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ifonlyyuweremine · 1 month ago

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Terms of Lease

Johnny (Soap) McTavish x F Reader

Synopsis— After your landlord raised the price on your flat, you’re left scrambling for a last minute roommate. Luckily or unluckily for you, a certain Scotsman with a shady work background seems to be the perfect candidate for a flat-mate.

Word count: 22.3k

Tags— Smut, strangers to friends to lovers, mild violence, slow burn, mild danger, Scottish men with red flags, cannon divergence?

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Modern 2-Bedroom Co-Living Apartment in Manchester City Centre, Price: £1,060/month per room (all bills included).

Description: "Fully furnished ensuite rooms in a contemporary two-bedroom apartment. Shared kitchen and living area. Flexible short stays. No deposit required."

Your fingers hovered over your laptop's keypad, switching between sleek photos of your kitchen in good lighting and the empty spare room across the hall. Everything had been perfectly curated: the listing had gone up, pictures had been taken, and your contact information had been provided.

All that was left was to wait for someone to bite the bait and take the room.

You glanced back over your shoulder to stare at the door to the spare room, a slight grimace settling onto your lips. You hadn’t intended to have a roommate; the whole point of moving to Manchester was to get away from a poor living situation. Not bounce from one to the other.

But alas, private education was not free. Your psychology degree wouldn’t pay for itself, and neither would your apartment. You’d managed to snag a part-time job at the pub down the street to ease some of the financial burden.

However, your landlord had been so kind as to raise the rent. Which brought you here, stuck endlessly re-scrolling your apartment listing, hoping someone would click. There was a sour kind of irony in having fought so hard for your own space, only to be forced into sharing it with a stranger.

You subconsciously gnawed at your bottom lip in worry; what if you didn’t find someone in time? Or worse, what if the person you ended up co-living with turned out to be a psychotic serial killer?

You shivered as your mind dug up endless Reddit threads about roommate horror stories.

Note to self: conduct thorough background checks.

You sighed, your head lulling back against one of the couch cushions. Well, at least if your hypothetical roommate did end up axe-murdering you in your sleep, there was free healthcare to make up for it on the odd chance that you survived.

A small noise chimed from your laptop, interrupting your train of thought. You looked at the screen. A small red dot was attached to the message icon of your contact listing. You clicked on the icon.

Message: “Hi, I’m interested in the available room. Any chance you could provide more details?”

You stared at the text briefly, your fingers hovering motionless over the keys. “Seems normal enough,” You muttered. You glanced at the name of the messenger, “-Okay…Johnny McTavish, let’s see if you’re going to axe murder me in my sleep.”

Message (You): “Of course, I’d be happy to send you more of the details…”

. . . . . ◟੭

In hindsight, was taking the first offer for the spare room an intelligent decision? No, probably not. However, you had worked yourself into an anxious spiral, fearing that this was your one and only shot.

So much for conducting thorough background checks.

Whatever information you did manage to get seemed normal enough, nothing that screamed “roommate from hell.”

You thought back on everything you knew about your soon-to-be housemate. His name was Johnny, he was in his mid-twenties, and he was in Manchester to “sort a few things out, " whatever that meant.

He also had a job; what he did exactly, you didn’t know. The term “security” seemed like a pretty general job description.

But, as a fellow person with trust issues, you couldn’t fault him for being slightly vague. As long as he could pay his half of the rent and co-exist with you like a normal person, you didn’t quite care to learn the nitty-gritty details.

Despite his elusiveness, everything else seemed to check out. So, you went ahead and arranged a date for him to tour the apartment before he officially moved in.

Speaking of, you glanced back at the wall clock. Watching the small hand point to the four mark, as if on cue, you heard someone knock on the door. Your eyebrows furrowed together. Punctual.

You stood up, making your way over to the door and wrapping your hand around the knob to pull it forward.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but whatever it was, was miles away from the person standing at your doorstep. He was tall and broad, with large shoulders and pale skin. His hair was brown. It was shaved down at the sides, making the middle portion slightly longer. It was almost like he had decided to shave it into a mohawk and gave up halfway through.

His face was angular, with a strong jaw and soft stubble. His eyes were a shade of pale blue, almost grey, framed by dark eyelashes. And he was dressed in a simple cotton T-shirt and jeans.

By the time your mind caught up with your eyes, he had started to speak. His hand held a small piece of paper the size of a Post-it note with an address scribbled down. “Excuse me—Lass, don’t suppose you’re the one who posted the room ad?”

His voice was thick and deep, shrouded by a heavy Scottish accent. You had to force your jaw shut before you started gaping like a fish.

He gave you a funny look the longer you stood there, his eyes darting from side to side. “Hope I’m not early.” He said, breaking the silence.

You shook your head, regaining the ability to put thoughts into words. “No,” you said, blinking hard. “You’re-uh, on time.”

His face broke into a smile. “Oh, great, then.” He shoved the small paper into the pocket of his jeans. His other hand extended forward. After you realized he was offering a handshake, you extended your own to meet his.

“I’m Johnny,” he said as his hand squeezed yours.

“[Name],” You replied. As you pulled away, your palm tingled. His hand was warm and rough, leaving a lingering spark on your fingertips.

He brushed past you with an easy, practiced gait. Confident. Like he’d walked into a hundred strange rooms before this one. “Nice place,” he said, glancing around. “You decorated it yourself?”

“Yeah. And I clean it myself too. So, shoes off by the door.”

He paused, then gave you a mock salute before toeing off his boots.

You walked back in, shutting the door behind you gently. You folded your arms. “So, Johnny. What brings you to Manchester?”

Of course, you had already asked him that beforehand. However, you figured you had a better chance of getting a narrower answer if you asked him in person.

He smiled, looking back over at you. “Bit of leave. Needed somewhere quiet to crash while I sort a few things.”

Internally, you slumped. The same vague, useless answer he’d given you before.

“You mentioned you work in… security?”

“Something like that.” He walked further into the apartment, making his way over to the kitchen. “Won’t be around much, no late nights. No parties.”

This guy wasn’t letting up.

No matter, you had plenty of time to investigate later. For now, as long as he paid the rent and stayed out of your way, everything would go smoothly. Plus, the whole point of the tour was for both of you to suss each other out and get an idea of who you’d be spending the next few months with.

Johnny wasn’t hard to look at, so you supposed there was a pro there. Maybe a suspiciously attractive Scotsman crashing in your flat wasn’t exactly what you needed, but it wouldn’t hurt.

“Well,” you said, “feel free to look around. Only thing that’s off limits is my room, second door on the right.” You pointed to one of the doors further down the hallway from the kitchen.

Johnny nodded as you spoke, “Yes, ma’am.”

“If you’d like, I can show you where your room is.” You offered, to which he accepted, following closely behind as you pushed the spare room door open.

It wasn’t much to look at, an empty bed-frame, a closet, a window, standard stuff. You glanced back at him, “Sorry, it’s a bit barren at the moment. Hopefully, you weren’t expecting a fully furnished bedroom.”

Johnny shook his head, walking past you to stand in the middle of the empty space. His hands set firmly on his hips as he looked around, “No apologies needed, Lass. Looks exactly like the photo, s’all that matters.

“Though,” he said, looking back at you. “I wouldn’t expect my decorating capabilities to match up to yours. Just to keep expectations low.”

A slight smile grazed your lips, “Noted.”

Johnny looked back at you, brushing off his hands like he had just gotten through with a day's work. “Should do just fine,” he said, “-I can move in as early as Wednesday, no rush though. I’ll give you a bit to think about it.”

You thought about it, chewing on the inside of your lip. That was early, however, Johnny seemed like a nice guy. Who knew when another opportunity for a housemate would arise? Maybe you were rushing into things, but rent was due by the end of the month. And with that subtle push you nodded.

“Wednesday it is.” You said.

. . . . . ◟੭

The smell lifted your head from the pillow before you were fully conscious enough to know you’d woken up.

You shifted, hands fisting the thick material of your comforter. It was dim, a warm light flooding through the crack in your door. You bitterly brought your hands up to rub the sleep from your sockets. Your nose wrinkling up with the dismay of being conscious again.

Your scalp ached dully; you reached back to scratch it when you realized you hadn’t taken your hair out from its ponytail the night before.

You grimaced, shifting until you were in an upright position. Apparently, you hadn’t bothered to change into pajamas the night before either, considering you were still clad in your work clothes—black jeans and a matching T-shirt with the pub’s logo placed in the top right corner of the shirt. With the addition of a black apron that reached your hips.

You smelled like a brewery.

An unfortunate side effect of working as a bartender. You let out a deep sigh, rubbing your hand over your neck to work out the tenseness of the muscles.

After a beat, you smelled it again, not beer this time, it was breakfasty, like eggs. As soon as you registered what the smell was, you heard the subtle crackling of oil in a pan with a soft sizzling noise. You paused, had you been sleep-cooking and tucked yourself back into bed somehow? Was that even possible?

Images of a singed black countertop with a large flame hovering over a melting pan flashed before your eyes.

You shot out of bed in a panic.

Throwing open your door, you stumbled your way down the hallway, one hand leaning against the wall to hold yourself up. You were half-expecting to see your kitchen engulfed in flames, but instead, as soon as your eyes adjusted to the influx of light, you saw…skin?

Standing with their back facing you was a man, back on full display with loose grey sweatpants hanging around his hips. Pale skin accompanied defined back muscles and oddly cut brown hair atop his head.

You stood statue still, unsure of what to do. Whoever the person was turned around, most likely alerted by the unseemly amount of noise you had just made running into the kitchen half awake.

Blue eyes met yours. “Mornin’, sorry bout’ the noise, didn’t mean to wake you or anything, Lass.”

Oh.

Right, your mind finally seemed to catch up with the situation. You now have a roommate.

A very shirtless roommate at that.

You swallowed thickly. Last night was Wednesday. You were put on a last-minute shift because your co-worker called in sick. Your boss had called you begging for you to cover it, and due to your lack of backbone, you relented.

You thought back to the message you had sent Johnny:

Message (You): Hey Johnny, so sorry but I have to cover a shift tonight. Feel free to get settled in without me, I left the extra key under the welcome mat. Just let yourself in.

Message: No problem, thanks for the heads-up.

Somehow, the notion that he’d moved into your apartment had completely slipped your mind. You were so swamped last night due to the lack of help that you weren’t entirely surprised that you managed to forget another person was in your own apartment.

“Rough shift?”

You blinked, zoning back into the present moment. “I-uh, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Now that he was facing you, you had a full view of his shirtless body. If he didn’t look big before, he sure as hell did now. His chest was wide, his abdomen carved from straight stone. It was like looking at one of those raunchy men’s-fitness magazine covers.

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his body and back to his face. “Sorry, I‘m just disoriented. Late night.” You said, swallowing thickly.

“No need for apologies, Lass. I get how it is.” Johnny shifted back to grab one of the spatulas sitting on the counter. Grabbing the pan on the stove and flipping the egg inside. “-You want one?” He said, gesturing to the egg.

You opened your mouth to refuse, but before you could, however, your stomach gave you away. A slight gurgling noise belched from your stomach, much to your embarrassment.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” You muttered.

Johnny grinned at you, grabbing a plate from the overhead cupboard to place an egg there. Obviously, he had gotten acquainted with the layout of your kitchen while you were gone.

You gingerly took the plate with another small thanks, standing at the counter adjacent to him. Watching as he cracked the shell of another egg into the sizzling pan.

“You normally cook half-naked?” You mused, trying to fill the silence.

Johnny smiled, shrugging his broad shoulders as the egg cooked. “Sometimes, I can change if you’re uncomfortable.” He said, glancing back at you.

You shook your head, albeit a little too quickly. “Not a problem, just curious.”

Before you could grab a piece of cutlery, he beat you to it. Holding out a fork in your direction, you paused, extending your hand forward to take it. As you grabbed the metal, your fingers brushed against his. His hand was just as warm as you remembered.

Your fingers twitched, jerking back like the contact had burned your skin.

Johnny raised a brow at your skittishness. “You alright there?” He spoke casually.

“Just tired.” You lied, forcing yourself to look down at the plate as you cut your egg in half.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Or the surprise. Or the sheer warmth of his palm brushing against yours. Either way, it lingered longer than it should have.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had a man in your flat, nor could you recall the last time someone had cooked you breakfast…or touched you, for that matter.

As startled as you were, it wasn’t an unwelcome interaction. Just…unexpected.

Living alone had made you hyperaware of how foreign touch seemed to be in your life. Maybe that’s why you felt like you were being electrocuted when your fingers brushed.

You took a bite of your egg; “This is good, thank you,” you spoke.

Johnny nodded, “Got to earn my keep somehow.” He said, loading the last of the eggs onto his plate.

He stood parallel to you, plate in hand, as he ate. It was silent for a moment, filled with the sounds of metal cutlery clanking against the ceramic plates.

Johnny was the first to break the silence, “I’ll be out this evening. Probably get back late, but I’ll try my best to keep quiet.”

You looked back at him, curiosity in your stare. “Does this have anything to do with your job in ‘security ?’” You mused.

He didn’t respond for a beat, “Something like that, yeah.”

You ate in silence for the remainder of the morning. You weren’t sure what he was really doing, and he clearly wasn’t about to tell you. But the eggs were good, and for now, that was enough.

. . . . . ◟੭

You had never considered living with someone to be ‘nice.’ It was convenient at the best of times, downright painful at the worst.

Sharing a space with someone meant opening yourself up to a variety of ways your privacy could be violated. You’d promised yourself that after you cut contact with your family, nobody from beyond that point would be able to violate you in the ways they did.

With time, your distrust of people slowly subsided; it ebbed and flowed most days. But when you concluded you needed to find a random roommate, your anxiety returned, almost like it’d never left.

However, the minute Johnny walked in, with his stupid Scottish accent, his odd habits, and elusive work life. Your previous fears seemed to slip away.

And now you could afford to pay your rent on top of university, which was always great.

Somehow, in the span of a few weeks, you and Johnny settled into a shared routine. Three days a week, you would get up for your morning classes to find a coffee already waiting on the kitchen counter.

Johnny was a freakishly early riser.

You would go to your class and come back with lunch, which Johnny was always present for. You’d either eat at the kitchen counter or, more recently, eat while walking around the small park near your complex.

By the time you finished, you usually had enough time to shower or work out before getting ready for your late shift at the pub.

Johnny was home for most of the day; he worked mostly nights. So, you tended to get back to the flat from working around the time he would leave. Each time he left, you had a silent understanding not to ask.

You never brought up his work, the answer was always the same. He would either shut you down immediately or find a way to deflect.

That didn’t stop you from wondering, though, because you did. You watched him like a hawk, gathering small pieces of information to hopefully create a clear image of what exactly he did when he went to work. Unfortunately, you never got far.

You caught small things, his hushed voice on the phone in the late hours of the night, a stack of papers hanging messily off of his dresser, dog tags dangling from his neck, which were almost always hidden in his shirt.

Obviously, he didn’t work your typical 9-5, you were sure of that. However, his odd hours, which left him absent well into the night and into morning, left you grasping at strings, trying to put the pieces together.

You had your theories, sure, but it was just that, a theory. You couldn’t very well spy on him during the night either.

But spending so much time during the day at the apartment apparently gave him countless opportunities to fix the place up.

Johnny proved to be an excellent handyman. Within the first few days, he fixed your leaky kitchen sink—then the creaky floorboard near your room, then the flickering kitchen light, and so on.

You also managed to convince him to teach you Scottish slang like “Eejit” (Idiot), “Blether” (Chatter-box), and your personal favorite: “Yer lookin’ a bit peely wally” (Meaning you’re looking ill).

No matter how often you heard him mutter under his breath in Scott, you couldn’t hold back your snickers. However, apparently saying “it just sounds funny” wasn’t a good enough response when he inquired about the roots of your amusement.

Alas, all things considered, things were going well. It wasn’t perfect harmony, but things were quiet, even domestic.

It was a Friday, and you were scheduled for the late shift at the pub, from 10pm to 2am closing. You mentally prepared yourself to be accosted by swarms of people who were there to get shit-faced while watching football (or soccer, whatever you call it).

Friday was your least favorite shift because it was the busiest, but your boss seemed to enjoy taking part in watching you suffer. So, begrudgingly, you got dressed and put your hair up. Swiping your house keys from off the kitchen table, you announced your departure to the empty room, a habit you’d picked up from living with someone else. Johnny knew your schedule anyway, but it was the polite thing to do.

Just as you feared, the minute you walked into the pub, you were hit with the stench of body odor and brewery. It was a madhouse, with people packed in booths and standing in clusters on the open floor between tables.

The bar was packed, too, with people lining the stools and any open space they could. The TVs turned up to the max on the sports channel.

“Oh, thank god you’re here.”

You turned as someone grabbed ahold of your hand; a middle-aged woman dressed in the same uniform stood in front of you. She had kind eyes with slight bags and medium-length thinning hair pulled back into a claw clip.

“Janet.” You breathed, “What’s going on in here? Did all of Manchester decide to show up?” You spoke, taking in the state of the bar.

She let out an exasperated breath, “Looks like it, doesn’t it? No, just another one of those sports cups.”

You nodded in bewilderment; you knew there was a reason you should’ve been keeping up with British sports games. Maybe then you would’ve had the hindsight to call in sick.

She sighed, “You better get behind that bar, love. Before Arthur quits for good this time.” Pointing at the bartender currently behind the bar, a scowl plastered to his reddish face.

You gently patted her shoulder in sympathy, “He always says that, but he never does.” You said cooley, trying to ease her worries. You pushed her away from the rearing crowds as you went over to relieve Arthur of his duties.

You somehow managed to hold down the fort (more or less) with help from Janet and some of the other staff for the next 4 hours. The crowds had slowly depleted and all that remained was the stragglers.

You looked down at the counter, more specifically at the damage. Some of the syrups would need to be refilled, the trash was practically overflowing, and you didn’t even have the heart to look at the drip tray. Whatever mystery liquid was brewing inside that silicone tray was likely radioactive by now.

An hour till closing, and the minutes couldn’t possibly pass any slower.

You turned around, grabbing the trash and tying the top in a knot. Maybe getting started with clean-up would help the shift pass by quicker.

To say you were tired was an understatement; it was a miracle you were still standing.

However, the trash refusing to come out of the bin didn’t help your case.

You gave it a few sharp tugs, your frustration growing with each failed attempt. You were about to give it another go before you heard one of the stools being pulled out behind your bar.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to compose yourself. You brushed your apron off, turning around with what you hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Don’t suppose you could fashion me a drink, aye, Bonnie?”

You did a double take; you knew that voice. “Johnny, " you breathed. Lo and behold, your Scotsman was sitting on a barstool right before you.

His lips stretched into an amused grin at your surprise. Looking you up and down at your disheveled attire, he raised an eyebrow. “Jeez, I would ask how the shift’s going, but I’m not sure I want to know, " he mused.

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “You have no idea.” You said, exasperated.

You leaned against the bar, shoulders slumped. “It was terrible; the sports cup was on tonight, so everyone and their mother came here to get pissed. I swear it was like a war zone in here; some guy almost puked on me while I was taking out the trash, and another one spilled his pint all over the counter.” You said, gesturing to the bar that you were currently leaning against.

“-Oh, and another one got all up in my face for giving him the wrong beer.” You recalled, making Johnny raise a brow.

“Did he now?” He said.

You nodded, rubbing your temples to soothe the ache that pounded at your head. “Yeah, he had to get dragged off by someone else.”

You let your forehead drop on the table with a soft thunk, not the most sanitary thing to do, but you were too tired to care.

Johnny let out a soft chuckle, patting the top of your head as to convey his sympathies. You looked up to meet his gaze, “What are you doing here? I thought you worked nights?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Got tonight off.” He said. You nodded, figuring it was a good enough answer in your book.

“Now—uh, bout’ that beer…” He said with an impish smile.

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter to stand back up. “Yeah, you’ll get your drink.” You said, grabbing a glass and moving over to the beer tap. You caught one of the handles, putting the glass underneath the tap.

However, Johnny raised his hands to stop you. “Hey, I ain’t even told you which one I wanted.” He said, eyebrows pinched together in offense.

You shot him a look, “You’ll get what I give you.”

He seemed to have received the message, graciously accepting the glass with a smile and a nod. After a sip, he conceded a little, “Thanks, Lass.”

You waved him off, “Don’t mention it, doll face.” You said sarcastically, “-After all, you’re still paying for it.” You spoke as you returned to the trash, grasping the knot and pulling it hard.

By the grace of God, the trash bag was lifted from the bin, and you hoisted it up and onto the floor so you could drag it to the back door. There was already another one sitting against the door that you’d left hours prior, making the job just a bit more annoying.

You pushed the back door open, cold air hitting your face. It was dark. The back alley near the trash bins was poorly lit and smelled of cigarettes and rotting food.

You stood in the doorway for a beat. Then you shut the door.

Now, you liked to think of yourself as a strong, independent woman. But even strong women had their limits. And tonight—cold, tired, and alone behind a bar—it was starting to feel like yours was being tested.

You chewed on your bottom lip. Usually, one of the other bartenders or staff took out the trash. But they’d all left after the rush passed, leaving you to fend for yourself during the closing shift.

“Johnny.” You said, popping back from around the corner. “How about a deal?”

He looked over at you, his pale eyes scanning your face with skepticism. One of his dark brows raised, “Aye, what’s the deal?”

“You don’t have to pay for your drink, but you have to help me take out the trash.” You said, silently praying he would.

“Deal.” He said almost immediately. Standing up from his seat, he walked around to meet you.

You led him down the hallway to the back door, the trash bags sitting idle against the door. You reached down to grab one of them, “I’ll take one, and you can grab the other.”

Before you lifted it, he swatted your hand away. “Bonnie, who do ya’ take me for?” He said, amused. Reaching over and grabbing your trash bag with one hand and grabbing the second bag with his other hand.

He lifted the bags easily, the glass bottles inside clanking together. You looked at him, forcing your eyes to tear away his biceps. Clearing your throat, you pushed the door open, “Show-off.” You said under your breath.

The small rush of cold air hit you again, sending goosebumps pebbling against your skin. But now that someone was with you, your unease faded away into static.

Johnny made quick work of the bags. With you holding the bin's lid open, he easily tossed them into its dark mouth. You sighed, brushing off your hands. “Great, thanks for the help.”

You looked back up to meet his gaze, to which he was already looking your way. You held his stare for a brief moment, unmoving.

He looked good like this (somehow), standing there in the dark. His hair had grown a bit longer, making it look like a real haircut instead of a half-assed mow-hawk. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, almost grey. Small flecks of warm light from the dim streetlamp glassed over his pupils.

Johnny blinked, clearing his throat into his hand. “Aye, happy to help.” He said, walking back to the door and holding it open for you to go through.

You ducked inside, happy to be out of the cold night air. He followed suit, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air had gained a thick tension, one you didn’t understand how or why it was there.

Like a thick fog that lingered between your bodies, it filled your ears with cotton and clung heavily to your tongue like syrup.

Your brows furrowed; you didn’t understand it. He was just looking your way; why did the gesture suddenly feel so much bigger than it actually was?

Johnny seemed to have picked up on your sudden discomfort, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You weren’t exactly sure how to answer, so you shook your head. Chalking it up to your lethargic brain, “Don’t suppose you want to help me with closing now, do you?” You said to him instead.

Your voice holds a sarcastic but underlying hopefulness.

He eyed you, “Depends. What do I get for it?” He said with a wry smile as you walked back into the heart of the bar.

“My everlasting thanks,” You breathed humorously. “…And I’ll buy your next round.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He grinned.

You nodded, eyes catching his for just a moment too long.

It was just a favor. Just a drink. Just a shift.

. . . . . ◟੭

Manchester was a grim scene, thick and heavy rainclouds loomed over rooftops. Shrouding the surrounding area in a dark mask of grey and blue. Soft raindrops hit against your window, progressively growing in size.

You looked up from the sink, hands soaked in steaming hot water mixed with dish soap. Various plates and cutlery sitting in the murky water.

Your small window wasn’t much, but even you could watch the streets pool with shallow puddles.

Johnny sat on the couch a few feet away in the living room area, sprawled in his usual corner, his long legs propped on the coffee table, one arm slung across the backrest. He was watching the telly, though his eyes didn’t really seem to be following what was on. Something old was playing—grainy black-and-white, probably for background noise more than anything else.

You looked back out at the window, taking in the sounds of the rain. You didn’t think much of it, Manchester had storms all the time. You liked the sound of rain, even. It was comforting, in a weird, nostalgic way.

Then the first rumble hit.

It was like someone had beat on a drum from far away, the sound reverberating off your ears and causing you to perk up again.

Another rumble followed a few seconds later, closer this time. The small overhead light above the sink flickered.

You looked up, squinting at the flickering light.

Withdrawing your hands from the sink, you grabbed one of the dish towels and wiped the soap bubbles from your fingers.

You turned over your shoulder and walked into the living room. Glancing at the TV, you threw the dishtowel on the edge of the couch's headrest.

“I think we’re gonna have a storm tonight.” You said, leaning over the edge of the couch slightly.

Johnny looked at you, “Yeah?” He asked.

As if to illustrate your point, another low roar of thunder came over the living room. You glanced back at Johnny, his fingers curling white-knuckled around the armrest. He grimaced, flopping his head back against the couch cushions. “Fuckin’ hate storms,” He breathed.

You raised an eyebrow at his grip strength on the poor couch, shrugging your shoulders. “Shouldn’t be too bad, just a bit of thunder and lightning. They would have sent out a weather alert if it were anything to write home about.”

Johnny gave a long sigh in return; obviously, he wasn’t thrilled about the weather. You opened your mouth to say something else when the overhead lights flickered again, causing you and Johnny to snap your heads up.

After another moment of flickering, Johnny looked back at you, “I hope you have candles.”

You hesitated momentarily, unsure if the single scented candle you kept in your room would do the job if the power went out. “I have a candle.” You replied.

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A single candle,” he deadpanned. “What a’bout flashlights?”

“That I have,” you said, happy to give him some good news. You quickly returned to the kitchen, digging through a drawer of miscellaneous objects. You fished out a small flashlight, proudly walking back over to Johnny to show him.

“See?” You said, pressing the small button at the bottom of the flashlight. Unfortunately, the light remained out.

You clicked it again…and again…and again, but it failed to illuminate despite your efforts.

You sheepishly looked back at Johnny, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose between his pointer and thumb. “It’s fine, Johny,” you said, waving off his concern. “What are the chances the power will go out anyway?”

Well, the power went out.

Around eight or nine, everything plunged into darkness after a particularly close strike of lighting. Neither you nor Johnny were scheduled to work, so when it did go out, you were halfway through brushing your teeth.

You blinked—still dark. You felt around for the sink, spitting out the last of your toothpaste.

“Johnny?” You called out, pushing the bathroom door open. You could navigate pretty well in the dark since you knew the layout like the back of your hand. But you still felt around the walls and put your arms out blindly as to not run into anything.

The flat remained silent. Your brows furrowing together at his lack of response, “Johnny!” You called out louder, waiting for him to respond.

You listened for his voice, but it stayed quiet like the last time. You frowned, suddenly on edge from the silence.

Your fingers slid along the walls, feeling the slight grittiness of the paint. You didn’t understand why he wasn’t responding. “Johnny, where are you?” you called out, your voice tinged with frustration.

“Johnny, this isn’t funny! Talk to me.” You bit out, growing more frantic with each failed response.

You silently cursed yourself for not getting more batteries for that flashlight. Your voice was loud; there was no chance that he couldn’t hear you. Maybe he was ignoring you? But that wasn’t like him; your mind started to conjure up worst-case scenarios. What if he was hurt? Or passed out? What if he had a seizure and died?

You knew it was silly to overthink, but you couldn’t help it. Your mind proved to be your worst enemy sometimes, and this was one of those times.

Your hand slid over the familiar ridges of a door frame, Johnny’s room! You felt around for the knob, hoping that maybe you’d find him there. You pushed the door open, holding your arms out in front of you like a blind man. Your legs are shaky and slow, trying your best not to accidentally step on something or stub a toe.

“Johnny?” You breathed, voice lower.

You took another step, your arm dripping down to feel for a desk or the bed. Instead, your hand brushed over something warm and sturdy, you felt it flinch. Yelping in surprise, you drew back like an open flame had scorched your hand.

“Fuck!” Came a loud masculine voice.

Ah, so that’s where he was.

You heard something hard hit against wood, cringing when you realized it was probably Johnny. A slight hiss of pain confirmed your speculation, “What’s wrong with you?” He bit out.

You couldn’t see anything, but his voice came lower to the ground, deepening your confusion. “What? What do you mean by ‘what's wrong with me’? I was calling for you because the lights went out, and you didn’t answer me. I got worried and came in here.” You seethed, your heart palpitating from the adrenaline.

“I’m well aware the lights are out, [Name].” He responded, “You can’t just come up out of nowhere and scare me like that.” He said, his voice aggravated.

Your frown deepened. “I called your name, Johnny. Multiple times.” You huffed. “-What are you even doing on the floor?”

There came a beat of silence, “I’m…Y’know, grounding myself.” He said awkwardly.

You paused, “Grounding yourself.” You repeated.

You knew what grounding oneself meant, safely speaking. However, you were unsure if he was literally grounding himself, considering he was sitting on the floor from what you could tell.

You heard him sigh, “Yes, it’s like something you learn in therapy. Something a’bout dealing with stressful situations.”

You didn’t respond for a moment, your mind processing his words. Slowly, you crouched down to meet him on the floor. “You didn’t tell me you were stressed.” You said, hoping you were at least talking in his direction.

“I told you; I don’t like storms.” He responded.

For some reason, you had a feeling it wasn’t just the storm. You pursed your lips together tightly, trying to conjure up something to say. Yet, you were coming up empty-handed, the downpour from outside filling the room's silence.

Even with your knowledge of the human brain and the cookie-cutter steps to comfort someone, you didn’t think he deserved a rehearsed ‘I’m sorry about that; why don’t we dive deeper into the root cause of this fear?’

You sighed, “I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean to; I was just worried about why you weren’t responding.”

“It’s fine, Bonnie. I shouldn’t have yelled either.”

Another beat of silence followed, and you gently sat down, back pressed against the wooden bed frame. “I don’t want to force you into saying anything you don’t want to…” You started, your voice unsure. “But, if you want to talk about anything, I’d be more than willing to listen.”

“What’s there to talk a’bout?” He said avoidantly.

You tilted your head toward his voice; it was clear as day that he was dancing around whatever was bothering him. However, he seemed to have felt your stare through the darkness.

“I just…get like this sometimes. With loud noises, I’m usually better a’bout keepin’ it under control. S’just with the power going out and all…” He trailed off.

You didn’t need him to finish his sentence to understand. The message he was trying to get across was clear. But he kept going before you could respond.

“Maybe it’s not the noise,” he said after another beat. “It’s the waiting for it. Not knowing when it’s gonna hit.”

You sat there in stillness, the rain and wind outside filling the gaps of silence like static. “Is there anything that helps with it?” You asked slowly.

Johnny considered it for a moment. “Sitting down helps,” he exhaled. “Breathing does, too, the slow kind.” You nodded along with his words.

You inadvertently took a deep breath, breathing in for four seconds and holding it for the same amount of time, then exhaling for another four seconds. You repeated the steps, and the sound of your breath soon matched that of his.

You stayed like that, breathing, letting the seconds pass.

Eventually, the thunder softened to a low murmur, rolling lazily across the sky like a tired lion. The sharp cracks were gone now, distant enough to feel unreal. You weren’t sure how much time had gone by. Ten minutes? An hour?

In that time, Johnny had shifted and was now shoulder to shoulder with you on the floor, backs pressed against the bed frame. You hadn’t said much. You figured he didn’t need the noise.

Eventually, he spoke, voice low. “Didn’t mean to make it your problem.”

You glanced at him; even though the room was shrouded in darkness, you could make out the shape of his face. “It’s not a problem.” He gave you a half-laugh through his nose, not quite convinced.

You bumped your knee against his gently. “I just don’t want you going through it alone. That’s all.”

There was a long pause. Then you felt it—his hand, brushing against yours. Barely touching. A test.

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Instead, he let his fingers hook around yours. Not tightly. Not completely. Just enough.

Just enough to say thank you, without saying a word.

. . . . . ◟੭

The weeks flow on after the thunderstorm without much change. Everything seemed to go back to normal. However, there was a shift in trust. It wasn’t much; barely even noticeable. But you could sense it, sense how the edge was taken off when he spoke to you.

And you held fingers with someone else for the first time in a long time. A small amount of intimacy that held more weight than you wanted it to.

Whatever you felt, you pushed it down. Burying its ugly head like an ashamed child because, in some ways, you knew it was childish.

It was childish to expect so much change from so little and to hope for something more to come out of it.

Because after Johnny “sorted things out,” he would be on his merry way. And you’d be left alone again.

You tapped your mechanical pencil against your temple, staring down at your notebook spread across the kitchen table. Surrounding it was your laptop, open to your lecture notes from the previous day.

Highlighters and sticky notes littered the space around the table, creating a colorful display against the brown surface of the wood.

Your environment was surrounded by material, but your mind was everywhere but what you were supposed to be studying for. You groaned, stabbing the eraser of your pencil harder into your temple.

It wasn’t like you to space out so much, but it had been getting more difficult to focus lately.

You glanced down at your phone, the time flashing at you again, reading 2:34 AM.

After spending so many shifts closing at the pub, you’d acclimated to the nightlife. Maybe you could change your career to that of a vampire. You probably had about another hour till you’d be able to sleep. Which meant forcing yourself to keep studying.

If you weren’t going to sleep, you could at least be doing something productive.

The warm kitchen light spread across the table, illuminating the area in a soft glow. Your phone at half-volume shuffling your study playlist.

Click.

Your face snapped towards the sound of the lock at your front door being opened. The doorknob turned slowly as the door was pushed open.

In stepped Johnny, clad in his jeans and boots with a solid color t-shirt and a thick coat-jacket. His keys dangling from his outstretched hand, and his blue eyes staring at you in confusion.

“You’re still up? Thought you didn’t work tonight.” He said, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t,” you said. “Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d study instead.”

“Ah, gotcha.” He said, toeing off his boots and shuffling off his coat-jacket. He hung it loosely off the coat rack, reaching behind his neck to work out the taut muscles.

His brown hair was slightly messy, no longer a mow-hawk but now a slightly disheveled short style. His sides were still slightly shorter than the middle chunk of his hair, but it looked good. He looked good.

You glanced away, feeling silly for staring at him. Warmth creeping up into your cheeks like the mere image of him set you ablaze.

He came over to where you sat, hovering next to you. He took one look at your note page before walking back over to the kitchen, “I would offer to help, but I can’t understand anything on that page, Lass.” He said humorously.

You sighed, scratching the back of your head. “I guess we’ve got that in common, " you said hopelessly, staring back down at your notes, which were progressively looking more like hieroglyphics than English.

He laughed, pulling a glass from the cupboard and going to the fridge to fill a glass of water. The soft hum of the refrigerator blending in with your music.

Your song ended, transitioning into a softer, more nostalgic melody. It was one of those old-school love songs with an upbeat tone and chorus, even with its slow instrumentals. Johnny drifted back to the dining room where you sat, watching you rub your temples in exhaustion.

He glanced down at your phone on shuffle play. “This what you study to, Bonnie?” he asked, a grin on his face as the cheesy tune played.

You brushed him off, used to his teasing by now. “Helps me think, " you murmured back, too tired to engage. Looking back at your laptop, you winced at the blue light, squinting as best you could so as not to get a headache.

Johnny stayed silent for a beat, looking down at you.

Without warning, he reached out and shut your laptop. Making you blink in confusion, you glanced back at him. “Wha-“

“Dance with me.” He said, cutting you off.

You stared at his face, eyes scanning his features to detect any signs of teasing or a joke. But you couldn’t find a trace of humor in his face. You raised an eyebrow, unsure what to make of his blatant command.

“What? Why?” You said, eyebrows furrowing together.

His face broke out into a boyish grin. Reaching out, he took your hands. “Because this is a good song, Bonnie, " he said smoothly.

The mechanical pencil you had been holding clattered down on the table. You hesitated for a moment, surprised by the contact. But you let him gently pull you up and out of your chair.

He pulled you over to where there was more open space, the song playing in the background.

Johnny guided your right hand until you looped it around his neck, holding your left as his free hand snaked around your torso. He was warm, like every time you had touched him, just like a furnace.

Your palm cupped the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hair near his nape. Your other hand gently held in his, the pads of his fingers rough and calloused. He had the hands of someone who had grit, but the way he held you suggested everything but. His grasp on your hand and your side was light and gentle, like he was holding glass.

You sucked in a hollow breath as you started to sway, shuffling your feet to and fro with the rhythm of the song.

He was close. Like, really close.

Your eyes darted to meet his for a fraction of a second, scared to make eye contact for too long. Looking at him this close made you nervous and uneasy.

You felt stiff, the awkwardness of your movements stemming from your nerves. You breathed a half-laugh through your nose at your clumsiness. “Sorry, I don’t make a smooth dancing partner.” You said lightly.

Johnny’s lip curved up into a small smile, one of amusement and fondness. “S’okay, just relax. I got you.” He said, the raspiness of his voice sending shivers down your spine. His voice was so close to your ear, making it hard to focus on anything but his breath.

You swallowed thickly. Just relax, easy peasy.

You inhaled slowly, taking a deep breath to calm your growing nerves. You didn’t understand how you managed to get worked up so much in the span of a few seconds. But Johnny seemed to have that effect on you.

The music continued softly, letting you focus on something else besides the rising heat in your face. After a few moments, you loosened up enough to be slightly more confident in your swaying abilities.

His hand on your side gently squeezed your torso, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt.

You slowly managed to look up at him, “This isn’t so bad.” You breathed, “Especially for a first time.” You added on.

One of his dark eyebrows raised, pale blue eyes looking at you quizzically. “You’ve never danced with anyone like this?” He asked, surprised.

You shook your head, shrugging your shoulders lightly. “Guess I never got around to it.”

His smile returned, the boyish smirk that you knew oh so well. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. You’re doin’ just fine.” He said, lightly teasing.

You let out a soft breath, rolling your eyes. “I just-” You stopped yourself, unsure. But after another moment, you continued, “-I guess I just never let anyone get that far. Even the small stuff, y’know? I know it’s a bad habit being so…untrusting, but it’s just been easier to breeze by without letting anyone in. But-uh, it’s nice, dancing—I mean.”

You glanced back at his eyes, holding his stare. Watching the way his eyes softened at your little spiel.

“Yeah, it is nice, isn’t it?” He replied, his voice softer.

You held his gaze, forcing yourself not to tear your eyes away. It was strange; you felt pulled to him like an electric current. Yet simultaneously, you wanted nothing more than to run away and dig yourself into a hole.

You felt your body pulse. When did your heart start to race?

It was beating so loudly you could hear it ringing in your ears, sending warmth blossoming across your cheeks.

Your faces were so close you could see the wisps of his dark eyelashes. You could make out the gentle creases that lingered near his eyes or the soft crook of his nose. Your eyes trailed lower, dipping down to the outline of his lips.

You caught the way he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in place. Your gaze flickered up, back to his eyes.

Somewhere along the line, you stopped swaying. However, neither of you seemed to notice.

Both of you seemed to recognize the significance of the moment, the thick tension that had developed between your bodies. It seemed to spark randomly like an open cable wire, waiting for someone to touch it.

Before you could think about anything too thoroughly, though, your lips seemed to connect along the way.

You felt your breath hitch at the contact, his lips warm and smooth. But whatever initial surprise you had faded into the yearning to be even closer.

Your hand slid into his hair, grasping at the brown locks like he’d disappear. You felt him sigh against your lips, pushing deeper.

You let him in, eagerly parting your lips for him. The slow and soft noises of lips moving against each other rang in your ears along with the music. The hand that held your torso slid along your back, pulling you closer to him.

The kiss was sweet but deep. It held so much tension and built-up emotion, you didn’t know where to start, weeks of occupying the same space and subtle contact all to lead up to this.

You felt his stubble brush against your skin, the warmth of his body making you dizzy. He nipped softly at your bottom lip, pulling the skin between his teeth. You whimpered, preening for something, anything.

His other hand let yours go, traveling up your waist to slide under your shirt—

Bzzzr…Bzzzzr

The tell-tale jingle of a call vibrated against his pocket; you broke apart. Startled by the sudden interruption. Standing inches away, breathless and wide-eyed.

You stared at him, snapped back into reality. It felt cold again, and your breath caught in your throat like someone had knocked the wind out of you.

Neither of you moved for a minute, too shocked to do anything but stand there. Then, Johnny cleared his throat, awkwardly reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone. As he looked at the caller ID, he snapped his face back up at you, his eyes remorseful and guilty.

“Sorry, Bonnie. I’ve got to take this, work call.” He breathed; his voice strained.

He ducked out of the room, stepping out to take the call, leaving you a standing statue. The song slowly faded into the background as it came to its end.

You inhaled, looking around the room, bewildered. Your chest was tight. Your skin still tingled where he'd touched you.

What the hell had you just done?

. . . . . ◟੭

You weren’t sure what was worse, how easily Johnny had kissed you or how easily he seemed to forget it.

The night of the kiss still played fresh in your mind despite how much you willed it to go away. Whatever chances you had of protecting your friendship with him slipped through your fingers like dust the minute your lips touched.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting to happen afterwards, a discussion? A confession? Maybe just a small acknowledgment that it was real and not a vivid dream?

Instead, nothing happened.

The world kept spinning even though yours felt like it was crashing down.

Confronting it wouldn’t have been a problem, but it was the lack thereof that perturbed you. It was like the kiss didn’t matter—like you didn’t matter. And that alone ate at you more than the silence.

The days that followed felt bizarre. You were living with someone else, but at the same time, you’d never felt more alone.

You still woke up to a hot cup of coffee, but there was nobody on the other side of the kitchen counter to greet you or make fun of your bedhead. When you brought home lunch, there wasn’t anybody to tear through the flimsy plastic to-go bags like a hungry bear.

Johnny still acknowledged you when you left for a shift or got back home, but he didn’t look at you. And when he did, it was brief.

Most times, you didn’t even see him; he was gone for long stretches of time that left you questioning if he’d come back. Sometimes, a day or two passed without you seeing him, leaving you alone.

Sometimes, you found yourself waking up to the sound of his footsteps in the late hours, listening to the way his steps creaked against the wooden floorboards. You would watch the front door to his room, silently observing the shadow that passed underneath the door. As if to remind yourself that he was still there, that you didn’t lose him, even if it felt like you did.

But it was the small moments in passing that hurt you the most; you had been carrying your laundry back to your room, walking into the narrow hallway to get to your door. Only for Johnny to be on the other side, just emerging from his own room.

His shoulders tensed as soon as he saw you. His lips pulling into a civil, yet tight, smile.

He nodded at you before twisting his body to the side to brush past you. Yet even with his back pressed against the wall, his chest still brushed against your shoulder as you moved.

The contact was light, obviously accidental, but it made your gut twist sourly. Like the ghost of that night, of his hands on your body could still be felt.

You had also caught him in the kitchen at the crack of dawn, which meant he was already brewing coffee. He had just set your mug on the counter like he always did when you’d marched in.

Already dressed in his work boots and coat you eyed him up and down. “Morning,” you said hesitantly, grabbing the cup, bringing it to your lips, and taking a sip. It was perfect. Like always.

Johnny glanced at you, pouring the scalding black liquid into his thermos. “Mornin',” He replied politely.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your body, silently observing him go about his morning tasks. You needed to say something, to ease the awkwardness that lingered in the air like toxic gas.

You cleared your throat, “You-uh, you’ve been working a lot recently.” You commented, trying to bridge the gap between each other.

Once again, he gave you a sideways glance. “Keeping busy.”

You wanted to ask why, to scream and shout, cry out to him; why was he doing this to you? Why either of you were too scared to address what happened. But you didn’t.

You stayed quiet and watched him leave. Not wanting to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room.

Pride is a bitter thing.

And both of you had let it ruin your friendship or whatever you had going on with him.

You missed it, you missed him, so desperately it hurt.

And you hated yourself for it; you hated how easily you’d slipped down the path of caring for another. And having him retreat like he did was a brutal punch to the gut and a harsh reminder of why you struggled so deeply with letting people in.

You cursed yourself for getting involved with a man who was just supposed to be a roommate. But he wasn’t, not now at least.

You dug through your laundry hamper, fishing out your work uniform. It was around ten past noon, and you’d been placed on the midday shift. You had class the next morning and practically begged your boss not to put you on another late night.

You slipped your shirt past your shoulders, brushing out the slight creases from the fabric. While fixing your hair, you caught your reflection in the standing mirror by your closet. You had slight bags under your eyes and a slight worry line forming on your upper brow.

You frowned; you hadn’t been sleeping well. And the combined anxiety of your classes paired with the shit-show of your co-living situation had taken its toll.

Your hand unconsciously tried smoothing your face. Trying to wipe the frown lines from your skin. You sighed when it proved unsuccessful, glancing back over to your vanity your makeup bag caught your attention. You wore makeup, but it had been a while since you’d really dressed yourself up for a shift.

Checking the time, you realized you still had half an hour until you needed to be at the pub. You peeked back over at your bag, reaching over to unzip the opening.

Look good, feel good, you thought. Maybe switching up your appearance was just what you needed; it couldn’t hurt.

You finished with just enough time to spare. When you caught your reflection in the mirror this time, your lips didn’t settle into a disappointed frown. You stared at yourself for a beat, trying to muster up a realtor-worthy smile.

You looked pretty, even if you didn’t feel your best.

“Get it together.” You muttered, taking one last look at yourself before leaving your room.

You passed Johnny on your way out; he looked like he had just gotten back. Halfway through untying the laces on his boots. He glanced up as you passed, and for a moment, his lips parted like he was going to say something. But they shut just as fast as they’d opened.

You tried not to be disappointed, pursing your lips tightly as you closed the door behind you.

The pub wasn’t overwhelmed with customers, to your relief. Since it was the afternoon shift, most people were still working or doing something more productive than day drinking.

Your eyes caught wind of a familiar black head of hair tied up in a claw clip. “Janet,” you said, perking up.

She glanced over at you at her name being called, her thin lips pulling into a bright smile when she noticed you standing there. “[Name]! You didn’t tell me you were on; you usually only work nights.” She said, a tray of food in her hand.

You made your way over. “I’ve got an early class tomorrow.” You said, watching as she set the tray down.

“Ah, well, that’s nice Mike put you on the afternoon shift,” she said, referring to your employer. “-Good thing, too, you’ve been looking so tired this week.” She said, not in a mean way. More of a worried motherly way. Yet it still had the same effect as a normal insult would, making you deflate a little.

You breathed a half-laugh through your nostrils, “Thanks, Janet.” You said through your teeth.

She crossed her arms, looking you up and down. “You look good, though; did you do something different?” She asked curiously.

You shook your head, not wanting to tell her you had just covered up your tiredness with more foundation. “Just got more sleep, I suppose.” You lied.

After catching up with Janet, you slipped over to the bar counter, beginning your usual routine of making drinks and pouring craft beers for men in their late 50s sitting at the bar watching the television.

For the most part, you didn’t have much to do. So, you spent most of your time either helping Janet when she needed a second hand or slipping beers into the back kitchen for the line cooks in exchange for fries.

But during the last hour of your shift, things started to pick up a bit, by now most 9-5’s had ended. Which meant that everyone came flocking to the club for a pint, of course.

At least you were busy; there was no room to think about what awaited you when you got home.

You saw someone slip into one of the open bar seats, turning your body, and you faced them. “Hi, what can I get for you?”

The man sitting down was tall, at least, you think he was based on his sitting position rising above some of the others around him. Definitely not bad looking either, good facial structure and soft brown eyes.

His eyes scanned the counter, then back up to you. “What do you recommend?” He asked, his arms crossed and resting on the counter in front of him.

“Well, our craft beer is always a safe bet,” you said, turning over to your counter and browsing the collection of ales. “There are also some specialty beers, like our barrel-aged ale. But if that’s not to your fancy, I can always make you something else, like an old-fashioned.”

He sat there for a moment, mulling over his options. “Don’t suppose you could decide for me? You seem like a trustworthy source.” He said, the corners of his lips pulling into a soft smile.

You nodded, “Yeah, I can do that.” You turned to the beer tap, truth be told, you weren’t actually thinking about what this guy would like. Beer was just the easiest thing to make, which saved time. You could already feel other people starting to crowd around the counter.

You slid the pint over to him, “Alright, hope I made a good choice.” You said with a smile, a nice tip in the back of your mind. “Do you want to start a tab?” You asked.

He looked at you, “Yeah…think I’ll stick around.”

Once you opened a tab for the man, you returned to helping other people; however, the same guy seemed to bleed his way through every interaction. You started to make pleasant conversation as you made drinks, nothing inherently new.

Through the conversation, you learned that his name was Thomas, he was in Manchester for work, and he was originally from the States. You bonded with him over the shared experiences of moving to the U.K. and the differences and similarities between the States and Britain.

Overall, he was a nice guy. Maybe he was a little too confident in some respects, but he wasn’t a pain to be around.

“So, what time do you get off?” He asked after maybe thirty minutes of conversation. You raised an eyebrow, glancing back at him.

“Why do you need to know that?” You said back, a tad skeptical.

He smiled, looking up at you with a boyish grin. One that reminded you of Johnny. “Maybe I want to get to know you outside of a pub. Anything wrong with that?” He said, leaning forward on his arms.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, so why did it feel like there was? “No, nothing wrong with it.” You agreed, turning to the countertop to busy yourself with cleaning the surface.

“So then, do I get to know when you get off?” He said persistently, looking at you with a hopeful expression.

You glanced back at him, swallowing down the lump in your throat. He was an attractive guy, nice for the most part, and he wanted you. Something that you were lacking at the moment.

Your mind flashed back to Johnny. Your fingers twisted into the cloth of the rag you were using to clean the counter. You thought about the kiss, and then you thought about how he’d left you. A bitter taste bloomed in your mouth the longer you thought about it.

Fuck it, you thought.

You glanced back at the clock, “I get off in fifteen.” You said, turning your face back to meet him.

He smiled, a look of relief washing over his face. “Yeah?” He looked back down at his drink, finishing the last of the liquid. His cheeks were slightly rosy from the alcohol. “Guess that means you can close out my tab.”

You didn’t even make it out of the bar before he was on you. Maybe it was a little bit of both. You couldn’t really process anything.

He had gone with you to clock out; you were in the back hallway near the side door. Somehow, while walking, his hand slid over to your back to lead you out. Which spiraled into your back being pressed against the side wall, his body caging you in with his knee wedged between your legs.

Your hands were looped around his neck while his were on your body. Trailing his fingertips up and down your sides.

It started as slow kissing, but it progressively got more heated the longer you stayed. You could taste the beer on his tongue, the smell of his strong cologne, the sweat of his skin. It felt wrong.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to immerse yourself in the experience, trying to be normal about the fact that you were making out with a stranger you’d met only an hour before in the back hallway of a pub.

You sucked in a breath as his lips detached from yours, his face ducking down to your neck to suckle and kiss at the skin. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to pretend that his wispy hair was slightly darker. That his brown eyes were a shade of light blue. That instead of his hands that were holding you it was Johnny’s.

You could feel yourself choking up. This was a mistake. Kissing a random guy wasn’t getting your mind off of Johnny; in fact, it was amplifying your feelings.

He seemed to have noticed your change in demeanor because he suddenly pulled away. Leaving you panting against the wall, he looked down at you. His cheeks are equally red, and his lips kiss swollen.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked.

You couldn’t look at him; you didn’t want to because you knew Johnny wouldn’t be staring back at you.

You cleared your throat, trying to muster up anything to say. “I-I don’t know.”

Your words lingered in the air, a twisted type of shame washing over you. You felt ashamed that you agreed to this and guilty for potentially leading this guy on. Even if he was a stranger, he didn’t deserve a lie.

You looked back up at him, “I’m sorry.” You breathed, guilty. “-I just can’t.”

A look of confusion crossed his features before morphing into a small amount of understanding. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say; instead, he nodded. Clearing his throat and backing off of you.

You managed to get in a soft goodbye coupled with another apology before he left you, standing with your back against the wall. You stared off into space, your hand subconsciously brushing against the area on your neck where he’d kissed you.

You felt like you were going insane, like Johnny had infiltrated every facet of your life without even trying. Just by a kiss you’d been doomed for who knows how long.

You looked back at the door, looking at the small glass square. It was dusk, the suns golden hue fading into a soft blue that cast a slight glow on window.

Maybe if you were lucky Johnny wouldn’t be home when you got back.

You got back to the flat around 7pm, pushing the door open and letting your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the floor. Toeing off your shoes and shrugging off your coat. As you hung up the garment you saw Johnny’s jacket was still hanging on one of the hooks.

So, he was home.

You heard someone walking out from the kitchen, turning your head, you faced Johnny. His keys dangling loosely from his hand. His head turned when he heard you, noticing you at the door. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.” He said in acknowledgment.

He turned away like he usually did, but halfway through he turned back. His eyebrows furrowed down his face like he was doing a double take, you stiffened as those blue eyes trailed up your form.

You couldn’t read his face, suddenly uncomfortable by the lack of emotion across his features.

“That a new perfume, Bonnie?” He said, his voice tight and curt.

You paused, caught off-guard by his words. Unsure of what to say for a moment before it clicked. Ah, the cologne. It was strong, no surprise it probably lingered on your clothes and your skin.

You swallowed, “Why, you like it?” You replied, playing it off.

He hummed; jaw clenched. “Not really.”

His face was hard, a silent judgment that left you wanting to hide. You felt exposed, like he knew your shame.

When you didn’t respond, he rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Have a good shift?” He said, his voice betrayed the mundane nature of his question.

You didn’t enjoy the pointed nature of his words, “Yeah, it was good.” You snipped.

His laugh—if you could even call it that—was sharp, a slight exhale through his nostrils. His eyes darting away from you, “Right, looks like it.”

Your lips twisted into a tight frown, instinctively, your hand slid up to your neck. Your fingers brushing over the tender blooming heat of it—the mark you’d let someone else leave. Almost as if you were shielding it from his eyes.

Shame flooded your chest again, molten and ugly.

Your eyebrows creased, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You snipped.

He looked back at you, as if he didn’t expect you to get cross with him. You saw the muscles in his jaw work slightly, tensing up, “Nothing.” He breathed, shrugging his broad shoulders. “None o’ my business.”

You crossed your arms, heat crawling up your face. “Could’ve fooled me.” You quipped.

His head snapped back at you, something you couldn’t pinpoint flickering behind his pale blue eyes. “You think I give a fuck who you let maul you in a back alley?” He said, his voice cold and cutting.

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Never had he ever spoken to you like that, not once. And it caused something to burn deep inside you like a lit match.

“What the fuck is your problem, Johnny?” You said, throwing your hands up. “You don’t get to do this with me, you don’t get to act all offended and like you care when you can’t care enough to even acknowledge that you kissed me.” You scolded.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

So, you barreled on, voice cracking despite yourself. "You push and you pull and you flirt and you kiss me like you fucking mean it, and then you act like I’m a goddamn stranger the second it gets real!"

You shoved your hands through your hair, breathing hard.

“[Name],” Came his voice, strained and tight. “I know you’re upset, and you have a right to be mad. But you don’t know everything, I’m-I’m not doing this because I want to, I have my reasons.”

You could’ve screamed at him, “Then tell me!” You snapped back.

You saw him hesitate, “I told you- “

“You didn’t tell me anything. You just show up and expect me to know what you want. To be totally good with all of this,” you said, gesturing to the air around you.

Everything seemed too much and not enough at the same time, like the man in front of you was a lie. You huffed, looking around the room in bewilderment, at his pair of boots that sat on the shoe rack, at his spare coat on the hanger, the small traces of his presence he left in your home.

“I-I don’t understand how I didn’t see it, how I didn’t see you for what you are. I barley even know you. You can tell me your favorite color, but you can’t tell me where you work or why you disappear on me for days at a time?” You fired, digging up anything you could throw at him.

You saw his jaw work again, his hands bawling into tight fists at his side. “Then what, you want me to reveal my whole life to you? Fight off every guy that even looks your way?” He said, voice cut with disbelief.

You shook your head, practically in tears. “No. I want you to stop acting like I’m yours when it suits you, then pretending like I don’t exist when it doesn’t!”

Johnny threw his hands up this time, “You’re not mine, [Name]! You never were.” He snapped, his breath heavy. After another beat, he spoke, his voice slightly calmer this time. “Happy?”

You stood there, staring at him. The white-hot anger fading into a soft dread that pooled in your stomach and burrowed in your throat. It was silent apart from the sounds of your own breathing.

You swallowed thickly, feeling a burn in your throat. “Yes.” You lied.

For a second, one miserable second, something in his expression crumbled. Something small and helpless and so achingly human.

But then it was gone just as fast as it appeared.

"Won’t matter anyway," he said, voice flat. "-Works nearly sorted." He brushed past you to sling the strap of his jacket over his shoulder like it was a coffin he was carrying.

"I’ll be outta your hair soon enough, Bonnie. You’ll get your peace back."

He didn't wait for a response.

Just turned and yanked the door open, the heavy slam echoing through the flat as he left you standing there, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes.

As the dust settled, the full weight of his words seemed to dawn on you. You hiccuped, biting down on your fist as fat tears slid down your cheeks.

As far as you were concerned, your Johnny was gone.

. . . . . ◟੭

You offhandedly glanced back at the clock that hovered over the pub entrance for the fifth time in a few minutes; it seemed to stare back at you with a grin. Taunting at you as if you were a bird trapped in a cage, and these days, it didn’t feel far off from reality.

You had another few minutes before your shift ended, yet your fingers itched to grab your coat and leave.

Casting your line of sight down back to the bar counter, you thrummed your nails against the wood. It was a grim scene, a dead bar that only housed a few people. The television was playing re-runs of an old game show, and the yellow lights cast the bar in an almost sickly glow.

Most of your time now consisted of this, staring at the countertop of an empty bar. After all, it was better than staying in your apartment. But now you were starting to feel like a hamster trapped in the same cage.

The days following your argument with Johnny seemed to bleed together, like you were watching the days play out instead of living them.

You spent long hours slaving away over your laptop, fingers perched over the keys while your eyes scanned columns of text. You spent even longer hours at the pub scrubbing the bar counter and pouring drinks to old timers.

Somehow, though, throwing yourself into your studies and job did little to keep your mind off Johnny. You had gotten what you wanted, or rather, what you thought you wanted—an answer.

But it wasn’t the answer you wanted.

Something small and ugly inside you wanted him to fight for your affection, to run after you even after you’d told him not to. But whatever feelings you had towards him weren’t worth dwelling on, not now.

What remained in the absence of your ‘friendship’ was a cordial silence, one that spoke a thousand words and none at the same time. A harmony that felt like an open wound that wouldn’t close.

You pushed yourself off the counter, reaching behind you to untie yourself from the small black apron that hung around your hips, slipping back into the back kitchen to grab your coat from the hanger near the door.

You shuffled into the garment, grabbing your bag and keys hanging off the nearest hook from where your coat rested. As you pushed past the door to make your way to the exit, you heard someone speak up.

“You on your way?” Came a soft feminine voice.

You looked up to see Janet, who had been put on the closing shift and, therefore, still had a way to go before she could escape, too.

You gave a half smile, stuffing your apron in your bag. “Yeah. Not really any customers to serve, so I thought I’d get out of here.”

She nodded, the soft wrinkles near her eyes creasing. She looked at you with a hint of pity, like she could see how your life was somehow crumbling. You didn’t look back at her, not wanting to watch the sadness cross over her face when she saw how the bags under your eyes had deepened.

You heard her softly hum, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, responding with a hum of your own. You slipped past her to leave through the front door. As you pushed it open, the bell jingled above your head.

“-And stay safe, it’s late.” She called after you.

The walk back to your apartment was short. However, you still heeded Janet’s words, the cover of darkness seemed to bring out seedy creatures no matter how quickly you managed to get home.

You climbed the up stairwell, walking down the hallway lined by doors until you came to yours. You were on autopilot as you fished for your keys, your eyes dully staring into the abyss.

As you reached out to slide the key into the lock, the door creaked open under the pressure—already unlatched.

You paused.

For a split second you stood still, staring blankly at the door. Huh, that’s odd. You hesitantly peeked your head inside looking around your empty apartment.

It was dark, and silent.

The partially open door obstructed your view of the full kitchen, you swallowed. “Johnny?” You called out into the room, still halfway through the door.

There was no answer, you glanced at the coat hanger at the entrance. His coat wasn’t hanging up which meant he was out. But if he was out, then why was the door open?

You unconsciously chewed on your bottom lip, maybe you were just being paranoid. The most likely scenario was that he just forgot to lock it on his way out.

But the small chance that it was something else moved you to grab your phone, you sheathed it from your pocket. Typing out a message to him.

Message (You): Hey, do you know if you locked the door on your way out?

It was brief, in the case of it being nothing more than an accident you didn’t want to seem panicked.

You stepped inside, flicking the lights on.

You were still weary, but you’d managed to talk yourself out of suspecting the worst like you usually did.

You shrugged off your coat, shutting the door behind you. But as you turned something caught your eye.

The first thing you noticed was that the kitchen cabinets were open, the drawers too. Pulled out with its contents scattered on the countertop as if they’d been rummaged through.

You paused again, eyebrows furrowed half-way down your face. “What the fuck,” you muttered under your breath. Johnny may have been slightly disorganized at times, but you’d never seen him leave your apartment in disarray.

You looked around, pulse beginning to quicken. Maybe he had been in a rush, you thought. But even that didn’t sit right.

Without thinking, you walked down the hall. Turning all the lights on as you went, the doors were open. Thrown ajar to reveal a state of chaos.

You stared at the inside of your room, your closet wide open and clothes thrown about the room. Your dresser, drawers, bookshelf, all rummaged through. You doubled back, running into Johnnys room to find it in much the same state.

You never went into his room; it was an unspoken rule between you that unless you were given permission it was off limits.

However, right now you couldn’t stop yourself.

You felt your heartbeat before you realized it was racing; your blood seemed to run cold at the state of your home. Whatever was in your apartment was searching for something, yet all of your jewelry was still in your room. Your TV sat in it’s proper place in the living room and small amount of cash you kept in your dresser had been untouched.

Were these not items of value? What could anyone possibly be looking for in your apartment if not money or valuables?

Your hand found your phone again before you realized what you were doing. You should’ve been dialing the authorities, but your trembling fingers could only seem to find Johnnys caller ID.

You held your phone to your ear, listening to the ring of the call. With each chime you felt your hands shaking harder, as if you had a sudden cold.

Doubt gnawed at your mind, you knew there was a slim chance of him picking up the call. And even slimmer chance of him being able to fix the situation in any way.

There was another ring before you heard the familiar static rustling of the call being picked up, you felt your breath catch. “Johnny?” You choked out, your voice breathless and trembling.

“[Name],” came his voice, confusion written in his tone. “What’s wrong? You know not to call me when I’m out.”

You swallowed your fear, trying to force the words from your lips. “I know, its—somethings wrong. The door was unlocked when I got home and everything’s a mess. I think someone was here.”

You felt a pause, the static of the phone buzzing in your ear. Then came his voice, sharp and cutting, “Where are you?”

“I-I’m in the house.” You replied.

“Are you hiding somewhere? Do you think there’s anyone still in the house?” He said sharply, his voice borderline panicked.

You blinked, “No I’m-“

“Get in your room and lock the door, I’ll call for help. When you find a place to hide, stay there, I’m coming to get you. Now.”

You stayed frozen for a moment after the call ended, your phone still clutched tightly to your ear like it could somehow anchor you. The line had gone dead, but your heart pounded in your ears loud enough to drown out everything else. You took a shaky breath and backed into your bedroom, locking the door behind you with trembling fingers.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. It was impossible to tell, time had slowed into something warped and syrupy. Every small sound in the apartment made your skin crawl. The creak of a pipe. The groan of the building. Your own breathing, too loud in the silence.

Then you heard it—footsteps.

Not heavy. Not rushed. Measured. Controlled. You froze again, heart in your throat. The front door creaked open wider, hinges groaning.

“[Name]?” came Johnny’s voice, “It’s me.”

You flung the bedroom door open before you could talk yourself out of it. “Johnny?”

He was already moving toward you, clad in his jacket and work boots. His brown hair slightly tussled and his eyes scanning your face. You caught the way his hand lifted for a moment to cup your cheek, but at the last moment, it hesitated. Trapped in the air.

There was a slight pause between you, one that said too much and not enough at the same time.

As if the look on his face was screaming, belting out the words ‘I still care.’

Instead, what came out was a breathy “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, swallowing thickly. “No. I-I didn’t touch anything-”

“Good.” He cut you off before you could finish, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the door.

You let out a strangled noise of surprise mixed with discomfort; Johnny’s grip was rough. Using the force of his strength to pull you like a rag doll. After your split-second of surprise wore off you tried resisting his grip, “Johnny-!” You huffed, trying to pull away.

You were already through the door, the cold night air nipping at your skin in the hallway. He didn’t look back at you. “We’re not staying here,” he breathed, “Come on.”

You had half a mind to slap him for his behavior, but you were so frazzled you could only let yourself be pulled along like a tugboat. “What about the police? They’ll need us to be at the apartment if we want to find out what’s going on.”

Johnny led you down the stairwell, his hand was cold and clammy. He stayed quiet as he dragged you out of the complex, making your skin tingle with nerves. You furrowed your brow, trying to dig your heels into the concrete to pull him to a stop.

“Johnny, you said you called for help.” You bit at him, your voice trembling. Forcing your body to lean backwards to stop him from moving any forward.

He looked back at you from over his shoulder, staring at your body resisting his pull. You saw something flash in his eyes, guilt? Fear? Hatred?

Johnny turned to face you, his hand leaving your wrist so both of his palms could clasp your shoulders. His fingers were trembling, “Do you trust me?”

You paused, “I-I don’t understand.”

You felt him squeeze your shoulders, his gaze pleading with you. “Do you trust me, Bonnie?”

Against your better judgement you nodded, “Yes.”

With your confirmation, he grabbed your wrist again. Pulling you forward towards the sound of a car engine. But this time, you didn’t pull away, stumbling after him, your mind catching up a beat behind your body.

Johnny pulled you into the passenger seat of a car, its headlights glaring in the night air. You sat down in the leather seat like it was made of stone, your body prickling with nervous tension. He situated himself in the driver’s seat, wasting no time pulling out and onto the road. His hands white knuckling the steering wheel.

You stared out at the road as he drove past the familiar landscape of your neighborhood. Your hands bawled into fists on your lap. You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t, not when he had hauled you into a car with no explanation of why nor where you were headed.

“Johnny,” you said, trying to keep your voice controlled. “-Where are we going?”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw his hands shift on the wheel. The silence that followed made you want to scream. You wanted to get out of the car, to make him turn you around and drop you right back off at the apartment.

You sucked in a small breath, tears sliding down your cheeks and onto your shirt. You bit down on your cheek, “Johnny, answer me right now. Where are you taking me?” You bit out.

By now, you had turned your head to look at him, watching the way his jaw tightened at the sound of your sobs.

You stared at him, your gaze practically begging him to answer you. You were progressively getting more frustrated the longer the silence was prolonged.

“Say something!” you shouted, voice cracking. “You’ve been keeping secrets, dodging questions, making me feel like I’m crazy and now someone breaks into our apartment, and you’re dragging me god-knows-where, and I still don’t know what the hell is going on!”

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.

After a beat, he spoke. “We’re going to a safe house just outside Manchester, it's in Simister. We won’t be there for long; I just wanted to get you somewhere safer as a precaution.”

You blinked, “A precaution for what? We couldn’t have gotten a hotel or something?”

He blew out a small, apologetic, laugh from his nose, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes with a sorry expression. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly.’” You said, your eyebrows furrowed.

Johnny sighed, one of his hands reaching behind his neck to rub at his nape. “If whoever broke into the apartment is who I think it is, getting a hotel room wouldn’t do us any good.”

You felt your eyes narrow. Somehow, the more he told you, the less you understood.

“Were you anticipating this?” You asked in disbelief. “-and who would want to break in?”

When he didn’t respond, you found yourself speaking instead, “This has something to do with your job, doesn’t it?”

The silence was louder than any answer that he could have given.

“You have to understand,” he started, his voice heavy with guilt. “I was obligated not to tell you; it was never because I wanted to keep secrets with you or that I didn’t trust you.”

His eyes caught yours in the mirror again, eyebrows pinched together, and his glances quick. “My job, its- its not something I ever wanted you to come into contact with. The less you knew about it, the safer you were.”

You stared at him, unsure how to process what he told you. “So, what? You’re like a part of the mafia or something?” You breathed, half joking.

“British SAS.” He corrected.

You paused, staring blankly in his direction as he looked out at the road.

He spoke again before you could comment: “I operate on a team connected with US and British special forces. A year ago, one of our ops got screwed over, and I had to be put on recovery watch before I could go back. So, instead of sending me back out, they put me here for the time being.”

Johnny kept his grip on the wheel, “-For the past couple of months, I’ve been tracking an arms dealer operating out of Manchester. They’ve got ties to half a dozen paramilitary groups.” He glanced at you, something dark and regretful in his expression. “If someone hit our flat, it’s because of me. Because I live there. Because I live with you.”

Silence fell again, heavy and suffocating. You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, the tears coming back, hot and fast.

You sniffled, raising your hand to cover your mouth, trying desperately to bite back the spill of a sob. It was so much to take in, knowing that you were in danger, that the man you thought you knew wasn’t who you thought he was.

You turned your head away from him, staring out at the landscape of houses and stores as you passed.

“So, all of this,” you said, defeated. Gesturing to everything around you, “-Was just collateral? Is that what I am to you, Johnny?”

“No.” He snapped, turning his head sharply to give you a brief look.

“You-” a pause. “-You’re the only real thing I’ve had in a long time, Lass.” He breathed.

A silence hung in the air after his statement. You didn’t know what to think; you could barely process what was going on with your own life, let alone his.

You pursed your lips together in a tight line, letting your head fall against the car window. “You should’ve told me,” You whispered.

“I couldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “I didn’t want anyone finding you.”

You went silent after that, screwing your eyes shut to will away the tears. The drive grew quieter the closer you got to your destination. Johnny’s hands hadn’t left ten and two; his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. You didn’t speak; afraid your voice would break if you tried.

Eventually, the city lights fell away, swallowed by the dark stretch of country road. Then the car turned off the main path, tires crunching against gravel until you saw a fence, tall and topped with security wire, surrounding what looked like a repurposed farmhouse. A floodlight clicked on as the car pulled up, illuminating the porch and front door.

Johnny got out first. You didn’t move.

It wasn’t until he opened your door and leaned down, voice softer than before, that you even looked at him.

“Come on. You’re safe now.”

His words did little to ease your worry.

You stepped out slowly. The air was cold and sharp, biting through your clothes and waking up all the dread in your stomach. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes, leaving footprints in its wake.

When you reached the porch, Johnny opened the door, letting you inside first. The place was clean but bare—minimal furniture, reinforced windows, no personal touches. It looked like a temporary shelter for someone always expecting to run.

You hovered near the entrance; arms crossed tightly over your chest as he locked the door behind you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Johnny exhaled sharply, pulling off his jacket and tossing it across the back of a chair. “I know you’re angry.”

“I am.” You confirmed, your voice hollow. Vocal chords raw from crying.

You saw his jaw flex, his eyes sorrowfully looking down at you. A small worry line furrowed against his brow. “I’m sorry.” He signed, shoulders deflating.

Johnny raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with his pointer and thumb. “I never wanted this to touch you.” His voice cracked, “Everything I did, it was to keep you away from it. I thought I could… separate both lives. Protect you. But I let you down.”

You swallowed hard. “You lied to me.”

“I did,” he said, stepping closer. You almost backed away from him, but you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that, like a man lost. It was so human it made you sick.

You stared up at him, meeting his gaze. You parted your lips to speak, but no words came out, so he spoke instead.

“I cared about you more than I was supposed to. More than I should’ve.” His voice had dropped low now, steady despite the shake in it. “I know I was an asshole for kissing you and an even bigger one for pretending nothing happened. But I couldn’t let myself get attached. I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be safer.”

“Do I look safe to you now, Johnny?” you whispered.

He swallowed, a pained look crossing his features. “No,” he answered.

You huffed, holding yourself tighter. Your nails digging into your arm, tears burning in the back of your eyes for the third time that night. You frowned, brushing at your face angrily. “I can’t believe I let myself get here; I knew you were hiding something, and I still-“ You choked on the rest. “God, I hate you for making me care this much.”

You flinched when you felt something warm brush your cheek. You snapped your head back up to look at him. His hand was trembling, nervous, like you would scorch his skin if he touched you, yet it hovered an inch away from your face, almost cupping your cheek.

You watched his throat bob, eyes darting from your eyes down to your lips. “I never stopped caring,” He said. “Not for a second.”

The was air thick between you, and for a second neither of you moved. His eyes searched yours like he was still looking for permission. When you didn’t stop him, his hand slid to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the fresh tears.

Everything in you wanted to rip away; you were falling into the same trap he had put you in before. But you stopped yourself, your mind at war with itself.

“I’m so sorry, Bonnie.” He whispered. The sincerity of his tone beating you down, “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I need you to cooperate. Just for a little while.”

You watched him hesitate for a moment, “-I thought I was going to lose you back at the apartment, I can’t do it again.”

You felt yourself crumbling, loosing the will to fight back.

You wanted to ground yourself in him, lost in what you knew you couldn’t have. Self-preservation be damned.

So, you surged forward first.

Your lips crashed into his with weeks of confusion, anger, and heartbreak behind them. You felt his breath hitch, taken aback by your sudden boldness. Like he was stunned you’d still want him. But you did. God help you, you did.

Just as quickly as his stiffness appeared it vanished, replaced by unbridled want.

He cradled one hand on your cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing against your hair. Johnny’s face tilted slightly so he could kiss you deeper, his lips warm and inviting. Despite everything, it felt safe. He felt safe.

You let your lips part, savoring the feeling of his tongue brushing against your upper lip. Your hands slid up his chest, one looping around his neck to pull him forward. It was tactile, the pads of your fingers brushing up against his nape. How his eyelashes tickled against your skin and his nose brushed against yours.

Johnny slid his other hand over your waist, drawing you in. Your body met his; it was warm and firm.

Each time you pulled away for a breath, he drew you back in, searching for your lips like a man starved.

Your fingers curled in his hair, grown out while still being short, fisting the brown locks between your fingers and tugging him closer. He groaned into your mouth, your hips brushing against his with each pull.

You didn’t realize you were moving backwards until your back hit flush against the front door, trapped between the wooden surface and his body. You broke apart for a moment to breathe, your foreheads pressed together.

Your chin tilted upwards, trying to find his lips again.

This time, Johnny pulled back slightly, hesitating to meet your lips. Your brow furrowed, confused to why he wasn’t reciprocating your advances. He met your gaze for a moment, conflicted.

“We shouldn’t,” he breathed. “-Not like this.”

He thumbed over the apple of your cheek as you shook your head. “Johnny, it’s fine.” You said, lips pulled into an impatient frown.

He opened his mouth to respond, before he could you silenced him with another kiss. Forcing him to meet your lips. He groaned into your mouth, your leg shifting in between his thighs to nudge into his crotch.

He was hard, achingly so.

You forced yourself to pull away, “You-“ you sucked in a breath. “-You put me in this situation. The least you could do is try to make up for it.”

He swallowed, pausing for a moment. “Is that what you want me to do, Bonnie? Make it up to you?”

You licked your lips unconsciously, fighting the heat crawling up your face. “Yes.”

You stood there for a beat, watching how his eyes dripped down your face and traveled lower only to flicker back to your line of sight. His hand slowly trailed down your cheek, the pads of his fingers brushing down the side of your neck to tilt your head back against the door.

You shuddered, the molten bloom of blush spreading up your face. You stood statue still as his face dipped into the junction of your neck, lips brushing against the burning skin.

He pressed a slow kiss to your neck, letting his lips linger against your flesh. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing another one lower. “-I’m sorry,” another further down. “I’m sorry,” again, and again.

It was maddening, his breath fanning against the shell of your ear and his lips dragging down your neck. The warmth of his lips and tongue over your flesh felt like trails of molten lava.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing even. Your fingers digging into the back of his shirt and his hair.

He slid down your front, lips trailing down from your neck to your collarbone. Large hands mapping out your body as he went. Johnny dipped lower, littering soft kisses down your stomach, dropping his legs to kneel before you like he was worshiping the ground you stood on.

Your body buzzed with anticipation, pliant in his grasp. You almost couldn’t bear to look down, too scared and flustered to see what you had made of him. However, you didn’t need to look down.

Because you could feel it without even looking—his gaze on you.

His stare was blistering, he was sorry, and he wanted you to know it. To feel it. To watch you come undone.

Somewhere along the way, he had snaked his hands up your thighs. Wedging your legs apart until he knelt between them.

“Look at me.”

You tensed, your breath stilled. Blinking hard you forced yourself to tilt your head downwards, meeting his eyes.

Johnny’s lips were parted, cheeks and ears tinged slightly red. His hands squeezed the back of your thighs, “Atta’ girl.” He murmured, voice smooth and thick like syrup. He slid his hands away from your legs, dragging them over the front of your pelvis. Slowly taking his time in popping the button on your jeans and guiding the zipper down.

He slid your pants down, carefully helping you out by moving your legs. After discarding the garment, he directed his attention back to you.

You couldn’t help the slip of a moan as he thumbed a finger over your underwear, rubbing soft circles over your clothed clit. One of your hands grasping at the flat door, trying to curl your fingers on its surface.

His fingers slid down, pressing flat against you as he pressed another kiss to the fabric of your underwear.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, holding back a whine.

Johnny curled his fingers slightly upwards, pushing the fabric against your entrance. Your breath caught, insides churning with the contact. “You’re wet,” He breathed against you. “-That from me, Lass?”

He glanced up at you, a small, proud, grin stretching his lips.

Without waiting for a response, he hooked a finger under the elastic. Sliding it down your legs before attaching his lips to your cunt.

You gasped, caught off guard. one of your hands gripping his hair, coiling your fingers into the soft brown locks. “Johnny-!” You choked out, shuddering.

He hummed against you, flattening the front of his tongue against your core.

Whatever you said fell on deaf ears, his hands clasped at your thighs to hold you up against the door. Preventing you from moving away. You bucked your hips into his mouth, unable to stop the small involuntary movements.

He groaned, circling his tongue over your clit while one of his hands returned to your soaked pussy. You could barley register that one his hands were moving before you felt the pad of his middle finger dip between your lips, gently prodding at your entrance.

You almost choked, throwing your head back against the door. “Fuck,” you cursed, voice slurring.

Johnny hummed against your cunt, slowly pushing a finger inside you. Curling it backwards until your back arched off the flat door.

He pulled back for a moment, panting. His lips slick and shiny with your juices, eyes slightly glazed over with a blush tinging his ears. “You’re so beautiful, Bonnie. You know that, right?” He groaned, staring up at you as his finger worked your cunt.

You could barley respond, fucked out on just his finger and tongue. “-You want another?” He asked, placing a soft kiss to your clit.

You could only manage a small nod, concentrating all of your strength into staying standing. Yet you couldn’t help the small buckle of your knees the second you felt a second finger dip inside you.

His digits worked you open, stretching your walls until he could easily pump his fingers in and out of you with ease.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, just like I knew you would.” He panted, his breath fanning your skin. He leaned back in, swirling his tongue over the bundle of nerves until you felt your toes curl.

Johnny was groaning as if he was deriving pleasure from eating you out. The front of his tongue flattening against your cunt, greedily slurping. He suckled against your clit, alternating between running his tongue up and down and side to side.

Whatever his tongue and mouth couldn’t reach, his fingers did. Long thick digits sliding in and out with ease, the pads of his fingers brushing against your soaking walls. The muscle of your core constricting around his fingers with each plunge.

You could only moan, trapped between the door and his mouth. His fingers curling inside your walls, leaving you gasping for air. Preening for the tension in your gut to spill over. A part of you wanted to be furious with him for screwing you over and then proceeding to giving you the best head of your life. Yet with the way his tongue worked on you, you couldn’t find it in you to care.

You were approaching your orgasm fast, much faster than you would’ve liked.

“Johnny—Johnny, I’m close. Slow down, please.” You simpered, begging for him to ease up so you could bask in the pleasure a little longer.

However, he had other plans. Doing quite the opposite as to double down, the pace of his fingers increasing in tandem with his mouth on your clit.

You felt the molten coil in your stomach tighten, threatening to snap at any moment. You couldn’t bare it, being stretched open by his fingers mixed with the sensation of his tongue mouthing over you clit. It was too much, too fast, too good.

Then it snapped. Thighs locking around his head as your orgasm spilled over, washing over you like waves against the sand bar. Your cunt fluttering around his fingers and your hands curling in his hair.

There was no moan, no cry, only a silent gasp for air. Your spine arched with your hips rhythmically pushing deeper into his mouth.

He didn’t let up, letting you ride it out until he felt you loosen around him. Leaving you a panting mess, legs reduced to jelly.

Your vision was blurry; you had closed your eyes so tightly you swore you were starting to see colors, patterns, and stars that crossed behind your eyelids.

As he pulled away, Johnny kissed the inside of your thigh.

You took a moment to recover, slowly managing to look back down at him. As the fog of your orgasm cleared, you were left speechless. You had just let Johnny put his mouth on you.

Worse, you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

Maybe that was what scared you, you could never push him away completely. He somehow managed to always wriggle his way back into your heart, and in this case, your pants. You weren’t over the fact that he had been lying to you, nor how he had scooped you up only to drop you off at a safe house in the middle of nowhere.

However, your initial anger was starting to melt, gradually.

Your lips parted, trying to form the words. “I’m still mad,” is what came out. Your voice unsure, as if you were trying to convince yourself of your words.

Johnny nodded, the small scruff of his stubble brushing against the skin of your thigh. “I know you are.” He replied, blue eyes staring back up at you.

“But I’m willing to keep making up for it.” Johnny said, “-s’long as it takes.”

It was almost sickening how remorseful he looked; how genuine it all was. You wanted him to do something, anything that would even hint that this was all an act to obtain your forgiveness.

But it wasn’t. It was real.

You swallowed, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh for a second time.

You couldn’t go back know, the damage had already been done. The lies, the kiss, the break in, and now this. Whatever it was, it pushed you further. A recklessness that snaked its way past your rational, if you were going off the deep end, you were going to make it count.

A hand slid down into his hair, your fingers curling into the soft brown locks. Tightening your hold, you slowly pushed his head back, forcing him to look up at you.

“Then keep going,” you said. His eyes scanned your face as you paused. “-Keep making it up to me, Johnny.”

Johnny’s palms spread out over your flesh pulled taut, grasping at you, not rough, but desperate to anchor himself. Then his lips parted, breath heavy. “You still want me to touch you?” He asked, voice low and frayed.

You nodded, holding in a breath. “Yeah, I do.” You confirmed.

With your confirmation, he dropped his head, forehead brushing against your knee. His nose and lips tingled on your skin as he dragged his head up your leg, “You’re killing me, Bonnie.” He said as he drew in a long breath.

Then he began to move again, slowly, with intent. His mouth traced a line up your thigh, higher, lingering like he didn’t want to rush it. Like he wanted to earn every second of it.

“Having you close like this, when I thought I lost the right to touch you?” He murmured into your skin.

His lips found your hips again, then your stomach, and then higher still, warm hands sliding up your sides. When he reached the side of your neck you let your hands snake around his nape, grasping at his broad shoulders.

His chest pressed into yours, your legs pushing up to wrap snugly around his hips. Johnny made quick work of your new position, large hands holding you up by your thighs.

You twisted your face to meet his, noses brushing together as your lips connected. You moaned into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue. You were pushing into him, desperate to create friction.

You offhandedly realized that he had stepped backwards off the door, holding you to him as he backtracked into the safe house. Lips still moving against yours.

After a few bumps on different pieces of furniture, he managed to find his way to another door, his back hitting against the wood as he blindly searched for the handle. It was a miracle he didn’t fall backwards as the door swung open on its hinges.

He stumbled in, barely breaking stride as his boots scuffed against the floor. The room was dark, just the faint outline of moonlight bleeding through the shuttered windows.

Johnny kicked the door shut behind him with a solid thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. Then you were falling, not hard, but a tad clumsily onto the mattress behind you. Sheets still cold, the room unfamiliar.

He hovered above you, chest rising and falling fast, like he’d just run a mile. His eyes searched yours again, pupils blown, lips parted. At the same time his hands wasted no time in pushing up your shirt, revealing the bare skin of your torso.

You aided in wiggling out of your top, your bra following shortly after.

Johnnys eyes dragged up and down your form, as if he were carving out the image of you underneath him into his mind. “Fuck me,” he breathed, in awe.

He slid his hands up your sides, cupping your breasts in his palms. The pad of his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.

You inhaled, back arching off of the mattress as he pawed and pulled at your chest. Your fingers twisted into the crisp white sheets as Johnny’s head dipped down, his tongue swirling over the hardened bud.

You couldn’t hold back the soft whine that escaped you as he suckled and kissed at your nipples. Taking his time in alternating between your breasts, savoring your flesh like a starved animal.

“I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he said in between kissing your breasts. “-Was a fuckin’ miracle I could keep my hands off you to begin with.”

Your front teeth dug into your bottom lip, holding back a groan at his words. You thought back to your days around the apartment, the subtle touches, the glances your way, wondering if he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. If he too spent his nights with a hand down his pants while the other covered his mouth.

Your pulse quickened.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me so bad.” You said between heavy breaths, almost joking.

Johnny glanced back up at you, blowing air out from his nose in a half-laugh. “Always, baby, always.” He exhaled, pressing one last kiss to the underside of your breast before leaning back to tug off his shirt.

You watched him like a hawk, gaze unwavering as the cotton slid off of his body to reveal the pale skin underneath.

Obviously, you had seen him shirtless countless times. Curtesy of his morning cooking attire (sweatpants and no shirt). But something about this was different, it felt more raw, private.

Your gaze fell from his abdominal muscles down to the V-line peeking out from his jeans, a light happy trail of brown hair snaking down beneath the waistband.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away even if you wanted.

A small grin stretched his lips, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

You shot him a look, a heat creeping back into your cheeks. “Just take your pants off,” you said impatiently.

He nodded, reaching down to unbutton his trousers. “You’re the boss.”

Johnny made quick work of his pants, sliding them off along with his boxers. Whatever you had expected him to look like down under was almost insulting compared to what he shaped out to be.

He was big, thicker than the average male. Hard, and heavy.

You quickly snapped your eyes back up, flustered from the color in your face. Swallowing the dryness in your throat as discreetly as humanly possible.

He stood at the edge of the bed, an almost imposing figure. With one hand he reached down to pump his cock a few times, the weight of it in his grip made you shift. “You see what you do to me, Bonnie?” He rasped.

His jaw was taunt as he stroked himself, exhaling though clenched teeth. His dark, thick eyebrows knitting together, pinching the skin of his brow.

When you didn’t respond he leaned down, his free hand sliding over your knee to part your legs until he stood in between your bared thighs. You were braced on your elbows, fingers twisting into the sheets.

“Hm?” He said expectantly. “-You want me, Bonnie?”

You jumped as his dick hit your bare pussy, slapping his cock against your clit a few times. Your legs tensed at the contact, blood running thick and hot.

“Yes,” you breathed, sounding much more winded than you would have liked. “-Yes, I want you.”

Johnny groaned, let the tip glide over your soaked cunt with ease. Coating himself in your arousal. His dick was heavy against your entrance, now that you could feel the full weight of it pressed against you.

He gave an experimental, shallow, push. The head of his cock plunging into your cunt with a lewd squelch.

Your head fell back for half a second, gasping for a breath of air like your lungs had been filled with water. “Johnny,” you panted, voice thin and shallow. A hand placed at the side of your head tightened in the sheets, his body caging you in.

“I know.” He hushed, the free hand cradling the back of your neck to push your head forward. Your forehead met his, noses bumping together like a fitted puzzle piece. Your breath tangling somewhere in between.

You inhaled, waiting, adjusting.

After another moment, he pushed his hips forward. Your body was able to accommodate all of him by some miracle. Walls stretched open in such a way that you felt full.

You grabbed the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. “Oh god-” you exhaled, lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Johnny groaned, voice thick with want. His face dropping into the crook of your neck and collar, heavy breaths fanning onto your skin, burning like hot magma. “So fuckin’ tight, so perfect for me.” He murmured.

It was silent for a moment, save for the heavy panting between you. A brief pause that left you aching for more, desperate for him to do something. A carnal desire for the man inside of you that seared white hot in your blood stream.

You couldn’t bare it, not when he was withholding such pleasure from you.

“Johnny, move. Please, I need you to move.” You simpered, nails dragging down his back.

He grunted, shaping out a soft nod. Leaning back slightly to grab your spread thighs, rough palms squeezing the fleshly underside of your hamstring. Carefully, he maneuvered your legs back, brining your knees up to your ears. Murmuring a gentle ‘that’s it,’ and ‘almost there,’ as you assumed your position.

Johnny held your legs in place as he set your legs over his shoulders, draped over his back like curtains. He drew his cock out of you, leaving just the tip inside. After a moment he sheathed himself back inside, slowly.

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes rolled back. He thrust deep into you, again, slowly, but forcefully. Just enough to leave your toes curling and your heels digging into his trapezius. A steady stream of grunts and moans leaving both of you.

He gradually began to speed up the longer he fucked into you, fingers taunt as they dug into your flesh.

Your ears rang with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the air thick and heavy around you. Your hands tangling into his hair, pulling him closer. “So good,” you slurred, drunk off of his cock. “-Feels so good.”

The more you spoke the more vigorous he was, forcing his hips deeper into you, harder, faster. Eager to please.

“Keep talking,” He moaned, vocal cords raw from grunting and moaning. “-I like it when you talk. Sounds so fuckin’ sweet when you’re taking my cock.” He grit out.

If you could blush anymore, you would’ve. You weren’t very experienced at dirty talk but you supposed theres a first time for everything.

You whimpered, trying to form the words through gasps and moans. “You make me feel so good, Johnny. I want you to keep fucking me,” you exhaled, your bottom lip trembling.

He moaned, a confirmation that you were doing at least one thing right. You wanted to please him just as much as he wanted to make you feel good. Desperate for any shred of praise.

You felt the head of his dick press up deep inside you, sending your spine curling like a whip and the soles of your feel arching. “Oh-” You gasped, voice shrouded in a lustful haze. “Do that again, fuck.” You pleaded.

Johnny’s lip curved up, “Yeah?” Angling his hips to thrust back inside at the same area he did before. “-You like when I fuck into you like this?” He exhaled.

Your head fell back into the mattress, small sparks flashing behind your eyelids. Johnny letting out a tortured “Fuck,” as he spurred on. Nails, mouth, teeth, skin, hair, you couldn’t tell where it all began nor where it ended. A blur of lust and so much more, affection, was it? Love?

You couldn’t tell, but it felt like a live wire between you. An exposed cable that sent currents through your veins and left you gasping for air.

“So good to me, Bonnie.” He breathed, “-Dreamt ‘bout you for months, fucking wishing I could have you.”

The mattress caved around your body, molding to the shape of your body. Johnny’s hands leaving a bruising grip on your thighs.

You tried your best to shake your head, forcing your eyes open. “You have me,” You moaned. “-You have me.” You repeated, a broken record. Trying your best not to go too deep into the meaning for your own words, caught up in the moment.

You felt like you’d been reduced to one giant raw, exposed nerve. Molded to the shape of his cock, your limbs dangling in his hold like a sack of flour. The pressure in your stomach climbing, a lull of heat creeping down from your pussy all the way to your toes.

Johnny let one of his hands slide down to your cunt, thumbing over your neglected clit. Without warning he circled over the swollen bud, sending you convulsing.

You gave a sharp cry, the stimulation borderline painful. You never imagined that anything could hurt so good, a taboo sort of pleasure.

Sweat coated your skin, your clit throbbing and your pussy pounding like a heartbeat. It was so good, too good.

It seemed as if Johnny was in the same boat, his rhythmic thrusts had devolved into sloppy, and sporadic. You wanted him to stay inside, you wanted to feel the pulse of his dick when you came.

“Johnny, I’m going to cum.” You gasped, your body pulling taunt.

He nodded, sweat shining on the skin of his temple. “I want you to, I can hold out.” His voice was wrecked, raw, jaw clenched tight.

You seemed to slip out of yourself as you came, like you were floating. A current of euphoria that washed over you, head lulled back while your body strained. The drive of his cock into you combined with the pressure on your clit sent you spiraling.

You couldn’t help the moans leaving you, ears ringing and vision blurred.

You briefly registered him pulling out, his grunts sinking into you before you felt a sharp spurt of liquid somewhere on your stomach.

What followed after was a moment of silence, a bliss that lingered in the air and seemed to cloud the room in a warm glow. You didn’t even realize your eyes had been closed before you felt them open as a hand brushed over your forehead.

You blinked as Johnny brushed the stray baby-hairs from your face, sticking to your skin from sweat.

He gently set your legs off his shoulders, carefully placing them down on the bed. Everything about you felt heavy and sluggish, like your limbs had tuned into cinder blocks. Even so, his touch still managed to tingle your skin.

There was a calmness to it all, a domesticity that felt just as good as it was temporary. You knew of course that sleeping with him wouldn’t magically fix everything, it was still crumbling around you. But he was the safest thing around a place that felt unfamiliar.

You knew he felt it too, the tension setting back in. Responsibility, reality.

“So, what happens now?” you said, cutting through the silence.

There was a pause before he shifted, leaning back. “Well, I was going to clean you up.” He said, voice almost blasé, but you knew there was more to it. “-But I guess we can’t really go back to what things were before, not with the break in and all.”

Getting up, he reached into the bedside table, a box of tissues inside. Taking a few he wiped you down, carefully, guiltily. Tossing them out into the small bin tucked into the corner of the room, picking up his briefs on the way to clothe himself a little.

After, Johnny adjusted his position beside you, the mattress shifting under his weight as he sat down on the side of the bed. His eyes lingered on your face, torso twisted to face you. His eyes trailed down your body, slow, not lustful this time, just taking inventory, like he needed to confirm for himself that you were whole.

“Are you going to answer me for real?” you said quietly.

He stilled. His gaze flicked back to yours, and there was something unreadable in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, the ache in your muscles sharp but not unwelcome. “I mean… with us. After this.” Your voice faltered for a second. “I kind of got the message that we’re supposed to stay here for a day or two until you know for sure who broke in. But I just don’t know where we go after that.”

Johnny dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I’m not sure if I have the answers you want.” His accent was thicker now, softened in exhaustion. “I’ve got no right to ask for more from you, not after the shite I pulled.”

“But you want to,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

He gave a short laugh, humorless and brittle. “Christ, Bonnie. I never stopped wantin’ to.”

You sat with his words for a moment, deciphering the meaning a hundred different ways. Caught between what you wanted and what you knew what was probably best.

“I still don’t know where I sit with this.” you whispered, “-I can’t exactly just forget what happened, I don’t think I could if I tried. And I’m still mad about the lying.” You spoke.

After a beat, you continued, “-But I also know that you were doing what you thought was best. Even if your best was shitty. I guess I’m just mad because I lost you for a good while there without even knowing why. And now I don’t even know if I’m going to lose you again once this blows over.”

Johnny looked at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re not something I’ll be able to just move on from either, even if it all does ‘blow over.’” He said, frowning.

There was another beat of silence, this one gentler.

“But I meant what I said earlier. I’ll keep makin’ it up to you.” He reached over, his thumb brushing over the curve of your wrist as it laid on the bed. “Even if it takes the rest of my damn life.”

You turned your head toward him, eyes meeting his. “Don’t make promises like that.”

“I’m not.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not a promise. It’s just the truth.”

You felt his fingers dip into the curve of your palm, running along the indented lines until his fingers tangled between yours. A soft squeeze that said, ‘I’m here.’ You squeezed back, a silent exchange that said so little yet so much.

Flickering your gaze back up to meet his eyes, you pulled on his hand, beckoning him closer. And for whatever reason, he let you. The mattress shifting under his weight once again as he crawled behind you; not hovering, not crowding, just close.

His arm slid beneath your neck, the other tucking around your waist. His touch was warm, not lustful, at least not anymore. It was something quieter. The kind of closeness that only made sense after everything had been said and done.

Johnny exhaled into your shoulder, breath fanning the damp skin there. “If it means anything,” he spoke, voice faint. “-What we had together…it was good. We’re good together.”

His voice was almost a plea, a last-ditch effort to show you he wanted it, he wanted you.

Your throat tightened.

You shifted back against him just a little more, letting your spine curve into his chest. His hand found yours again, fingers fitting into the spaces between yours with the same unconscious ease he had when brewing coffee in your kitchen. Like a habit he didn’t want to break.

“We are good, Johnny.” You agreed, turning slightly, just enough to glance back at him. You hesitated slightly before speaking again, “But I’m scared of waking up tomorrow and pretending this didn’t happen.”

His hand squeezed yours again, drawing you in.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Not this time, not again.”

You were quiet for a beat, then: “…One more chance. You get one more chance, Johnny. And when we figure things out, we do it together, no secrets.”

“No secrets.” He echoed. A promise.

You didn’t say anything after that, you didn’t need to. The room seemed to still too, a peaceful lull in its darkness.

His breathing evened out behind you, steady and slow. You could feel it where his chest pressed against your back, where his lips brushed your shoulder one last time before stilling.

Your eyes stayed open a little while longer, just to make sure he was still there.

And in the hush that followed, with his arms wrapped around you and your hands still laced together, the ache dulled, just a little.

Sleep found you like that. Quiet. Not fixed. But no longer alone.

. . . . . ◟੭

The morning settled, soft and muted against the walls, brushing over your skin in pale shades of silver and blue. Somewhere beyond the window, the world stirred.

You blinked awake slowly, the edges of your vision blurred with sleep, the air around you heavy with warmth. It took a moment to remember where you were and why you were there to begin with. Why your body felt weightless and sore all at once.

You unconsciously shifted, stopped by a weight draped over your stomach.

Johnny’s arm was still curled loosely around your waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm behind you. You shifted again, just enough to turn onto your back, the mattress caving slightly with the movement.

He was asleep. No tension in his brow, no dreams pulling at the corners of his mouth. The way his hand rested over your hip made you ache with a tenderness you didn’t expect.

You studied him for a long moment. The way his dark lashes cast faint shadows over his cheeks. How his hair curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck. You could almost trick yourself into thinking this was normal. That this was something you’d done before, would do again.

It was almost odd; you didn’t feel the panic you thought you would.

You had expected regret. Or at the very least, that gnawing ache of uncertainty that always crept in when things got too real. You’d braced yourself for it. For the guilt. The fear. The voice in your head that always whispered, this is a mistake.

But it didn’t come.

All you felt was calm. Maybe not certainty—not yet—but something close. A stillness you hadn’t known you’d needed.

You exhaled slowly, letting the breath deflate your chest. Johnny stirred slightly behind you but didn’t wake. His grip around you only tightened, fingers curling softly against your side on instinct.

You let your gaze linger on him a little longer.

There was still so much between you. Things to say, things to fix. But last night hadn’t been about pretending everything was okay. It had been about choosing to stay anyway.

Your fingers drifted toward his, brushing lightly over his knuckles. A warmth dancing across his skin like the embers of dying flame.

You turned slightly, just enough to face him again, your forehead nearly brushing his. His breath was slow and even. Yours followed suit.

Your eyes drifted shut.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

you let yourself rest.

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Hey wait don’t go!

First off, big thanks to all of you for waiting so long for another story. I know I totally disappeared for a minute, but unfortunately, life is just like that sometimes.

It would mean so much if you could like, repost, or comment under the story! I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions for later works!

Hopefully you enjoyed because I know I sure did, I know Soap doesn’t get as much love as the other characters but he makes for just as much of a good story.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you in my next post!

Toodles! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

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charliemwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Hybrid AU with Ragdoll!Reader and Siberian-mix!Konig

Reader is a rescued cat hybrid that Laswell's sister in law has been taking care of for the last 3 months. When she meets this little ragdoll kitty, so bright and friendly and curious, she immediately thinks of the 141. Hybrids have a lot uses in the government. Sometimes combative, sometimes therapeutic. The 141 could use a companion animal, given the close call Soap recently had and the general trauma the whole squad has.

With the kitty's permission and cooperation, they assess her as a possible therapy placement. She tests so well and so high that Laswell (again, with consent) immediately starts paperwork to place her with the 141 before even bringing it up to Price.

He's a bit skeptical at first. Even without being a combat hybrid, their jobs are high stress, very dangerous, and not very stable. But Laswell convinces him to at least meet Ragdoll.

They do introductions at the sister-in-law's house, where the kitty will be most comfortable. Ragdoll takes one sniff of him and starts purring like a little engine. He's visibly surprised, and Laswell can barely hold back her grin as the kitty climbs into his lap. They spend the rest of the afternoon discussing arrangements while his new hybrid naps because obviously he can't say no now.

Price becomes her primary handler. They move her to his barrack and give her a week to settle in, but she's not a skittish thing by any means. Wants to follow him everywhere, curls up in his bed, meows sadly at the door when he leaves her alone. It becomes clear very quickly that the usual introduction manuals are too slow for her.

Kitty meets Kyle next. Again, instant purrs. She presses her cheek into his palms, then wriggles her way closer to brush up against his cheek. Lets out a little "mrrp!" when he stutters out a pleasantly surprised, "hello there." She nibbles at the brim of his hat and grins when he gently redirects her, chirping at this fun new friend.

Two for two, Price and Kyle decide to introduce her to Simon and Johnny. They let her explore the common room first, get comfortable, and then call the other two in. Kitty watches from behind Price as Simon and Johnny enter.

Johnny is a dog hybrid with Simon as his primary handler. Price has faith that his sergeant will behave well with the new kitty, but he's not sure of what her reaction will be. Johnny's obviously, visibly excited, tail wagging, but Simon gets him to sit and wait while she makes the first move.

It takes absolutely no time at all for her to pad out from behind Price and approach. Simon goes first, offering a hand. But she barely even sniffs him before cuddling up to him, pawing curiously at his mask. He lets her, clicking his tongue when she dislodges it a bit, but then he gently nudges her towards Johnny.

His ears are perked forwards, tail still swishing. Kitty's ears are twitching, eyes big and curious. But her tail is up and curved curiously, not even a little fluffed. She gets in real close to his face, sniffs, then bumps her forehead against his chin. Which is when he loses patience and licks a big stripe up her cheek. She mews indignantly, ears going airplane mode, but thankfully doesn't swat at him.

It literally couldn't go better. She's a perfect fit.

Over the next few months she settles in with them happily, an absolute dream of a hybrid. Not very verbal, at least through human speech, but perfectly communicative and incredibly friendly.

She chirps whenever one of the 141 enters a room, has a different tone for each of them. Purrs if one of them so much as looks at her, all slow blinks and little smiles. Chitters when she sees them running outside through the windows.

Even grooming is relatively easy. She lets them brush out her floofy tail without much fuss, only trying to retreat if they catch a tangle. Readily gives up her hands to trim her claws. Even opens her mouth for them to brush off her fangs after raw meals.

She curls up with Simon on bad days, warm and purring, breathing little puffs of air against his collarbone. Lounges with Kyle after hard missions, nuzzling against him while he pets her soft ears. She spends hours upon hours in Price's office, curled up on his lap while he does paperwork or talks over the phone, kneading biscuits into his stomach.

Her friendship with Johnny is maybe the most surprising. They play wrestle just about every night, rolling around on the rough carpets in the common room and nipping at each others ears. She'll pounce on him, little teeth flashing, but almost always get bodied by his larger stature. The others will let them play until one of them - usually Johnny - gets too excited and makes the other yelp. At that point, Price or Simon will usually scoop one of the hybrids up and tsk at them for getting rough.

She's the 141's precious kitty, sweet and friendly and outgoing. The whole base knows her, though she's never far from one of her boys. And they know what it means if Ragdoll doesn't like someone.

It's rare, which is why it raises neon red flags. The first time is a new recruit that reaches to pet her without introducing himself first. She twists around on him, but usually even that would be recoverable. Except when he keeps trying to touch her, she gets a whiff of him and hisses, scrambling away.

The guy doesn't last long.

It happens again a few weeks later with a nurse meant to be giving her checkup. She gets low to the table, tail poofing up, and growls low in her throat. When the nurse rolls her eyes and tells Price to just hold his hybrid still so they can get things over with, he knows instantly that his little ragdoll was right to react that way.

With that in mind, it's no surprise that no one trusts Philip Graves when he visits their base and she takes an instant dislike to him. He introduces himself correctly, but she still hard reverses away from him, nose scrunched up. Ears back, tail fluffing up, she slips behind Price and glares from around his arm.

Problem is, Graves is used to dog hybrids. He's great with them. Kitties... not so much, even with a manual. Ends his week at the base with a couple of proper bite marks and an itchy scratch on his hand.

Given her reaction, Simon and Johnny aren't too shocked when he betrays them in Las Almas.

When a team from KorTac is scheduled for a joint assignment, the 141 is bracing for a similar reaction. Especially because they have their own cat hybrid - some big mixed breed.

Kyle even suggests keeping Ragdoll inside for initial introductions on the tarmac, but they all know that's not actually viable. Their kitty wouldn't talk to them for the rest of the day if they left her out like that.

So Price double checks that her little bell-collar is on and brings her out to meet the KorTac team.

Their cat hybrid is even bigger than expected - no wonder he's a combat placement despite being a domestic breed. He keeps his face hidden behind a big black hood with cutouts for his ears, fluffy tail slightly tangled-looking.

Price hasn't even finished introductions with the KorTac team when she makes a rolling little chur noise, bright and curious. The bigger hybrid zeros in on her instantly, ears flicking. She pads out from behind the captain and slips away before he can catch her. Any calls for her to come back are fully ignored.

She trots right up to the Austrian and mrrps again, pausing mid-step, waiting for a response. The other hybrid doesn't respond - at least he doesn't seem to.

"Sorry, kitten, but he doesn't really do the cat noises," Declan tries to tell her. But he's also ignored, and no sooner has he spoken than she's getting into the other cat's space, continuously making little "brr" noises.

And then to everyone's shock, he's bending down to greet her in return, nuzzling her cheek and forehead through the hood. She starts to purr, pressing up close, tail swishing lazily. A noise erupts from him, deep and rough, rattling in his chest. Johnny jumps and snatches at her shirt, dragging her back to the safety of their team.

She mewls sadly, arms extended to reach for him.

"He's growling, Doll," Johnny corrects, arms curling around her middle. For the first time ever she starts to wriggle. "He's too big for you to mess with."

"I... wasn't growling," the Austrian pipes up. "I apologizes if I caused alarm."

Johnny shoots him an incredulous look.

"Then what was that?" Kyle asks, confused.

"I don't... often purr."

Price takes one look at their still-wiggly kitty and the Austrian leaning towards her, as if wanting to follow, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Shit."

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #reader fic #fanfiction #hybrid au #ragdoll!reader #siberian-mix!Konig #konig #konig cod #konig x reader

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writeriguess · 2 months ago

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Can you write me a MHA fic where reader and Katsuki have been crushing on each other for ages but both are denying it and Katsuki is really mean to her, and reader is really mean to Katsuki. One day, Katsuki's friends trick them and get them to go on a blind date, they have a huge fight but end up making out.

Like Hell I’d Fall for You

"God, he’s insufferable."

You slam your locker shut with a little more force than necessary, scowling like the world personally offended you. Which, to be fair, it kind of did. Or more specifically, he did.

"Bakugou Katsuki is the human embodiment of a stubbed toe," you mutter under your breath.

"Funny," says Mina from behind you, “because I just heard him say you were the reason birth control was invented.”

You whip around. “He said what?”

She raises her hands innocently. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. Though, to be fair, didn’t you call him a sentient Red Bull can last week?”

“That's generous,” you scoff. “Red Bull gives people wings. Bakugou gives people migraines.”

Meanwhile, in the opposite hallway…

"She’s fucking unbearable," Bakugou growls, kicking his locker shut hard enough to dent it.

“She’s literally the only person who can keep up with your bullshit, man,” Kirishima replies, biting into an apple like this is just another episode of their weekly soap opera. “That kind of energy? It’s flirting.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. She calls you a dumpster fire with legs, but she also stares at you for ten minutes during training.”

Bakugou turns his glare on him. “If I stared at a fire for ten minutes, it’d be because I wanted to burn it out.”

Kirishima just smiles knowingly. “Right.”

This, of course, has been going on for months. The entire class is in on it. The professors? Probably too. It’s hard to miss the sheer voltage of tension between you and Bakugou.

You mock him, he scowls at you. He mocks you, you threaten to shove his gauntlet up his ass. Everyone pretends not to notice that neither of you ever backs down. It’s exhausting. And weirdly entertaining.

Which is why Mina, Kirishima, and Kaminari decide to intervene.

By lying to you.

Friday, 6:30 PM – Somewhere in a trendy Tokyo café

You’re dressed like a liar. Because you were told this was a casual coffee meetup with Mina and Momo. So you showed up in a cute dress, makeup on, hair nice.

Which is exactly why, when you see Bakugou at the other end of the café looking just as confused and wearing a crisp black button-up (that you refuse to admit fits him way too well), your stomach drops.

“Oh hell no.”

He spots you. His face does a weird thing. You think it might be pain. Or fury. Or indigestion.

You both start walking toward each other like you’re about to duel at high noon.

“What the hell is this?” you hiss.

“I was told this was a Kirishima thing,” he growls.

“Well, Mina’s dead to me now.”

He crosses his arms. “Like I’d go on a date with you.”

“Oh please. Like I’d want to.”

And yet, neither of you leave.

You’re both seated. Begrudgingly. In utter silence. Until the barista drops off two drinks Mina apparently pre-ordered under the names “Queen of Spite” and “Lord Explosion Murder.”

Your cup has a little heart on it. His has a middle finger doodled on the side.

You blink. Then laugh. “Okay, that’s actually kind of funny.”

He snorts. “Idiots.”

Silence again. Then:

“You look good,” he mutters.

You glance up, startled.

He immediately scowls. “I mean, like. For you. Not—whatever. Fuck.”

You smirk. “Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment. Who are you and what have you done with the snarling porcupine I know?”

He glares. “You look like you’re going to a damn gala.”

“Oh, so now it’s too much?”

“You’re fishing.”

“I don’t need to fish for compliments from you, Katsuki.”

“You just did!”

“Oh my god, do you even hear yourself?!”

You’re both standing now. Not yelling, but close.

“You think I wanna be here?” he bites out.

“I know you don’t. You’d rather die than admit you like me.”

He goes still.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

You freeze too. A beat of silence. Then:

“I—what?” you stammer.

His mouth works like he wants to say something, but can’t.

Then he does.

“Of course I fucking like you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“I’ve liked you since second year,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “When you beat the shit outta that third year who said my quirk was all boom, no bite. You called him a discount sparklers pack.”

Your jaw drops.

“I've tried everything to stop. You drive me insane. You talk back, you’re loud, you fight dirty—”

“So do you!” you shout.

“Exactly!” he snaps. “You’re like... I don’t know! A natural disaster. A pretty one. With teeth.”

You blink.

“Oh my god.”

And then—

You launch across the table.

He catches you halfway.

Mouths crash. Teeth knock. Someone knocks over a latte. It’s chaos. It’s electric. It’s inevitable.

Your hands are in his hair. His hands are on your waist. Your body feels like it’s on fire and your heart is trying to punch out of your chest. It's a fucking moment.

Somewhere behind the counter, a barista stops mid-pour.

“Holy shit,” says the newer one. “Should we... call security?”

The older barista just watches calmly, chewing gum. “Nah. This is like a nature documentary.”

The new guy blinks. “What?”

She jerks her thumb toward you and Bakugou, still aggressively making out.

“Predators. They fight, then they mate. Give it a minute.”

You and Bakugou eventually stumble out of the café, breathless and flushed, hand-in-hand like you didn’t spend the last year trading death threats.

“So,” you say, looking up at him. “Was that the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “Nah.”

“I mean, you did spill my latte.”

“You tackled me.”

You smirk. “So we’re even?”

“Not even close,” he growls, pulling you in again. “I’m gonna spend the rest of the damn week making up for lost time.”

And he does.

Much to the horror (and secret delight) of everyone at U.A.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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sheepispink · 2 months ago

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currently thinking abt reader and ghost healing eachother..

Ghost saw you tear up for the first time back when you were just another rookie in his eyes. It was expected—the reaction to the battlefield—and he just sighed, knowing that you’d end up dropping out sooner or later. After all, that mindset never made it far in this job.

But you didnt, no, you moved up the ranks, until he became a lieutenant and you were a soldier assigned as backup for his troops. He recognised the familiarity of the way your eyes would dart, how they’d lock onto the target and yet not fail to save another. Still, he forgot about you again fairly quickly, letting you dissipate into the back of his mind because, at the end of it all, you were just some soldier who had a bit of a head on your shoulders. People get toughened up all the time— there was no real difference to any other soldiers he met.

Then you finally became a sergeant, and you were friends with Gaz, Soap followed, until you were even having plenty of interesting conversations with Price. Even Ghost knew you better, heard you talk, even your tiny complaints which you quickly laughed off.

This time he remembered you when he turned the corner that night, walking around base as a cold breeze seeped into the cracks of his clothing, making small goosebumps rise on his arms. You had just come back from a mission, one where even Price had sung your praises to the whole team and Gaz gave a detailed retelling of what you had done for them. How fast you thought, how many lives you saved: your talents, strengths and skills. Ghost had respect for you before, but now you were practically his team.

So, he recognised you instantly when he heard the soft sniffle on the bench, your eyes watering as you sat there. You looked conflicted, even after you had generals shaking your hand today. At first he had narrowed his eyes, left wondering why you would even be crying.

Everyone knew it did nothing: just a bodily response from those with weak minds and weak bodies.

But he knew you weren’t weak, you were so, so far from that. If he was to ever accuse you of being weak, he’d probably be attacked and fired for the sheer stupidity of it. Still, it didnt make sense, if you were crying, were you not weak in some way?

He only realises he’s been stood there staring at you when you lift your face, meeting his eyes before hurriedly sniffling it down and wiping your face frantically. Like you were scared of how he’d percieve it.

“It’s not—“ You begin, but he just stares, watching as you rub your palms against your eyelids until they're red and raw, how you sniffle so hard and yet stilll struggle to keep the tears from threatening to breach. Even your shoulders are so tense, hands in fists like you’re teetering on the edge.

You knew crying made you weak; the fear in your eyes was evidence of that since you clearly thought he’d tell you off in some way, maybe even insist you were being dramatic. Though, even with your efforts, you couldn't stop them from swelling, from remaining there even whilst you attempted to mutter something about hayfever. Silly, it was not even March yet.

“You’re not weak.” He says bluntly, though his voice breaks just slightly as if he was the one with the water in his eyes, cracking his resolve. Your eyes are wide, looking at him in awe as he calls out your fear, his eyes filled with certainty.

Ghost knew you were strong, he knew you were the best damn soldier any officer like him could ever ask for. Though, even you, the soldier who had swelled hope in many rookies' hearts and shook hands with the best of the best, couldn’t escape the pain— the tears that swelled.

Crying isn't all as useless as he had been forced to believe, not a sign of the cowardice in a person's heart and definitely not a sign of weakness. If even you couldn't keep it in, that meant it needed to happen, the body wanted it— like a necessary function to survive. It was like letting things go, and allowing the body the relief to forget the horrors for a while.

“What..?” You mutter, hands frozen on your face as you try and dab away the wetness keeping your eyelids pitifully glossy.

“..Dont stop it.” He says, coming to sit down beside your shivering form on the bench, your eyes following his every movement. “Just.. let yourself have it. Ok?”

No, crying didn't make the situation much better, and it certainly didn't change whatever caused it all that much. What it really did was give your body a well deserved break, a full trust to let any perceptions come crumbling down just to build them back stronger the next time. Just like a person needed to eat, to sleep, to sweat, to breathe— they needed to cry.

For the first time in his life, Ghost didnt feel disappointment when he saw the tears well again, no, rather relief. You had made him realise it was okay, and he’d make sure you knew it too.

——

daily reminder that crying is never a sign of weakness no matter who you are, or your background of your story or even how insignificant you think ur problem is. I literally cried yesterday because i was sleepy

love u all, stay safe <3

Masterlist

support me with kofi!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost riley x you

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secretl1fe0fm3 · 3 months ago

Note

14 and 47 from the prompt list? :)

more than friends - billie eilish x fem!reader

prompt #14: “since when do friends do things like this?”

prompt #47: “you heard me. i want you to sit on my face.”

warnings: smut, oral (r!receiving), soft dom!billie, sub!reader, slight dirty talk

an: im backkkkkk! lowkey been struggling a little lately with life in general but i’ve had this request in my drafts for a few days now and decided to finally post it :) completing more requests soon, i pinky promise! also happy lesbian visibility week <3

18+ minors dni!!!

You were always close. Too close, maybe.

Sprawled across Billie’s couch like you lived there, a bottle of half-finished red wine dangling from your fingers, you watched her walk around the room in a loose black tee and gray sweatpants. Her bleached red roots peeked through her damp hair, curling slightly at the ends, fresh out of the shower. You tried not to stare, but you failed.

“I swear to God, you always drink the good stuff when it’s mine,” she said, dropping onto the couch beside you, body warm from the hot shower, the scent of her skin and soap thick between you. “Not even a thank you?”

You smirked. “Thanks. Really hitting the spot.”

Her eyes stayed on you longer than usual, lingering. Your stomach flipped, chest tightening with a familiar nervous rush. She’d been doing that more lately. Looking at you too long, brushing past you too close, touching your thigh and not pulling away.

“You okay?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant.

Her lips parted slightly like she was about to say something, but she just looked at you for a long moment. “Mhm,” Billie hummed, then added, “You’re tense.”

You blinked. “Am I?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Her fingers slid over your neck as she pressed her thumb just beneath your jaw. “Why so nervous?”

Your heart stuttered.

“I’m not,” you lied.

She laughed lowly, teasing you. “You’re a terrible liar.”

The tension immediately thickened. Her hand was still on you, palm warm against your throat, her thumb dragging just a little lower. You watched as her eyes dropped to your mouth, your own going dry.

Billie leaned in, her lips barely brushing yours, testing for your reaction. When you didn’t pull away, her hand tightened just a little as she leaned in again.

She kissed you deeply, desperately, like she was claiming something that had been hers all along, but it didn’t feel like just friendship anymore.

Her knee pressed between your thighs as her hand easily slipped beneath your shirt, fingers brushing over your bare chest as she pulled you onto her lap.

You broke away just enough to gasp out, “Since when do friends do things like this?”

She grinned ear to ear. “Who said I wanted to be your friend?”

Your pulse quickened as you stared at Billie with a nervous expression, unsure if you should actually be doing this, with her, your best friend.

“Billie…” You breathed her name like a question, wanting reassurance that this is what you both really wanted.

But she didn’t seem to hesitate. Her grin grew as she leaned in again, lips brushing your ear this time, her voice low and firm.

“I want you,” she said, soft but sure. She leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes. Her expression didn’t waver, but her pupils were blown black as her voice dropped. “I want you to sit on my face.”

Her words stunned you, your breath caught in your throat like you’d been hit in the chest.

“Wh-what?” you stammered, struggling to speak, even though you heard her perfectly.

She grinned, a slow pull of her lips, smirking.

“You heard me, I want you to sit on my face.”

There was no teasing in her voice. No trace of embarrassment, just pure intention. Like she’d thought about it a dozen times before this exact moment.

Your legs shook slightly from where you were sat on her thighs, her hands moving, encouraging, coaxing the waistband of your shorts down over your hips.

“Lift,” she murmured.

You did, without hesitation.

She slid them off slowly, revealing you inch by inch, her gaze dragging over your body. She didn’t say anything at first, just looked. Her hands ran up the outside of your thighs, palms warm, fingers digging in slightly.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” she muttered to herself. Billie leaned back fully, lying horizontal on the couch, her voice dropping even lower as she motioned for you to come closer.

“Come here.”

Your breath hitched as you crawled up over her. Her hands guided you, thumbs brushing the curve of your ass, pulling you higher until you hovered over her mouth. You paused, unsure, hovering just out of reach.

Billie’s grip tightened. “Sit,” she whispered.

You lowered yourself down and her mouth was on you instantly, tongue dragging through your folds with slow, deliberate strokes.

Billie moaned into your already soaked heat, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure up your spine. You gasped, hands flying to the back of the couch for balance as her tongue pressed deeper, flicking against your clit, absolutely devouring you.

Her tongue was relentless, alternating between slow, lazy circles and sudden firm pressure that made your thighs tremble. She didn’t let up as you rolled your hips down against her, moaning when she pushed her tongue in deeper. She pulled you down harder against her mouth, her nose brushing your clit.

You looked down briefly and saw her eyes fluttered shut, her face completely buried between your thighs, her tongue still working you open, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, Billie, I’m gonna-” you gasped, your voice and thighs shaking, the words dying in your throat as her tongue lapped greedily at your clit.

“Do it.” she said, the word muffled against you, barely audible.

Her hands dug into your hips, holding you down as your orgasm hit you instantly. Your body tightened, hips bucking, thighs clenching around her head as you rode it out. You whimpered loudly, grinding against her tongue as she kept licking at your wet heat, drawing out every last drop of your climax.

You lifted your trembling body off of her, moving yourself down to straddle her chest, your legs shaking. Your eyes meet, her lips slick with you, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes glinting with a quiet satisfaction as you panted above her.

“So sweet.” she whispered with a smirk, licking her lips.

prompt list

my masterlist

#billie eilish #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish smut #wlw #billie eilish imagine #billie x reader #billie eilish x fem!reader #wlw smut

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mixingandmelting · 5 months ago

Text

Boy Crush

Summary: Life couldn’t get any better than this- first he makes you cry. Then realizes he actually has a crush on you as he tries to get you to forgive him.

A/N: Robin!Dick x reader

True to his name, he was dick. Excuse him, he meant a very big jerk. All he wanted was to get back at you after you stubbornly refused to take back the negative ten out of ten rating on a pun he spent three days, three days, working on (that’s seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes). He didn’t think he’d scare you that badly, considering he was simply hanging upside down with a Ghostface mask. Okay, fine. If it happened out of the blue and in the night, then yeah, that would freak him too.

But, to be fair, he was expecting your usual reaction of jumping and squeaking. The whole “Dick!” in the most airy, scandalized voice like the ladies do in those boring soap operas. Not you plopping onto the carpet of your room with glassy eyes.

No matter what he did, you merely shook your head and kept crying. Lollipop? Nope. The teddy bear on your bed (the one he got and you, surprisingly, kept)? No dice. It’s when he joins you on the ground and hugs you, you dialed down from sobbing to hiccuping. Continuing to pat your back as he gently whispers he was sorry into your ear with guilt until you completely calm down.

“You okay?” His frown deepens at the small nod you give him. Crap. You’re really upset with him.

Sighing, he racked his brain for ideas. He tried candy. He tried the teddy bear. Nothing comes to mind until a lightbulb lights up. Will he get in trouble for it? Oh, absolutely. He’ll probably be even grounded for a month at minimum. But considering how you’ve always asked him about what it's like and him promising he’d fly you around Gotham when he gets a chance, what better time than now?

“Do you want to see Gotham’s nightlife in the sky?”

At least it’s not a no though you nod again albeit with hesitance. Offering a tiny smile and a hand, he pulls you up and guides you towards the window.

“Hold on tight!” Then grabbing you by the waist, he hoists the two of you out.

Swinging from building to building, he chuckles how your eyes went from being shut tightly closed to comically wide in awe.

“Whoa…” You dreamily mutter, taking in the sight of the beautiful city lights glowing in the dark. “Is this what you see every time you’re on patrol?”

“Yeah. Never gets tiring.” He readjusts his grip, making sure you’re positioned more comfortably.

The laughter you let you ring sweetly in his ears as you press yourself against himself and just like that, he’s suddenly hyperware how close and warm you are. Time slows down for him, noting how pretty you smile while feeling your heart beating against his. Actually, no, how pretty in general you looked with the city’s light reflecting off your form. His cheeks and ears ablaze, he’s forced to exert more focus as it dawns on him - he, Dick Grayson, the Boy Wonder, is in love with his best friend.

#dick grayson #nightwing #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader

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drgnflyteabox · 5 months ago

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Soap finds himself a lucky charm // Soap x fem!reader // kidnapping, noncon, gambling, post-injury soap, unreliable narrator (he's crazy), johnny hears simons voice in his head <3, breeding kink, unwanted pregnancy, ghoap elements but simon isnt in it

Johnny finds himself at the horse track of all places, six months to the day since his injury.

Simon doesn't know where he is, but he knows that Simon could find him as easily as anything. He hasn't yet. Space, is what Johnny had asked for. Space is what he's getting. It both upsets and pleases him.

Spending money is too easy. He splurges everywhere, on everything. Takeout, booze. His apartment's a pigpen of bottles and containers. All thanks to his honourable discharge stipend, which is generous thanks to Price, though he hasn't returned any of his calls.

Price could find him easily, too, but their relationship's been tight since the signing of the paperwork.

Not my choice, John had said tightly. My hands are tied.

A couple thousand down already, his lucks been off. Ever since the accident. It's not any of the post-TBI symptoms, it's spiritual. He feels it, deep in his gut.

Cosmic.

He should be in the field, but he's not. Something has shifted the wrong way. Everything feels, looks, is, slanted. Off.

Bonnie Bouquet is the horse he's been betting on. A few hundred at a time. She's a fast girl, but she's been finishing off the board lately. Losing him a lot of cash.

He can hardly focus as he a group of squawking, stumbling partygoers elbow in beside him.

There's a pulse that begins in his temples as he watches her fumble, outpaced by a horse called Apple Cider of all names. He feels a hot coal settle in his chest, frustration morphing into anger as costs him again.

That pulse turns to sharp, digging pain, the bullet back again and tunnelling it's way into his head. He can practically feel the thick, cottony fog come back on, the dizziness. His vision pinpoints onto the downturned arrow on the screen. He hears the gun cock again,

Bonnie Bouquet finishes tenth out of fourteen, and he swivels to snarl at the pack of harpies beside him when—

It's been a while. Longer than before the injury, even, since he's had pussy. That's why he deflates, chokes up, lets the swell of pain in his head wash over him without so much as a twitch when he sees you.

The answer. The solution he's been waiting for, right here in front of him, sent by God or the universe or fuck, he wouldn't put it past the team to have sent him a little consolation prize.

"There you are, Johnny," he hears Simon say. His voice is right there, in the room. You're for him. You're his light at the end of the tunnel, the reason he's been booted.

"S'all worth it now, isn't it?"

It'll be worth it when he can fit his cock in your snug little cunt, and make a new purpose for himself through your womb.

He doesn't think of how he looks when he approaches you, pushing past your clucking friends, eyes razor sharp and shoulders squared.

"What one are ye bettin on?" he opens, staring down at your surprised face, petal-soft mouth in a sweet little 'o'.

His cocks rock hard in his jeans, straining, and distantly he hears one of your friends gasp. He doesn't give a fuck. Look, hen, it's for ye. That's all for ye.

"Um," you stutter. Cute wee lamb, he thinks. "I think, uh, The Scottish Thistle."

The Scottish Thistle. As clear of a sign as any. Simon laughs, grating, "Picked a Scottish horse, didn't she? What else do you need, Johnny? A kick in the arse?"

Nothing. He needs nothing else to push out again, betting on The Scottish Thistle and winning for the first time in months.

You're terrified when you discover him in the backseat of your car.

Poor little lamb, trying to fight. Bleating and pushing against him with arms that haven't seen even a shade of what he has. But he's still strong, still got it, puts his arms like a vice around your throat until you're docile enough that he can take your keys and drag you back out into his truck.

It's alright. You'll understand soon enough, that you're meant for him. That you're gonna be his lucky charm, his cause, his justification. He'll make it all back and more. In droves.

And he if doesn't come back? He's still got warm, soft thing to sink right into. A comfort for his weary head.

You learn eventually, that this is destiny. That you're meant to be right here, tidying his house, taking his come right in that pretty pussy. Keeping it safe, he jokes to you. Creating a life for him where before he had died.

He could cry, when he sees the test. Johnny's gonna be a father.

You still tremble, even after all this time, wide little cow eyes looking up at him, teary. Beautiful.

"Look at that, hen," he shows you the stick, smiling at your happy tears, "awe, it's okay to be nervous. Ah ken you'll be a good mam."

He fucks you that night to celebrate, slots himself deep, crushes you with his body the way you like it. You don't really speak often, but that's okay. You're just naturally shy, and he doesn't mind living off your cute little sounds instead of words.

"Ah, good girl," he grunts, pumping, "gooood girl."

You squeak, pant, cry. Face wet with overwhelmed tears. You've stopped trying to fight, stopped pushing his hand away when he fingers your swollen clit and makes you come again.

Soon, he'll have a family.

"Purpose, again, Johnny. That's a good lad, give it to her good."

And when he brings you, belly swollen with the life he planted there, to the races again— he's sure you'll pick the right one.

#drgnfly writes #soap x reader #soap/reader #johnny mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #erm #i put the readmore much lower cause #it felt right #but if thats annoying lmK

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waves-against-a-cliff · 7 months ago

Text

Need Someone Soft? 141 x Camgirl!Reader

Summary - Kyle attempts to keep a secret, Simon discovers a very pretty webcam model.

Tags - Masturbation, internet stalking, voyeurism(?) exhibitionism, reader is mentioned to be plus sized (or mid-sized if you wanna argue)

divide from @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

A/N: Still on a semi-hiatus. Just having camgirl thoughts.

Kyle hated this, your inconsistent schedule. You said certain days of the week and every weekend... and yet you were nowhere to be seen. He had bought the singular video up on your profile but that was it, that was all you had.

Really he shouldn't have expected much out of a model who's tags warned him that you were new. New and inconsistent it seemed. Until a few days turned into a week, then a week turned into two weeks and soon enough there was only a few days until it was a full month since you had been online.

He had followed your little blog that you posted updates on and had masturbated so many times to that one video on your profile that, well it would be a lie if he said it didn't do anything for him anymore. Oddly, the video had become a comfort.

Like knowing he had a few candies waiting for him after a long day of drills and training. Even on missions, when it got slow and they were in a safe house Kyle pulled up the video. Careful of course to keep it silent but he had your sounds memorized by now.

He would follow the rhythm you set, slow at first as your tight cunt got used to the dildo stuffed inside of you, your hips jerking a little when you find that right spot on your clit and keep your vibrator there. A mixture of lube and your own juices dripping from around the dildo and down the fat of your ass.

Fuck, his mouth watered just thinking about it.

Then he got an alert in his email. A blog update. All it said was I'm coming back and I have a new toy to test out, ;) and by the grace of god it was a screenshot of a lovense order for a lush. His mind swirled with the possibility of being able to send tokens upon tokens to make it vibrate. To control your pleasure through a screen, the possibility was tantalizing. And yet, he didn't know when you would be coming back. Today? Fuck, not today. Not while he was meant to be sent off on an op with Soap.

God damn it.

Simon didn't normally use websites like this. Then again, most of his wanks were borderline clinical. He would conjure up whatever image he needed to get off and tug at his cock until his spend coated his hand. So why was he on this website to begin with? Well, he was curious alright?

Curiosity killed the cat.

He flickered through the 'longue' as the website called it, something that chuffed him a bit he had to admit. A porn website attempting to make itself seem a little more professional.

Adorable.

It wasn't his first time on a website like this, far from it. He just normally didn't do this at all. But he knew he liked the new models. The ones who weren't quiet sure what they were doing. He also liked the ones who were rounder in the middle, thighs thick from good eating and a nice round ass that he could imagine bouncing off of while he fucked her into the mattress.

So he scrolled through the new tag until he stumbled across what he was looking for. He glanced at your username and immediately 'friended' you which was really more like subscribing. He would get alerts when you would go live now.

You were sat all pretty on your bed, hair tucked behind your ears and he looked at the room topic. His eyes latched onto the words lush activated.

Oh.

He glanced at the tokens in his imaginary wallet on the website. 1000, he could make that work. He tugged his cock from his briefs and grabbed the bottle of lube tucked away in his drawer before he poured a generous amount on his cock. He gave it a few tugs, just watching as someone else tipped you and activated the lush nestled inside your pussy. Just watching as you squirmed and the nearly mute sound of your mewls reached his eyes. Fuck he needed headphones.

Using one hand he typed his first sentence into chat, you do privates?

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x you #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #simon riley x reader #mw2 smut #gaz smut #simon x reader #camgirl!reader #x reader #cod x reader

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nghtwngs · 2 months ago

Text

soft currents next to you

description: there is falling in love. there is also falling into another universe. there is also falling in love again.

pairing: robert “bob” reynolds x batgirl!reader, dick grayson x batgirl!reader [unrequited]

genre: angst, fluff, smut [see warnings below], friends to lovers, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, slow burn, found family, crossover, hanahaki au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: 18+ mdni, semi-graphic depictions of a fictional terminal illness [hanahaki disease], themes of mental illness, mentions of drug abuse, addiction, and recovery [bob], doesn’t follow any specific dick grayson canon so the timeline might be kinda weird [you don’t need to know anything if you’re only here for bob], mostly thunderbolts* canon-compliant and obviously spoilers, she/her pronouns used to refer to reader, implied masturbation, skippable smut scene near end: fingering, oral [fem-receiving], unprotected sex [stay safe, guys; this is just a fic], creampie, subtle dom/sub undertones [reader seriously needs a break and i’m a softdom!bob truther], hints of dumbification [i’m also indulgent]

Лена, ты слышишь? [Lena, you hear that?]

a/n: as a dick grayson girl, writing him not returning reader’s feelings tears a piece of my soul away, but i gotta do it for the fic. idk if this idea is way too niche or not but thanks to @b4tgirlz for being a real one and the only person i can talk comics [& obsess over fictional men] with

It itches. Love itches, you mean. Not for everyone, not for the lucky ones. But that’s how it begins for you: with an itch. It’s the kind you can’t scratch. All you can do is suffer and suppress it, clear your throat over and over until Dick starts to look concerned even though you’re not the one in the hospital bed right now. There are million other faces here. You feel like they’re all staring. And then you cough some more, feigning temporary illness. You’re temporarily ill often these days. That’s when you finally excuse yourself to the bathroom.

You wonder if you’d see pity on their faces if you look back.

The flowers claw their way out of your throat as if they’re covered in thorns. Like they’re badgers blindly burrowing out of the tunnel that’s your esophagus. You carefully avoid touching the toilet seat. Your coughs begin to fill up every inch of the room, echoing off the tile. You don’t have to worry about someone hearing you. The rest of the stalls are empty. You checked. You don’t have to risk seeing a stranger look at you with pity, or even worse, a person you know. You don’t even want to think about that.

The mess you’re making might have even been pretty if you didn’t know what it meant, where it came from. It seems rather ironic for such a thing to be so beautiful, but people have been seeing beauty in pain and suffering for centuries, so in some sadistic way, it’s sort of beautiful. The petals always come before the whole flowers, almost as if to prepare you for it. Still, you’re never prepared.

It’s violently red today; generally, a bad sign.

You pick up a stray blue petal from the floor between your fingers, letting it whirl down into the toilet. You wipe the blood off the seat with toilet paper. There’s a sign above the seat covers. ‘Don’t flush flowers.’

Why should you care? Your throat is sore. You’re dying. You’re sure you’d find the disposal box, the one specifically made for the flowers, empty anyway. You flush.

You unlock the stall, walking over to the sink. Your reflection stares back at you with bleary eyes and a hard frown. It’s a sight you’ve grown familiar to. You’re quickly wiping the stray tears off your cheeks and your eyes with the back of your hands. Deep breath. In. Out.

You scrub your hands clean with soap. Again. Again. And again. Specifically, that spot between your fingers. You can still feel it. The flower petal. Soaked and dripping onto your finger. Red. The water is scorching. It gets rid of the feeling.

It’s only the squeak of the door opening that makes you pull away. Like your hands weren’t numb. You pretend like you didn’t just flinch from the sound. You stare down at your hands for a moment before drying them off and exiting the restroom. You don’t spare the stranger a glance.

There was only one home for you, and it was here, in Dick Grayson’s soft bed. For a teenage boy, his room was pretty pristine. For Dick, it embodied the Wonder Boy he was. You’re too tired to continue watching Jeopardy, Dick guessing nearly all of the questions correctly while Wally huffs as he gets nearly all of them wrong. It took him a few episodes to realize you’re supposed to answer with the question because he kept leaving to grab more food. (You’ll help poor Alfred restock the cabinets later, even when he kindly waves off your help. But he’ll eventually relent. He always does.) Wally pouts, quickly speeding to the kitchen to find more snacks for himself to fill up the endless void of his appetite.

Dick’s shoulder somehow manages to be comfortable, and you feel the tugs of the Dreaming, wrapping its delicate hand around your head, pulling you away.

“Goodnight,” you hear faintly when the Sandman opens his gates for you.

You dream of Dick Grayson that night. Like you do every other one.

The mission was supposed to be easy. So easy, in fact, that they sent the Teen Titans out. You were still settling into the team, practically clinging to Robin as much as you could—much to Kid Flash’s dismay—since he was your best friend—also much to Wally’s dismay.

But you wake up dizzy, your head held by your Robin, who you’ve never seen so worried. Normally the most calm and collected one, besides you, Dick slipped into his leader role easily. He holds your head like you’re made of glass, and you can barely make out a few of his words.

Explosion… Down. No. Yes. One. Batman… Help.

His voice, although panicked, is soothing enough for you to slip back into unconsciousness. You don’t even hear him crying ‘Batgirl!’ to get you to return to him.

While recovering from the various injuries you had sustained, you’ve developed a weird cough that won’t go away, even when you take that wonderful Chinese cough syrup three times a day for a full fortnight. That stuff has always worked like a charm for that pesky lingering cough you sometimes get after a cold. On the fourth week, you get terribly annoyed and go see the doctor. They try every scan on the planet (and the galaxy). They tell you there’s nothing wrong but to return if it gets worse.

The prescription-grade cough syrup tastes much worse than Pei Pa Koa.

The coughing does get worse when you spot them one night: Dick has his arm slinked around Kori’s waist, standing a little too close to her to be considered friendly. When she first arrived to Earth, you saw the way Dick’s gaze gravitated towards her. Like everyone else’s, yours did too. She just had that aura about her that made you never want to look away. You think she’s just started up modeling recently. Not for money or anything. Just for fun.

It starts to get blurry, but you think there’s an innocent kiss or a touch or something. You have to get away. People are starting to glance at you because of your incessant coughing. And for some reason, your lungs begin to ache. A constriction roots inside your chest, your hand making a tight fist to dull the pain.

When you go to the bathroom and cough up a single little pink petal instead of the alcohol you’d just consumed, your breath is stolen away by more than just the petal. Denial is a game you love to play, so you flush it quickly down the toilet after staring at it for five minutes. Hanahaki Disease was one of the rarest but most fatal if not resolved quickly.

Surely the world couldn’t curse you that much, could it?

You hear a knock on the door and then that familiar sweet voice you love, asking if you were alright.

Were people really that unlucky?

Two more flower petals have to crawl their way up your throat before you reluctantly step into a doctor’s office again. This time, you don’t go to the Titan’s medical team. You go to someone who claims to be a Hanahaki expert. You feel for those people, the ones who know diseases with no cure like the back of their hand.

When the results come in, both you and the expert stare, horrified, at the x-ray of your lungs. You’d be lucky to make it beyond the end of next year.

New York City is a little different here.

No Batman, no Joker, no Superman—no Nightwing. And who were you if not Dick Grayson’s best friend?

There is no Gotham here, the center of attention on your world for having the highest rate of crime in the world for eighty-six (and counting) consecutive years! Instead, it’s New York City and some parts of Newark that take the brunt of the destruction caused by supervillains, aliens and the like, and superheroes.

The first day you were dropped off into this world, some government agency grabbed you up for interrogation. Twelve hours each day for an entire fortnight like clockwork. Any injuries you sustained were patched up that first day, but your shoulder was still killing you. You’d been on medication for your lung and throat pain already, but the meds they gave you were thankfully a little stronger.

The not-so-friendly agents were assessing whether you were a threat or not to the safety of the American people, but once it was clear your story had no flaws and that you were powerless, they reluctantly gave you proper papers to go about your business until someone—perhaps the new Avengers (whoever they were)—could figure out a way to get you back to your world. Considering this Earth has had its fair share of run-ins with people from other Earths already, your presence wasn’t exactly a surprise.

Still, even after you were freed from government custody, you could feel their eyes on you, scrutinizing your every move. The government was only waiting for the slightest slip-up. It was nice to know you were never alone, even on a different planet.

When Valentina Allegra de Fontaine hears about you, she feels like she struck gold.

Experienced hero plucked right from her earth and dropped right onto this one. All alone and surely in need of some familiar environments—a new home even.

While the Avengers weren’t not getting along, things weren’t exactly smooth sailing either. With the public not exactly accepting them as the new Avengers with open arms, Valentina needed something to bring them some credibility. And now, she thinks she’s found her something.

Immediately, she has Mel reschedule all her meetings that day, so that she could arrange one with you. Shouldn’t be too hard to convince a hero to be a hero now, can it?

It was apparent by your poorly restrained eye rolls and that smile of yours—if you could even call it that—that you were unimpressed by her. But she keeps that grin on her face as she explains to you how helpful your set of skills would be to her and her freshman team, the Avengers.

“With your abilities and prior experience with teamwork as part of the Tights—“

“—Titans.”

She presses her lips together in a sickeningly sweet smile as she corrects herself, “Titans, you’ll be a wonderful fit for my team. None of them have ever been on a team like this before, so it would just be lovely if you could show them a thing or two.”

“Haven’t they been working together for almost a year now? I’ve seen articles.”

Her eyes crinkle again. Valentina nods. “Yeah, but I’m sure you know how it is,” she says with a quiet chuckle.

“I don’t, actually,” you deadpan.

As always, she keeps her head held high, her calm hands sat in her lap. “Well, please consider the offer. I’ll add a generous bonus to it just for you.”

“I don’t need your money, Ms. Fontaine,” you tell her, crossing your arms. “I’d like to go home.”

She kisses her teeth. She’s the one correcting you this time, “De Fontaine.”

You know a bitch when you meet one, but then she offers to fund research for getting you back onto your world if you’ll take a place on the team. Valentina has finally hit the jackpot.

You didn’t like joining teams after they have formed. Not great for bonding when people have already built and burned their bridges, but since you had nothing better to do, you tentatively agree to work with them temporarily while some scientists, and now hers, figure out how to get you home.

Valentina feels like she’s won, but she’s shaking your hand and congratulating you, “Welcome to the Avengers, Batgirl.”

From the news articles you’ve read about the Avengers, New Avengers, B-vengers, whatever… it seems like the public is kinda hot-and-cold with them right now. You wonder if Valentina really believes you’ll boost their ratings.

While you’re not expecting the warmest of welcomes from a team who appears to be a bunch of random people with cool abilities stuck together in Rapunzel’s tower, this is definitely more unpleasant than you had expected it to be.

It also sounds like Valentina just shared with them the news from the obvious apprehension they regard you with.

The elevator ride had been awkwardly long getting up here (which you’re unfortunately used to, considering Bruce likes his Batcaves way below the surface), and now it’s somehow even more awkward. Mel, Valentina’s personal assistant, had been kind to you from the get-go, but you doubt you could trust anybody who willingly works for a monster like Valentina. You also came across the videos of her impeachment trial on YouTube while trying to make sure your favorite creators were also on this Earth.

The woman with the short bleached blonde hair, who you assume is the team’s leader by her assertiveness, tells you her name. Her gaze is reasonably wary but not entirely unkind. Yelena, you learn. The British woman on her left is Ava, also known as Ghost. (Cool name. Thanks.) The man wearing the silly beret is John Walker—Captain America. The giant on Yelena’s right (You heard her call him dad.) is Alexei Shostakov, who boisterously introduces himself as the Red Guardian. He grows twice as excited when he finds out you speak Russian (Лена, he gasps, ты слышишь?), among many other languages. Briefly, Yelena explains that there’s another member, but he won’t return until around six p.m. since Congress closes at five.

You pause to stare at them. “You have a Congressman on this team? Is that even like…? There’s gotta be some conflict of interest there, right?” Each of them shrug at you, clearly never having questioned it before. “Right?”

Christ.

“And we can’t forget,” Alexei starts with a big, toothy smile, holding his palm out towards the person lounging in the chair by the giant window—Is that not a security concern?—“Bob.”

“Bob?” you echo.

They all look at you, nodding. “Bob.”

The man in said chair sits up a little straighter before he meets your eyes with a sheepish smile, returning your little introductory wave. He sets his book down, pretending like he wasn’t already paying attention to this little meet-and-greet going on. Quickly, you realize it’s your turn and lamely introduce yourself to the group.

“Your hero name is… Batgirl?” John snorts.

You glare at him, retorting, “What’s so funny, Captain America?”

Yelena and Ava snicker at each other beside you, murmuring, “Off-brand.”

He huffs, looking at everyone. “Well, fuck you guys.”

“Well, I’d rather not,” you answer, giggling.

“Oh, very funny. Very mature.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just an asshole,” you hear Bob whisper, having shuffled behind you.

You smile. “Oh, really? Couldn’t tell. Thanks.” You explain to the team, “The name Batgirl is special—it was given to me, and now, since they probably think I’m dead, it will be passed down from me to someone else.”

Yelena says thoughtfully, “Oh, like Captain America… but officially.”

“I was the official Captain America!” John cries out with indignation, throwing his arms up in the air.

“Tell us more,” encourages Alexei. “Is your world much different from ours?”

John quickly gives you a once-over and then interrupts you before you can even open your mouth, “Why not Batwoman?”

��Taken.” You shrug. “I got comfortable. Didn’t really ever feel like I needed to change just yet. But I guess I’m not a teenager anymore.” You let out a quiet chuckle and gesture to Alexei. “And to answer your question, besides several major cities not existing here, not really.” You shrug. “I think the main differences are people… like the heroes and criminals.” You gesture back-and-forth, saying, “We have Batman, you have Iron Man. We have Superman, you have Captain America. I think those are comparable, I’m not exactly sure.”

“Since you’re Batgirl,” John begins inquisitively and not good-naturedly, “there a Batboy, Batdude, Batguy… too?”

You naturally glare at him. “It’s Robin.” Nightwing now, actually.

“Oh, keeping up with the small, flying animal thing,”—he nods thoughtfully—“I see.”

Asshole.

“Ignore him; he just kind of talks,” Ava says, rolling her eyes.

In your lifetime of crime-fighting, there have been plenty of missions gone sideways. But this one? This one definitely takes the cake for being the worst.

“No one even thought to bring a screwdriver?” There was one in your toolkit, granted, it was the one you lost when you slipped through the cracks of the multiverse.

Walker grunts, readying his shield. “Why can’t we just smash it?”

“You can’t break it,” you say for the third time, holding out your palm to stop him, “or we all die.”

“Well, we’ll die anyway if we don’t get out of here.”

“I mean, yeah, just a lot more slowly.”

No wonder Valentina was desperate (She’d never admit to that.) to get you on her little team of heroes. They were a disaster. By some grace of all the higher powers in life there were (You actually knew a few.), you all managed to get out alive and, relatively, unscathed.

“After this,” you say with a strong huff and after a few untimely coughs, “remind me to buy a nice set of tools for each of us.”

The ride home isn’t too bad though. Alexei started a mixtape for them even before your arrival because the silence got a little awkward. And there’s only so much a super soldier can do to keep spirits high. With some enthusiasm, you add a few of your own songs to the playlist, feeling a bit more at home with this team of outcasts turned family.

“Where are you headed?” Walker asks, watching you walk towards the exit, still clad in your suit.

Everyone else was now in their civilian clothing for the night, grateful to shed away their suits for something more comfy after a full day’s mission. And yeah, you all almost died. But that was really just another Tuesday.

“Nightly patrol,” you answer, stopping in front of the elevator. Standing near the air conditioner, your black cape continues to flow. (While Walker would never admit it aloud, it looks seriously cool.) The elevator’s up arrow indicator lights up. “It’s been awhile since I’ve done it, and I need to learn the street names.” Their confused stares grow uncomfortable quickly, forcing you to ask, “What? You guys don’t do patrols?”

Everyone looks around at each other, before shaking their heads with a collective “No.”

“So what… you only do missions?”

“I mean…” Yelena begins, a thoughtful look taking over her face, “yeah.”

“The hell you guys even do around here then?” You chuckle, stepping into the opening elevator, offering them a playful wave goodbye. The alone time would be a relief.

Wayne Enterprises and Wayne Foundation galas, you were no stranger to. After being a friend of the family for more than half your life now, you knew how to smile at the camera and talk some snobby but loaded people into donating to your charities. Although not only a charity gala, but also an entire event dedicated to your inauguration into the Avengers, you still slipped into your socializing mode easily.

Thank Jesus, Valentina thinks as she watches you charm some old money bags. Two dozen reporters had hounded her on her way inside the venue, shouting their questions:

Is she not a liability? She could be lying about her past.

Why would another world’s hero help protect ours? She didn’t grow up here! She’s practically an alien!

Well, Thor was also an Avenger, she pointed out, shutting the reporter up. But maybe he gets more leeway because he’s a man.

But finally, an Avenger with some damn media training that wouldn’t embarrass themselves and her like the other losers. Even Congressman Barnes couldn’t compete, which was as pathetic as it was sad.

The glass of the champagne you’ve been barely sipping has grown grossly warm under your tight grip. Honestly, you just needed something to hold to keep your hands busy. After an entire hour of meeting high profile guests, you desperately need a break. It would be suspicious if you took another trip to the restroom though, so you opt for walking around, pretending like you have somewhere to be, people to charm. That always works, doesn’t it?

On your second stroll around the venue, you catch a stray six-foot man lurking around Yelena like a lost puppy. “Hey,” you greet them. “Enjoying the party?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” Yelena answers, lifting up her champagne glass, clinking it against yours before taking a sip. “Good alcohol. And congratulations.”

“Thanks.” You chuckle softly, taking a small sip yourself. “Didn’t take you for a champagne girl.”

She shrugs playfully, smiling at you. “I’m full of surprises.”

“What about you, Bob?” you ask, glancing at him with a teasing glint in your eye. “You a champagne kinda girl?”

A soft laugh falls from Bob’s mouth as his head shakes. “No, unfortunately not.” He scratches the back of his head, continuing, “Been sober for awhile now.”

“Oh, I see. That’s great. That takes more strength than people think.” With your shoulder, you nudge his, smiling kindly. “This your first gala?”

“Uh, no, it’s my second… We had to attend one for the Avengers’ six-month anniversary or something.”

“Jesus, you have anniversary parties?”

He chuckles, nodding. “Valentina’s idea.”

“I figured.” Your eyes scan around the room before meeting Bob’s once more. “You enjoy these things?”

He pauses for a moment, considering whether or not to be truthful. After seeing no harm in it—you’ve been way nicer than any of the other people he’s met—he answers truthfully, “Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“Really? You’re really good at talking to these people though. I saw you earlier, and you seemed so…”

“Comfortable?” you add helpfully.

He nods.

“I’m just a master in the art of bullshit,” you joke. “After four-five-hundred of these, it starts to get a little easier.”

“Only three-hundred ninety-eight more to go, then.”

“Don’t worry, Bob, as the resident gala expert, I’ll keep you company. You’re in safe hands.” Abandoning your champagne flute, you link your arm with his. “You mind joining me for my third stroll around the place?”

Neither of you had noticed Yelena slip away from the two of you, and when you did, you didn’t acknowledge it either.

There’s some surprise evident on his handsome features, as if he’d expected you to leave him to the wolves here with Yelena gone. But he smiles back at you and says, “Not at all.”

“You ever gotten Bob the Builder?” you ask after about ten minutes of mindless conversation and making fun of some of the silly-looking guests in their extravagant dresses and thousand-dollar Rolexes.

“No, not yet.” He shakes his head.

You lift your hand over your mouth, which lets out an excited gasp at his admission. “I’m the first?”

“You’re the first,” he echoes back. The corners of his mouth curl up into a smile at your enthusiasm.

A sound of delight forms from your lips. “I like being the first, Bob the Builder.” You pause to meet his gaze, asking sincerely, “You don’t mind it, right?”

“No,” he says truthfully. Not from you, he doesn’t add.

“Oh, no. Four o’clock, incoming,” you whisper into his ear, which nearly makes him shiver—thankfully, it doesn’t. “I’ll lead. Take notes, alright?”

There’s an elderly couple heading straight towards you with pleasant visages, cooing at how nice the two of you look. You accept the compliment with ease, and the pair unknowingly follow your expert lead into the conversation. It’s kind of magic how you manage to hit all your marks: your newfound place on the team, charity, and a hopeful future for the city and the world. Beat for beat.

“That was pretty awesome,” Bob tells you once you’ve parted from the lovely couple.

“And what’d you learn, Bob?”

“I need to become as pretty as you.”

You blink a few times, flattered by the sincerity in his words. “That’s sweet of you,” you thank him, smiling down at your feet. “Thanks.”

Maybe it’s only now that Bob realizes what’s just come out of his mouth because his cheeks redden, almost becoming as red as the wine being served next to you. “It’s nothing,” he replies, smiling coyly. “Did you see the cake yet?”

“The giant one with my face printed on it?” You cringe outwardly. “Yeah, yeah, I did. Could’ve used a better picture though,” you mutter, tongue poking your cheek.

“I think you look nice.”

Your lips press together tightly, appreciative of his reassuring words. “Thanks, Bob. I’ve never really been celebrated like this before… It’s kind of weird. Birthday parties are one thing, but this? This is something else entirely, y’know? I didn’t even get to pick any of these decorations, or the flavor of the cake—honestly, I don’t even like it. Valentina’s event planners arranged everything. I didn’t choose the charity either… Well, I shouldn’t be complaining. This isn’t really even for me. It’s for the team…”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to enjoy it.” He then says pointedly, “It’s your face on the cake.”

“I guess…” You press your lips together before inwardly groaning. “Oh, some more investors are coming our way. I won’t make you sit through this one too. See you later?”

He nearly protests, but the words die on his tongue as he watches you blend back into the crowd, slipping so effortlessly into your charm-the-pants-off-rich-people-for-charity persona.

It’s not for another hour that you see Bob again. Your eyes were automatically searching for him in the crowd as you were speaking to some CEOs or whatever. You felt a little bad for leaving him alone, but he probably went looking for Yelena. But then you spot him walking your way with a white box clutched tightly in his hands.

“Hey, I found you,” he says softly, like he’s been looking for you his entire life. Your throat tingles. He slips the box into your hands, watching you open it with hopeful eyes. “Since it’s your party and all, I knew you couldn’t leave. But no one would notice if I stepped out for a moment, so I went out to a bakery a couple blocks away and got you a slice of cake you’ll actually want to eat.”

Your favorite flavor of cake sits right in your palms, putting a smile of awe on your face. “And it doesn’t have my face on it,” you say, chuckling quietly.

Teasingly, he points his thumb back towards the entrance and says, “I could always go back and—“

“No, oh my God.” You laugh sweetly. “But wow, thank you, Bob. Let me pay you back for it—“

“No, no—it’s okay. It’s nothing, really. I just thought you should at least get a cake you like.”

Holding it tightly to your chest, you admit to him, “I did notice you were gone.”

“Yeah?”

“I was looking for you,” you begin sheepishly. “My star pupil disappeared on me. I thought you went back to the tower, honestly. I wouldn’t have blamed you. I wanna be back in my bed right now.”

“Well… I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.” Kissing your teeth, you offer, “You wanna share this cake with me, Bob the Builder?”

At his shy acceptance, the two of you make it out of that suffocating party together, sitting on the steps out back to take turns eating the cake with the single fork Bob had retrieved—he had only gotten it for you, but he doesn’t quite mind this, nor the fork that’s stained slightly by the pretty color off your lips.

“Are these team building weekends really necessary?” you hear John ask from behind you, stepping off the jet, his bag slung around his shoulder.

You turn your head to raise your eyebrows at him. “You really complaining about a free vacation?”

“Well, we could be doing some actual Avengers work right now.”

“I think we’re allowed a break every once in awhile. We’ve been on mission after mission for the last few months. And frankly, a beach chair and a good book are calling my name right now. C’mon, Bob, book club isn’t gonna start itself.” You pull the willing brunet towards the beach house to claim first pick of rooms.

“Walker,”—Alexei slaps him on the back hard, almost causing him to tumble down the stairs—“only you would complain about beach vacation.”

John tries to shrug him off. “I’m not complaining—we should just be doing field work now.”

“You’re so lame,” Ava remarks with a smirk as she walks in direction you and Bob were headed.

“She’s right,” Yelena adds monotonely, following the rest of the group. “You are so boring, Walker.”

John huffs indignantly, adamantly denying the accusations being thrown at him. “I’m just thinking of the team!” He watches them all walk towards the beautiful, multimillion dollar beach house. Perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy a day or two. They’re already out here anyway.

“Do you like the book I got you the other day?” you ask Bob once you’ve claimed your room—the view was arguably the best one in the place. “You were reading it on the way here.”

He nods, lifting it up for you to see. There’s a bookmark neatly wedged in between some pages where he left off at earlier. “Yeah, yeah, it’s good. I’m almost finished.”

“Great. Which room did you end up picking?”

“Oh, just… the one right here.” He points to the room next to yours.

“Hey, we’re neighbors.” You playfully elbow him. “I’m gonna go change, and then we can head to the beach, alright? See you in a bit.”

He offers you a small wave as you disappear into your room, leaving him behind in the hallway.

“Watch out, lover boy, coming through,” John grunts, hauling his bag past him. A soldier should always pack light, but he’s also prepared for whatever comes their way, so he brought most of his weapons.

“What?” Bob splutters.

“Yeah, I mean, if you wanna be a little more discreet about it, then I’d suggest stop making eyes at her.”

“I don’t—“

“As much as it pains me to agree with Walker, he’s right,” Yelena admits, crossing her arms. “But you guys are cute.”

“Sickeningly,” Ava comments, walking up the staircase.

“So very cute.” Alexei nods enthusiastically in agreement, continuing, “You two are like Romeo and Juliet.”

Bob groans internally, clutching the book you gifted him a little tighter. Was almost everyone aware of his little crush on you now?

Ava cocks her head, narrowing her eyes at Alexei. “You do know they kill themselves at the end?”

“I really don’t…” Bob mumbles, offering them all a nervous smile, “it’s not like that.”

“I don’t see any reason not to go for it.” Bucky shrugs, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “She seems pretty into you too.”

Okay, so everyone was aware.

Little did they know, you were hurling up some blue Salvias into your toilet. Right before you flush, you whisper a quick prayer that the toilet pipes don’t get clogged. Out of the various types of flowers your lungs have grown, you hate the long ones the most. They take way too much time to come up and make your throat all itchy. The only good thing about this one was that it was thornless.

There was something sweet about watching the team relax—Well, not stress over dying a painful death because volleyball was not exactly relaxing.—over a game of volleyball. The weather was perfect, hot but not overly so, making the wind feel fantastic as it came through. The smell of the seawater would waft towards you as it did, and it was pretty damn relaxing. You and Bob were sitting under the shade of a beach umbrella, reading your respective novels. After a match or two, Ava taps out to go enjoy the views, forcing Yelena to come and persuade you or Bob to join in on their little game.

You shake your head. “I wanna finish this,” you tell her. “It just started to ramp up.” Turning to your book club buddy, you encourage him with a gentle nudge. “But you should go.”

While Dick Grayson carries your heart (and your life, both unbeknownst to him) on his person, it’s not like you couldn’t appreciate a pretty person. And boy is Bob Reynolds pretty. He got hot easily, so he had quickly ditched his shirt after a few minutes of sitting and reading. It’s been awhile since you’ve wanted to chew your knuckles over the sight of a deliriously beautiful man before, and you think you’ve maybe read fifteen pages in the last hour out here. And because you also want to finish your novel in a timely, decent manner, you shoo him kindly over to the others.

Bob has never played volleyball a day in his life.

Once he gets the rules explained to him, he catches on easily and does pretty well for himself and his team (Yelena). Perhaps it was a mistake to send him off to play volleyball. Your eyes keep wandering over to him and his abs that apparently miraculously appeared because of the Project Sentry serum. Curse you for having needs, you suppose. Bob is your friend, you remind yourself, feeling worse that you could be thinking such impure thoughts about someone who’s so quickly gained your friendship.

Only over his dead body would he confess such a thing, but after seeing you in your swimsuit earlier, Bob had to make a hasty and shameful trip to his bathroom.

You had fallen asleep next to Bob while watching his third favorite movie, your head laying right on his fluttering chest. But when he wishes you good dreams that night, he forgets—just for a moment—about the Void. So when he slips into the same darkness, he opens his eyes, only to see someone who looks an awful lot like you. While he stumbles a little closer to watch, it just takes him another moment before he realizes it is you.

The long white hallways tell him they’re in a hospital, but it’s not you who is injured. You’re standing up, rubbing your hand down someone’s back as he paces along the white tiled floors. Bob can make out your puffy eyes, but there are no tears in sight, only from the man you’re attempting to console.

“She’ll be fine, Dick,” you say softly, taking his hand into yours to kiss his knuckles. The sight makes Bob uncomfortable, but he’s not sure why it does when you’re only trying to console someone. “Babs is strong. You know that as well as I do.”

He blinks, and suddenly, you’re on your knees in the bathroom, violently throwing up. Was that a flower petal? They’re still in the hospital, considering the fluorescent and obscenely bright lights. He hadn’t spotted you earlier, but now he could clearly see you watching your own memory yourself before quickly shooting up from his very real bed to empty your stomach into his trash can.

But you don’t make it in time and something blue and red makes it cruel path out of your esophagus and onto his floor. He quickly realizes the red is blood, but the blue… is a flower? Bob appears, reasonably, horrified at the sight of what had just crawled its bloody way up and out of your throat moments ago.

It has been awhile since you’ve thrown up flowers, but you think it’s because you haven’t been around Dick in awhile. But while he may not be physically present on this earth, it’s obvious he still lives in your every memory.

Bob’s index finger shoots out, pointing directly at the flower on his floor. His other hand come ups to cover his mouth in attempt to stifle his own potential projectile reaction. “What—what is that?”

“A flower,” you cough, wiping your mouth of blood.

“How the fuck did you cough up a fucking flower?”

“I’m dying.” The confession comes out so easily, and you blame Bob for being such a disarming person. He’s now seen your world through your memories. He’s almost been there since day one.

He doesn’t know whether he should laugh or not, so he waits for you to crack a smile or show any sign of amusement after that. You do nothing but stare at him.

“How?”

“Love.” You continue with a defeated shrug, “I’m dying because the guy I love doesn’t return my feelings.”

“You can die from that?”

“On my world, you can. It’s rare but possible.”

“And you…?”

You nod.

He glances down once more to the mess on his floor that you’ll try to clean up later with embarrassment running through your bones, but he’ll help you despite your protests and apologies. He always will. “Does it hurt?”

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand. “Not anymore. You get used to the feeling. And well, I’ve also been stabbed. Like a lot.”

He can’t help but stare, unable to say any words of sympathy. He wants to, believe him, but they don’t come as easy as he would like. “Is he… the one from…?”

You nod pathetically. “Dick Grayson. Bestest friend in the world—my world.”

“You’d think after becoming literally invincible, you wouldn’t be so afraid of heights anymore,” you tease Bob, whose shaky eyes are trained far away from the side of the tower beneath your dangling legs.

He swallows, barely giving a glance down. “Yeah, I’m still not so great with heights,” he tells you sheepishly.

“That’s a shame. I’d have loved to show you some rooftop parkour on one of my patrols. You could’ve kept me company. For a bit, at least. I know you aren’t… ready.” You kick your feet in the air a little as you continue, “I suppose your suit wasn’t really made for that anyway. You might trip on your little cape.”

“Don’t laugh.” Bob pouts.

“I’m—”—you wheeze—“—not.”

He scoffs at you, playfully nudging your shoulder. “Sure you aren’t. And don’t you have a cape too?”

You’re laughing so hard that you double over, clutching your stomach. “Well, it’s shorter, and I also have like over ten years of experience—shit, am I really that old now?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, shut up,” you mumble, calming down from your fit of giggles.

The air grows quiet between you, but it remains serene. Well, you suppose it’s as quiet as New York gets at night. Less traffic, less honking, less stress. From a rooftop nearby the two of you snuck onto, you can see the skyline clearly. The window lights, which twinkle like a million tiny stars, are breathtaking. It’s a peace neither of you have felt in a long time, sometimes one you can barely afford with a life like yours. It feels like everything you say would just disappear into the air, but you also know the other will hold onto it if asked. So you’re grateful for this and for Bob, who never ever takes and only gives—perhaps even too much. And maybe it’s time for him to take something of yours.

Your voice sounds so small when you hear the words out loud for the very first time. “I don’t think I wanna be Batgirl anymore…”

Bob stares at you with wide eyes, spluttering, “You wanna quit?”

“It’s not that,” you explain. “I mean, I did quit for awhile after I started showing signs… I could barely look at Dick without coughing up rose petals from my lungs, but I just. I think I wanna be my own thing now, y’know? I wasn’t the first Batgirl, and I certainly won’t be the last… I just—I’d like to choose who I’m going to be this time.”

“I get that. When Valentina…” He gestures vaguely around himself. “When she made me into the Sentry, I didn’t get to choose any of it. The team told me after I lost my memory of what happened… that day last year. She came up with the name, gave me the suit and cape, told me what to do. And then, the Void happened… and now, I’m here.”

“Well, if it means anything to you, I think Bob is pretty great,” you say with a tiny, lop-sided smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Batgirl is pretty cool too, I guess—hey!” He rubs his arm where you whacked him before continuing with a pointed tone, “I was going to say, ‘Batgirl is pretty cool too, but whoever you want to be, I think I’ll like her too.’”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

It seems otherworldly fortuitous when a nightingale flies by, perching itself on the edge of the same rooftop you two were sat on.

You’re sitting on the arm of Bob’s lounging chair, peering over his shoulder to watch a YouTube video on setting up your new IKEA bookshelf on his phone.

“Does somebody have a flower garden in their room?” You and Bob glance up from his chair at Alexei, who’s holding a… familiar-looking trash bag. He picks up a handful of the flowers, stained with your blood but rinsed in case of something like this. “I must say these are beautiful. Very pretty. Shouldn’t be thrown out.” To your horror, Alexei begins to place all the intact flowers across the kitchen counters and the living room.

Bob’s sympathetic eyes are already on you when your gaze reaches his.

“I’m gonna kill myself,” you grumble, groaning quietly to yourself and Bob. “The one time I don’t take the trash out immediately.”

He tentatively places his hand over yours, making you look back at him again. A faint smile appears on your face, but it’s there.

You wake up early the next morning to quickly dispose of the flowers around the common spaces yourself, only to find them already gone. Weird, you think before spotting Bob in his usual relaxation spot. No one else was up yet. He’s relaxing in his chair by the window, reading another one of the books you recommended him. And you can’t help but smile a little, your heart feeling a tad warmer.

The day the itch in your throat—the one you’ve come to accept as second nature, is gone, you think is the day you will die. You had long since accepted your sentence, the terms and conditions you failed to read when you fell in love with bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Robin what feels like lifetimes ago now. So when your throat suddenly clears for the first time in years, you think it will be your last day on this Earth and the only other one you’ve ever known.

You’ve heard the stories… they say it hurts, or it feels cathartic. Those like you eventually all come to accept their fates as you have, but when you wake up the next morning and each one after that, you don’t know how to feel anymore.

After a few days, you show up to the leading team of doctors hired specifically by Valentina to keep her new Avengers alive. They knew about your condition since all your lung x-rays came back with a giant plant root wound painfully around your lungs. You were a medical wonder to them, and unfortunately, it also meant that the only information they had on your disease was well… from you. So when you didn’t die like you were supposed to, they were frankly just as puzzled as you were.

There were only two known ways to get rid of your ailment besides dying: one was to have your feelings returned by your unrequited love, the other was to surgically cut out the root from your lungs. The operation was highly experimental and highly risky. Those who have made it out alive have either lost their ability to feel love for their unrequited or for anybody altogether. In cases, that you’d argue were worse than death itself, some of them came out incapable of feeling any kind of emotion. To you, that would be losing your humanity. And how could you let go of that when you’ve seen what it’s done to others?

Scarecrow, Two-Face, the Joker.

It’s not for awhile that you realize your heart doesn’t stutter at the thought of Dick anymore, doesn’t clench and make that itch in your throat form a cough. But when exactly did you stop feeling that way about him?

Bob appears at your cracked door, knocking the frame with a gentle smile. “Wanna help me with breakfast?”

You glance over at him from your television—it’s playing Doctor Who, a show you’re grateful transcends the bounds of space—and nod. The smile you return him makes his grow a little brighter as you shuffle towards him to follow your somewhat daily routine.

“I know you clicked ‘Leave at door’, but I’ve got ice cream, some pastries, and a Pride & Prejudice Blu-ray for delivery, and I didn’t want your little kit to get stolen,” announces a voice through your door.

You snort, calling out, “I’m reporting you!” You twist the doorknob, finding Dick on the other side with an easy grin.

“Reporting me?” He gasps, clutching the items closer to his chest. “I’m just making sure these make it safely to their recipient. There are some hungry thieves out here, y’know,” he whispers, eyes shifting to a certain speedy ginger who happens to walk by at this particular moment.

You giggle, stepping aside for him to enter your room. “Gimme gimme.” You make grabby motions with your hands, trying to get him to hand you a pastry.

“Magic word?”

A groans slips out of your mouth before you begrudgingly mumble, “Please, Dick?”

“What was that?”

“Don’t push it.”

“You’re not going on patrol with me like… ever.” You scoff in disbelief at John, shaking your head.

“What?” He puffs, adjusting the beret on his head. “Why not? It’s boring here, and I just got my handgun fixed up.”

“Besides that alarming statement, you killed an innocent man in broad daylight…”

“Innocence is a matter of perspective.”

“No, Walker.”

“But it’s my turn to pick the movie tonight,” you grumble.

“Except it’s a stupid movie,” retorts John.

“Pride & Prejudice is not a stupid movie. It’s literally one of the cult classics! You made us watch Die Hard twice.”

“Also a cult classic—The first time was for the experience, and the second for Christmas.”

You scoff. “We’re watching Pride & Prejudice.”

The entire team was hesitant to watch the film at first, but throughout it, there were many tears shed… mostly by Alexei, although he tried to deny it, blaming the wind and dust. (You were inside.) Still, you could tell the others are enjoying it—even Walker, who was trying to pretend otherwise. Somewhere along the line, there was a joke or two about how Bucky—being as old as Jane Austen—should’ve played Mr. Darcy, garnering some snickers and a long sigh.

While Bob was definitely, totally paying attention to the movie, he seemed to be more interested in your expressions as you rewatched it for probably the billionth time. Even so, you were still completely captivated by it, smiling like a little kid. He watched you mouth some of the lines you’d known by heart to yourself. Eventually, he felt a tap on his shoulder, making him look back at Yelena.

While the others are absorbed into the movie, she whispers in his ear, “I know you like her, Bob, but the staring is getting creepy.”

He blushes and reduces his glances to once every five minutes instead.

You’re not sure how to bring it up—the rest of the Thunderbolts (Alexei filled you in on their temporary namesake before they became the Avengers, and then he and Yelena got into an argument about who was the actual sponsor of her Little League team.) aren’t even aware you’ve been dying. It’s great news, however, you’re not dying from unrequited love anymore! Still, you should probably tell Bob, the only person who was aware of your condition. But it had just felt unnatural to bring it up in any of your recent conversations.

Despite this, Bob does notice a change in you. Your face looks visibly brighter, and your body stronger. Your coughs went away almost completely, only occurring when someone is smoking outside or there’s construction pollution. He wonders if the disease that’s plagued you has realized you were too precious of a life to make a true victim. Because, to be frank, Bob has no idea what he’d do without you.

While the Thunderbolts understood pain and suffering, none of it could be considered normal. Child assassin, child experiment, super soldier, super asshole, Alexei. Not to say you had a normal childhood—you became a superhero as a freaking teenager, but your traumas were similar to his: dysfunctional family, depression, insecurities rooted so deeply into your being, you couldn’t get away from it. Although he and Yelena were close, you just got him. You clicked. You didn’t have to explain your feelings because the other always understood.

He never once felt like you looked through him. And whenever you smile at him, laugh with him, Bob feels some kind of euphoria. It’s better, cleaner than any high he’s ever gotten from meth and the like. Perhaps it’s not the most appropriate metaphor to make as a former addict (Nearly 1.5 years sober!), but he thinks he wants to stay high off of you.

He feels too anxious not to ask, so one night, he ends up at your door, knocking gently. Moments later, you open the door. “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

Bob clears his throat. “Just wanted to check in. Haven’t seen you all day.”

“You saw me at dinner,” you remind him, teasingly. You step aside, and he immediately shuffles into your room while you close the door behind him. “Something the matter, Bob?”

He’s not sure how to ask, so he just rips off the bandaid before he can chicken out. “Are you… feeling better now?”

It’s the most he can say it without actually saying it, but like always, you just understand.

“Oh, that…” You bite your lip, nodding slowly. “I am, actually. I think it might be gone.”

You can see his shoulders sag in relief, and he nearly envelops you in a hug. You catch the twitch of his body, as if it aches to be closer to yours. Yours makes the same kind.

“Good, great… I mean, that’s wonderful.”

You return his smile, echoing his sentiment. “It is. I’m just hoping that it clearing up isn’t some weird sign that I’m gonna spontaneously die. That would suck.”

“Don’t say that,” he grumbles. “I don’t really wanna think about that… You said it should go away once the feelings are returned or disappear, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So that means…”

“Uh-huh.” You bite your tongue gently. “I guess being away from him helped with that. Only took being on an entirely different planet though…” You both release a small chuckle at that. “I knew he was never going to… But back then, I couldn’t really imagine anyone being better than him. But you know, I suppose that’s what best friends are for… What is it?”

A thoughtful little frown has settled onto Bob’s face. “What if he feels the same way about you, and that’s why you don’t have it anymore?”

“I guess I just know. You ever felt your heart beat for someone else?” Your hand presses against your chest, directly over it. “It’s, like, out of your control—and it squeezes up. But in a good way. That doesn’t happen when I think of him anymore.”

Bob knows that all too well.

You had never felt more alive than you did the day you put on the Batgirl suit.

Black, reinforced fabric fitted perfectly to you—the esteemed yellow bat symbol stitched proudly over your chest. Next to you, a cute boy with forest green combat boots and a little yellow ‘R’ over his heart. Playfully, he tugs on your cape.

There was nothing more freeing than feeling the wind in your face, slipping through your fingers as you leap from one rooftop to another with your best friend. Childish laughter fills the air as you start your patrol for the night.

At first, you were hesitant to make that first leap onto the next building. But then a kind hand reached out with an encouraging smile to match, guiding you onto the other side. His yellow cape glimmered gold under the moonlight, luring you to follow him to the edge of the world.

Concrete crumbles around you, the sounds of bombs exploding so loud that they rumble through your chest. Your memory is unfortunately a little foggy, having blacked out for a few moments. Hopefully. Some civilians are in the line of fire of some villains whose names you forget, forcing you to rush to their side to bring them to a safe place. You aren’t even sure what’s safe anymore.

There’s really not much thinking you can do—letting your autopilot run for you, your trained instincts taking the reins until you will eventually drop.

Evade. Save. Dodge. Kick. Jump. Punch.

Most importantly, don’t kill and don’t die.

In your daze of fighting and more fighting, you can barely make out the sounds of fabric ripping over the ringing in your ears and the fresh pain coursing through you. You guarantee there are cuts and bruises all over your face now, which you hope will heal faster and won’t scar like the wounds all over the rest of your body.

Bucky finds you underneath some rumble, struggling to lift it off of yourself, and helps you back to your feet to continue the fight. While Yelena is taking care of one of the people bombing the city, you run towards Ava and John to help them with the other. Alexei is too focused on bringing civilians to safety to notice you disarm the man trying to shoot at him.

Once the threat has been contained, you’re able to mourn the hero suit you’ve worn for the better part of your life. It’s torn in so many places that you can barely recognize it anymore. However, the Bat symbol has been spared and remains intact, as if to tell you your purpose still lives on.

Bob has nearly bitten all of his nails off waiting for you all to return to the tower, especially you. Because he was still technically a civilian, he wasn’t allowed to listen in on your comms. Instead, he anxiously watched the entire battle on the flatscreen in the living room. A few helicopters were circling around the few blocks of the city the destruction was taking place, recording everything.

It is unbearable trying not to pull you into his embrace when the team returns. You’re all headed straight for the med bay to get treated. It seems like you took most of the injuries, much to his horror, but you were the strongest person he knew. You could get through anything.

Your suit has been torn to shreds though. He winces each time he looks at it laying on the table beside you. The dark cape was completely ripped apart, leaving nothing but a few scraps you tried to fruitlessly pick up and take back. But you make light of it, telling him not to worry about it as you sip the warm tea he brought you, made exactly the way you like it. At least you were faring better than the suit.

“I think I was in need of something new anyway,” you muse, licking your lips. “Maybe it’s finally time I spread my wings. I’ve already jumped, or I guess fallen, out of the nest.”

“You pick out a name yet?”

You nod, setting down your cup of tea on the table. “Yeah, I decided awhile ago. You remember that night when we were sitting on that rooftop, and I made fun of your fear of heights?”

The relief that Nightwing feels when he sees that you’re alive and in one piece has him nearly in tears. Is that a new suit you’re wearing? That’s besides the point. The relief that Dick Grayson feels, though? It is immeasurable and shakes his entire body to his very soul. He’s been without his best friend (Sorry, Wally.) for nearly a year now, and to say that it’s been hard or difficult is an entirely gross understatement. He could barely eat or sleep the first few months after you had slipped through the literal cracks in the universe.

He should’ve caught you like he did every other time in your lives. Dick has always been your safety net, and he failed you the one time you needed him most. B told him he doesn’t have to go out on missions for awhile, but Dick needs to bury himself in his work. Not even Kori could console him, but she always tried. And while he appreciated it, he needed to be alone for awhile.

He loved Kori, truly, but his love for you was different. You were each other’s person. It was always you two against the world. (Again, sorry Wally.) Not necessarily in a romantic sense, but you guys were soulmates, completely in tune in every aspect of your lives—on the field and off. As Zatanna liked to put it, twin flames and whatnot.

The hug he pulls you into steals your breath away, bodies shaking. He kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against it as he listens to you catch him up on everything since you landed on this Earth. If it had been any nicer occasion, he’d be freaking out with you about being on an alternate Earth.

But then you make a confession that’s stealing his breath away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks more distraught than you’ve ever seen him before. There’s a little wrinkle between his eyebrows that you want you smooth out with your thumb like usual. But there’s nothing usual about telling your best friend you were going to suffocate to death because of a rare disease caused by your former love for him.

You breathe out a sad little laugh. “What would that have done?”

“I could’ve helped you—“

“—How, Dick?”

“B knows all the best doctors, he could’ve—“

“Dick…”

“I would’ve done anything to help you.”

You know what he means, and it makes your stomach curl. He is too good for the world. Any of them.

“You can’t force yourself to love me. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“I already do! I could’ve tried!”

You slink your arms around him, wrapping him into your embrace. “Boy Wonder, you can make plenty of miracles happen, but that? I don’t think so. And we both know it’s not that kind of love.”

“I do love you,” he responds defeatedly, melting into your warm, familiar embrace.

“I know you do. I love you too.” It is strange but also cathartic to be able to say that so openly, so honestly. You don’t have to hide it anymore because it’s no longer killing you. “I love you so very much, Grayson.”

A string of apologies fly out of his mouth, but you gently shush him. “You have nothing, and I mean nothing, to be sorry for. It’s not something either of us could’ve controlled. We both know feelings don’t work like that. They’re weird, and they creep up on you out of nowhere—but they also transform. I’m okay now.”

“You could’ve died,” he reminds you, “and it wouldn’t been my fault.”

The only thing you can do is hold him even tighter. “But I’m not dead, and it wouldn’t have been your fault. It’s no one’s fault, Dick.”

It will be a long time before he believes you, but for now, it suffices.

“We should go home soon… I wish we could stay longer, but we don’t know how long we can keep the portal open.” Dick is tugging you gently, but his face then falls at your hesitation. He keeps his arms on you to ground himself.

“Actually, Grayson, I… I think I wanna stay,” you confess.

“Stay?”

“We’ve all felt that—that calling… and I… I think it’s led me here now, Dick. I can’t just leave when these people need a new team who can protect them.”

“But you… you belong with us… with me.”

“I do, but now I belong with them too.” You glance back at the team and Bob, all watching you and Dick from the other end of the helipad. “They’re family now, my third one, I guess.”

“Nobody knows if we can get you back to our world after this.” Dick sniffles, your name so sweet and sad on his tongue. “I don’t want to never see you again…”

“I don’t either, but we’ll hold out hope, alright? If you guys could figure out getting here once, then who’s to say you can’t do it again? I mean, I’m not even the first person to come here from another world. How fucking cool is that? I’ll see you again, Dick. I know it. Don’t you?”

He stares in awe of you for a moment before nodding agreeingly. “I do.” His smile returns. “Wow, I’ve never heard you sound so… optimistic before.”

You sniffle, chuckling through your tears. “I guess I’ve changed since coming here.”

“Yeah, you have, Nightingale,” he teases you.

You let out an ungraceful snort, wiping away your tears with the back of your hand. “Birds of a feather, Nightwing.”

Bob has had almost the entire year to prepare himself for this moment, and yet he still feels like he’s going to throw up at the sight of you leaving for, probably, ever. While your spot on the team was always going to be a temporary thing, he thought that maybe… No, you wanted to go home. And now you were.

The others tried to console him while you were talking to Dick on the helipad, your best friend and the man you almost died over. The tower would feel so empty without you. Who would he cook breakfast with? You were the only one who knew how he liked his eggs. And he was pretty particular about his eggs.

And book club? How’s he supposed to do book club without the club? He thought he enjoyed reading books alone before you joined the team, but getting to talk and laugh and make fun of them with you? And there’s no way he could do it with the rest of the team. He doubts any of them even read.

Instead of disappearing off into the sunset (It was early morning.) with pretty boy Dick Grayson like he thought you would, you turn around and walk back towards them. So this was really it—goodbye.

The words run out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he blurts out a jumbling mess of syllables, “I know it’s selfish, and if you wanna go home, you should, but I don’t think I want you to go—“

Your mouth feels a little dry when you admit, “—I’m not going.”

“W-what?”

“I told Dick I was going to stay here.”

“You did?”

You nod in response. “How could I leave you guys?” Your teeth pull your lip in worry. “How could I leave you?”

“But you’ve been missing home, and I thought…”

“Yeah, I did too. I do miss it, but I’m sure I can go back, I think…” You chuckle nervously. “I hope… But I am home. Here, I mean. I guess somewhere along the line, I got attached to you idiots. And the Avengers need all the help they can get, y’know?”

Your mouth forms all the words, yet it feels like it’s still dancing around what you really should be saying. The confession rests on the very tip of your tongue, threatening to be released out into the world.

“You’re an Avenger too.”

“Yeah.” You chuckle, scratching behind your ear. “Sorry, um, I also wanna tell you… It shouldn’t be this hard. Oh, God, don’t look at me like that—I’m gonna lose my train of thought—“

Never in your life have you been kissed as fiercely or passionately as this. Bob’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his tongue prodding and prodding until your gasp allows it entrance.

John clears his throat loudly, remarking, “Hey, you guys know we’re still here, right?”

“I don’t know if they care,” Bucky comments, trying not to stare.

“Well finally,” Yelena says, “we’ve been waiting.”

“Took you two long enough,” Ava chimes.

Alexei claps like a proud father. “Oh, this is wonderful! Nightingale is staying, and these two finally figured out they like each other!”

You bury your face into the crook of Bob’s neck, embarrassed by your affectionate display.

“I love you!” you hear Dick Grayson, your best friend in the whole world(s), shout before he does a flip back into the portal home.

“Show-off,” you remark affectionately, tutting.

It’s raining outside today, the sound of the raindrops tranquil. Mindlessly, your fingers run up the back of Bob’s neck (His whole body shivers.) and tangle themselves in soft brown locks. He walks you backwards until the back of your knees hit his bed, and you land on its soft mattress.

He leans back, warm blue eyes meeting your gaze. “This okay?”

“Okay?” you repeat, pecking around his collarbone. “This is more than okay.”

“Okay… Great. That’s great.”

Nervous chuckles escape you both as you begin to undress each other. His shirt lands somewhere on his floor for you to steal later—probably tomorrow morning. You think yours ends up draped over his TV—or maybe it’s your bra—but the way he’s kissing the tops of your breasts is really distracting you from figuring it out.

“It’s been awhile, so… I’m kinda out of practice,” you admit, embarrassed by your little confession.

He lifts his head, shaking it. “Me too. I haven’t… in awhile either.”

The pads of his fingers dance around your waist, skimming past the hem of your pants. You let out an embarrassing whimper from the slightest tap of his fingers against your clit, the only barrier between them the fabric of your underwear.

“You sound really pretty,” he whispers, nibbling on the skin of your shoulder.

A sound between a hum and a whine bubbles out of your lips. “No teasing, please. Not right now.”

His mouth leaves your neck for a split moment. “Okay, no teasing.”

Luckily for you, he means it. And in no time, he has two fingers inside you, stretching your wet cunt out. A warm tongue darts around your sensitive nerves before a pair of lips gently sucks at the flesh. Sometimes, you forget just how strong Bob is, his large hands pressing down onto your thighs to keep them spread open for him with ease. He doesn’t look that strong, but you’ve seen what he hides underneath his shirts and sweaters. A low groan tumbles out of his throat at your fingers tugging his hair, and he whimpers at your sweet, soft whines. He’s making you feel that way, and the thought excites him more than he’d like to admit.

By the time he’s made you come around his fingers and with his mouth, he’s gotten achingly hard and has been bucking his hips into the side of his mattress for any sort of relief. You tug him forward, smashing your lips against his and delight in the taste of your cum on his tongue.

“Need you,” you murmur, whining from sensitivity as Bob continues to circle your clit with his thumb.

Impatiently, you unbuckle his belt and tug down his pants and underwear together with practiced ease, waiting for him to step out of them. He quickly kicks them away before pressing himself back on top of you, eager lips finding yours again.

“You need me?” he asks between sloppy, desperate kisses.

Your teeth tug at the meat of your cheek, chewing with a shyness that he likes seeing on you. “I need you,” you repeat with a small nod.

“Alright, pretty girl. Lay down for me?”

You follow his instructions, and he thinks he could cum solely from the sight of you spread out on his bed for him. He’s already fucked his own fist more times than he can count to the thought of this. He’s praying that it’s not any figment of imagination or some cruel trick of the mind Void is playing—but then again, anything the Void shows never feels this good.

And fuck, do you feel good.

He pumps his length a few times before smearing your cum around your swollen folds to coat himself in your slick. He is already delirious with pleasure, and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet. But when Bob finally slips into you, it’s gentle, and he’s cupping your face so sweetly. You whine as he slowly bottoms out, filling you up until you’re full of him. He’s a lot but not too much, just enough.

“I’ll take care of you, okay, pretty girl?” He feels your tight walls clenching around him, and it takes so much in him not to cum then and there. Slowly, he pulls his cock out of your needy cunt just to slide it back in all the way in one swift motion. “That’s it. You can take it.”

You nod dumbly at his words, feeling your cunt continue to stretch around him. He leans down over you, pressing his warm mouth onto yours. He even tastes like you still.

There isn’t much you can do except cry out his name and hold onto him, nails digging into his back as he fucks himself into you with your legs wrapped tight around his hips—not that he minds any bit. It’s not like you can hurt him, but he’ll end up mourning the scratches you could’ve blessed him with later on. Invulnerability isn’t always a gift.

“You feel so good,” you whisper.

He inhales sharply and jokes, “You should see how you feel.”

Although you’ve been pulsing around him, you need just that little extra push before you can cum. Without much thought—How can you have any when you’re getting fucked like this?—your hand somehow snakes between your bodies, finding your clit with ease.

“Oh, fuck…” he drawls out as you manage to get even tighter around his cock. How was that possible?

Your second release hits you before you can even get the words to come out, your cries filling the room. He realized soon after he got his powers that his stamina never really changed unless he was using his abilities for awhile. And fucking you wasn’t really a superpower—though you are inclined to disagree. Well, it meant that he could continue to thrust into you, drawing out your pleasure until you’re shaking from overstimulation.

Through the haze of probably the best orgasm you’ve ever been given in your life, you vaguely make out his question and answer, “I-inside’s okay.”

After making sure again, Bob finally cums with a last few bucks of his hips, a new delicious warmth filling you inside. Without pulling out, he collapses on top of you, careful not to suffocate you. The mixture of your cum is probably all over his sheets anyway, but you think maybe he just wants to be inside you a little longer.

It nearly makes you cringe, how heavily you’re panting right now—it’s the only thing you can hear. The thought quickly disappears when you feel him place a gentle kiss onto your mouth.

“You okay?”

You’re too fucked out to make any words leave your mouth, so you manage with a little hum.

“I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?” There’s a hint of insecurity that you can detect in his soft, hesitant tone.

Shaking your head adamantly, you can do. You play with his hair while you try to find your voice again. “I wouldn’t let you be rough with me if I didn’t like it,” you whisper, gently pressing your finger into his cheek. “And if you couldn’t tell, I really liked it.”

You also like the smile that makes its way onto his face. It’s a wonder that a man who could do all of that to you could still be blushing crimson at your words right after.

Leaning forward, he nuzzles his nose against yours and asks quietly, “You seriously wanna stay here?”

“Yes, Bob the Builder. I wanna stay here. On this Earth. With you.”

“I’m really glad,” he murmurs against your mouth, an honesty in his words you’ve come to appreciate greatly.

You sing-song a familiar cartoon tune, “Can we stay here?”

Bob snorts, answering, “Yes, we can!”

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” You’re standing next to Bob in your suit, a reassuring expression on your face. “It’s seriously not a big deal, I already do this with Yelena all the time—“

“No, no,” Bob says quickly, waving you off. His bright blue eyes keep darting between you and what’s waiting below off the edge of the building. “I wanna do this.”

“No offense, dude, but you look terrified.”

He nods. “Well, that’s great, because I am.”

You sigh, taking his hand in yours. “And I said you don’t have to. I already appreciate you considering it.”

“I want to,” he tells you with full honesty. “I do. I wanna know if it’s like how you described.”

“Even though you’re scared and squeezing my hand like you aren’t a perfectly safe distance from the edge?”

“Yes.”

You give him your brightest grin. “Just don’t pass out on me, alright? I don’t have super strength, and I will get Alexei to carry you back to the tower by himself.”

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds fluff #bob reynolds angst #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds imagine #robert reynolds smut #sentry x reader #sentry imagine #sentry smut #lewis pullman #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts imagine #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #nightwing x reader #nightwing imagine

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hivemuthur · 5 days ago

Text

Favours Between Friends - Ch.2.

viktorxfem!reader mature: Modern AU, omegaverse, alpha Viktor x omega Reader, rom-com, fake dating, author has a very vague understanding of omegaverse but there's some terminology, dubious science. Cringe and clawing to be free.

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4.

word count: 6K

author’s note: Hello my dearest racoons. I, the flute playing racoon, return with chapter 2. If you happen to know any real-life Dans or Claires please do not come to tell me because I started using a random name generator. This chapter has no real warnings, but it does contain near-lethal amounts of awkwardness. I begged @doggrowth to check this for nonsense and she did, thank you :3 Happy Freakday.

AO3

—

You're up an hour earlier than necessary, already dressed, hair damp from the shower, half a banana untouched on the counter. Every item in your overnight bag has been checked and rechecked—suppressant patches, scent-blockers, charger, printed programme, spare clothes, evening clothes. Your notes have been rearranged so many times the staples are loosening.

The week passed faster than expected. Viktor texted a handful of times—mostly brief, dry tips on blocker formulations and suppression timing, none of them especially helpful. Start two days before departure, unless your cycle is irregular, in which case—monitor for onset and proceed accordingly. You’d read it three times before muttering “thank you, Doctor,” and deleting it out of spite.

Only on Thursday night had he dipped into anything resembling warmth. All ready? I hope you are excited.

More like eaten alive by nerves, but yes—that would equal ready, you texted, taken aback by the sudden shift of tone. The reply read: No need for that. You are going to be brilliant. Sleep well, I’ll see you in the morning. This one you didn’t delete.

You pull up just after nine and realise that he lives only a few blocks from you. He's already on the kerb when you arrive, dressed in grey jumper and black pants, a single travel bag slung over his shoulder and a suit zipped into one of those garment protectors that means business.

“Hi,” he says, poking his head through the back door to hang the suit up right next to your dress. Then he circles round and slips into the passenger seat. He adjusts the seat lever with a mechanical click and slots his cane carefully by the door.

"How are you?" he asks finally, glancing your way.

It hits you then—what it means, having him here, in your car, this close. Two hours of confined space, quiet road hum, nothing to hide behind. He looks freshly pressed, shaved, hair neatly parted, everything about him tucked in and exact. Whatever scent might exist beneath the surface is scrubbed raw—just sterile soap and then nothing, an almost uncanny echo of blockers. You can’t feel him at all. No ripple of presence, no pheromonal weight. It's disorienting, like sitting next to a ghost in the shape of a man. Still, his being here makes the weekend suddenly, fully real.

“All scent-blocked and suppressed,” you reply.

He chuckles, brief and warm. “That’s not what I’m asking. But thank you for respecting the safety measures. Now—how are you feeling?”

You wince, turn the key in the ignition. “Like I’m about to defend a thesis and meet an executioner in the same room.”

“Ah. So: hydrated, alert, and wildly overprepared.”

“That about sums it up.” You tap the playlist open and hit shuffle. The Tales of Brave Ulysses drapes itself over the dashboard. “And you? Did you set seven alarms and wake up before all of them, or is that just me?”

“I slept exactly six hours and eighteen minutes,” he says with the calmness of a man reporting the temperature. “Standard pre-event routine. No dreams, thankfully.”

You pull into traffic, the morning sun bleaching out the colours of the street. He sits straight despite the low seat, hands folded neatly over one knee.

“Do you want music, or silence, or some awkward combination of the two?” you ask, flicking on the indicator. Viktor leans forward, curiosity twitching at the corner of his mouth. He taps the screen to glance at what’s next—Dylan, Donovan, The Zombies, Fleetwood Mac live at the Boston Tea Party. “You’ve the music taste of my father,” he says, sinking back and letting out a soft, sardonic laugh.

“Well, your dad must be cool, then,” you reply, half-smile creeping in.

“Was,” Viktor deadpans.

Your mouth snaps shut; the next words tumble out in a jittered rush. “Oh—God—sorry, I didn’t—”

He lifts a palm, gentle but firm. “It’s fine. Please don’t worry. A long time has passed—you’re good, I insist.”

“Clearly I’m doing spectacularly.” You attempt a chuckle, eyebrows knotted. “Maybe supply me with a list of deceased relatives so I don’t put my foot clear through the floor?”

“Or,” he suggests, tapping a thumb on his knee, “we could simply change the topic.”

“Shit, Viktor.” You shake your head at the windscreen. “I am an idiot. I promise I improve with closer acquaintance.”

“Hopefully, so far you've been terrible,” he teases, flicking a glance your way while drumming two fingers on the cane’s silver collar. “But you are right, maybe I should provide you with a list of forbidden topics. You see, I'm disabled, so no cripple jokes. I'm also—”

“Will you please stop, I'm embarrassed as it is,” you cut in, heat flaring across your cheeks while he laughs under his breath.

“At least you’re smiling,” he murmurs, fond.

“Yeah, well. At this point it’s that or steer us into a ditch.”

“I’d prefer not to die en route to a networking event,” he says dryly. “Too undignified.”

You glance sideways at him. “You think that’s how you’d go? In a Fiat, with Cream blaring and an emotionally unstable omega at the wheel?”

He lifts a brow. “Statistically speaking, it’s less likely than a lab fire. Though more poetic.”

You snort. “Oh, so now it’s poetic? I thought you didn’t like sentimentality.”

“I don’t,” he says, then adds, “but if one must perish, being driven off a motorway by a woman quoting song lyrics and apologising for your dead relatives seems memorable.”

“That’s going on your headstone.”

“Please. I’ve already written my epitaph.”

“Oh?”

“He met deadlines.”

You laugh, loud enough that it bounces off the windows. “God, that’s bleak.”

He shrugs. “What can I say. I aim for accuracy.”

“Speaking of deadlines,” you say, trying to steer the attention away from your glaring inability to make small talk, “tell me about your thing? Distract me, please.”

Viktor hums, eyes drifting toward the window. “It’s a development extension for a sensory relay device. You’d probably find it dull—it’s mostly about motor response fidelity and predictive correction.”

“Try me.”

He glances over, brow lifting a little, then nods. “We’re building an external module for patients with degenerative conditions—something that learns from their movement patterns and helps anticipate what they meant to do. Most of the current prosthetics or supports react to input. We want this one to predict intention. If it works, it’ll reduce fatigue, tremors, accidental strain. Maybe give people back a bit of agency when their body starts slipping out from under them.”

You blink, genuinely impressed. “That doesn’t sound dull. That sounds like neural engineering on hard mode.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s generous. Mostly it’s frustration with libraries that don’t cooperate and test rigs that short out at the worst possible time.”

“Deadline?”

“Six weeks to have a prototype ready. Hence all the scent-blockers and risk mitigation. I can’t afford to lose control of anything right now.”

You nod, tapping the steering wheel with your fingers. “Makes sense.”

He looks over. “What about you? What got you into your project? It’s not a very… glamorous niche.”

You exhale slowly, the question touching something still a little raw. “My mum. She was in palliative care for six months.”

Viktor’s posture stills, his gaze sharpening with quiet attention.

“She couldn’t really talk by the end,” you continue, “but she was conscious—aware. Some days were worse than others. But even when it was bad, I remember thinking… it didn’t have to be awful. That maybe the end could be more than pain and panic. That it could be… meaningful. Peaceful. If someone could just listen the right way.”

The song shifts to something slower as you pause. You’re not crying, but the ache of memory lingers. “I thought maybe… if we could give people tools to understand what their loved ones need in those final days, there’d be less fear. More goodbyes that aren’t rushed. More calm. Less guilt.”

Viktor sits silent, eyes on the passing road, some private thought tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So your mother…?” he asks, voice gentler than before.

You nod, once. “Yeah. Gone a while now. So it seems we’ve got more in common than just the doom of funky genetics and a niche research obsession.”

That gets a huff of breath from him—something between amusement and recognition. “I suppose we do.”

There’s more you could say—another, quieter reason for the project that you didn’t offer him. For a hot minute there, during all the diagnostic spirals and hormonal shutdowns, you thought you might end up as one of those patients. Not at the very end, maybe, but drifting toward it. It feels like too much lore for a casual, already-too-personal thought exchange in a car.

It ended relatively well, all things considered. One ovary lighter, dignity somewhere six feet under. But the idea stayed. Lodged itself in your ribs and never left.

Viktor’s eyes rest on you. He studies you for a second longer than is strictly casual, then inhales carefully through his nose. His brow twitches. “You have a strong scent.”

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Wha—uh, sorry about that,” you say quickly. “I’ll take more blockers when we get there. It gets like that when I’m nervous.” A sheepish smile follows. “Hope it’s not… annoying.”

“Not at all. It’s… nice,” Viktor says, and it sounds almost like a slip—like he didn’t mean to let the word out unpolished. You resist the sudden urge to ask what nice entails. Warm? Sweet? Distracting?

He adds, “I’m just surprised. The blockers I recommended are meant to be foolproof.”

You sigh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that about every new pill since I was nineteen. I’m really sorry—I’ll take care of it once we disembark.”

Viktor scratches his chin, fingers moving slowly over the line of his jaw. He looks like he’s debating something, and eventually lands on a question so vague you almost laugh. “You mentioned Dan… yes? That he’s a beta. Have you ever…?”

“Been with an alpha?” you finish for him, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Yes. She was like Mel, if Mel was evil and threatened by Jayce’s big brain.”

His eyebrows lift. “I see. That explains quite a lot.”

You snort. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, tone carefully light, “I had a feeling you weren’t terribly fond of Mel at the beginning.”

“Ah, that.” You nod. “Yeah, she… sparked all the wrong feelings in me. But turns out there’s absolutely nothing that threatens Mel Medarda’s ego, and that she has quite a big heart too.”

You hesitate, fingers drumming a rhythm on the wheel. “It’s hard to explain. It’s… good, being around a secure alpha. Even if they’re with someone else. It’s calming. Safe, even. Like they’re holding up the ceiling.”

“I know what you mean,” Viktor says softly, cutting in before you lose the thread.

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

“Well, have you?” you ask, careful to keep it light. “Ever? I mean I suppose you have, given all the safety measures—”

“Yes,” he replies, a breath of dry laughter leaving his nose. The sound is neither bashful nor proud—just a fact, delivered plainly. He doesn’t elaborate.

He knows exactly what you meant: about safety, control, the shape intimacy takes when it's laced with fear of consequence. Omegas speak of calm, of security in the presence of a grounded alpha. But for alphas—at least for him—omegas represent a storm. Not in the poetic, lust-laced way most would mean it, but a literal unravelling. Scent alone can shred his regiment to ribbons. Once, he’d tested that—let himself near someone, back before he knew the cost of proximity. Not a relationship or love. Just a necessary surrender, in a time when being alone might have cracked him open. It helped, for a moment. It made things worse, after.

He never claimed anyone. Never even considered it. He doesn’t get the luxury of instinct. Not when he’s running on natural suppression, low-grade immunity, and the haunting knowledge that whatever his body might want, it has nothing reliable to offer. His condition, his build, his blood—it’s a genetic gamble he lost before he ever opened his eyes. Lank, fragile, unsteady on bad days. What omega in their right mind would want to anchor themselves to that?

He stares out at the road, the blur of trees slipping past like thoughts he’d rather ignore. His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “It was a long time ago. It didn’t end badly, just… reaffirmed that I prefer not to tempt chaos.” He looks at you. “Control suits me better.”

Your brow furrows, not in confusion but in the soft sort of empathy he’s come to expect from you. You don’t press. He’s grateful for that.

Instead, you tap the steering wheel with your finger and ask, with the hint of a smirk, “So, should I add omegas to the list of forbidden car ride topics?”

“I thought we already established that everything is a forbidden topic,” he deadpans.

You laugh. “Right. I’m doing great.”

“You are,” he says, almost too softly to hear. But you do.

If one takes it without all the biological jargon, it’s rather romantic, really. Nature chooses its strong and beautiful, mashes them together for life, so they can produce more of the strong and beautiful, and the planet keeps spinning.

The production phase—what others might call the storm, the pull, the falling—also partly makes up for all the pain that comes in between. It did for Viktor. Because even though with his last omega partner it had been fleeting, with no collapse, no heartbreak, no dramatic parting—nothing after ever quite measured up.

It was the closest he ever came to silence. To stillness, even. Like the static of pain and effort went quiet for a breath. Sex was near to earth shattering. It just came at a cost.

Afterwards, when he made a reasonable choice, everything else was manageable. Controlled. Safer. But sterile, in its own way.

He told himself, that’s what he preferred and still does. But when he sits beside you in this enclosed space, with your scent trailing faintly under the mix of shampoo and old car leather, he realises how long it’s been since he’s let anything truly affect him. How tightly the lid is sealed.

And how alive his skin feels, now that he’s so close to you.

Your fingers hover near the volume dial, fiddling absently as your curiosity gnaws at its leash. You want to ask—something, anything. Why he doesn't suppress, if he's got such an important deadline looming. But your own reasons are stamped in medical ink, stitched through surgical scars and invasive tests, and you suspect his might be, too. You add it to the forbidden car ride topics list, for a good measure, and let it go.

Before you know it, the playlist loops back to the beginning—Cream, again—and the motorway thins into two-lined lanes that sway gently beneath the weight of late summer. The road curves, then dips, then rises into a gravel shoulder marked by a carved wood sign: The Southern Pines.

The resort is larger than you expected. A mix of exposed beams and modern glass, it stretches across a gentle hill like something from a magazine spread—sleek, expensive, too tasteful to be showy. Lavender spills over the borders of the drive, the blooms catching light in soft purple-grey patches as you pull up to the main drop-off. The air smells cleaner here. Green, maybe. You’re not sure what green smells like, but this must be it.

Viktor straightens in his seat beside you, glancing at the building’s long verandas, the polished flagstone path, the bellhop waiting at the entrance with white gloves and a little name tag. You exhale, still gripping the wheel like it’s the last thing tethering you to sanity.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” you reply, and kill the engine.

You step out of the car into the soft crunch of gravel, sun pressing warm against your back. Viktor moves slower, easing out with practiced caution. He loops the cane over his wrist and reaches for the garment bag first, then the travel case. You grab your own things and meet him at the boot, where the air smells like lavender and money.

The lobby is cool in contrast to the summer outside—stone floors, glossy wood beams, and a fireplace that feels like set dressing more than necessity. A concierge greets you both with a warm, clipped welcome and gestures toward the reception desk.

“Name, please?”

You give it, still shifting the weight of your bag on your shoulder.

“Ah yes, your rooms are ready.” The worker types something into the computer, then smiles. “Double suite, conjoined bath. Room keys are digital—you should’ve received them by email, but we have physical cards as well, if you prefer.”

You blink. “Sorry—conjoined?”

The worker doesn’t flinch. “Yes. Two bedrooms, private connecting bathroom. It’s one of the last suites available in your block. You RSVPed a bit later than most, so unfortunately that was all we could offer.”

Your hesitation lingers, words caught mid-form. “I thought the rooms would be entirely separate,” you murmur.

“I am very sorry,” the worker says, all smiles and apology. “We’re fully booked for the weekend.”

Before you can formulate an objection, Viktor shifts beside you. “It’s fine,” he says calmly, voice just firm enough to break the air. “We’ll work around it. Don’t worry.”

You glance at him. He nods once, just enough to tell you it’s settled.

The worker brightens. “Lovely. The welcome mixer is already underway in the main lounge. It’ll run for a few hours, so feel free to freshen up and head down whenever you’re ready. Luggage assistance?”

“No, we’ve got it,” you say quickly, your things already gathered. You head toward the lift, keycards in hand, the quiet click of Viktor’s cane tapping beside you.

Upstairs, both of you pause in front of your respective doors, the tension of the day catching on the soft-clicking hallway silence. You shift your weight, trying not to fumble your keycard, and glance at him.

“Text me when ready?” you say, aiming for casual. The words come out lighter than your chest feels.

“Wait,” Viktor says, and you turn.

He takes a small step closer. His brows pinch, as if the words are misbehaving inside his mouth. “One last thing,” he manages, voice lower now. “How would you like me to… act?”

You blink. “Act?”

He huffs a breath—more abashed than anxious, but just barely. “At the mixer. And overall. I mean… I assume you don’t want me to pretend we’re…” He gestures vaguely between you.

“Oh.” You feel your heart punch once against your ribs, then slide down into something like mortified understanding. “Right. Uh—I mean, I’m not expecting you to, you know…” You gesture vaguely back. “Maybe just not make it really obvious that you’re not? You don’t have to pretend you’re in love with me or anything, just... maybe don’t let everyone know we barely know each other.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches. He raises his keycard in quiet agreement, as if saluting the awkward terms of your contract. “That should work.”

You nod, then disappear into your room before the floor can swallow you out of first-hand embarrassment.

The door shuts behind you with a soft mechanical clank. Alone, at last, you let the groan crawl out of your throat like a trapped animal. It’s long, heartfelt, and entirely ungraceful.

The room, thankfully, is distraction enough. Neutral tones, crisp linens, one giant bed so wide you could stage a symposium on it, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing a joined balcony with a postcard view of the nearby hills. You leave your bags by the desk and stand there a moment, just breathing in the air-conditioning and solitude.

Your phone buzzes.

Viktor: Feel free to take the first shift at the bathroom.

You grab your toiletries and a change of clothes. The shared bathroom is pristine, all marble accents and soft lights. You shower quickly, rinse away the car sweat and awkward tension. Towelling off, you run through your checklist—patch secure, pill swallowed—scent-blockers reapplied. You leave your toothbrush, perfume, and products tucked into a corner of the sink in a zip bag and hang your towel on the bar.

Locking your side of the door behind you, you send off a quick text: All free. Ten minutes later, your phone buzzes. One word: Ready.

You freshen your hair with a quick brush, check your clothes for creases, and slip on your blazer. When you step out to the hallway, Viktor’s already there—black shirt, pressed jacket, hair slightly damp. You nod to each other, say nothing. In the lift, you stand side by side, quiet, until the doors open onto the lobby.

At the bar, you order a drink—something cold and crisp—and thank Viktor when he picks it up for you. You turn to scan the room, glass just touching your lips.

“Hello there! You look—” Dan’s eyes sweep over you with casual dissection. “—tired?”

He appears out of fucking nowhere. Your face tightens, just slightly, but you manage to smooth it out. No point starting a scene. “Uh, hi Dan. I’m good, thank you for asking.”

He nods, as if that was all just politeness to tick off. Then he gestures to your right. “And this is?”

“Viktor,” says Viktor, stepping forward with a brief, unassuming smile and offering his hand. You see it—the pause in Dan’s blink as they shake, the microscopic flicker of appraisal. It’s the same half-second scan you’ve watched Mel perform like an art form.

“I see,” Dan says, throat working. “Well. I’m Dan Wilby. And this is Claire.” His hand settles on the hollow of her back in a gesture so practiced it makes your skin crawl.

She is immaculate. Not a single strand out of place in the tight updo, her makeup matte and undisturbed by time or sweat. Her nails are manicured to a shine, clothes so crisply ironed they might as well be painted on. Every piece of her outfit matches in tone—dusty rose, soft ivory, a whisper of gold—everything calculated to enhance her softness. There’s no hint of nerve or edge. Just calm, delicate poise.

And then you smell it. Just faintly. A trace of something sweet and perfumed that doesn’t belong to hotel shampoo or designer fragrance. Something biological. Your heart stutters—no. Can’t be, right? Before you can even formulate the thought, Viktor beats you to it.

He inclines his head, polite but not overly familiar, ignoring the hand Claire offers. “No blockers?” he says, tone light but unmistakably pointed. “Bold, for such a big event.”

You feel your stomach drop. A cold swell rises under your ribs.

“I prefer to go au naturel,” she chirps, smile bright as cut glass. “Better for your skin.”

“Wait…” It just slips out. You’re still staring, gears turning. That bastard. You thought seeing Dan again would dredge up old feelings—grief, maybe regret. But instead, it’s something else entirely. Because he didn’t lie to protect you. He didn’t leave because it was hard being with an omega. He left because being with you was hard. You, specifically.

Claire is the version of you he wanted. Composed. Quiet. Readable. An omega whose scent is so dainty it could pass for luxury body spray. Of course. It was never about biology. It was about you.

“Dangerous, given the cohort here,” Viktor’s voice yanks you out of the spiral. It’s still warm, but the corners of his mouth are tight. “Inconsiderate, even.”

Claire only tilts her head, pleased. “I see why you might think that. But I’m freshly out of my fertility window, and it was handled professionally. Not that it’s any of your business, Viktor.”

You barely hear them now, blood thundering in your ears. You’re flushed and hot and confused. The pressure builds like steam in a locked pot. “I’m sorry, but—” Your voice shakes, and you have to breathe to stop it. “I can’t believe this.”

“There’s really nothing to see here,” Dan says, with all the emotional acuity of a damp napkin. “We identified the issue and worked around it.”

You stare at him, stunned. The issue?

“Modern world offers a lot of options,” Claire says, turning her smile to Viktor. “You should check them out.”

Viktor’s nostrils flare ever so slightly. You don’t know if he’s furious or simply shocked, but you recognise the tension in his jaw.

And you? You want to scream. Or laugh. Or leave. Maybe all three.

You can’t stop your tongue before it unspools. “I’m sorry, I know this is private, but—Dan, are you… serious?”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning confusion. “I thought you’d be happy for me. You seem to have found yourself a willing… specimen.”

“And you’re still hung up on something that clearly wasn’t for you? Letting someone else handle your girlfriend’s heat so you don’t have to get your hands dirty?”

Dan says your name like you’ve blasphemed in a cathedral. “That is deeply inappropriate. I thought this would be an opportunity to reconnect on neutral ground. Civilised. But it appears you still lack the repertoire.”

“You really are a bookcase of a beta, aren’t you?” you snap. Beside you, Viktor chokes out a laugh that’s more breath than sound.

Before Dan can spit back a retort, Viktor shifts closer and slides an arm across your shoulders. His touch is light, but there’s no mistaking the message. He leans in and murmurs, “Leave it. Come with me.”

Then, with impeccable calm, he turns to Dan and Claire. “Apologies for the intrusion. I’m afraid I’ll need to report this to staff. I myself am unable to take advantage of modern solutions, you see—and your scent is, to put it mildly, disruptive. Two days of blockers shouldn’t compromise your skincare routine, Miss.”

Claire blinks, her smile faltering. Dan looks ready to combust.

But Viktor is already tugging you away, steering you out of the mixer and toward the terrace. As soon as you’re outside, he releases you with a quiet exhale and takes a long breath in through his nose, as if resetting something inside himself.

Your hands are shaking. The adrenaline hasn’t faded—only pooled differently, diffused under your collar. You curl your fingers into your palms, willing them to still. “I’m sorry,” you blurt, your voice too fast, too loud. “God, that was—”

Viktor lifts a hand, sharp and calm. “Leave it. It’s fine.”

He straightens slowly, rolling one shoulder back as if to discard the tension clinging to it. When he meets your eyes again, his expression is unreadable, carefully restored to neutral. “So that’s your guy, hm? Interesting.”

“Was. And never mine,” you mutter. Heat flashes again under your skin, different from before—shame this time, not anger. “I’m really sorry. I feel like an idiot. I’ll talk to the staff, explain—”

“There’s no need,” he cuts in, voice level. “She’ll take the blockers.”

You blink at him, confused. “How do you know?”

He shifts his cane, nodding once toward the glass doors. “Someone that ashamed of being an omega would rather pop a pill than have hotel staff call her out in public. She’s going back to her room as we speak.”

You follow the line of his gesture. Claire is slipping back through the crowd, alone, her poise still intact but her steps a fraction too fast.

“Guess you’re not the only one who knows how to read people,” you say, brittle, unknowingly giving yourself another blow: Claire knows how to be what Dan wants. I didn’t.

Viktor doesn’t respond right away. Just watches the retreating figure through the pane, mouth drawn tight. Then, quietly, “I don’t read people. I just pay attention.”

The terrace helps, a little. Afternoon air unwinds the heat, and for a time, you and Viktor just stand there, breathing it in. The hush between you isn’t awkward—just temporary silence, shared and not strained. You sip your drink, feel your heart rate settle back into something tolerable.

Eventually, you both return inside. The room is even fuller than before. Faces blur into one another, all teeth and praise and tailored suits. Someone shakes your hand and congratulates you with such conviction you momentarily wonder if they’re mistaking you for someone else. A woman insists she once guest-lectured on your floor; a man claims he’s followed your work since its ‘inception.’ You thank them both with the kind of smile that leaves your jaw sore.

Someone claps Viktor on the back. “Well done.” He says nothing. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink.

His eyes skim the crowd, tracking movement. Assessing patterns, possible exits, the degree of scent control in the air. He stands beside you but doesn’t really feel there.

It should be comical. That a man like that—bland, middling, politely dressed mediocrity incarnate—could take up so much space in your mind. That he could twist your insides so thoroughly you're still flinching at the echo of him. Viktor cannot fathom it. Dan is the human equivalent of a lukewarm handshake and a glass of tepid water. Inspiring nothing. Provoking nothing.

And yet. Viktor has seen the shape grief leaves in a person. He’s studied it—neurologically, chemically, socially. But witnessing it ghost across your features, fold into your posture, dull the light behind your eyes—he hadn't expected the visceral ache of it. He’d been too quiet, too withdrawn, pretending it didn’t matter that much.

The mixer blurs. He doesn’t taste his drink. Doesn’t hear half the names tossed in your direction. Just watches you begin to fold into yourself like paper gone soft at the edges. The proud spine of you, crumpling inch by inch.

Then you spill water on your sleeve. A meaningless accident, really. But it’s the sigh you let out that makes him feel uneasy—deep, resigned, like an old door swinging shut. “All right, I think I’ve had enough for one day. I should practice the speech for tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Do you need help with it?” he asks.

“Only if you want. I’m fine otherwise.” Your voice wavers. You walk off without looking back. “I’ll be on the balcony,” you throw over your shoulder, quiet.

So, Viktor meets you there, on a strip of concrete connecting your rooms. The sun's long gone now, the sky outside pressed flat and dark against the glass. You unfold your notes, start to rehearse, voice steady at first. But he isn’t looking at you. His eyes remain fixed on some point far in the distance, as though you’re a mild interruption.

Your voice trails off. “You know what,” you say, tucking the papers back into your folder, “I think I’m actually good. Let’s just rest.”

“Why? I was listening.”

“You look positively beaten up, Viktor. I don’t want to force you to play nice if you don’t want to. I know earlier was… upsetting, so maybe let’s just reset.”

“I am sorry that my services don’t meet your standards,” he says flatly, coldly.

What a nerve, he thinks. All of this—the emotional tailspin, the theatrics—over a man like Dan? He’s about to say so, to tell you this is all a needless spiral. That you're exaggerating like a girl instead of being proud of something not many people your age could claim. Then he looks at you.

The glassy eyes. The crumpled papers. Your jaw clamped tight like it’s holding back more than words. Your throat moves as if trying to swallow the whole evening down.

“It’s not that they don’t meet my standards. Clearly, I don’t have any,” you say, barely above a whisper. “This day has just been a lot, and I would like it to end.”

He exhales. “Forgive me, I—I do not understand why you are so concerned about him. He’s the most mediocre man I’ve seen in my life.”

“Well, not everyone aims high, Viktor. And he might look mediocre, but he really hurt me. And I wish I didn’t have to see him again, but here we are. So I thought…” You press your lips together, then shake your head. “Oh, just forget it. I’m good, I’m fine. It’s great. I get the award, accept it, get off the stage and it’s over. It’s just one day. It’s an honour. I’m super lucky. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Wait.” He reaches for your hand, just brushing his fingers against it. “Wait. I am sorry. What I meant is that—” You turn slightly, surprised.

“You are quite remarkable. And someone like Dan should be lucky to be granted an ounce of your attention. I think that you have every right to be proud, reward or no reward, is what I meant.”

And he really means it. He always thought well of you—sharp-eyed and competent, with a pleasant way of carrying yourself in the background of gatherings. A mind he respected. But something’s shifted over the past week, and today cracked it open further.

It’s not just the ambition—though that in itself is a rare thing to witness up close, in someone so stubbornly humane. You care, genuinely, and it leaks into your work in a way he envies. Where his meticulousness is forged out of control, yours stems from wanting others to feel safe. And still, somehow, you’re funny. Not in a way that pulls attention, but in the way of someone who’d rather laugh first before the world has the chance to—he recognises that defence mechanism, because he’s used it too. Kinship, he thinks, where he didn’t expect to find any.

Before he can pause to censor himself, a breeze shifts the air and brings your scent to him. It’s faint—still buffered by blockers, but they are thinning at the edges. Powdery-sweet with a hint of bitterness balancing it out. His hand closes gently around your wrist, unthinking at first—a reinforcement of what he just said, he rationalises. But it’s not just that.

He hesitates. This—this is not neutral. This is intimate, reserved for courtship and flirting, and he knows it. He shouldn’t. But you haven’t moved away. So he lifts your wrist a little closer, careful not to brush his nose against your skin. He breathes in, shallow, cautious.

And then you make the next move—press forward, just a little. Eyes fluttering shut. Something in his chest stutters. He brings his other hand up, holding your palm and forearm delicately. You lean in—not fully, just an inch—and exhale, like you're letting go of something you’ve been keeping all day.

He stays still, memorising. The essence of you settles in his lungs, and for a moment, nothing hurts. Then, your hand comes to rest on the side of his neck—thumb brushing his Adam’s apple. Viktor lets out an audible breath that warms your skin up.

“You should take blockers before bedtime,” he says, trying to sober the moment before it carries you somewhere it shouldn't.

“Of course,” you reply, arms retreating slowly. You gape at him, blinking a few times too many. Viktor can’t bring himself to meet your eyes—your expression registers only as movement in the corner of his vision.

He’s about to turn, to sink himself into the safety of solitude and the mattress waiting back in his room, when your voice stops him. “What do I smell like to you?” you ask, quiet and shy. He doesn’t mean to answer. But the words come anyway. “Orange blossom. And jasmine. The bitter skin of a citrus fruit, when you tear it open with your nails.” A beat. “Like summer.”

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #favours between friends

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marvelrivalsplayer69420 · 2 months ago

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domestic headcanons with gambit, daredevil, and punisher

a\n: i love domestic stuff, please feel free to request and ask me stuff that is domestic and just generally cozy bc i love it sm <3

tags: just pure fluff, gender neutral reader, mentions of food poisoning in Matt’s section

Gambit ♠️

Remy loves domesticity. he already enjoys doing stuff like cleaning and cooking, but doing them for the both of you makes it even sweeter for him. because he’s not doing it just for himself anymore, he’s making this house a home for both of you. and after a life of thievery and running around, he takes that very seriously. he’s not gonna run anymore, not when he has you.

his second favorite thing to do (after making dinner) is planning dinner; bargaining what you both want, what he hasn’t made in a little while, and new stuff he wants to try out in the kitchen.

he’ll let you choose one night, then he chooses the next, then you choose the next night, and so on. or he’s willing to bargain and blend what you both want. he wants to do a fish and shrimp fry but you want tacos? bam, fried fish and shrimp tacos so you can both get what you want.

he always makes too much food for just the two of you, so he likes inviting friends over for weekly dinners and letting them take some leftovers home with them.

lowkey gets a little offended if you want to order out or go out to eat for a holiday when he’s got a whole plan in his mind about what to serve for dinner and who he wants to invite over. even if it’s a holiday you don’t really celebrate. he wants to make a nice dinner for it and decorate a bit for it too.

“What?? Whatchu mean you don’ know ‘bout havin’ a 4th of July dinner?”

“I dunno, just… I never really celebrated it as a kid, I don’t really care much about the holiday… but hey, if it’s that important to you, I guess we can do something big for it.”

“Non, non, I ain’t really in love with 4th of July, cher. I was just plannin’ on invitin’ some of our friends over for one of my crawfish boils. It’d be a good day for it, non? Gon’ be real sunny out dere.”

speaking of decorating, Remy loves saving decorations and putting them up. even if he tends to put them up like a week early and take them down a week late. it just makes the house feel more lived in and fun. he also loves decorating with you.

man he loves bathing with you; telling you to go get the water warmed up while he finishes cleaning up after dinner before coming to join you in the tub or shower. for him, it’s purely romantic though he is willing to make it sexual if you want it that way. it’s a way for you and him to decompress after the day, even if it wasn’t a difficult day at all. he just loves being warm and close to you.

if you let him, Remy is happy to help you wash your hair or your back. he’ll be humming out a tune while he slathers you up in soap and calling you pretty names before hugging you from behind, his chest pressed to your back so that when he pulls away his front is covered in soap.

insists that you and him brush your teeth at the same time in the morning and evening, just so he can be even closer to you.

he loves to sway with you in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the shower, or really anywhere in the house. just his arms wrapped around your waist from front or behind and just swaying side to side, his cheek pressed against yours as he murmurs something sweet.

he lives for the embarrassing moments with you; dancing in the kitchen to a silly song, accidentally dropping something but not breaking it, or flubbing your words and accidentally speaking nonsense.

Remy never makes fun of you if you do something embarrassing in front of him. he just smiles and takes your hand to reassure you that you mean the world to him and doing something so small won’t make him think less of you.

he loves your silly side and is always encouraging you to be carefree and happy, even if it might take a little coaxing. but he’s just fine making a fool of himself at home if it makes you laugh.

“Dere it is! I missed dat sexy laugh, thought I was never gon’ hear it again. Now c’mon, let’s get our groove on, mon coeur.”

Daredevil ⚖️

Matt likes to cook for you when he can and the meals turn out pretty good most of the time. not the best cook — and that’s not out of him being blind, it’s just that sometimes he lets food expire and he’s nearly killed himself by accident because of it. you’d think that a guy who has a heightened sense of smell would have higher standards of food for himself, but he doesn’t.

thankfully, your existence in his home reminds him to throw milk away and make sure leftovers are properly packed away because he can’t bear the thought of him somehow accidentally poisoning you with his cooking.

speaking of leftovers, he always saves some. even if there’s barely anything left, he saves it for a little snack later for either of you. he also prefers reheating stuff over the stovetop than through the microwave; saying something about the texture being off.

he’s not the best at cleaning and is willing to improve, but at the same time he is very, very grateful when you clean. he can tell when you did the floors or dusted and he always says thank you and gives you a little kiss afterward.

sometimes when he does laundry, he mismatches socks. if they’re fuzzy socks or have some embroidery on them, he can usually pair them up right, but if they’re just plain solid-color cotton socks that are like the same length, expect him to accidentally pair a white sock with a grey sock or a black sock with a purple sock.

he actually prefers hanging his clothes up rather than folding them. he only folds his socks, underwear, and shorts. he rolls up comfier clothes like sweatpants and pajamas and sets them on the closet shelves so they’re easier to store. he tries to fold your clothes, but forgive him if they end up a little wonky.

during the colder months, he likes setting out warm pajamas and fuzzy socks for you on the bed while you’re taking a bath. he's also telling you to dress warm constantly.

“Put on your socks, sweetheart. I don't want your feet to get cold.”

“Put on your coat, honey. I don’t want you to get sick.” He says as he drapes it over your shoulders and even zips it up for you.

he does all the dishes with yellow dish gloves on up to his elbows because he doesn’t like getting wet. he does the dishes every time he notices one in the sink, like it’s a job just for him.

this is because Matt didn’t grow up with a dishwasher and he’s used to doing them constantly on his own, so it’s kind of just ingrained into his routine to do them every day. he’s perfectly content doing the dishes if you don’t want to or you don’t like it. even if you ask to do it, he will still end up doing it out of habit.

“I was gonna wash those dishes.”

“Well, you should've beat me to it, sweetheart.”

Matt loves laying in bed with you. listening to you watch videos on your phone or whatever you have on the TV while he lays his head on your shoulder, chest, or lap and listens to your heartbeat and laughter. always asking what you’re watching or what’s going on on-screen.

he would love listening to audiobooks and podcasts with you. just sitting in bed cuddled up, each of you with one headphone in one ear and his arms curled around you, pressing you against his chest and side as you both listen together. it’s his favorite thing to do before bed.

Punisher 💀

you will have to ask to do chores in your own home when Frank’s around. the second you wake up, all the morning work is done and breakfast is probably in the process of being made, if he isn’t waking you up with breakfast in bed.

he will not let you carry the laundry up and down stairs, he handles it like it’s a mission. the most he lets you do is take some of your clothes and put them away if you have a certain organizational system for your clothes. but he’s also learned that so half the time your clothes just appear back in the closet or drawer right where you saw them before you put them on.

he’s getting chores done before you’re even able to think about them. by the time you remember to start the dishwasher, Frank’s already in the middle of taking them out of the dishwasher and putting them away.

“Wait, when did you start the dishwasher? Let me help you—”

“Nah, let me take care of this alright? You go sit down and read your book, sweetheart.”

you’re never going to hold a grocery bag again. he’s carrying them all for you, even walking out of the store he refuses to let you hold one. god forbid you bring home groceries and try to put them away on your own, he’s immediately coming up to you, picking you up, and putting you on the couch so he can handle it all himself. he’s muttering under his breath about how you’re gonna be the death of him.

he likes to cook for you. after a long time of not really bothering to make great meals for himself, there’s this new-and-old kind of feeling that he’s cooking for someone else again. it’s sweet and rewarding for him to take care of you, but it also reminds him of the days when he had a whole family to cook for.

takes note of your favorite meals and usually goes with what you prefer to eat, albeit with nutritional additions, such as trying to sneak some meat or vegetables into it. if you like mac and cheese, he’s putting bacon in there. if you like spaghetti and meatballs, he might just sneak some vegetables into the meatballs and he’s using the pasta with the extra protein in it. he’s also constantly keeping leftovers and either taking it to work with him tomorrow or finding some way to make you eat it later.

he insists on spoonfeeding you when you are sick or injured or just really tired:

“C’mon, eat another bite for me.” Frank firmly encourages as he holds a spoonful of soup right in front of your face, his lips curling up slightly when you finally take it. He’s already trying to sneak another bite to you like he’s feeding a toddler in a highchair. Both of your hands are free and you could be feeding yourself, but he insists on feeding you this time.

he’s always giving you massages. walking up behind you and rubbing your neck when you’re sitting on the couch or sitting down beside you and putting your feet in his lap so he can massage them.

if you mention hurting, his head pops up from a hundred feet away and he’s already making his way over to you to check it out. he will make you sit down and grab your sore arm or hip or feet and just inspect it closely; moving it through the range of motion and asking if it hurts when he moves it a certain way.

then (not a) doctor Frank is going to recommend a very gentle massage or some painkillers or that you need more nutrients and he’s going to make you a big meal with tons of nutrients and try to get you to eat as much of it as possible.

he lives for the soft moments when you’re both cuddled up before you fall asleep. he loves laying you on top of him, able to feel your heartbeat against his own and press kisses to your cheek and face while you’re all sleepy and warm. he laughs when you say you’re not tired and end up yawning.

“I can see you trying to keep your eyes open, just close ‘em. Go to sleep, baby.”

when Frank can’t sleep, he just spends a while watching you sleep. propped up on his elbow in bed next to you, looking over you and listening to you breathe while he tucks you in a little. he just basks in these quiet moments, feeling a little safer knowing you’re resting and he can protect you.

#frank castle x reader #punisher x reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock x reader #gambit x reader #frank castle #daredevil #the punisher #punisher #gambit #remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau #x men #x men 97 #x men x reader

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alive-gh0st · 2 months ago

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˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

.….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ.. .

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not obsessed with him. you’re not. but the world clearly is. strange articles. sneaky algorithms. and a voice in your head that won’t shut up. meanwhile, invincible’s got his own problem: he can’t find the girl who called him out like a scrub tech on a bad day.

⛨ contains: sfw. nurse carla’s mischief. media-induced annoyance. early emotional foreshadowing. reader in denial. mark being haunted by words and mystery. parallel narration. bonus scene chaos.

⛨ warnings: mild language. internet stalking (light). stubbornness. minor delusion. no real threats—just a very determined destiny.

⛨ wc: 2146

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: fun fact—i lost half of this chapter mid-edit because my wifi decided to flatline like a soap opera character. dramatic gasp, hospital monitor beep, the whole deal. one second i’m tweaking a paragraph, the next i’m staring at the void where 800 words used to be. i almost fought my router. bare-fisted. anyway, here it is—risen from the ashes, caffeinated, and slightly more unhinged than originally planned. enjoy my suffering.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

You know this. You’ve always known this.

You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by people coughing on your scrubs and trying to die inconveniently. You’ve stitched up knife wounds caused by things described as “accidents,” told grown men they’re not, in fact, dying from a sore throat, and once had to remove a Lego from a place no Lego should ever be.

But lately, it feels personal.

There’s been a shift. A pattern. A very specific, very annoying theme threading itself through your life like the world’s most persistent pop-up ad.

It’s not love. It’s not fate.

It’s him.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You tap your phone’s screen with more passive aggression than necessary, holding it to your ear even though you know your (only) friend won’t pick up.

Beep.

“Okay, listen—I’m not spiraling. I’m not.”

(Pause. Sip. Another pause.)

“But if one more news article, thirst edit, or random merch featuring that man—shows up in my general vicinity, I will commit a felony. Probably a creative one.”

(Beat.)

“And no—before you say it—it’s not a crush. I don’t have time for crushes. I have sleep deprivation and a spine held together by caffeine.”

(Silence.)

“He’s not even that hot.”

You hang up.

Regret it. Immediately.

And that’s when it hits you—

You’re not obsessed with him.

You’re not.

You’ve been into people before—celebrities, coworkers, a random guy who pronounced your name right on the first try—but this isn’t that. You’re not delusional. You’re tired. You have a full-time job, a chaotic sleep schedule, and at least two stress migraines scheduled for the week.

You’re not obsessed.

The entire world, on the other hand, clearly is.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a newspaper.

A real one. Paper and ink and everything. You’re halfway through your first sip of coffee (not bad, not cursed) when you spot it, splayed open on the front counter like it tripped and fell into your line of sight.

’Invincible saves subway commuters in mid-derailment battle.’

There’s a photo. Midair. Bloodied knuckles. Hero pose. That obnoxious blue-yellow suit.

You blink at it once. Twice. The espresso tastes more bitter somehow.

“…Carla,” you call out, slowly.

A soft shuffle from the break room. “Mhm?”

You tilt your head toward the paper. “Is that yours?”

“Nope,” she chirps, far too quickly.

You squint.

Carla reappears moments later with a tea mug that says ’I am the storm’ in passive-aggressive font and absolutely does not make eye contact as she walks past you.

She hums.

The kind of hum that implies dark intentions.

You stare at the paper like it personally insulted your scrubs.

That’s strike one.

Strike two comes via TikTok. Or… Instagram Reels. Or whatever godforsaken app the algorithm has you trapped in.

You’re lying on your couch on your one night off, a warm takeout container on your lap, the lights dimmed just enough to make it feel like self-care. You open your phone to zone out. Maybe scroll through food mukbangs. A few raccoon videos. Rewatch that one clip from ’The Bear’ for the emotional damage.

Instead, the second video to pop up is a slow-motion fan edit of Invincible. Set to a remix of a 2000s ballad.

You stare at your phone in silence as the hero who bloodied his way through your afternoon is now being thirsted after by teenagers in the comments.

You swipe up fast enough to sprain something.

Then another pops up.

And another.

And—oh, good god. This one’s tagged #invincibae.

You throw your phone facedown on your stomach like it’s contagious.

You’re not angry. You’re not even annoyed.

You’re just trying to have one singular crumb of peace in this godless world, and the masked himbo you verbally body-checked in the middle of a disaster won’t stop invading your downtime.

You eventually find a rerun of ’House MD’ and watch a patient nearly die from licking envelopes, which feels more comforting than it should.

You’re not obsessed.

(But maybe you do glare at a passing bus with his face on the side. Just a little.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

By the end of the week, it gets worse.

You’re at the pharmacy grabbing gauze, extra gloves, and the least offensive granola bar in existence when you see the merch.

Merch.

A corner display stacked with shirts and water bottles and pins. There’s a plushie. A plushie. Of him.

You pause, granola bar halfway to your basket.

A kid next to you picks up the Invincible water bottle and turns to his mom. “Do you think he drinks from this too?”

You visibly clench your jaw.

At that exact moment, your phone dings.

You pull it out with the practiced grace of someone who lives and dies by their calendar app—only to find a suggested article on your lock screen.

’Why Invincible Might Be the Most Relatable Hero Yet!’

You could scream.

Instead, you mutter, “I patched up his concussion while inhaling drywall dust. He was seeing double and still arguing with me.”

The cashier stares at you.

You move on.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The final straw?

A patient brings him up.

Middle of a wound check, nothing dramatic. A few stitches, topical numbing, your hands moving on autopilot. You’re explaining aftercare, bandage changes, when the patient—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—smiles at you and says:

“You kinda remind me of Invincible, y’know? Like, you’re calm under pressure and.. kind of badass.”

You blink.

Smile politely. “Cool.”

Inside, your soul shrivels.

You are not him.

You don’t throw punches. You don’t fly. You don’t have a theme song or fan cams or merchandise.

You have an overtime shift on Sunday and a stress knot in your shoulder that’s starting to feel like a second spine.

But the universe doesn’t care.

You’re not obsessed.

You just can’t escape.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark doesn’t remember your face.

Not clearly, anyway.

The smoke had blurred the details, painted you in silhouettes and urgency. You weren’t the loudest voice in the chaos—just the sharpest. Crisp, cutting, sure of yourself in a way that made his head spin more than the actual concussion.

But your voice?

He remembers that like it’s stitched into the inside of his skull.

Low. Stern. Half-sarcastic and half-soothing. It sounded like someone who didn’t have time for bullshit, which—given the circumstances—made sense.

He was bleeding from the ribs. The city was literally burning.

Still, the memory echoes:

“Don’t say fine.”

“You’re favoring your left.”

“You shouldn’t be flying.”

Mark exhales hard, slumping deeper into the worn couch. The TV’s on but silent. Some old action movie flickers in the corner of his vision. It’s supposed to be background noise.

But nothing is loud enough to drown you out.

He doesn’t know your name.

Doesn’t know what you do, where you’re from, if you even survived the aftermath unscathed.

All he knows is that you made him feel—briefly, dangerously—human.

Not a symbol. Not a name in headlines. Just a guy who was bleeding too much and doing too little.

And he can’t stop hearing you.

“You’re zoning out again,” Debbie says from the kitchen.

Mark flinches, barely registering the sound of the fridge opening.

“Sorry. Just tired.”

Debbie hums skeptically and tosses him a cold can of soda. “You’ve said that every day this week.”

“I am tired.”

“You’re also muttering to yourself like a haunted Victorian widow. Anything I should know?”

Mark cracks the can open with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares ahead like the wall is going to give him divine guidance.

“I met someone,” he says finally.

Debbie doesn’t react. Just leans against the counter, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Okay. And?”

“She yelled at me.”

Still silence.

“And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.”

There it is.

Debbie snorts into her cup. “That’s it? That’s what’s got you acting like a sad poet?”

He shifts. “It’s not just that. She—she saw right through me. In like, five seconds. Called out every injury I hadn’t processed yet. Told me I wasn’t fine before I could even lie about it.”

“And this was… romantic?”

“No!” Mark frowns. “I don’t even know what it was. I don’t know anything about her. I couldn’t even see her face.”

“Okay, now it’s giving Victorian ghost story.”

“She saved a kid.”

Debbie blinks.

“In the middle of it all. Ran straight into debris and smoke. People tried to stop her and she looked at me like I was the liability.”

He doesn’t mention the way your hands shook but never stopped moving. Or the way you lied—beautifully, horribly—just to keep that child alive a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t mention how it made something in his chest ache.

“She sounds amazing,” Debbie says, more gently now.

“She was,” he mutters. “And now she’s just… gone.”

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

The thing is, Mark’s not usually like this.

He gets hit, he gets up. He saves people, and he moves on. Faces blur. Names fade. It’s how he copes.

But this? This isn’t fading.

It’s getting worse.

He’ll be flying over the city and see a flash of hair that looks vaguely like yours—and he’ll nearly crash into a billboard turning to check. His neck has started clicking. He’s going to need chiropractic help and therapy.

He doesn’t even know you, but he’s half-convinced he’ll know when he sees you again.

He’s waiting for it.

And that thought alone is ridiculous.

Because he doesn’t wait. Not for danger. Not for hope. Not for anyone.

Except now, apparently, for you.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

More than once, he’s hovered outside hospitals and urgent care clinics on patrol. Just a few seconds. Just in case.

He makes excuses for it, of course:

• You never know when you might be needed.

• Some med centers don’t have enough security.

• Maybe he’s being responsible.

But then he hears a nurse’s laugh and it isn’t yours.

And he flies off like a coward.

Not even a few minutes later there’s a robbery in Midtown.

Small-time. Two guys. One has a crowbar. The other trips over his shoelace trying to run.

Mark’s on it in sixty seconds flat.

It’s easy—should be, anyway—but his timing’s off. He lands too hard, shoulder twinges wrong. The guy gets one good swing in before Mark sends him flying (not too far).

It’s done in under a minute.

And still—he’s breathless. Not from the fight, but from the feeling.

The missing.

The what if you’d seen that and thought I was sloppy kind of missing.

He doesn’t say anything as he lifts the guy’s dropped phone and hands it off to the store clerk. They thank him. He nods.

Flies away.

He doesn’t go far.

Just lands on some apartment roof, crouches by the ledge, and lets his hands tangle in his hair for a minute.

The city stretches below him, loud and alive.

But all he wants to find is a blur in the chaos that isn’t there.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Later that night, he lies in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer closure.

It doesn’t.

It’s just drywall and shadows and everything you saw through.

His notebook lies half-open next to him—not forgotten, just untouched, like a question he doesn’t know how to answer yet.

It’s not a journal—he doesn’t do feelings that way—but sometimes, when his head’s too loud and his hands need something to do, he sketches. Nothing fancy. Just lines. Shapes. Impressions.

Tonight, it’s you.

Or, what he remembers of you. Which isn’t much.

Your face is a blur. Hair? A vague impression. Maybe dark. Maybe not. But your hands—he remembers those. Quick, steady, smudged with ash. Your posture. How you stood slightly in front of the child like a shield, chin up, like fear was something for other people.

He’s drawn the same half-profile six times now. None of them are right.

He sighs, drags a hand through his hair, and flips the page over.

Maybe he’s not trying to get it right.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to forget.

He closes his eyes.

But the voice stays with him.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Clinic break room. You. Tired.

You sneeze—violently.

Again.

You rub your nose with the heel of your palm, the tip of it already reddish from overuse, and a dramatic groan leaves your throat as you sink into the unforgiving plastic chair.

“This is some kind of karmic punishment,” you mutter to no one in particular. “Like, I must’ve offended a witch. Or touched something cursed.”

“Maybe you’re getting sick,” offers a random nurse from across the room.

You glare at her. “I’m immune to sickness.”

Then of course, Carla appears behind you, perfectly timed as always.

“Maybe someone’s thinking about you,” she says, casual as rain, not even glancing your way before walking off.

You blink. Deadpan.

Then sneeze again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

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rraaaannnn · 24 days ago

Text

"All Yn wanted was a peaceful new start. Quiet mornings, calm neighbors, maybe a cat. What she got instead… was Hanni — a human hurricane with a gummy smile and zero concept of personal space."

FEM READER

—

You had exactly zero expectations when you moved into the new apartment.

All you wanted was a quiet room, a working fridge, and a roommate who didn’t smell like expired monster energy and abandonment issues. You didn’t need friends. You didn’t need chaos. You didn’t need… her.

You’d barely stepped into the shared space—box in one hand, iced coffee in the other—when the universe personally said: “Oh, babe. That’s cute. Let me ruin your life real quick.”

A scream echoed from inside the apartment.

Not a normal scream. Not a “there’s a bug” scream.

A full-on, blood-curdling, I-just-saw-God-and-she-owes-me-money type of scream.

You froze in the doorway.

And then, she came running out of the kitchen.

Wearing one sock, a Hello Kitty crop top, and oven mitts on both hands. There was flour in her hair. And was that… a slice of cheese stuck to her elbow?

“Oh my god,” she gasped when she saw you, eyes wide like a raccoon caught in the fridge light. “You’re real.”

“…I’m your roommate,” you said slowly, eyes flicking to the literal trail of chaos behind her. “You almost made me drop my coffee.”

“Wait—no! That would’ve been tragic.” She paused dramatically, putting her oven-mitt hands over her heart. “Your coffee is, like, the only thing keeping you alive, huh?”

“…How do you know that?”

She stepped closer, eyes squinting at your face like she was trying to read a very complicated manual. “Dark circles. Mild caffeine addiction. Quiet rage in the eyes. I know your type.”

You stared at her. She grinned. You blinked once.

“…You’re insane.”

She beamed wider. “People say that, yeah.”

You sighed, stepping past her and toward your room, already exhausted. “This is going to be hell.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, roomie,” she called after you. “I’m Hanni! With an ‘i’ and chaotic energy by birth!”

You shut the door behind you. Not hard. But not gently either. This was fine. Everything was fine. You just needed to survive the semester and maybe not catch fire in the process.

You learned quickly that Hanni didn’t believe in rules. Or silence. Or logic.

She cooked ramen noodles in the coffee pot. She sang One Direction at full volume in the shower, adding dramatic gasps and fake sobs like she was in a soap opera. She once brought home a cat and swore it was a stray. (It had a collar. And a sweater.)

But for some reason… she made everything feel like a fever dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

She was loud and messy and exhausting. But she was also funny. And sweet. And lowkey emotionally intelligent in a way that made you uncomfortable.

Like the time she brought you a heating pad and cookies when you were too tired to get out of bed. Or the time she noticed your breathing get tight after a phone call and wordlessly put on your favorite show and sat beside you—not talking, just there.

You didn’t ask her to. She just… knew.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Three weeks in, you found her asleep on the couch. Again.

There was a half-eaten bag of chips on her stomach and some kind of glitter on her cheek. You don’t even know where the glitter keeps coming from. At this point, it might be embedded in her skin.

You stood there for a second, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t soft. Pretending your heart didn’t stutter at the way her nose scrunched in her sleep. Pretending you weren’t… feeling things.

God. You were so screwed.

And then, in the quiet of the room, she mumbled in her sleep, half-smiling:

“...hey sleepyhead... I saved you the last chip…”

Your heart did a little backflip.

You were so, so screwed.

You had one goal.

Buy groceries. Nothing fancy. Just milk, cereal, maybe some frozen dumplings if life felt generous. You made a list. You put on your headphones. You mentally prepared to walk through the aisles like a fully functioning adult.

And then Hanni said, “Wait, I’ll come with you.”

You should’ve said no.

But you looked at her—standing there in an oversized hoodie, mismatched socks, and sunglasses that did absolutely nothing to hide the chaos in her soul—and you said:

“…Fine. But we’re not buying any more glitter.”

She gasped like you told her her hamster died. “First of all, glitter is a lifestyle. Second of all, we’re definitely buying glitter now.”

You regretted everything.

Twenty minutes later, you were pushing a cart with one wheel that screamed like a dying bird, and Hanni was walking beside you with a can of whipped cream in each hand like they were weapons.

“We don’t need whipped cream,” you muttered, crossing another item off your mental list.

“But what if we do?” she said, dramatically throwing her head back. “What if we have a whipped cream emergency?”

“There’s no such thing.”

“There is if you believe.”

You gave her a look. The kind of look that said I haven’t slept in 3 days and you’re the reason why.

She winked.

You turned the corner into the cereal aisle, ready to speed through it, but Hanni stopped. Suddenly. Like she’d seen a ghost.

You barely had time to register before you crashed into her. “Dude—”

“Shh,” she whispered, eyes narrowed at something—or someone—down the aisle. “It’s my nemesis.”

“…Your what.”

“That girl. The one in the crop top. She stole my lunch in high school and told everyone I cried about it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.”

You stared at her, deadpan. “You’ve been holding a grudge over a sandwich for five years?”

“It was a good sandwich,” she said solemnly. “There was avocado.”

You groaned and grabbed the first box of cereal you could find.

She followed you again, but this time—silent. Until she wasn’t.

“Hey, do you think if we got matching hoodies people would think we were dating?”

You almost choked on air.

“Wh—what?”

She shrugged, totally nonchalant. “I’m just saying. People assume stuff. Might as well lean into it. We’d be a hot couple, right?”

Your brain lagged like bad WiFi.

“…Do you want people to think we’re dating?”

She paused, turning to face you full-on. “Would it be that bad?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“...You’re holding a tub of whipped cream and a bag of mini marshmallows. You look like a five-year-old left unsupervised.”

She grinned. “So that’s a no?”

You turned away before she could see the way your ears turned red.

Later that night, you sat on the couch with your legs tucked under you, trying to watch a dumb reality show while Hanni laid sideways across the cushions with her head practically in your lap, whispering commentary like:

“She’s lying. Look at her face. That’s a liar face.” “God, I hope they break up. This is so toxic. I love it.” “Do you think I’d survive on this show? Actually don’t answer that.”

You didn’t reply. You were too focused on the fact that your fingers were gently playing with her hair and she hadn’t told you to stop. Not that she ever would. Not that you wanted to stop. Not that you weren’t completely and utterly falling apart inside.

She sighed softly, then looked up at you, her voice quieter this time.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You sure?” she asked, eyes scanning yours. Less chaotic now. More real. That scary kind of real where you feel seen.

You nodded again.

She hummed. “Okay. Just making sure. ‘Cause like… I know you act like you hate everything but you kinda… don’t fool me anymore.”

You paused.

“…You don’t?”

She smiled. “Nope. You’re soft as hell. You just pretend to be a cactus.”

You rolled your eyes. “Says the human glitter bomb with no sense of self-preservation.”

“Exactly,” she said proudly. “Opposites attract.”

Your stomach flipped.

You were so screwed.

You never meant to fall asleep next to her.

You were tired, yeah. But you were always tired. That wasn’t new.

What was new? That dumb movie marathon she insisted on. The way her blanket somehow became your blanket. The way she kept stealing the popcorn from your lap like it belonged to her. The way her legs ended up tangled with yours at some point.

And the way her head eventually rested against your shoulder like it belonged there.

It started with the usual chaos.

Hanni throwing all the couch cushions on the floor, saying, “This is our fortress now. Nothing can hurt us but bad rom-coms and our unresolved trauma.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “So basically everything.”

She gasped. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

She wasn’t. She’d yawned six times in the last minute and had one sock halfway off. But she was grinning like a kid on a sugar high, and you… didn’t want to ruin it.

So you stayed.

One episode turned into three. Three turned into a movie. You didn’t even like the movie. She picked it because she said the main couple “had our energy.” (You didn’t ask what that meant. You were scared.)

Somewhere between the fake-confession scene and the cliché forehead kiss, Hanni went quiet.

You glanced over.

She was asleep.

Her mouth was slightly open. Her cheek was squished into your arm. Her hand was gripping your hoodie like she’d anchored herself to you in her dreams.

And you?

You forgot how to breathe.

You should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve done anything other than sit there like your heart wasn’t combusting in your chest.

But her body was warm against yours. Her breathing was steady. Her fingers twitched every now and then, still holding onto you, like she was afraid you’d disappear.

So you stayed.

For a minute.

Then five.

Then an hour.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep next to her.

But you did.

You woke up to something warm pressed against your neck.

Her.

She was wrapped around you like a freaking octopus. One leg across your waist, her arm thrown around your middle, her face practically buried in your hoodie.

You froze.

Your brain, still half-dreaming, whispered something truly unhinged:

marry her.

You tried to move. Gently.

Her grip tightened.

She mumbled something under her breath. You couldn’t catch most of it—just a sleepy murmur, her voice soft and messy from dreams.

But then she said it.

“…don’t leave me…”

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t know if she was dreaming about someone else. Some memory. Some pain you hadn’t seen behind the glitter.

But you stayed.

You let her hold you.

And for once, you didn’t pretend to be annoyed. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say a word.

You just… let yourself be held.

Later, when the sun started peeking through the curtains, she blinked awake slowly.

“…huh,” she said, voice raspy. “Did I kidnap you in my sleep?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seems like it.”

She stretched, still tangled in you. “You didn’t even fight back. Suspicious.”

“You were surprisingly strong for someone under five feet tall.”

“Hey!” she gasped. “I’m five-one.”

You smirked. “With heels.”

She groaned and buried her face in your hoodie again, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “you smell good,” and you almost died.

Died. Dead. Deceased. Buried.

You played it cool. Didn’t say anything.

But your heart was screaming.

A few days later, she asked, super casually, like it was nothing:

“Do you… cuddle everyone like that?”

You blinked. “No.”

She grinned. “Cool. Just checking.”

And walked away.

Like she didn’t just set your soul on fire and leave it there.

You weren’t jealous.

Obviously.

You were just… observing. Casually. Calmly. Like a normal, non-jealous person who definitely wasn’t staring holes into the back of that guy’s head.

He was tall. Too tall. Probably drinks protein shakes and says “bro” unironically. He wore that kind of smug, toothy grin that screamed “I peaked in high school.” And he had the audacity to lean just a little too close to Hanni while she laughed at something he said.

Laughed.

Like, full-on laughing. That laugh you’d heard at 1 a.m. when she was wearing your hoodie and telling you about the time she got stuck in a vending machine. That stupid, bright laugh that made your chest feel like it was melting and exploding at the same time.

And now he got to hear it?

No.

Absolutely not.

It had started as a normal afternoon.

A small campus event. Food trucks. Music. Too many people. Hanni begged you to come with her.

“Come on,” she whined, linking her arm through yours. “I can’t go alone. I’ll die. I’ll combust. I’ll make a scene.”

“You make a scene everywhere.”

“Exactly. Come with me so I don’t get arrested.”

You rolled your eyes but followed her anyway, because saying no to her was like trying to put out a house fire with a juice box.

It was fine. You were fine.

Until he showed up.

You were holding Hanni’s drink while she talked to him—some guy from her music theory class who apparently “loved her energy” and “always noticed her in lectures.” Vomit.

You tried not to listen.

Tried.

But she smiled at him. She tilted her head like she does when she’s being cute without realizing it. She twirled the straw in her drink.

And then he touched her arm.

Nothing big. Just a little casual brush of the fingers. But it lit your entire nervous system on fire.

You didn’t even realize you were glaring until she turned around, catching your expression.

“…You good?” she asked, walking over with that same dumb smile.

You blinked. “Yep. Totally. Love watching you flirt with strangers. Really warms my heart.”

She tilted her head. “That sounded… fake.”

“It was.”

She smirked. “Were you jealous?”

You scoffed. “Of him? Please.”

“Because he’s tall?”

“Because he’s not funny.”

“You didn’t hear the joke.”

“I don’t have to. Your laugh is a lie.”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “How dare you.”

“I dare often.”

She leaned closer, smile turning smug. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Your heart fell out of your body. It rolled into the parking lot and got hit by a taco truck.

“I’m not jealous,” you lied, voice way too tight.

“Sure you’re not,” she said, stepping even closer. “You just get real mad when I talk to people who aren’t you.”

“…You’re annoying.”

“I know,” she said sweetly. “But I’m your annoying, right?”

You said nothing.

Because if you spoke, you’d confess everything.

Later that night, you were lying on your bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to breathe normally, when your door creaked open.

Hanni peeked in.

“You still mad at me?”

You didn’t look up. “I wasn’t mad.”

She walked in anyway. Flopped down next to you without permission. Rested her chin on your arm.

“You know,” she whispered, “if you were jealous, it’d be kinda cute.”

You turned your head, meeting her eyes.

She looked so smug. But under it—something else. Something softer. Nervous, maybe. Or hopeful.

“I wasn’t jealous,” you said again, quieter this time. “I just… didn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

You hesitated.

Then, with a shrug: “…He’s not me.”

She blinked.

And then—slowly, so slowly—her smile faded into something real.

“You don’t like when I pay attention to other people,” she said quietly. Not a question.

You nodded.

She looked down. Her hand found yours. Played with your fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Good,” she whispered.

You looked at her. Really looked.

“Hanni.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re gonna kiss me one day, don’t do it when you’re being annoying.”

She grinned, teeth and all. “So never, then?”

You laughed. You actually laughed, even though your heart was a firework show in your chest.

“You’re the worst.”

She leaned in. Her nose brushed yours. She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t pull away, either.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“…You’re the worst.”

She smiled like you’d just said I love you.

And maybe, in a way, you did.

Hanni was not okay.

She was so not okay, in fact, that she found herself violently mashing bananas into a bowl at 2:17 a.m., wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon ducks and blasting a playlist titled “Songs to cry-dance to but make it cottagecore.”

This was her coping mechanism now. Banana bread.

Because what else do you do when your entire emotional system malfunctions over the way your roommate said your name earlier?

It had happened that evening.

You were both on the floor in the living room—again. The couch was right there, but for some reason, the floor always felt closer. Warmer. More real.

You were tired. She was talkative. The usual.

But then you’d laughed at something—one of her dumb jokes, probably—and said, all soft and casual and sleepy:

“God, I really like you.”

Not in a flirty way. Not even in a joking way.

You just… meant it.

And Hanni felt like her lungs had turned into confetti.

She couldn’t sleep after that.

She tried.

She rolled around in bed. Kicked off the blanket. Pulled it back on. Screamed silently into her pillow. Googled “why does my stomach hurt when I think about my roommate” and got zero helpful results.

So now she was here. At the kitchen counter. At 2AM. Making banana bread like a woman on the verge.

“Stupid feelings,” she muttered, mixing flour way too aggressively. “Stupid laugh. Stupid hands. Stupid hoodie that smells good. Stupid face—”

A voice interrupted her spiral.

“Are you making banana bread at two in the morning?”

She turned.

You were standing in the doorway, hair messy, wrapped in your blanket like a concerned burrito.

Hanni froze. Then tried to play it cool.

“I—uh. No?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s… that?” You pointed to the bowl. And the flour-covered counter. And the mashed bananas. And the literal banana in her hand.

She looked down.

“…Okay maybe yes.”

You stepped closer, yawning. “Why though?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You tilted your head. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

You didn’t push.

You just walked over and leaned on the counter beside her, stealing a chocolate chip from the bag and popping it into your mouth.

She stared at you. You stared back.

And then she blurted:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

The kind that made the air buzz. The kind that made her want to curl into the bowl of batter and disappear.

“…Cool,” you said softly.

She blinked. “Cool?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Cool.”

Then, casually—like you were talking about the weather:

“I’ve been in love with you for like two weeks.”

She dropped the whisk.

“…What.”

You grinned.

“I was waiting for you to catch up.”

Hanni stared. Absolutely malfunctioning.

“I made banana bread to cope with my crush on you. Do you even understand how unhinged that is?”

“I find it endearing.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re worse.”

You stepped closer. Her heart stopped.

You reached for the batter on her cheek and wiped it with your thumb, then sucked it off your finger like it was nothing.

Hanni made a noise that wasn’t human.

“…I’m gonna pass out.”

“Please don’t. You still have to bake the bread.”

The bread went in the oven. You sat on the counter. She stood in front of you, hands on your knees, still looking at you like she couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“What?”

“That you like me.”

You smiled, leaning forward until your forehead rested against hers.

“I like you. I really, really like you.”

She smiled so hard it hurt. Then said:

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Um. Can I kiss you or should I go cry in the pantry first?”

You kissed her.

Gently. Softly. Like a promise.

Like something you’d both been waiting for.

And when you pulled back, she whispered:

“This is better than banana bread.”

There was no label.

No “we’re dating.” No “this is a relationship now.” No dramatic Instagram post with matching captions and heart emojis.

Just the memory of Hanni kissing you in a kitchen that smelled like bananas and chaos. Just the way her hand had lingered on yours the next morning when she passed you your coffee like it wasn’t the most intimate thing in the universe. Just the quiet, breathless way you both smiled at nothing sometimes, like there was a secret only your hearts knew how to tell.

So no. Not official.

But also? So obvious it was embarrassing.

The first person to call you out was your upstairs neighbor, Jaemin, who casually leaned over the balcony while you were unlocking your door one afternoon and said:

“So… you and sparkles, huh?”

You blinked. “Who?”

He tilted his head toward your apartment. “Your glitter gremlin roommate who sings ‘Toxic’ at 3 a.m. and looks at you like you invented sunlight?”

You stared. “We’re… just roommates.”

He snorted. “Babe, she was waiting for you outside last night like a golden retriever who lost her owner in Target. She hugged you for two full minutes. I timed it.”

You said nothing. Just went inside and collapsed on the couch, face down.

“Don’t mind me,” Hanni chirped from the kitchen, “just baking cookies for my favorite person.”

You peeked up. “Me?”

“Do you live here?”

“…Yeah?”

“Then duh.”

You melted.

You both tried to keep things lowkey. You really did.

But lowkey doesn’t work when you’re both emotionally unhinged and in denial.

Exhibit A: You walked across campus together. Hanni insisted on not holding hands.

Her solution? Hooking her pinky with yours and saying, “It’s not holding hands if it’s only one finger.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s still… touching.”

“Yeah but like, emotionally distant touching.”

“It’s literally the opposite of that.”

She leaned closer and whispered, “Just let me have this. I need it to live.”

You didn’t argue. You just blushed like a loser.

Exhibit B: Group hangout. Game night. Hanni sat on the floor next to you. Not in her own space. Not even in your space. She sat onyou.

Lap. Claimed. Possessed.

When someone joked, “Are you two… a thing now?”

Hanni didn’t even blink. “No.”

Then fed you a marshmallow like you were in a K-drama and she was trying to ruin your emotional stability.

Your friend Jisung straight-up said, “You two make me want to scream into a pillow.”

You and Hanni made direct eye contact.

Then she said, too softly:

“Do you want to be a thing?”

You blinked.

In front of everyone?

In front of GOD?

“I—I mean… do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t be feeding you marshmallows if I didn’t, genius.”

Everyone screamed. You screamed internally.

Back home, you both collapsed into bed, breathless and pink-faced from too much attention.

“I think we suck at being subtle,” Hanni mumbled, face buried in your hoodie.

You were quiet for a second. Then said:

“Do we want to be subtle?”

She looked up.

Her eyes were tired but glowing. Warm like candlelight. Soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“…No,” she whispered.

“Me neither.”

And then you kissed her.

Not like the kitchen kiss. Not like a joke. Not like an accident.

This time it was real. Long. Certain. A little messy and full of everything you hadn’t said out loud yet.

She smiled against your mouth. You pulled her closer.

Everything outside the room fell away.

Later, in the dark, she whispered into your neck:

“I don’t care if the whole world knows.”

You ran your fingers through her hair. “Yeah?”

“I’d scream it from the roof if I didn’t think I’d fall off and die.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat.

“I’d catch you.”

She paused.

Then, quietly:

“I know.”

all started with a compliment.

A simple, harmless, not-even-that-deep compliment.

You were at a campus café—just minding your own business, waiting for your drink, humming under your breath. Hair still damp from your morning shower, hoodie three sizes too big (read: Hanni’s), face peaceful for once because, miraculously, your to-do list was empty.

And then someone leaned over the counter and said:

“Sorry, not to be weird, but… you have a really pretty smile.”

You blinked.

He was cute. Friendly. One of those art student energy types—paint on his hands, camera around his neck, nose piercing that somehow worked.

You gave a small, polite laugh. “Thanks.”

That’s it.

That’s all you said.

But across the café, sitting at a corner table with her laptop open and absolutely not working on her assignment, Hanni’s entire soul combusted.*

She didn’t say anything at first. She just… stared.

Eyes wide. Jaw slack. Eyebrow twitching like a bad Wi-Fi signal.

The guy said something else. You smiled again. Tilted your head. Tucked your hair behind your ear.

And Hanni—actual glitter goblin of your heart—felt something primal and ancient rise up inside her.

She closed the laptop. Hard.

Walked over like she was possessed.

Plopped down right next to you, arm casually thrown over the back of your chair, voice so sugary it could’ve given everyone diabetes.

“Hey, baby. Miss me?”

You choked on your drink. The guy blinked. Hanni? She was smiling. Sweet. Evil. Terrifying.

You turned slowly. “…Hi.”

She leaned in closer, like the universe hadn’t already started glitching, and pressed a kiss—quick, but way too loaded—to your cheek.

The guy blinked again.

“Oh,” he said.

Hanni turned to him, still smiling like a shark in lip gloss. “Hi. I’m her girlfriend. We’re in love. It’s a whole thing.”

You just stared at her, absolutely malfunctioning.

The guy got the message. He nodded—awkward, polite—and backed off with a quick “My bad, have a good day,” before disappearing into the void like a sensible man.

The moment he was gone, you turned to her, wide-eyed.

“…What was that?”

Hanni didn’t even flinch. “Me being normal and healthy.”

“You just staged a romantic ambush in a public café.”

“I saved you from a man with a nose ring and too much eye contact.”

“He complimented my smile.”

“I know! Rude!”

You blinked. Then slowly, slowly, a grin tugged at your lips.

“…Are you jealous?”

Hanni scoffed. “No.”

You tilted your head.

She squirmed.

“Okay maybe a little.”

“A little?”

“I was chill about it!”

“You fake-proposed to me with your vibe.”

Hanni huffed, cheeks flushing, lips pouting just slightly.

“…You’re mine.”

Your breath caught.

“Yeah?” you said softly.

She looked up at you then—eyes big and shiny and full of way too much truth.

“…Yeah,” she whispered.

Later, you were back at the apartment, curled into the couch, a blanket around both of you, movie playing in the background but long forgotten.

She was curled up beside you, head on your chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your stomach.

You ran your hand through her hair and said, teasing:

“I didn’t know you got jealous.”

She groaned into your hoodie. “I didn’t know I had feelings until you showed up like a walking serotonin shot.”

You chuckled, heart aching in the best way.

“Well… I like when you get a little possessive.”

She sat up. “Really?”

You shrugged. “It’s kinda hot.”

She grinned, proud now. “I knew it.”

You pulled her back into your arms.

“Just don’t scare every barista we meet, okay?”

“No promises.”

And then, in the quiet between jokes and kisses and skin-on-skin stillness, she whispered:

“I’ve never wanted something to last this bad.”

You held her tighter.

“Then stay. That’s all you have to do.”

She nodded against your chest.

And she stayed.

It was a dumb moment.

Nothing big. Nothing dramatic.

You were brushing your teeth. Hanni was sitting on the bathroom counter, legs swinging, eating cereal out of a mug, watching you like you were the most entertaining movie she’d ever seen.

You looked up. Met her eyes through the mirror.

Foam in your mouth. Hoodie too big. Hair messy. Sleep still in your bones.

She grinned.

“You’re so cute. I love you.”

It slipped.

Just like that.

No warning. No dramatic music. No soft background sunset.

She said it like it was nothing.

And then she froze.

Spoon halfway to her mouth. Eyes going wide. Smile dropping.

You turned slowly, toothbrush still in your mouth.

“What?”

She blinked. Coughed. Laughed way too loud. “HA. HAHA. NO I MEAN LIKE. FRIEND love. Ha ha. Like… platonic… roommate love… ha…haha…”

You raised a brow, slowly spitting into the sink, the most romantic way to handle a confession.

“Right.”

“Right!! So anyway, do you want pancakes later?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at her with the softest, most dangerous smile.

“…You love me.”

She physically shrank. “I said it by accident!”

“But you said it.”

“You were cute!! You were foamy and grumpy and—UHH—I PANICKED.”

“You love me.”

She groaned and covered her face. “I’m going to jump into the garbage disposal now.”

You laughed, turning off the faucet and walking up to her.

She peeked through her fingers. “Please don’t say it back out of pity.”

“I’m not.”

“…You’re not what?”

You smiled.

“I’m not saying it back out of pity. I’m saying it because I’ve been trying not to say it for weeks.”

Her heart broke. Healed. Then exploded.

She let out a choked noise. “Wait. You do?”

You nodded.

“I love you, Hanni.”

She dropped the cereal. Didn’t even care.

Launched herself at you like a sleep-deprived kitten in love.

And you caught her.

Because of course you did.

You didn’t mean to fight.

It started with something dumb.

Laundry. Schedules. Dishes left in the sink.

You were tired. She was distracted. There were things neither of you were saying and it all just… cracked.

“You said you’d clean today,” you said, too sharp.

“I was busy,” she snapped.

“You were watching five hours of dance clips on TikTok.”

“It was RESEARCH.”

You laughed, bitter. “You don’t take anything seriously.”

She flinched. “Excuse me?”

You rubbed your temples. “I’m just saying—sometimes it feels like I’m the only one holding us together.”

She stared at you like you’d slapped her.

“…You don’t think I care?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence.

The kind that hurt.

She walked to the door. Paused.

“…I love you, you know.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I know.”

She left.

The apartment was too quiet without her.

Your hoodie still smelled like her. Her socks were in the corner. A spoon was on the counter from the cereal she didn’t finish.

You sat on the couch. Didn’t cry. But your chest ached.

And somewhere across campus, Hanni sat on a bench in front of the art building, hugging her knees to her chest, phone in her hand, heart in her throat.

She wasn’t good at fights. She was worse at silence.

So she came back.

You heard the door click. Turned your head slowly.

She was in the doorway, soaked in rain, looking like something fragile and shining.

“I suck at this,” she said softly.

You stood up. Quiet. Calm.

“I know.”

She walked in, step by step.

“I didn’t mean what I said. I just… I freak out when I feel like I’m not enough for you.”

Your eyes burned. “I never said you weren’t.”

“But I heard it anyway,” she whispered.

You walked over. Reached for her hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

Silence again—but the good kind this time.

Then, she reached for your face, cupped your jaw, and whispered:

“Please don’t give up on me.”

You pressed your forehead to hers.

“Never.”

And then you kissed.

Not soft. Not slow.

But messy, desperate, tear-stained. The kind that says I choose you even when it’s hard.

The kind that says stay.

You fell asleep that night wrapped around each other, still damp from the rain, her head on your chest, your hand on her back.

And just before drifting off, she whispered:

“You’re still annoying, though.”

You smiled.

“So are you.”

Hanni wasn’t supposed to be gone for long. Just three days. A family thing. Simple. Routine. No big deal.

At least, that’s what you told yourself when you waved goodbye at the bus stop.

She’d kissed your cheek, tugged your sleeve one last time, and said:

“Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone, okay?”

You smiled, tried to act normal, and replied:

“Only if you text me first.”

She laughed. Walked backward a few steps. Still facing you.

“I’ll miss you.”

You swallowed. Forced a smirk.

“You better.”

She winked. And then she was gone.

The first night was… fine. You made tea. Watched a dumb show. Wore her hoodie even though yours was literally right there.

The silence felt a little weird, but whatever. You liked quiet.

Right?

The second night hit harder.

You made two mugs out of habit. You kept turning to say something—and realizing no one was there. You caught yourself laughing at a meme and instinctively opening her contact before freezing mid-thumb and locking your phone again.

Her bed was made. Empty. Too still.

The apartment didn’t feel like home without her humming in the kitchen or tripping over her shoes or narrating her inner monologue like a cartoon sidekick.

You missed her.

In the loud kind of way. The kind that presses behind your ribs and makes your hands fidget and your breath stick in your throat.

She sent you a voice note that night.

“Okay, I lied. I miss you more than I should after one day. I saw someone wearing a hoodie like yours and almost tackled them.”

“Also I had a dream you turned into a cat and I cried because you wouldn’t let me hug you. What does that mean.”

You played it twice. Then again. Just to hear her voice.

You sent her back a picture of your empty hand.

“This is where yours should be. Come home.”

She replied with five crying emojis, the clown emoji, and

“I’M MAKING IT WORSE STOP.”

The third day, you gave in.

You lay on her bed, head on her pillow, wearing her sweater like it was armor. It still smelled like her—strawberry shampoo and mint gum and whatever soft thing made her feel like yours.

You sent her a video. Just a pan of her side of the room.

Caption:

“This room is too quiet without you. It misses its chaos.”

She responded instantly.

“You’re gonna make me cry in front of my cousin and I don’t even LIKE her that much.”

Then:

“Also I just hugged my blanket and pretended it was you. I think I’m losing it.”

That night, you didn’t FaceTime. You both laid in your separate beds, earphones in, on a call with no video, barely talking.

Just… breathing together.

Your voice low.

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hang up.”

“Same.”

A pause.

Then—

“Hey… Can I say something dumb?”

“Always.”

“…I miss your heartbeat.”

You closed your eyes.

“Then hurry home. It’s still beating for you.”

Silence. Soft.

Then you heard it.

A breath. A tiny laugh. A sniff.

“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that when I’m far away. It hurts.”

You smiled into your pillow.

“Then come back and make it stop.”

Neither of you said “I love you” that night.

But the call stayed connected until the morning light crept through your window. Until the silence didn’t feel lonely anymore—just shared.

You hadn’t been waiting for a message from Hanni saying she’d arrived.

She didn’t send one.

No “I’m home.”

No “Open the door.”

Nothing at all.

But then, at exactly 6:03 p.m., in the middle of a boring YouTube ad, the door creaked open.

And there she was.

“Hey.”

You were on the floor, back against the couch, wearing her hoodie, snacking on stale chips you didn’t even like…

All the exhaustion in your body vanished in a single moment.

You looked up.

And smiled.

“You’re back.”

She didn’t run to you.

She didn’t cry.

She just stood there, quiet and soft.

Then stepped inside.

The space between you felt like the whole world shrinking down to something warm and familiar.

She shrugged off her jacket, and her eyes found yours.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

You reached out, fingers trembling, and took her hand.

“Me too.”

No words needed after that.

You just held each other.

And for the first time in a long time, everything was exactly right.

The End.

#ran ★#newjeans x reader #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader #hanni imagines

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