scolding tone that fell completely flat under the warmth of her smile as she recalled going to his bed every single evening; he was always her first, and always her last.

“Oh, come off it,” Margaret said, pushing for more. “Did you sleep with him or not?”

Clare gave a low sigh, hands on her hips; Jean gasped at the other’s question but smiled as she watched Clare struggle with an answer. “You lot are insufferable.”

“That’s not a no,” Jean said, giggling softly.

Clare only raised a brow and went back to organizing the desk, though the small, telling smile tugging at her lips gave everything away.

“You did,” Margaret gasped, clutching Jean’s arm. “You did!”

“I’m not confirming anything,” Clare said, smoothing a stack of charts with far more precision than necessary to keep her hands busy as all she could think about was his hands. “He’s a good man—a gentleman. That’s all I’ll say.”

Margaret leaned in, wiggling her brows. “Was he a very good man?”

“Out,” Clare said, pointing toward the ward. “Both of you. Patients to check, linens to change, mouths to close.”

Jean was still laughing as she stood. “You’re glowing. Genuinely glowing. It’s revolting.”

“Must be the powder,” Clare called after them, smirking as she rolled her eyes. “Or the stress of dealing with children disguised as nurses.”

Margaret popped her head back in. “When’s the next letter due, then?”

Clare didn’t answer. She simply unfolded the one she’d just reclaimed and looked down at the words that still made her chest ache in the best way.

May I see you again soon? I don’t know where I’m going, but I know where I belong. All I know is that I want to see your face when I get there.

She folded it carefully, tucking it into the apron of her uniform, lips curving into a private smile. The other nurses could whisper all they wanted. Some things, Clare thought, were worth being teased for.

May, 1943 - 3 Weeks After London - Manchester

The house had a hush to it that still startled him.

No men shouting over static radios, no bombs whistling from above or below or side to side, no engines humming like angry ghosts in the sky through clouds that wouldn’t give up. Only the sound of the kettle clicking off, the tick of the hallway clock, and his pencil scratching softly against paper in the front room as he viciously wrote.

He sat, half-curled sideways in the armchair by the window, blanket wrapped over one shoulder, letter perched on his knee. A candle flickered nearby, though the overhead light had long since been switched off. He preferred the quiet and the dim when he thought about writing to Clare.

Clare’s most recent letter rested on the arm of the chair; folded, unfolded, and folded again so many times the crease was near worn through.

Harry smiled faintly as he reread the way she’d described how her flat felt without him there — tiny, drafty, and full of too many books. Said she couldn’t look at a cup of tea lately without thinking of how he always asked for a second.

He didn’t even like tea that much. But she always brought it to him in a good mug.

He was in the middle of writing a sentence — I think about that night at the bar more than I should — when the hallway floor creaked.

His sister’s voice floated into the room like an announcement, amused and matter-of-fact: “It’s well past midnight, you know.”

Harry blinked up at her, not wanting to ignore her but always needing to get his thoughts down. Nora stood leaning in the doorway in her dressing gown, arms folded. Her dark hair, always too curly for its own good, was tied up in a loose braid against her back, and she gave him a look only older sisters could manage: part concern, part accusation, and mostly curiosity.

“Mum’s noticed,” she added, crossing her arms as she made her way over, “You’re hardly sleeping. Or when you do, it’s in that chair.”

Harry gave a low sigh, set the letter aside. “Just writing, Nor.”

“Every night?” She asked, a bit pushy in trying to get information from him. He already was quiet, but then he went to war. That changed him more than he’d like to admit; now, he was just secretive, like the one thing that he wanted for himself was just sitting between his own fingertips.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got time to make up for, that’s all. Mum doesn’t need to worry.”

Nora’s eyes narrowed. She stepped further into the room, picked up the letter on the arm of the chair and glanced at the handwriting.

“Clare,” she read aloud, smiling as Harry tried to grab the letter back from her; a flush over his cheeks remembers words she mentioned, really only for his eyes. “So, this is why you can’t sleep, then.”

“Don’t start now.”

“Oh, come on. You’re out here smiling at her letters like some daft schoolboy. You’ve read that one a dozen times.”

“Eleven,” Harry muttered, earning a sharp jab to the shoulder.

“I knew something was going on. You’ve been out in the garden scribbling into the wind like you’re composing poetry.”

“I’m not writing poetry,” he said, a bit defensively. “I’m writing back. And she’s not just — she’s not…”

He trailed off, unsure of how to say what he meant. He wasn’t sure how to explain that in a time where everything had been stripped down to survival, Clare had shown up and seen him — not as a soldier, not as a body to medicate and stitch up, but as a man still holding his own guilt and softness in trembling hands.

Nora softened as she handed him back the letter. “You really like her.”

Harry nodded, voice low and raspy then. “She made it bearable in there. And it was never supposed to be more than talk to pass the hours spent in that hospital bed. But—”

“But now you’re smiling at paper like a lunatic,” she teased, cutting him off. Nora sat down on the armrest beside him, “Does Mum know?”

“She’s only asked if it was a girl I was writing. I didn’t answer.”

“She told me she hopes she’s pretty.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “She is. Beautiful. In that way where you don’t see it all at once—it’s hard to describe, but she’s one of a kind, I think.”

“My God, listen to you.” Nora nudged his shoulder. “You are writing poetry.”

They sat like that a moment with Harry quiet and Nora nosy before their mother’s voice called softly from the top of the stairs.

“Nora? Is Harry still awake?”

“He’s writing love letters, Mum!” Nora called back softly to not wake the rest of the house, grinning.

Harry dropped his head into his hand with a groan as their mother shuffled down the stairs in her slippers.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, voice touched with laughter as she peeked around the corner. “At least tell me you’ve invited the poor girl to visit. Or is she too busy writing to all her wounded sweethearts?”

“She’s not like that,” Harry said, bristling protectively. “She’s—she’s better than I deserve, honestly.”

His mother softened at that. “Then write her again. And get some sleep. You can’t make a girl fall in love if you fall asleep halfway through the letter.”

“Who says she’s not already in love with him?” Nora teased, looking back at her brother.

Harry said nothing else, he didn’t need to justify anything. Love was something felt but not said—not yet. He just picked the letter back up, unfolded it gently, and smiled. Nora shifted beside him, watching as he carefully refolded the letter.

“So,” Nora said suddenly, her voice sly. “Is she the reason you didn’t come home after that night in London?”

Harry stiffened, pen halting mid-stroke.

“I stayed with a mate,” he replied too quickly, his voice pitched with obvious guilt.

Nora raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A mate, was it? A mate who wears navy dresses and signs her letters with poetry and lipstick marks?”

Their mum’s voice floated in from the landing, teasing. “She’s the reason he’s been smiling to himself for weeks. That girl’s done something to our Harry.”

Harry groaned at that, shaking his head. “Can’t a man write a letter in peace?”

Nora stayed perched on the chair with him as she continued to tease. “Not when he’s writing love notes at midnight with a face like he’s in a dream.”

“She’s got him shaving and using that cologne again,” their mum added, crossing her arms and smiling back at Harry. “Came home that next day looking like a bloody gentleman.”

Harry set his pen down and turned to them. “Alright, alright. Yes, I stayed with her. And yes, I’m writing her now. And yes—I like her. Quite a lot.”

Nora smiled like a cat who had just figured out how to catch a mouse. “Knew it.”

“She’s special,” Harry said quietly, looking down at the letter again. “More than special. She makes me feel like I didn’t come home ruined.”

Their mother’s gaze softened, Nora glancing at their mother before smiling back. “Then she’s welcome anytime.”

Harry gave a bit of a smile before he gathered his items to make his way back upstairs to his room for the night. As a sister would, Nora followed him toward the stairs, arms crossed smugly. “Bet she made you breakfast.”

“Go to bed.” Harry told her softly, trying to not wake their father and his niece and nephew.

Nora followed, “Bet you didn’t.”

He paused on the landing, turning back to point at her. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in love,” she said sing-song, tapping her temple. “And I’m very clever.”

Harry shook his head, walking off, her laughter trailing behind him. But in the quiet of his room, with her letter still in hand, he let himself smile. Of course she was right; sisters always were.

June, 1943 - 4 Weeks After London

The hospital buzzed behind her. The soft roll of gurneys, the distant murmur of doctors speaking in clipped tones, the hum of a gramophone playing somewhere down the corridor. Clare found her usual spot in the west stairwell, the place where sunlight hit just right around four in the afternoon, and where no one would ask questions if they found her sitting quietly with her hands in her lap.

She pulled the newly folded letter from her apron pocket; something she had kept to read until she needed to most.

My Clare, The rain here smells like oil and chimney smoke. I stood outside for a bit this morning and thought of you. Not just the way your hair looked when it curled from the damp, but the sound of your voice. You’d be telling me off, telling me I ought to come in or I’d catch cold. You’d scold me gently, then bring me tea anyway. I miss that. I miss you.

She traced his handwriting with the pad of her thumb, the words tight and slanted, the ink smudged slightly in one corner like he’d written too quickly and dragged his palm through it. She liked knowing he’d written it in a hurry, like it couldn’t wait to be taken from his thoughts to the page.

You were right. My niece won't stop asking if I brought back anything from London. My sister’s worse. She thinks she’s clever, keeps asking why I stayed the night. I didn’t give her a straight answer at first. Not because I’m ashamed — never that — just... I didn’t want to share what’s mine.

But I finally did, because I found it silly to think that there would be a life when I didn’t want to show you off.

Her throat tightened.

She pressed the letter close to her chest, resting her head back against the cool stone wall. Through the window, the sky was the color of faded violets and ash. She could imagine him out there somewhere beneath it, rain tapping against his window, a cup of tea cooling on the sill, her name in his mouth like a prayer.

Then, a small black and white photograph fell from the creases; her heart stammering at the image before her.

It was of Harry, in his uniform; clean-shaven, smirking just slightly at the camera as if he knew he was being photographed. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair neatly combed, but his eyes — even in black and white — held something warm and laughing. It was a photo from before the accident, before they had met; he was standing next to a plane, most likely at his base camp.

On the back, he’d written in looping cursive:

So you don’t forget what you’re missing. And so you’ll send me one in return.

Her cheeks went hot.

“Absolutely not,” she murmured aloud to no one, but she was already thinking about which dress she’d wear, if she did.

She slipped the photo into her pocket, heart pounding, trying not to smile as Margaret walked in and caught her mid-swoon.

“What’s that?” Margaret asked, peering; she had seen Clare holding the photo before putting it away, which caused her curiosity to heighten.

“N-Nothing,” Clare said, quickly tucking it away.

Margaret narrowed her eyes, tilting her head as she watched her friend be a bit smug and sly. “Was that a photograph?”

Clare turned back to her teacup, taking a sip without another glance. “Mind your business.”

Margaret grinned, taking a seat next to her on the stairwell. “Oh, I will, but only because I want to see it later.”

Clare laughed, the sound soft and private, a little thrill running under her skin at the idea that she had that photo of him now; a photo she could look at when she missed him the most.

“Come on,” Margaret said, nudging Clare’s arm. “Let me see him. I’m sure he’s better cleaned up.”

Clare sighed, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her reluctance. She reached into her apron pocket where she kept most of her letters, and pulled out the folded photograph. Margaret took it eagerly in between her fingers and gave it a once over. She covered her mouth in a bit of surprise.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Clare. He's—he’s gorgeous. He cleans up like a shiny quid.”

Clare rolled her eyes but felt the heat bloom in her cheeks. “He’s alright.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes, grinning. “Alright? That uniform alone is doing half the work. And those eyes—my God. Those dimples.”

Clare reached to take it back, but Margaret held it out of reach. “Nope. Not yet. I’m still wildly without a partner and there isn’t any chance I’m finding my husband in here,” She took another glance before looking at Clare, “Is he worthy of being a husband?”

Clare stilled at her question. “He might be.”

Margaret looked over at her Clare didn’t say anything further. But she didn’t have to.

Margaret handed the photo back with a smirk. “So, did anything... happen while you were in London?”

Clare gave her a look, narrowing her brows. “Nothing I’m sharing with you.”

“Oh, come on,” Margaret begged, “Just a little. Was he—?” Margaret wiggled her brows.

Clare, blushing, lifted her mug to her mouth as she took a sip. “Let’s just say… more than once.”

Margaret gasped, clutching onto her friend’s shoulder. “Clare!”

Clare grinned despite herself, biting back the laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re glowing. Absolutely glowing. And I’m so happy for you,” Margaret said, her tone softening. “I hope he keeps you smiling like that. Especially with all this.”

Clare looked down into her tea. “So do I.”

For a moment, the ward fell quiet again around them. But inside, Clare felt a warmth that carried her well beyond the steam of her mug.

Even in wartime, happiness found a way to arrive.

[hsnlv]

sulky sulky! | l.hs

pairing: bf!heeseung x gn!reader

synopsis: dating heeseung comes with many discoveries—like how his pouty lips aren’t just an occasional thing… they’re a constant. at first, you thought he was always upset with you. turns out, he just looks like that.

warnings: flufffffffffff!!!!!, pouty hee :((

wc: 1.03k

here’s my masterlist!

reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!🎀

the day you started dating heeseung, everything felt like a whirlwind. chaotic, loud, confusing—mostly because you discovered something about him you never quite noticed before: his lips. no, really. his naturally pouty lips.

when you first got together, you genuinely thought you had messed up. badly. he just kept sitting there with that pout and a weirdly sad expression, and you immediately spiraled.

“are you okay? wait—are you mad? did i say something weird? oh my god, did i breathe too loud? i can leave, i swear—”

heeseung, confused beyond belief, just blinked. “babe… what?”

“you’re pouting.”

“yeah?” he tilted his head. “i always do that.”

and that’s when it hit you—he’s just like that. heeseung’s default face is pouty. he pouts when he scrolls through his phone. he pouts when he games. he pouts when he’s just existing. you swore he could be eating soup and still manage to pout.

you didn’t think much of it when you walked through the door and saw heeseung curled up on the couch with a pout on his face.

because, well… he’s always pouting.

you gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, said a cheerful “i’m home~” and skipped off to change, humming to yourself like nothing was wrong. and sure, you were a little late—okay, a lot late—but you figured he’d get over it once you brought out snacks and his favorite blanket.

but heeseung? oh, he was suffering.

you missed the way he dramatically turned his head away from your kiss like a betrayed prince. the way he silently stared at the front door after you disappeared down the hall, lower lip trembling in what he was certain was the most tragic expression in existence.

by the time you came back with snacks and the tv remote, he was already in full sulk mode. you flopped down on the couch beside him and turned on your show—meanwhile, he was sitting there with his arms crossed and his pout upgraded to maximum capacity.

and you? absolutely none the wiser.

he cleared his throat.

you nodded along to your show.

he shuffled loudly.

you crunched on chips.

he flopped over, body sprawled dramatically across the couch like he was Juliet waiting for Romeo.

you adjusted the volume.

he reached over and stole a chip.

you gave him the side-eye, then another chip like he was a toddler.

so he tried again.

first, he “accidentally” knocked over your water bottle. you just picked it up and kept watching.

then, he wiggled his socked foot under your leg. you moved a little to give him space.

he even fake-coughed a few times, each one more dramatic than the last.

finally, he reached his limit. with the strength of a thousand unfulfilled cuddle wishes, he stood up, stomped to the other end of the couch, and flopped down beside you with a soft little thud.

and still? no response.

he leaned his head on your shoulder.

nothing.

he poked your thigh with one finger.

still nothing.

he shifted closer—so close his nose was almost touching your cheek—and then, in the softest, grumbliest little voice, he mumbled:

“didn’t you forget something?”

you blinked, half-distracted. “uh… what?”

he looked up at you through his lashes like the saddest, poutiest baby in the whole world. “me.”

you giggled, thinking he was messing around. “what do you mean?”

he scooted even closer, nearly climbing into your lap at this point, voice turning all soft and sniffly. “you said you’d be home by eight… and we were gonna cuddle and watch cartoons and you were gonna play with my hair, remember? you promised…”

you turned to him, wide-eyed and suddenly so guilty. “oh no. baby, i completely forgot—”

“you did forget,” he sniffled, dramatically wiping at his perfectly dry eyes. “i waited. i made the couch all warm. i even picked an episode where the dog doesn’t die this time. i was gonna let you braid my hair like you always say you want to, and now i’m cold and emotionally neglected.”

you laughed softly, pulling him into your arms without hesitation. he wasted no time wrapping himself around you like a velcro koala, cheek smushed against your chest, arms hugging you like his life depended on it.

“you’re such a baby,” you whispered into his hair.

“i’m your baby,” he grumbled proudly.

“you’re so dramatic.”

“because i love you the most, obviously.”

©️ all rights reserved | hsnlv | 2025

[strayingawayy]

dream a little dream of me...

...the one where chan arrives home just in time to kiss you to sleep.

this one is for @knowbites <333

chan and his big feet try hard, but they're never really quiet. you hear him before the door clicks like it’s trying not to wake the house. considering the house has you and a little black cat inside, it's already up.

you roll over, one eye barely open, the other still dreaming.

there's a rustle, a sigh, the sound of a jacket hitting the back of the chair, a whispered swear under his breath when he hits his toe against a piece of furniture. classic chan.

he enters the space where you lie and immediately steps into the bathroom, fresh clothes tucked under his arm. the shower starts with a soft spray, steam curling under the door like it's saying hi. like it's chan's way of saying he missed you.

you let your arm flop across the empty side of the bed.

warm now, because you always leave the blanket turned down for him.

like a note.

like: come home soon, okay?

he does. eventually. because home means you.

he pads into the room with damp hair and tired bones and that goofy boyish smile that shows up just for you because he knows you're awake.

“hello, mysterious lump in my bed,” he whispers with a giggle.

“are you accepting snuggles or are you strictly here to haunt me?”

you stretch one arm out without opening your eyes.

“bring offerings first.”

“what kind?”

“compliments. forehead kisses. percy.”

the black cat, as if summoned, meows sleepily from the foot of the bed. the kind of meow that says he's disappointed by chan's attempt at keeping it down when he entered the house.

chan gasps.

“betrayed by my own son.”

you giggle, and that’s all it takes for him to crawl under the covers, a little cold and a whole lot adorable, wrapping himself around you like a sloth that missed you all day.

“why do your toes feel like icicles?” you mumble, letting him settle into you.

“because i walked through the tundra to get to you.”

“baby, you parked in the garage.”

“emotionally, it was a tundra.”

you let him press his face into your neck and inhale dramatically.

“you smell like the lavender detergent," you mumble without having to sniff him closely.

“you smell like sleep and the leftover scent of your conditioner. and love. and also possibly… cat fur?”

“he sheds when he’s proud,” you yawn before kissing chan lazily. “you should’ve told him he was handsome.”

“i did. he blinked at me slowly. i think i’m forgiven for the tuna thing from monday," he mumbles against your lips, very dedicated to the kiss and telling you about percy's recent behaviour towards him.

chan shifts closer, lips now brushing the shell of your ear.

“did you miss me or just the foot warmer function?”

“mostly the foot warmer. but also your stupid jokes. and your arms. and that thing where you kiss my shoulder like it’s the most interesting place in the world.”

he kisses your shoulder now, slow.

“it is the most interesting place in the world. all the best dreams start there.”

you giggle again, sleepy and full of that dumb, glowing joy that makes your chest feel fizzy.

he rubs your back lazily, half a circle, then stops before kissing the corner of your mouth.

“i told hyunjin i missed your laugh and he told me to write a poem about it and sell it on etsy.”

“i would buy that. do you think it comes with a scented candle?”, you ask against his lips.

“probably in the scent of ‘emotional stability and forehead kisses.’”

“i love you all silly and tired like this.” you whisper, sinking into him as your words start to slur with sleep.

he smiles into your hair, kissing your hairline now. god, this man and his kisses will be the death of you.

“same. now go to sleep before i start reciting sonnets in my worst australian accent.”

you snort, already half gone.

outside, the city hums like background music.

inside, he holds you like a pillow he never wants to give back.

and just before you drift completely, you hear him say, quiet and grinning:

“goodnight, lovebug. dream a little dream of me. featuring lots of making out. and percy.”

you fall asleep with a smile. like you always do when you're in his arms.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Hey, Sergeant

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Yelena offers you a job, but you want to meet your new boss before you agree.

Disclaimer: Mentions of guns, fighting, swearing. Reader is trained as a Widow, Bucky has a massive crush. Not Proof Read.

He’d had a long day. Between training, meetings, mentoring and dealing with rush-hour traffic in New York; all Bucky wanted to do was get home, cook a decent meal, watch some TV and go to bed. 

But, instead, he was forced to fight. 

He knew something was off the minute he walked inside. There was a new smell. Not the perfume Natasha wore, or even whatever sage stick Wanda was burning. Something that he didn’t recognise. 

But no one was inside. 

There was a cup in the sink, still half filled with coffee. Someone was still drinking it. Leaving his groceries on the kitchen island, he touched the mug. It was still warm. Someone was definitely inside. But they hadn’t come out yet. They were hiding. 

Bucky looked around, reaching for the weapon locked under the kitchen island. “I know you’re still here.”

Bucky listened out. A noise came from the pantry. As he moved over, he made sure he was still covered before opening it up. No one. 

Kate had just left the crackers balancing on one of the baskets, again. 

Slowly, Bucky moved around the room. Making sure to check every hiding spot, he kept his eye out in case someone snuck up on him. 

And they did. 

From round a corner, you and Bucky came face to face. Your eyes, length of your hair, shape of your lips; each part of your face imprinted itself on his mind. If you got away, he’d still remember you. 

“Who are you?”

“What is it to you?”

“You’re in my home.” Bucky told you. 

“I’m here on invite,” you told him before reaching for his gun. 

“What-” Bucky reached for yours. 

You’d both switched positions. Bucky was against the wall. You started moving backwards as he walked forward. 

“Who invited you?”

You smiled, your hand unwavering. “You seem pretty interested. Why don’t you guess?”

Bucky was stunned. Who the hell were you? 

“Guess?”

You nodded. “Isn’t there something on your schedule for today, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky just stared at you. “Okay. Quit messing around. Who the fuck are you and why are you in my home?”

Rather than answering, you reached for your gun again. Before you knew it, you and Bucky were against the floor. He was above you. 

He shook his head. “Not Hydra. Too eager. Hacker? Friday never signalled-”

You hit him just hard enough to roll yourself, trapping him under you. “Nice guess, but no.”

“You know, when I said you could meet him first, I didn’t mean like this.”

You both turned and looked at the door where Yelena was standing. “Are you done?”

You looked back at Bucky with a smile before standing up and getting off him, swiping your gun back as you did so. You checked the clip before making sure the safety was on and clipping it back to your side. 

“Yelena, what the hell-” 

“Before you yell, I brought her here.”

“Who is she?” Bucky asked, standing to his full height. 

“She is your new assistant.”

“Assistant?”

Bucky turned and looked at you. You stood at ease. Like everything that had just happened…didn’t. 

“I thought I told you I don’t-”

“Yes, you do. And there’s no point arguing with me, Bucky, because your scheduling is awful. You need help. And since you wouldn’t accept a Shield recruit, I brought Y/n.”

Bucky turned and looked at you. “You’re Red Room?”

You shook your head. “Red Room adjacent.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a split second and shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I found her and she’s your new assistant. I trust her, Bucky.”

Bucky just looked away from Yelena and back at you, needing more than just one sentence. 

“I was trained like I came from the Red Room. Secret files and footage my aunt got a hold of. Trained me up. Sent me to work. Few years later, Yelena found me thinking I was one of the brainwashed trainees.”

“And you’re, what? A secretary now?”

You chuckled and sat down. “I worked in an office through high school. It’s been a while but,” you looked around Bucky to Yelena and back to him. “It seems like I might be the only viable candidate.”

Bucky glared at Yelena, but she wasn’t accepting any excuse. 

“You need someone, Bucky. And it’s either Y/n or Hill comes down here with a Shield Rookie.”

Bucky sighed. He couldn’t take another Shield Rookie. 

“Monday.”

You smiled up at him. “Great.”

Nearly a year later, it was still the best job you’d ever taken. Well paid – Yelena made sure of that. Lots of work – Shield made sure of that, for both you and Bucky. And just…fun. 

“James Buchanan Barnes!” You stood at the top of the hallway, your arms folded. Your voice was firm but not too mad. “So help me, God, if you don’t get your arse back here I will agree to Sam’s plan to set you up on a dating app.”

You and Joaquin watched as Bucky stopped walking. Despite his back being to both of you, you saw him take a big breath. You smiled and looked at Joaquin. 

He turned around and walked back up the hallway to both of you. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not gonna enjoy it.”

“That’s what you think,” you mumbled loud enough for him to hear. He shot you a glare, but you weren’t so easily withered. 

Joaquin practically bounced on his feet. “Thank you. Seriously, Bucky.”

As he ran off in the other direction, pulling his phone out to make a call, Bucky turned to you. “I hate when you use my full name.”

“But I love your full name,” you smiled. Bucky just grunted and turned down the hall. 

“Thank you,” you called after him, your voice a little softer. He just waved you a hand. 

A week later, you were with Bucky in a tailor's shop. He was, yet again, messing with his collar. 

You tapped his hand away and stood in front of him. “You need to quit it. Everything will be fine.”

“I can’t breathe in this thing.”

“Be glad you’re not in a corset.”

He just gave you a look. 

You looked under the bow tie and fiddled with the buttons until they were undone. Pulling the bow tie from his collar, you looked around and judged different ties before picking one. You helped him tie it around his neck. 

“You should come with me.”

You laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m being serious. Joaquin said I should bring someone. And you’re my assistant. Technically you have to do what I say.”

You just gave a half smirk to Bucky. “What do you think the likelihood will be for me to say yes?”

He chuckled. “I know, but…please?”

You looked at him, his blue gaze locking on yours. His voice was soft. “I’m gonna need someone with me. And, as much as I appreciate people wanting to talk, I don’t think I can take an entire night of small talk. Please?”

A soft smile broke out on your face. “Okay. But only if you stop fidgeting with your collar.”

Bucky nodded. “I think I can do that.”

A week later, Bucky was watching you descend the stairs of the gala making him instantly regret his decision on asking you to be his date. 

You looked…incredible. 

To him, you outshone everyone in the room. A floor length gown that made you look like nothing less than a Greek Goddess. And that smile of yours…

He was weak at the knees. His heart was practically leaping out of his chest and his fingers itched to hold you close to him and never let you go. 

Of course he knew you were beautiful. He didn’t spend practically every day with you and not notice. But that had been in a setting where he could set aside his most inner thoughts. He was your boss, technically. And you were his assistant. And also Yelena’s friend. 

But in front of him at that moment…

His thoughts couldn’t be shut off. Everything seemed heightened. The setting, the idea that you were his date, that dress…

“You’re staring.”

Bucky broke out of his trace for a moment and smiled. “Sorry. Can’t help it. You look stunning.”

You felt your cheeks heat and you looked away from him to gather yourself together. You looked down at the dress. “Thanks.” You looked back at him. “Yelena helped me pick it out.”

Bucky nodded. “She’s got good taste.”

You smiled. “Ready for the wolves?”

He turned a little and held his arm out to you silently. “You might not have let me pick you up, but you’re gonna have to let me be a gentleman at some point.”

You let out a soft chuckle and took his arm. “Okay, Sergeant.”

The entire night was…something else. Something fun and…a memory you’d cherish forever. 

Maybe he hated the fancy galas, but there was no denying Bucky Barnes looked good in a suit and tie. There was also no denying that he was a good dancer and you trusted him entirely. He was also nothing less than a gentleman. 

You even got him to talk to a few people outside of his normal social circle. And each time you did, he just held you a little tighter, practically anchoring you to him. Not that you minded. You didn’t plan on running. 

Maybe finding him a few more people to talk to just to extend the time you spent in his arms, sure. But not running. 

By the time you got back, he dropped you back home. 

“Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

You shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It was fun.”

Bucky shrugged himself. “You still could have ditched it before. I wouldn’t have blamed you. But I’m glad you came.”

You looked at him and smiled. “So am I.”

Bucky waited until you turned a lamp on inside your home before he got back in his car and drove away, his mind wandering back to you each time the lights turned red. 

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: you meet a few of jack’s coworkers.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), slightish angst?? just incase?? i don’t think it is but just incase, unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower, and it is mentioned that he previously did not want kids. minors DNI.

notes: okay so this is not what i had initially planned for this part, but i could not get what was supposed to be the second half of this to flow how i wanted so i am scrapping some of it and putting into part 6! also, there will definitely still be a lot of teasing and stuff said by the ED staff!!! i just didn’t know how to incorporate everyone here quite yet, but it’ll come! starting with part 6, they will be slightly longer pieces (but all less than 4-5k words) so we can get more into the drama of the story. in the next part, there will be slight angst (that was supposed to be here LOL, i’m sorry!) AND smut! i also have a few more drabbles for this universe that i hope to post this week, but parts 6 (and possibly 7) will be taking priority along with the schedule i posted yesterday. unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1k

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Unfortunately, immediately after getting off the phone with you and getting his keys to Dana, an ambulance pulls up with a trauma, which not only means he is probably not going to be able to see you, but you’re meeting Dana alone.

Which leaves you in your current situation, standing awkwardly in front of said nurse while she looks you over, studying you.

Of all the things she was expecting when Jack Abbot told him a girl was coming to pick up his keys and drop hers off, you are not at all what her brain came up with.

Not that there’s anything wrong with you, except for the fact you look a little young for Jack. But she definitely didn’t imagine you.

“So, you’re borrowing Jack’s truck?” Her tone is friendly when she asks.

She seems nice, but she makes you nervous. Being here makes you nervous. You don’t know what Jack has or hasn’t told his coworkers about you or this situation.

You nod, a small smile on your face despite your discomfort, “Um, yes. I’m buying a new desk and my car is too small to get it home,”

She nods politely, “Are you neighbors?”

She knows the answer, that you are definitely not neighbors, but she’s curious about what you’ll say.

You bite your lip, “Uh, something like that?”

She raises her eyebrow at the way you word your answer as a question, but before she can speak up, Samira says your name.

She’s smiling brightly, “I thought that was you! Are you doing okay?,”

You smile back at her, “I’m good,”

“How’s the baby?”

You freeze, glancing at Dana out of the corner of your eye, praying to god that she doesn’t put it together.

Dana’s brows raise to her hairline, looking between you and Samira, and then briefly glancing at trauma two. No fucking way.

“Um, good- great actually. Just a little grape in there,” You chuckle, gesturing to your abdomen before turning to Dana, digging your keys out of your purse and clipping the key to your apartment off the chain.

“Anyway, um, can you just make sure Jack gets these, please?”

Dana nods, “You sure you don’t wanna try and wait for him?”

You look between her and Samira, a slightly anxious look in your eyes, “Yeah, no. He’s gonna be by later anyway so I’ll just see him then,”

You wince, why the fuck did you say that?

That causes Dana to smirk, “He’ll be over later,”

“Yeah, well I mean, maybe. He’ll have to get his truck back at some point. Probably tonight, but I mean who knows, ya know?”

In the midst of your rambling, you don’t realize Jack has finally wrapped up his case and is standing right behind you.

“What are you going on about?”

You about jump out of your skin, “Oh my god!” Your hand is on your chest as you take a deep breath, dramatically trying to calm yourself down, “You scared me,”

He laughs with a cheeky shrug, mumbling a small sorry as he squeezes your shoulder gently before taking your keys from Dana. He bites back a laugh at the lip gloss attached to your keychain, “You aren’t gonna need that?”

You smile, the anxious feeling finally leaving you, “No, I have a few in my purse.”

Jack briefly catches Dana’s eye as he places his hand on your shoulders and guides you out of the ED, her eyebrows are raised in question, glancing between the two of you. He shakes his head at her and mouths later and continues walking you to where he’s parked, not realizing the storm he’s started up at the nurses station.

“Now, don’t go lifting this desk by yourself or anything like that. It’s not good for you or the baby,”

You glance up at him, “I already places the order for it, they’re just going to put it in the truck when I’m ready and a neighbor said he could get his son and they can bring it up for me,”

He tries not to bristle at the mention of your neighbor that he hasn’t met yet.

“Alright, well I can help you get it put together tonight and make sure your equipment gets all set up.”

His offer makes you smile brightly at him, “Are you sure? I know you’ll be tired after working,”

He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t do it, honey.”

There’s that name again. You love it when he calls you that, it makes you feel warm inside.

He bites back a smirk as he watches you squirm, already knowing you well enough to know your cheeks feel hot.

“Well, if you insist. I’ll have dinner and beer ready when you get to my place,”

“You sure know the way to a man’s heart, honey.”

“Just yours, anyway,” You don’t give him time to respond, leaving quickly and not even realizing the impact your words just had on him.

When he gets back inside, Dana is giving him a side eye, and try as he might, he just can’t ignore it.

“Just say what you need to say,”

Dana hums, “She’s young,”

Jack sighs, running a hand down his face before scratching at his jaw, “Yeah,”

“She pregnant?”

There’s no judgment in her question, she watches silently as he pulls out his wallet to hand her the photo of your ultrasound.

“Yeah, ten weeks.”

She sighs softly, looking at the baby, “Yours?”

Jack just grunts in response. Not sure what to say or how to say it.

Dana puts a hand on his arm, squeezing softly, “I thought you didn’t want kids?”

He closes his eyes, “I didn’t. This wasn’t exactly planned. But I’m taking responsibility for this, for her,”

“Does she want you to take responsibility for her?” Dana’s question is valid, and Jack knows that.

“I told her I wouldn’t abandon her. And I won’t.”

“You’re a good man, Jack,” She gives his arm one final squeeze before pulling her hand away, “She seems nice,”

He smiles, “Yeah, she is. Real fucking smart too. And funny,”

Dana feels her chest squeeze at how Jack looks when he talks about you, unable to recall if he’s ever been this way before.

They sit in silence for a few moments before glancing up at Robby when he makes his way up, devilish glint in his eyes.

Jack sighs, already knowing what’s coming.

“I didn’t realize your babies mom is in her twenties, Jack,”

“You mad I got more game than you or something?”

Robby laughs, “Is that what we’re calling it?”