#there are so many and I’m forgetting them all

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

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[reminiscingthesea]

Part three of yandere stalker Phainon x nerdy reader !!

A/N- i don’t know how many times I’m gonna say this, but ty guys sm for all the support and love ive been receiving under comments!! I really enjoy reading them!!

Part 1 and part 2!:

Warning- Contains smut, reader is inexperienced, insecure thoughts, foul language, manhandling, AFAB reader

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.

.

It had been some time since that incident, and it was safe to say, you were truly shaken to your core. Luckily, your boyfriend best friend Phainon was here to help keep yourself safe during such difficult times. He walked with you to your lectures, even if it meant being late to his, he accompanied you whenever you went out, especially at later hours, he messaged you everyday, asking things like how you were, what you ate, if he needed to come over, if you needed a cry or a laugh. The two of you spent hours on the phone, too. Going to sleep on call and waking up to burning hot phones and a time reader that read- “7:46:50”- He was truly too good for you, and it made you doubt yourself. Did he truly like you? Was he still giving mixed signals? Was he doing this out of the kindness of his heart, or because he felt as though he had a duty to as your best friend?

.

.

“.. Phainon, you’re too good to me- taking me out to dinner at such an expensive restaurant and not letting me pay you back? I really don’t deserve this, your kindness..” You spoke timidly, keeping your eyes down on your plate of delicious, well seasoned food- which was lobster Thermidor with a side of cute, buttery bread buns that were oh-so soft. You felt a small rush of heat dust onto the skin of your cheeks as Phainon gently interlocked his hand with yours from the other end of the table, leaning his head down to get a glimpse of your face, a small, loving smile gracing his lips.

“C’mon, don’t say that.. we’ve grown so close together over these past few months, and it’s nearly the end of the semester, you know I like treating you to nice places for dinner.” He spoke softly, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, before continuing. “I like treating my closest to dinner, and you’re very close to me, [Name]. Never forget that.”

You looked at him with slightly widened eyes now, taking in his deep words. Was this his way of confessing his love for you? No, it couldn’t be. Phainon treats all of his friends to lunch and dinner, but not normally at a price like this..

“I don’t know what to say, Phainon.. I’m so, so grateful to you, you’ve helped me so much. But please listen to me. Don’t waste your time on someone like me. You deserve someone better, prettier, outgoing- I just make things awkward between us since I’m not as chatty with you, I..” Sighing shakily, you looked at him with tears welling in your eyes. “Just please, tell me how I could ever repay you.. you’ve saved my life countless of times, I’m truly indebted to you..”

Phainon looked back at you with an equally as sad look, he looked like a kicked puppy who was left in the rain by its owner.

“I understand that such traumatic events will alter your view on your worth, make you feel bad about yourself. But [Name], when I tell you that you truly mean so much to me, I mean it. You don’t have to believe me right now, but I’ll wait. Albeit, sadly. But as long as it takes, I’ll wait.” How he wanted to confess to you right then and there on the spot, but he himself had his own doubts that he just couldn’t wrap his head around as to why he had them.. he had removed every obstacle in his way- your bullies, Mydei, danger- and had your trust and respect for him. So why now was he so hesitant? Was all of this for nothing? Was he worried you’d reject him due to your beliefs on how he’s too good for you?

Even then though, he had a small thought at the back of his head that told him ‘Don’t confess, and you’ll only hurt her more.’

You could only nod and carry on with the rest of your dinner, a somber, dejected look on your face, and he copied too. The rest of your dinner was awkward to say the least. Neither of you looked each other in the eyes, only sneaking quick glances when the other wasn’t looking, nor did the two of you talk, until the bill came- to which Phainon paid the whole sum of 10,500 credits, as you gave him a pouty look from across the table.

As the two of you walked out and begun making your ways back to campus, you clutched his wrist delicately.

“Phainon. I promise to pay you back, okay? Just don’t reject it, please..”

To this, Phainon could only laugh quietly and turn to face you fully. ‘You could pay me back with your love’ he thought to himself as he began speaking.

“Oh, fine. Since you’re so stubborn and such a sweetheart, I’ll let you pay me back. But! At a discounted price of 50% off. I don’t make the rules.”

You sputtered slightly and shook him, shaking your head.

“50%?! I can’t pay you back only 50% of the money you spent on me today!” You exclaimed, a crazed expression on your face as you tried to get him to change his price to a higher one.

“Oh? 50% isn’t a good enough percentage? Oh fine, since you’re such a good negotiator, I’ll let you pay me a maximum of 25%! A minimum of 0%, is allowed though.” He teased lightly, winking and grinning as he saw your face morph into a more frustrated one.

Suddenly, you shoved a bunch of credits to his chest and grabbed his hands to clutch them

“Look. I wanna do something nice for you to pay you back. I won’t let you win this either- so just take the credits and this’ll all be over.” You concluded confidently, as the pair of you reached your campus’ entrance and walked right in. You had a dead-set, stubborn look on your face as you walked back to your dorm, and Phainon could only laugh in adoration as he stuffed the credits into his wallet.

“Oh alright fine! You win! I’ll stop ruffling your feathers and let you pay me back tenfold. But just know, I’m gonna be spending even more money on you next time! And ah-ah-ah! Don’t even think about taking it as an opportunity to pay me back even more, I won’t let it happen!” He declared loudly in the otherwise empty hallway besides the two of you standing outside your dorm room. ‘He’s so perfect..’ you pondered to yourself quietly, before flashing him a small, sweet smile. But there was a hint of sadness behind it, and Phainon saw.

But before Phainon could talk to you further, you quickly said your goodbyes and waved him off, before disappearing into your dorm room.

Phainon stood there, an unreadable look on his face as he stared at the now closed door in front of him. How badly he wanted to break that door down and make you love him just as he loved you. But he simply, couldn’t bring himself to do so.

How pathetic of him.

.

.

.

Sitting at his desk, he opened his computer screen to monitor your activities through the camera in your room. It was something he hadn’t done as often as before, considering how much closer the two of you became over these last few weeks. Though, he made a mental note to sneak in another camera from a different part of your room, just for better… angles. The mirror might be a good option!

However, the sight that absolutely blessed his dirty little eyes of faux purity, was truly a sight to behold.

It was you, on your bed, with nothing but a shirt on. Your panties were long discarded on the floor, and so too was your bra, assuming it was the soft blue pair of underwear laying on the floor just a few meters from his bed.

Immediately, blood rushed to his cock as he pulled it out from his shorts, quickly rubbing his hand up and down over its generous length, his thumb gently teasing his tip, the same way he gently rolled it against the back of your hand before. His mouth agape, eyes lidded as he continued watching the footage reverently.

But what got him really going, was when you brought two fingers to your pussy, which he obviously couldn’t see considering the camera’s placement on your headboard behind your bed. But it had an elevated view, so he saw how the two fingers gently eased their way into your cunt slowly, whilst your thumb teased at your clit.

“F-fuck..! fuck, so- mmghh…” You moaned softly, rocking your hips to no specific beat, as your finger on your bud worked harder to provide more stimulation. But after a few moments, your loving moans turned into whines and whimpers of frustration and sadness. Phainon, who was edging himself to hear your moans, heard this change, causing a pout to adorn his gracious face.

“Oh, [Name].. you must be having so much trouble trying to please yourself… if only I was th-“

“If only you were here, Phainon… you’d make me feel so good….”

Oh.

oh.

To this, Phainon immediately stood up from his desk, eyes widening and face flushing. The shock was enough to send him over the edge, cum spewing onto the table in front of him. He bent over the table, his head tilted upwards to look at his computer’s screen as you continued your strings of moans of pleasure, but also sadness. He began rubbing his cock, now hot, sticky, and even harder, much faster now, your moans and his creating a beautiful symphony.

Finishing with a gasp, he buried his face in his arms, breathing heavily. However, you were still touching yourself, moaning weakly, trying to reach your peak of pleasure like the guy behind the camera, but nothing.

“..Poor [Name].. unable to please herself without my guidance?..” He whispered softly to himself, slowly getting up to his full height and looking down at the computer screen of you pathetically trying to please yourself, whilst also murmuring degrading comments about yourself in the process.

“Nobody gets to hurt what I love. Not even yourself.. I will show you my love for you, [Name].. I’ve been stupid enough to deprive you of it for so long…” His fingers gently caressed your form on his computer screen, a hint of sadness behind them.

He knew what he had to do. He had to show you his soaring love for you, a love that knew know bounds, a love that he starved of you by his own insecurities. He hurt you, and he was going to change that.

He began cleaning his desk.

.

.

You sobbed pathetically into your pillow, you couldn’t do it. God, you were so bad at everything, even at pleasing your own cunt. You couldn’t even do it yourself, you needed someone- someone who you probably doesn’t even like you-. Feeling the wetness of your cunt beneath your ass now, you let out a shaky sigh, on the verge of bursting into even louder cries of frustration and disappointment.

Amidst your tantrum, you heard loud, firm knocks on your dorm room’s door. Scrambling to get your clothes back on, you messily made it to the door, not caring about your appearance besides having some clothes on. Your hair was a mess, your face was flushed and wet with tears, your lips and legs quivering as you opened the door to see Phainon.

“P-Phainon- I’m sorry I don’t look good-“

“Let me in, [Name]. We need to talk.”

He pushed himself past you as you closed the door, before his hand met your wrist and pulled you close to him, pinning you against the wall near a table. Your vision became blurry as your eyes darted across the room in shock. Phainon’s hand cupped your face, turning it to face him fully as he spoke.

“I’ve held this for too long. [Name], I love you. I’ve loved you this entire time. And I know you love me too, you were just too scared to say it. Ever since… ever since we met, I’ve always thought about you, the things we’d do together as a couple. Kisses, romantic dates, cute things.. I need you. And you need me too. You’re perfect for me, and I’m perfect for you.” His voice was quiet and husky as he spoke, his face so close to yours, your lips almost touching his as he spoke. Your eyes widened, tears brimming in them once more, your mouth agape.

“Ph..Phainon.. I love you- I love you so much- you don’t know how happy I am to hear this I-“ Without thinking, you crashed your lips against his, capturing him in a soft kiss. You’ve never kissed anyone before, but this felt right, as he reciprocated just as fervently. Phainon then deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he pinned you harder against the wall, his knee coming up between your legs, his hand tangling into your hair.

You could only moan softly in response as you grinded needily, helplessly, against his knee, seeking the pleasure you’ve been so starved of all this time. With a few deep gasps of air from you and him, his mouth took refuge on your neck, his head burying in the crook of it as he mouth began sucking and leaving large love marks on the soft skin.

“Gonna show you my love for you, yeah? Gonna fuck it into you for being such a good girl and waiting all this time for me..” He picked you up off the floor, your arms wrapping around his neck, as your legs wrapped around his waist, before carrying you back to your room.

He laid you down on your bed carefully, before peeling your clothes off, one by one. His touch was worshipping, reverent, his eyes never leaving yours. He smiled softly to himself as he took your pants off, breaking his gaze with yours as he glanced at your panties, the same light blue ones that were discarded on the ground just a few minutes ago.

As he peeled off your panties, revealing your glistening cunt to him, he threw it aside, along with the rest of your discarded clothes on the floor besides the bed. He took his shirt off, making way for his muscular, defined torso and body. You swore you saw stars in that moment, heat creeping up onto your face as your hand unconsciously lifted up to caress the firm skin there. Phainon chuckled, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Like the view?” He teased playfully, a smug, but loving grin on his face as your eyes met with his once more. He lightly took your hand and interlocked it with his, before coming back down on you and kissing you softly, his hair tickling your cheeks as he did so. Whilst you were so caught up with the kiss, you didn’t catch his free hand running up your thigh, creeping near towards your ever growing, wet pussy, teasing the sensitive flesh around it.

You squirmed as his toned, but slim fingers began teasing the entrance of your cunt’s hole, almost rimming it with the pad of his fingers, before gently siding them in.

“Phainon!~” You gasped sweetly, holding onto his hand tighter as his fingers worked their magic within the gummy walls of your hole. Your hips jerked slightly as his thumb rubbed the ever-so sensitive bud of your clit in circular motions. He smirked to himself as he felt your walls tighten so nicely around his fingers, it almost made him cum again, as he thought of how much tighter you’d wrap yourself around his needy, greedy cock later on. But he had to prepare you first. After all, what’s love without passion and care?

His fingers then began increasing the speed of their thrusts, curling up gorgeously within you, hitting such sweet spots, making you squirm and whimper in pure pleasure. Tears began flooding the shape of your eyes once more, moans being robbed from your throat as his thumb worked even quicker ministrations against your clit. The knot deep within you grew tighter, so so tight, about to snap- until his fingers curled deeply and hitting a sensitive spot in you- before you moaned his name loudly- squirting and coming undone right then and there, all over his hand.

You saw white for a few moments, your gaze glassy as you came back to reality through Phainon’s hand gently stroking your arm.

“Look at you.. so needy and desperate for me.. you squirt like a whore, but you seem inexperienced” He mused to himself, basking in how your expression changed from pure ecstasy to embarrassment and slight shame.

“I am inexperienced, so what? You think someone like me’s gotten game before..?” You replied hastily, a slight bite behind your tone as you spoke, to which, Phainon only smiled apologetically.

“I’m not shaming you, I’m more than honoured to be your first. I’ll never let you forget this.”

He pulled his fingers out, which were now coated in your secretions and slick, before licking them clean, ravishing the taste. Then, he pressed a chaste kiss against your cheeks and lips, as his head began pressing sweet kisses along your collarbones, going down, down, down, until his face was met with your sopping, heavenly pussy. He’s always wanted to taste you like this. Make you squirm in delight and pleasure as his tongue would work wonders against the skin of your beautiful cunt.

He didn’t wait for a response as he dived right in, his warm tongue coming out and rolling against your clit, making you jerk your hips up again in delight and satisfaction. He roughly held them down with his hands on each bone, before lifting your legs up over his shoulders for better access. He revelled in the way your thighs tightened around his neck, closing in as his tongue inserted itself into your dripping pussy’s hole, making quiet slurping noises against the flesh, bringing his hand back to stimulate your poor clit again. Your movements and squirms only made him eat you out quicker, more devoutly, aiming to please you and only you as you drew closer to falling over the edge.

“P-phainon- Phainon! I-I can fucking feel it I- please..” He could tell you were coming closer to the edge once more, and the ministrations of his tongue and fingers only quickened in response. Your hand gripped onto his pearly white locks tightly as you grew even closer to cloud nine. And then, with a sharp jerk of your hips against his head, you came all over his mouth with a loud cry, throwing your head back in delicious pleasure, your hips grinding against him as his tongue obediently lapped against your pussy, taking in all of your smooth, rich, sweet cum, coating his lips like lip gloss. He hesitantly pulled away from the comfort and warmth of your pussy and legs, carefully setting them back down on the bed, caging him in, his hand caressing the soft skin of your trembling thighs.

“You taste amazing.. you need a taste of yourself.” He whispered against your ear now, bringing his head up and kissing you again, your essence invading your tastebuds; a foreign taste.

“Phainon, wanna make you feel good too..” You spoke sweetly, getting up and pushing Phainon down into a sitting position. He moved to a side of your bed, as you got off and got onto your knees, beginning to remove his pants hastily.

“Someone’s desperate” He teased again, spreading his legs for your better access as you pulled his pants down, now staring at the giant bulge protruding through his boxers. You then pulled them down, before being met with his girthy, thick, big cock, which bobbed against his abs. In a nervous daze, you grabbed it with you hand softly, kissing the angry red tip that leaked sweet precum all over it.

“It’s really big..” You whimpered, slowly stroking his length, tightening your hand around it for more pleasure. Phainon laughed faintly, grabbing onto your hair, his grip tightening slightly as you jerked him off faster, his head lolling back a little.

“Gonna make you feel good too..” You promised, before slowly taking in his whole dick in your mouth, your cheeks puffing out from his great size, as it filled up your throat. With soft gags and moans, you began sucking him off, tightening your mouth and throat around him and bobbing your head up and down.

To this, Phainon moaned your name loudly, throwing his head back as he pushed his length further down your throat, pushing your head deeper, his grip on your hair becoming even stronger. Just as he dreamed, you looked up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes of yours as you’d suck him off, mouth full of him, your sounds of struggle and gags playing a part in sending him over the edge.

“Fuck.. you suck cock like a whore too, you’re so- fuck, ah~.. good at this, aren’t you? I’ll p-pay you back… tenfold-“ He uttered loudly as he was nearing his peak of pleasure. Feeling his cock pulsate in your throat, you tried sucking him off faster, until his thick, warm, gooey cum filled your mouth, to which you immediately gagged at, taking his cock out your mouth and gagging slightly. The taste wasn’t something you were used to, of course not. So as you coughed up the cum, Phainon lifted you up off your legs and onto his lap, rubbing your back as you coughed up.

“Shh.. you sucked me off so fucking good. Wanted to make me feel all good too? What a sweetheart, hm?.. You want my cock to fuck your sensitive, tight pussy? Yeah?” He continued praising you as he moved the two of you back to the head of the bed. He was now sitting beneath you as your hands met with the headboard above your bed, your face leaning right next to the camera there.

But he wasn’t worried about that right now, as your legs caged him by the his sides next to his hips, your pussy just above his cock.

“P-Phainon.. what if it doesn’t fit?” You asked worriedly, now taking in his full length with your eyes as you looked down at him and his cock, your eyes meeting his face, which had a look of love and affection painted onto it.

“You’ll be fine, you’ll take me in just good, y’hear?”

With enough reassurance, Phainon held your hips as you slowly, carefully, aligned your cunt’s entrance with the head of his cock, and gently lowered yourself onto it. You cried out as he stretched you out, feeling his whole size fill you up within a matter of seconds. And once you had fully engulfed his cock, you bottomed out, crying in pleasure, almost about to cum just from the feeling of his cock inside you.

“See, taking me like a champ. Now, start riding me, just move your hips like that- yes, fuck.. you’re so good…”

You rocked your hips, moving up and down on his cock, pants of pleasure coming out of your mouths, your own eyes rolling back at the pleasure as you rode him. You sped up your riding to let him cum quickly, still eagerly wanting to please him just as he did with you before. As he moaned in pleasure and held your hips with a bruising grip, he looked up at you with pure reverence and admiration in his eyes. The way your eyes rolled back, or closed in pleasure and determination, the way your hair fell over your face, the way you bit your lip in pleasure, trying to hold back your moans.

But he could see you were growing restless and tired as you bounced and rode him quickly, trying to make him feel good.

“Phai..non.. I’m so tired- I’m sorry- couldn’t make you feel good..” You sobbed pathetically, your voice soft as you sniffled in familiar frustration, the ache in your thighs and hips growing less dull and quiet, and more pronounced and intense.

At this Phainon shushed you gently, coaxing you to move a bit and change your position, so that you weren’t hunched over the headboard, and instead, sitting over him, cock stilled within you. He then, without a word, lifted you effortlessly by your hips, as if taking you off his cock, before slamming you right back down onto it, his tip now hitting the spongey sweet spot within you. You threw your head back in shock and surprise, a cry of pleasure ripping from your throat as tears ran down your cheeks, your mouth agape. But he wasn’t done, as he now kept moving you up and down manually on his cock, feeling his high coming back, as well as yours with how you tightened around him in the cuddling embrace of your slick, warm, gummy walls. Even louder moans and cries sounded from you, all the more desperate and pleasing as you both drew closer. His groans mixed with your cries like a hymn sung by the divine angels above.

Then, with a final upwards thrust of his hips into you, you collapsed over him, both of you cumming onto one another. He felt your warm cum coat his cock, as his own thick seed painted your walls comfortably. Panting against his chest, you couldn’t help but grind weakly against him in overstimulation and tire, moaning tiredly.

Phainon breathed out a sigh of relief and pleasure, before lifting your head up to look up at him.

“We’re not.. we’re not done yet. You’re gonna feel every last bit of my love for you, [Name].”

With that, he pulled out and flipped you over onto your back, so that you were beneath him once more. He grabbed your limp feet and put them over his shoulders as he inserted his dick into you once more, eliciting a loud moan from you in response. He interlocked his hands with yours as he fucked you like this, taking pure delight and pleasure in the way your face contorted into a bonny look of delectable bliss. Your tongue lolled out as your eyes rolled back yet again, sweet, pornographic moans ringing out from deep within your throat as he fucked you hard and fast. You truly could feel the love behind his hard thrusts as he hit you in all the right spots with his greedy, monstrous cock, which would elicit even louder moans from you. You cried out in even more overstimulating pleasure as you came again, shattering into pieces as he placed a soft kiss against your one of your ankles next to his head on his shoulder, making you squeeze around him like a glove.

And then, just as he was about to cum in you, he pulled out and spew his release all over your tits with a laugh, painting your pretty breasts with his load.

“Oh dear.. I’ve made such a mess, haven’t I? I’m so clumsy, let me clean it up for you..” He voiced, his tone mocking and playful as he leaned down and stuck his pink tongue out once more, before licking and sucking one of your nipples clean from his cum, fondling and tweaking the other with his other hand.

“A-ah!~ Haah..~ Phai- fuck!… Phainon please-!~” You sobbed out, unable to take even more pleasure and satisfaction as he sucked on your sensitive nipple, pulling it out with a satisfying ‘pop!’, creating a more reddish colour to its skin, before moving onto your other tit, licking it clean of his cum as you whined his name arousing-ly. It was all enough to make you cum again with an exhausted cry, your back arching upwards off the bed.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, [Name], my perfect girl.. love you so much, doll.. you tired now?..” He asked hotly against the shell of your ear again, peppering sweet kisses against the skin near it. Unable to speak properly, you simply nodded your head and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him down next to you on the bed, cuddling him and letting his warmth comfort you, as the smell of sweat and sex lingered in the air around you. But the two of you didn’t care at the moment, only holding each other, with Phainon spooning you and rubbing your sore legs.

After a while, you both came back to your senses from your dazes on cloud nine, looking at each other with love in your eyes.

“I love you, Phainon..”

You cupped his face in your hands, rubbing his cheeks and squishing them, making his lips pucker out. You kissed his silly looking lips, and Phainon could only smile in response.

“I love you too, [Name]. But right now, we have to clean ourselves up, we stink.” He joked lightly, his tone now taking up its more lighthearted and bright side. He giggled as you whined about being too tired and sore to move.

“Don’t worry, I’ll carry you, silly” He then picked you up delicately in a princess carry, taking you to your bathroom and setting you down on the edge of the bathtub, before turning the water on and filling it up with warm water. He then, with your permission, added in some of your bath soak- a sweet vanilla scent- and mixed it all in until the water turned all bubbly and pretty. Dipping you in first and following through, with a sigh of satisfaction at the warm water, he pulled you towards him and let the warm water soothe both of your aches and sore spots.

“Thank you..” You mumbled quietly, giggling as he started washing your hair for you with your bottle of shampoo, following suit with his own hair.

“You’re gonna smell like vanilla and strawberries once you get out of here, Phainon” You joked playfully, causing him to pinch your cheek softly

“I wouldn’t mind. At least I’d be able to have your scent all over me where ever I go”

Laughing quietly, you let him pamper you, massage the knots and kinks from your back and thighs as the two of you would wash each other. Each of you putting the other’s hair into a soft bun as the conditioner was added in.

“You look silly, Phainon” You giggled, seeing the tiny ball of sopping white hair sit atop his head due to him having shorter hair than yours.

“Only for you, my love” He responded, kissing the top of your head and tucking it into his chest as the two of you sat in the heat of the warm waters.

.

.

After some time, Phainon got out to clean up the mess you two had made on your bed- to which you protested until he’d simply shut you up with a kiss and tease you about how cold it was outside the water. Not before long, he came back into the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and another in his hand. Picking you up, he patted you dry with the towel, with teasing, lingering touches in some areas, and wrapping the towel around your form, leading you to your now spotless, fresh smelling room.

“Sorry, I don’t have any clothes for you..” You spoke ashamedly as he helped you dress up into some lighter clothes now, to which he only responded by smiling slightly.

“I’ll be fine with wearing my other clothes, unless, you want me to sleep naked?” He now had a smug little grin on his face, but you knew his words held no actual lust behind them as his eyes were full of a familiar kindness and love.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind the view, but I don’t want you waking up with a fever in the morning.”

And with that, you were both cuddling in your now cleaned bed with new sheets and all. He had his sweatpants on from before, as well as his shirt, and you had your comfy pajamas on. He spooned you as he did before, tucking your head under his chin in the crook of his neck as you drifted off slowly to the feeling of his soft, pink lips peppering sweet kisses all over your face, his legs and arms tangled with yours.

“I love you, [Name]. I’m so glad everything worked out in the end..” He breathed out, before succumbing to the land of dreams himself, feeling the nighttime air of the open window gently making its way in and cooling down your room.

You were all his now, as he has always been yours from the start.

[namioz]

I used to be one of those people who would only read complete fics cuz my heart was broken one too many times by forgetting to check a date, but being an author myself now I’ve learnt from that. I live for that one person who comments every time I update. My one purpose in life is to patiently wait for my fav fic to give me a new chapter notification in my inbox.

Also cuz I’m a huge fan of rarepairs and there are either only one shots or unfinished fics about them, but I scrape together what I can and feast on the scraps of these beautiful works.

All this to say, read unfinished fics!! Subscribe to your fav unifinished works, you never know, they might come back! Comment on authors works, so they know they’re appreciated, and if you’re desperate for the ending to the story, make up your own! I have so many rambles in my notes app of endings or rewrites to my fav stories that I just couldn’t get enough of.

I feel like this is an unpopular opinion, but more people should read incomplete/unfinished/in-progress fanfics.

I've noticed this huge trend where creators on tiktok and tumblr who will be explaining how to use Archive Of Our Own to new users and they always say "and make sure to scroll down and click completed only" or how people will go out of their way to mention they only read completed fics 'because they were traumatized when they forgot to check the dates and didn't realize this fic hadn't been updated since 2012'.

The thing is - I think by not engaging with and/or actively avoiding writer's WIPs readers are potentially adding to the aggregate of abandoned works. Now this obviously isn't the case for all abandoned fics, anything from major life events, to loss of interest, to getting busy can be a reason for a fic getting abandoned - but at least on some level I just know that writers are quitting while they're ahead when they aren't garnering any response or feedback because reading WIPs has become unpopular. If you're worried about reading something that hasn't been updated since 2012 then you can use the date updated function to sort out old fics.

Anyways, support your favorite fanfic writers by engaging with their WIPs.

[unluckiestmember]

K-Pop Demon Hunters: HUNTR/X X Fem! Reader

Characters: Mira, Zoey and Rumi

Warning: None. SFW.

A/N: I can't believe pride month is over, but I'll be damned if it ends and I don't have anything for these girls! Should I do one for the Saja Boys??

Zoey

“What do you say to us going to the bathhouse after this?… Awesome- You hear that, guys?! I’m taking my girlfriend to the bathhouse!” Zoey knew she liked girls for a long time. When she lived in America, she enjoyed that she was in a sense comfortable to love who she wanted to love without much ridicule if at all. So for her, falling in love with you came easy and somewhat fast. She knew some fans wouldn’t understand, but that didn’t stop her from putting you on a pedestal and making sure the whole world knew who she was dating.

This maknae will always find a chance to hold you if not cuddle you in between shows, all while telling you endlessly how much she loves you between kisses on your cheeks. Because of how proud she is to have you as a girlfriend, she’ll even invite you to join HUNTR/X during interviews and fan signing. This lovebird makes sure no one forgets you two are together because of how happy you make her. And she hopes she makes you feel the same way.

Mira

“Where’s my girl?… There she is~. You enjoyed the show? Good, now come on, babe, we gotta celebrate.” One of the reasons why Mira didn’t get along well with her family was because she wasn’t conventional when it came to her love. She liked guys, don’t get her wrong, but she loved girls way more. And she used to be pretty self conscious about it, but after she met you? Beautiful gorgeous you? Well, let’s just say that she parades you around sometimes. When she’s done with a show, she’s all over you, quick to put an arm around you and walk around as if you are both goddesses everywhere you go.

Expect to get a bunch of kisses on your forehead and brushes along your hand from her thumb. And especially be ready for her to put you in her lap like it’s a personal throne while she caresses your side. If anyone tries to ridicule you for loving her, she’s going to make an example out of them. She dares anybody to hurt you or make you feel like you don’t belong. They’re just another display of how much she loves you and cherishes you.

Rumi

“For the melody, maybe we can-… Why are you looking at me like that? I know it may be hard, but can you try to stop being cute and focus?” Rumi had made it clear that she likes boys as much as her friends. But what she’s always kept behind closed doors along with her past is that she likes girls too. She had to learn that the hard way from performing at so many shows, meeting other artists and just being entranced by their beauty. It’s one of the reasons why she fell in love with you. You just. Waltzed right into her life and she thought you were the most beautiful person she’d ever seen.

She pursued you and at first tried to keep your relationship a secret due to fear of ridicule. But with your help and your unwavering love for the lead singer, after a show, Rumi pulled you aside and revealed to the world that you two were together. She has never been happier now that you two can be together in public. She loves how she can compliment you around Mira and Zoey. How she can talk about you fondly during interviews. And especially how she can sleep by your side without having to sneak you out in the morning. She couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for you. And because of that, she loves you so much and will love you forever.

Likes and retweets are always appreciated! I love you all, stay hydrated and have a good day! <3

[iluvsanrio444]

╭┈ • ┈ ୨୧ ┈ • ┈╮

chapter two plot ⋆˚࿔ : A continuation from chapter one. Either Romance had heard over Huntrix and Y/Ns discussion on their sealing theory or hasnt, staying in the closet as Y/N wanted him to.

word count -> 4,051

#angst #slight-fluff #slightly comedic #movies-plot #context based

ʚɞ A/N: Thank you so much for the amount of support in the first chapter, I’m so glad you lovelies enjoyed it! I really appreciate all the support from you guys, TYY :3! I suggest reading this along with the songs i’ve put on here as it’ll bring more of an immersive experience, ENJOOYY!!

╰┈•┈୨୧┈•┈╯

Ever since that moment, the tension rises in your stomach the more it is prolonged. You knew that the ajar door to your bedroom meant one thing — Romance. The pinky was quite literally hiding in your closet. Rumi, Mira and Zoey were goofing off, impersonating each Saja Boys predicting how they’ll react to this theory they brought up. You openly wanted to just sit down and watch the others go to their shenanigans just to forget — even just for a second.

How much did he hear?

What’s this bastard thinking?

Am I safe?

Should I just tell them?

Fuck, many things spiralled into your head which just aggravated you even more. Taking a deep breath and trying to ease your tensed-up muscles now. A little jump was earned by Mira when she stood up like a bolt to impersonate Romance about his predicted reaction. You felt your intestines churning, twisting, and coiling, burning up with how much you thought Romance heard. You clenched your fists on your lap, trying to cloud out the panic and gut-wrenching tension, but you couldn’t swallow or breathe.

“Ugh!” Mira dramatically placed a hand on her forehead whilst both her legs crossed together. “No… we can't trust these girls... I—I love being a demon, Jinu! I don't want my hair to go!” Then her arms went to hug herself, being all in a swirling motion, — is she high or something? “I wanna stay as a demon; no, no, no! I refuse with all my..fibre.” The last word being more girly than ever, Mira flipped her imaginary hair, randomly locking in to shoot up heart fingers the entire time. Sure, it was playful banter between each other; it earned Zoey and Rumi to start dying, trying to catch each other to not fall from the couch… It even made me waver a small smile. Even though you were enjoying your time with the trio, you hoped they did wrap things up. The growing sensation of chillis being shoved into your throat made you struggle to breathe at a normal pace. Continuous side glances to your bedroom door that was still opened ajar. It got to your head that you even gave up waiting, knowing these three can go all night if they wanted to.

A clap whilst standing up, now looking at the three ladies, “I’m feeling really tired now guys.. I’ll—“ Cutting you off, Mira put her hand up and just did a swaying motion, “Yeah, yeah, no worries, girl. Go to bed.”

“Mhm go bed, Y/N; you must be tired!” Zoey followed along with Mira.

The smile you once had on, half-heartedly with the three, weakened. Your lips faltered almost to a frown, but the corner of your lips refused to fall, keeping up a small grin. Not to something truer, something more bitter.

No one was looking up.

Not even Rumi.

So quick to dismiss her with no worries. You shot a glance at Rumi, searching for anything; a flicker of acknowledgement, a sliver of care, maybe even a shadow of guilt? To no surprise, her eyes were fixed on her members, lit with loyalty you used to believe you were part of, your… own sister.

Yeah.

Maybe this was the real reason why you forced yourself to accept your helper role. The one who waited in the wings. Always watching the performance that you were supposed to be on.  You used to think you were part of Huntrix, part of the stage... part of them — but lately, it felt more like you were just the silence between their lines.

“Goodnight..?” You vocalised yourself more, heavier than a scream. No one answered. Greeted by their backs as your ‘goodnight’. You stood still, caught in that hollow pause before solitude fully settles in. In that moment a thought gnawed its way through your chest: do you truly deserve this just because you weren't...hunter enough—or to put it simply,

not enough at all.

Returning your back to theirs, too oblivious to know that Rumi had looked twice at you. Watching you. God knew what she was acting oblivious to.

Your room was quiet; a click sound echoed through the cracks in the walls. Too still for how your heart was beating, losing its pace. All the forced composure you had upheld dropped, the slumped shoulders following along before you turned your head. You hoped for whatever God there was; yet again, he was still in the closet. Just as you left him as. Your bedroom was only lit in certain corners, giving a warm ambience that would soon feel like eyes on the both. Taking a step closer whilst observing your room, your eyes locked on a crumpled origami heart. Sardonic, right? But the smile tugging your lips quickly faltered as your eyes began to adjust to the dimly lit bedroom. He was out of the closet. Romance stood there leaning against the glass-panel door with his arms crossed, a shadow draping across his softened features. You could've sworn you stood there frozen just admiring this man— demons.. face. Something caught your attention, though; his usual playful bitchboy glint was nowhere to be found. His normal demeanour fell off the more you gazed at him. His lips were no more than a firm line, evident to his now downturned eyes, almost like it was waiting for a heartbreak, waiting for that cue. You weren’t stupid; you knew why he was like this, doting back to the opened ajar door the entire time.

“You heard us… didn’t you?” You cut to the chase, your tone monotone and flat, cracking halfwaythrough. Just a moment ago you sounded at peace, but now..? Just because— just because of this demon bullshit?

He didn't answer right away, only answering with his body language. A slight quick nod. His eyes wavering to the floor, then to you, then back to the floor. Look at me damn it, you thought.

Similar to him, your gaze too faded away from him; a growing distance between each other only tensed in that same moment. Turning your body away as your hands made their way to squeeze your arms, holding yourself together if you just clutched enough. “How much, Romance?”

“All of it.”

“Why didn’t you just staye—.”

“How was I supposed to know that would be the topic, Y/N?”

“If only you just listened.. just once—.”

“Y/N.”

Desperately you turned your body to him again, eyes now widened, eyebrows upturned slightly. You wanted to say more through but Romance cut you off before you could, gritting your teeth until a deepened, hollow sigh came out.

“The plan makes sense, you know?” His voice wasn't teasing nor liveful. It was flat and hollow, like he himself had no person of his own.

He shifted from the glass-panel door, taking slow footsteps just to be closer to you. As if he was yearning for a moment of comfort, seeing your face was enough. Though his jaw clenched when he saw it this time, it was evident this was rotting you away; the facade moments ago was just relief, living in that moment with no worries, killing yourself inside. Instantly he changed his approach to one motion, like going up to a wounded animal.

“Seal the Honmoon. Starve Gwi-Ma. End it for good.”

A swallow filled with its own stones started to clog your throat, “And what, Romance?” Taking only one step closer, “What happens if it doesn’t work? To the others, t..to you—.” The ending you couldn't even finish without becoming a crying, hiccuping mess. Quickly retreating yourself to talk longer than that.

Hanging pause.

“..I dont……know.”

Crack.

Your hands now trembling from the heightened emotions starting to take over, fogging yourself. Taking another step closer, finally seeing face to face, “Then why so calm about it, Romance?! Why’re you acting like this isn't on your life on a thread, Roma—!”

“Because it is Y/N!” He shouted suddenly, which caused you to jump back, but you stood your ground and went face to face with him yet again. “It’s always been!” His voice cracked under the weight of everything, how he had to stand there the entire time listening to everything. Listening to what the girls had in plan. Listening to how even as hunters, they saw how their flaws weren’t all there was to them.

“Since the day Gwi-Ma spat us out like weapons for some stupid boy band! Since the first soul he shoved down my throat—I’ve never had a choice!”

Crack.

Taking in the shaky breath, how his eyes now glassy were fully on you, melting further into his emotions he once forgot when turned into a demon. “So what if it doesn't work? I can finally have a choice; I get to choose how it ends for me… even if I have to go so far by your hands— at least it was mine Y/-“

“No, no, — no!” You cut him off, tears threatening to strike your cheeks. From the tension being released, your hands made their way to his loose yellow blouse, grabbing it by the collar. “Don’t you dare say it like that!” Tugging him forward to your height, “You don't get to throw your life away like it’s nothing just because someone else decided you were a pawn!” Your voice raw, terrified and palpitating just as his was. Taking this as a signal, your hands retreated to your sides, and you even took a step back. Trying to get your breathing regular as you just choked back cries, which made it far more than a struggle trying to compose yourself. “Y/N.. wait.” Romance took that forward step as you backed away from him. Almost instinctively, your hand shot up

“Don’t—just… don’t come any closer.”

Crack.

“Y/N please…”

“Do you just take me as a pushover?! Do you really think I can do that?” Your hands now wiped away the once threatened tears now tainting your cheeks, “Watch you fucking disapp— for fuck sakes—“ the tears kept rolling down, so you had to look up for a bit before looking at him again. All the curses are now just spiralling everywhere. “Watch you get pulled into that seal if their plan doesnt work and never come back?!” By now you were yelling just enough to not alert the trio who were still bickering in the living room. You didnt care if your voice cracked each time you talked longer and longer, not out of anger but pure fear, “What do you take me for Romance? Do you know what that will do to me?”

The churns started to work in his head; Romance looked like he had just gotten slapped for no reason. His shoulders dropped now; almost their noses could touch by just an inch, his expression softening. “Weren’t we just a one-time fling, Y/N?” His voice was quiet to a near whisper.

Your shoulders flinched since you realised the amount of exposure of your feelings to him.

“Wasn't this something we’d joke about constantly? Until it faded? You never said—.”

“Because I was scared, okay?!” Your breath hitched trying not to sob it out, “Because you weren’t supposed to mean anything. You were the enemy. You were supposed to be a demon I hated, not—” your mind shutted it down, and you forced yourself to shut up. Not everything. Not the only person who saw you in a crowd full of stars. Not the one who you always looked around for. Romance just stared at you, silently, yet everything seemed to signal to you that he already knew as if he’d been hoping to hear it but dreading it too. All the risks.

“I should hate you,” you whispered, softening the more you spoke. “I should.”

“But you don’t, Y/N.”

You shook your head, lowering your gaze from his. “No. I don't. That's why this plan.. Rumis plan..” Just then your body rejected all doubt; your trembling hands slowly went close to his jawline as your eyes followed the same direction. Not touching but close enough to be grateful you even got this close with him. “It can’t include you,” to a whisper filled with relentless pain, your eyes softening as it flickered left and right like it was trying to remember everything about him one last time, “It can’t, Romance.”

Immediately, Romance decided to give up the forces that urged him to stop himself just like you, his hand clasping the same hand next to his neck, placing it on his cheek. “What if it’s the only way? Everything has risks Y/N..”

“Then we’ll find another…” you snapped back, the desperation only growing, drilling into your head. “Who knows what can happen? We’ll find a better way i promi—.”

“Y/N—“

“No!” Pulling him away now, the same distance reoccurring as you backed away, “No,” you whispered, blinking through the tears trying to urge out. “I already know what it’s like to be invisible. To be standing behind everyone, unnoticed, unloved…”

“But with you, I didn’t feel like that. I can’t go back to being alone in a world where you were once real and then gone.” Now the tears came down; you didn't care to wipe them away, nor did you care if he saw this side of you. Your fists balled up so tightly that the tips of your fingers turned white and cold. “You made me feel like I was worth something,” the other hand placed on your chest as you choked out. “You looked at me like I wasn’t just someone’s shadow, and now you’re telling me you’re okay with vanishing? Even if it was just a mere risk, that mere risk can flip everything Romance.”

Romance stood there, staring like he was watching the world crumble beneath your feet infront of him — he was the one who pushed you that far, he knew. His lips parted slightly to say something, but nothing came out. The still silence surrounded the two. You couldn't help but not care anymore, just trying to compose yourself yet again from the highs in these emotions, wiping your tears whilst taking deep, hollow breaths. All romance could do was stare at you, shattered infront of him but carrying yourself back up. Fuck, he hated that. Every ounce of fear slammed at him like some wave he couldn't swim out of, only to be dragged the more he moved.

Crack.

For a moment he hated himself for not looking like his usual self; all the tease and bitch-boy attitude drained out of him. But then again — he never known what it meant to be loved like this let alone the thought of it. The reason why his name was Romance, the reason why he became a demon, the reason why Gwi-Ma managed to manipulate him into another of his pets. Yearning to be loved by someone. He finally got it yet in the worst case scenario. “God Y/N..” he whispered low enough that it could pass as a simple exhale, his voice now hoarse, “Why’d you have to say all of that…?” He ran his fingers through his pink hair now losing its heart shape, a bitter laugh clawed its way from his throat, quiet, and broken. “You’re making me scared now.”

“I was ready to disappear, Y/N, if it meant you could live in peac—“

“Please, stop.”

“Y/N..I thought I was ready..” his voice cracked yet again as he took a step forward to you, hoping you didn't back away moments ago. Fortunately, you didn't; you stood still just wanting to hear him. He was always teasing, frisky, funny and flirtatious, but now? This was the reality of him, the side he was afraid to show anyone, let alone when he was a human.

“But now you’ve gone and made it impossible,” he whispered. “Because now all I can think about is… what it’d feel like to hold your hand when this is over. To laugh about all of this, just once, without a knife in our backs or a plan hanging over us.” He took your hand again, the same hand that hesitated to go near his jawline, the same very hand that grabbed him by the collar, the same hand that you pulled him closer.

“Just you. Just me.”

“You made me want a future that I don’t know how to survive long enough to have.”

He pulled back slightly to catch every single corner of your face, admiring it like he always did before where your dumbass would scowl at him in response or a scoff, ‘That guy's so weird ugh..’ that small flashback made him smile a bit, seeing the same person underneath him tear stained cheeks, ice melting eyes, the raw emotions. You. Just you.

“So I’ll fight beside you, even with the risk… I’ll be right by your side Y/N.” He lowered himself to your height again but more lower than usual, placing your hand onto his cheek.

A breath.

The final crack in his tone.

“Because I don’t want to die anymore.”

In the midst of this moment, the constant back and forward arguing, you just wanted it to stay quiet for a bit. You didn't pull your hand away nor did he push you away, both contempt with just the feeling of desperation. Your breathing not staggering more than before, the other hand now cupping his face. Nothing came out of your mouth, nor did you even think of anything. Everything went black on your side. His eyes searched yours, not for answers, but for something to hold onto. Something real. Following your lead he also held the other hand, both your hands and his intertwined randomly together. He hesitated to speak first considering how you took account of his mouth, parting and closing slightly.

“What’s wrong?” You asked in a soften whisper, hearing laughter dying down in the living room.

“Tell me I mean something to you Y/N.” His eyes now sparked fear— but not any kind of normal panic, fear of rejection. “please, I need it..” He was crouching by now, on his knees looking up at you. Tears now trying to pressurise before letting loose. That explained the way he looked at you, how he opened up to his true self to you. Your eyes flickered between his gaze and something  signalled that he should stop, take it back before anything.

“I'm sorry that was stupid—.”

“I cant.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t tell you that Romance.”

Taking a deep quivering breath whilst looking up trying to seep the reforming tears from staining your cheeks any longer, “Because if I say it.. and… and this plan doesn’t work.” The more you spoke, the more your eyes softened, the more intimate and careful your touch was to him, your fingers wiping few tears that escaped from his eyes, “I—I don’t know how I’ll keep breathing if you go after I say it.”

Romance didn't react nor responded right away, his eyes staring up at you, your hand still on his, his still on yours. Everything was trembling at this point. He blinked once, slowly, the tears you previously wiped away just came back more worse. His lips quivered and parted obviously trying to get his words out before anything could be misunderstood, but his voice caught in the back of his throat. A small “agh” left his mouth instead, taking a few deep breathes he got back up from his knees now looking down at you, his hands still clasped on yours not letting you pull away even if it was just a second. You feared he misunderstood the entire perspective with your reply, just like anyone would. How you always went out of the way to understand both side on a more spiritual level, more enough that you fully believed that no one can really get to that same level. Even as a kid. Seeing how he got ready to respond, you closed your eyes expecting a response that was twisted, mistaken, filled of assumptions even the thought of it made you flinch a bit.

“Hey, hey look at me Y/N.” One of his hand that once clasped yours went to your jaw causing one of your hand to drop down to your side. His hand gently pulling your head back up, instinctively opening your eyes, however your gaze never met his, flickering constantly anywhere in your bedroom other than his face. “Please.” The one plead made you fold instantly after everything that had happened, it was only natural.

“I know now why you cant Y/N, dont beat yourself up for it.” He gave a breathless chuckle, one that held no humor, just bare. “Until the day you can say it, I'll stay by your side. Even with this theory Rumi planned out, alright?”

You blinked a few times, surprised that he actually understood what she tried to say. Not even twisting it to his narrative; rather, he made it to where it was together.

Knock.

Another knock?

“Y/N..?” It was Rumi.

Your eyes darted to the door back to him, pulling away from him and sniffing up your blocked nose wiping the tear strikes. “I’ll best leave, huh?” Romance tried to soften the mood still; even with Rumi at your door, a simple tap on your cheek before he went to your balcony and exited.

“Look, text me if anything happens.” You were silent and unresponsive, “Please.” You grabbed the origami of the heart, but there were two from before, giving him one back and keeping the other. That alone said enough to him.

Seeing him leave via your balcony, you placed the origami heart in your drawer before opening the door now. A sheepish Rumi. Normally you would greet her with a smile, but after everything, your eyes drooped and reddened to the point where Rumi mistakened it for lack of sleep. “Holy shit Y/N, I—I’ll make this quick, I promise!”

“Just hurry it up.”

“Are… are you and Romance like—“

For gods sake. Face palming yourself and even running your fingers through your already messed up hair, “Do you know what time it is Rumi?” You peeked your head through your door just to see Mira and Zoey doing their dumbass couch time, “Mira.. Zoey?!” They both cranked their heads to you, “Oops..” the two girls said in unison before slanting to their shared room.

“Look, Rumi.” Taking a long sigh and turning your head to her, “I’m tired; just cut to the chase.” Rumi straightened herself a bit, hesitating more than she thought she would in the first place. “Okay, okay,” she placed her hands up in surrender.

“I didn't mean to eavesdrop on you both Y/N, I noticed the way you were acting off and I heard some slight banging from your room. I was just coming to ask if you were okay… but.. I heard you. And his. Both your voices.” Relentless exhales made their way since your head was already fogged enough. Leaning against the doorframe with your arms now crossed, head tilted to the side. “So?”

“It scared me Y/N.”

“Since when did you care Rumi.”

“What?”

“Stop acting like you give a shit alright?!” You placed a hand on your forehead, trying to soothe the growing numbness in your head. “I'm sorry—I didn't mean to say that.. just listen okay?”

“Y/N—“

“Please just listen.”

The tone in your voice only grew more frustrated; it almost made you laugh seeing how she came up to ‘worry’ about you. Did she really think some simple half ass excuse would just turn your tables and act like it's fine yet again from back then? You were too tired and drained out mindlessly.

“I’ll tell you what happened tomorrow. You and Jinu, both. So just please... leave me alone.”

You didn't bother to hear her response knowing your ears picked up the faintest ‘what,’ before thudding the door shut. Locking it again with a faint clink. After that you made your way to your bed and practically flopped yourself face first onto it. Turning yourself side ways slightly whilst your gaze drifted to the drawer, where the last origami heart waited.

Still there.

Still intact.

But god, how it ached just to look at it.

[nhmkhnh]

#SPECIAL EVENT ──── LOVE AND LUST.

(the layout is ugly please forgive me.)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ rules.

first of all: mdni and men dni since this space contains nsfw and wlw content only.

hello my beloveds~ sooo i decided to make life harder for myself and open an event hehe. rules are simple: pick 1 to 3 prompts and one character (from the list of characters i write for (or you can look at the hastags under!), make sure to read the rules before sending anything in!) i’ll reply with either a short drabble or a long fic, depending on what i can manage to write. ♡

all the prompts were personally compiled by me through lots of references, inspiration from here and there, and a bit of personal experience too, so some similarities may occur, thanks for understanding!

prompts are below the cut, and yes, they’re all nsfw!

“get on the bed. i’m not gonna ask twice.”

“open your mouth for me, pretty.”

“you make the dumbest faces when you’re about to cum.”

“you're lucky i love ruining you.”

“who told you you could touch yourself without me?”

“i said stay still.”

“hands behind your back, baby. let me play.”

“look at that. all wet for me and i haven’t even touched you yet.”

“you’re mine. say it.”

“louder.”

“aw, baby, can’t take it? that’s too bad.”

“you begged for this. don’t act shy now.”

“let me hear that cute little whimper again.”

“i’ll stop if you don’t behave. is that what you want?”

“good girl. such a good little slut for me.”

“don’t move. you’re going to take everything i give you.”

“why are you hiding your face? i wanna see you fall apart.”

“touch yourself while i watch.”

“messy girls like you don’t deserve mercy.”

“on your knees, sweetheart. that’s where you belong.”

“use your words, baby. or i’ll make you beg properly.”

“don’t look at anyone else like that ever again.”

“you act like a brat just to get me to fuck it out of you, huh?”

“oh, you’re shaking already?”

“swallow it. all of it.”

“what was that? you had something to say, baby?”

“keep moaning like that and i’m never stopping.”

“look how needy you get for me.”

“you're gonna take one more for me, yeah? be a good girl.”

“that’s right. cry on my fingers.”

“tell me who owns you.”

“you like being used this way, don’t you?”

“you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re ruined.”

“mmm. can’t even speak? that’s how i like you.”

“such a slut for my voice, aren’t you?”

“this is mine—every inch of you.”

“want my hand around your throat while you ride me?”

“don’t you dare cum yet.”

“keep crying. it’s turning me on.”

“you’re not done. i’m not done.”

“think i’ll let you cum just because you’re cute?”

“what a good little mess you’ve become.”

“my strap’s still in you. stay like that.”

“you were made for me. don’t deny it.”

“keep those legs open, or i’ll tie them.”

“i love how desperate you get for me.”

“don’t act like you don’t want this.”

“didn’t i tell you to keep your hands to yourself?”

“let’s see how many times i can make you cum tonight.”

“fuck. you sound so good when you whine like that.”

“i should punish you more often.”

“you wanted to be treated like this, didn’t you?”

“come sit on mommy’s lap.”

“say ‘thank you’ for making you cum.”

“you smell like sex and mine.”

“you’re not leaving this bed until i say so.”

“your body belongs to me. always.”

“use that mouth for something useful.”

“i can feel how badly you want me.”

“dripping already? you’re so easy.”

“you really think i’d let anyone else see you like this?”

“on all fours. now.”

“if you cum before i tell you, i’ll edge you for hours.”

“spread those pretty thighs for me.”

“you taste like sin and i’m starving.”

“lick your mess off my fingers.”

“you really wanna be my good girl, huh?”

“let’s see how long you last tonight.”

“use your words or i’ll use your body.”

“i’m not going to stop until you forget your own name.”

“can’t believe you’re this wet for me.”

“hands on the wall, sweetheart. legs apart.”

“you’re not walking tomorrow, baby.”

“i bet your pussy’s throbbing just from hearing my voice.”

“i’ll ruin you so good you’ll forget your ex’s name.”

“keep still or i’ll tie your pretty little wrists.”

“say ‘please’ like you mean it.”

“no touching. you cum when i say.”

“i like you like this—needy and shaking under me.”

“god, you sound so good when you beg.”

“you like it when i’m rough, don’t you?”

“what did i say about disobeying me?”

“if you can’t behave, i’ll treat you like a toy.”

“moan louder. i want the neighbors to know who you belong to.”

“you were so confident earlier. what happened now, baby?”

“oh, you love when i talk dirty to you, huh?”

“wipe that smug look off your face or i will.”

“you’re gonna take all of it, understand?”

“i want to see you fall apart for me.”

“how do you want it tonight—soft or ruined?”

“say my name while you cum.”

“beg for it.”

“put your pretty ass to use.”

“try to stay quiet. i dare you.”

“let me see how much more you can take.”

“you’re nothing but my cute little toy, aren’t you?”

“so obedient when you’re dripping for me.”

“you’ll cum when i let you.”

“i don’t fuck girls—i own them.”

“look at you, ruined and mine. exactly how i like you.”

[sidequestobserver]

“What will you give, my dear?” The fae smiles, knowing she’s won. I need this deal.

I slump and turn away. My mind races through what I can sacrifice. My firstborn? I can’t give her Emma. She’s my daughter, my treasure. She just entered preschool. My name? I would forget who I am, and who knows what kind of damage that could do. No. No. I need to think of something else.

“Hurry darling, I can find someone else.”

“Give me a second,” I snarl. Come on Warren, think. What can you give. I smack my head with my hand. Think think think. My head hurts. Gosh I need a cigarette. I fumble in my pocket. Pull out a pack of Camels. Cancer sticks, my mum calls them. She’s not wrong. I stick one in my mouth, grab the plastic Bic lighter from my jeans. Sorry mum, I’m a lost cause, but I promise I don’t smoke around Emma.

I pause, cigarette unlit between my lips. Turn back to the fae, who is tapping her fingers idly on one cheek. I pull the cigarette out and study it. The thin white and brown cylinder rolls on my palm.

I’ve been a smoking cigarettes for a while. Tried them in high school, thought they looked cool. A few tries later I was gone. The corner store knows my face because I buy them there, have been buying them there, for years. I smoke with friends, smoke when I’m taking a break at work. They’re part of routine, part of life.

I look at the fae, who is looking at my face with a bored expression. I don’t know what she sees. I don’t know what is showing on my face, because I don’t know what I am feeling as I lift my hand and offer it to her.

“I will give you my addiction.” I whisper.

Her eyes flick to my palm. Back to my face. Back to my palm. I start to tremble. I grab my forearm with my other hand, lighter dropping on the ground. Steadying my open palm, my offering.

The fae’s smile returns, brighter and sharper than before. “Deal.”

And just like that she’s gone. The air before me is empty.

My hands are empty as well. So are my pockets. The cheap plastic lighter and pack of cigarettes erased, as if they’d never existed at all.

I wipe my hands on my jeans, check around to make sure the fae is gone. I rub my temple. My head hurts. I should drink some water, I think I’m dehydrated.

I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and a pack of mentos for Emma, then step up to the corner store register. The clerk rings me up. When it comes time to tell me the total, he hesitates. Waiting for me to say something.

I prompt him. “How much?”

“Will that be all?” he asks.

I look at him, a bit confused. “Yes.”

“Just Gatorade?”

“And the Mentos.”

“You sure?”

I stare at him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

The clerk wavers for a moment longer. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, wanting to ask something. I can’t think of what. Instead he says, “That’ll be $4.31.”

I pay. I walk out the door. Time to pick up Emma.

Jason stared as Warren exited the corner store. Five years he’s worked here, and Warren has come by at least once every week in those five years, usually more. Sometimes he bought Mentos, sometimes not. But he never left without buying a pack.

A finger tapping on the glass counter brought Jason’s attention to a customer at the register. He hadn’t noticed her come in. A woman dressed in a fancy dress, with ethereal beauty and a razor sharp smile. Many men would have stared. Jason didn’t. Jason was a professional. Professionals don’t stare at customers. He hadn’t stared when that guy wearing macaroni briefs and nothing else had came in for chips, he was not going to stare at the pretty lady.

“How may I help you?” Jason asked politely.

“A pack of Camel, please.”

In a deal with a fae, you must give up something you hold dear. Whether it be your name, your first born, or something else, it must be held dear. You, gave up your addiction. It worked.

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Part 1

Paso a paso

They don’t move fast.

They move toward each other.

Paso a paso.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: A footballer still learning how to breathe after glory. A ballerina who knows her time is running out. A one-night stand in Ibiza that was never meant to last — and yet somehow, it keeps finding them both. Alexia Putellas meets a woman who moves like silence and secrets. But Y/N carries a truth she hasn’t spoken.

Word count: > 40k, one shot

Tone: 💔 queer love 💃 ballet x football 🧠 terminal illness 🕯️ no promises, just presence ⏳ slow-burn · soft angst · quiet intimacy

Rating: Some intimate scenes

A/N: I’m back with the full story update. Unfortunately, there’s a length limit - thus, I’ll be splitting the story to four parts.

Whilst I’m a trilingual, unfortunately, Spanish is not one of the languages I’m fluent in. So do allow some margin of error with the translation.

————————————————————————

Alexia

Ibiza wasn’t her usual escape.

Too loud. Too chaotic. Too many people pretending they weren’t exhausted inside their perfect little lives.

But Alba insisted. And Alexia—still high on adrenaline from the summer’s triumph, still not quite believing they’d pulled off both the World Cup in 2023, the Euros in 2025 and finally, the second World Cup in 2027 within six years—couldn’t say no to her sister.

Not now.

So here she was. A rooftop bar in Sant Antoni. Neon lights. Salt on her lips. Sweat clinging to her collarbone. She hadn’t worn her Barça training gear in weeks, and yet people still stared, as if victory followed her like a shadow.

Alba had wandered off hours ago, dancing with someone whose name she’d forget by sunrise. Alexia, meanwhile, lingered by the bar with a glass of something overpriced and underwhelming. Watching. Breathing. Just existing.

And then—

She saw her.

Not just because she was beautiful. That part came later.

No, Alexia noticed her because of how still she was. A woman surrounded by music and madness, yet holding her ground like it all passed through her. Dark hair styled loosely, doe eyes, delicate wrists. She moved like she didn’t need to move to command a room.

She looked like a secret.

Alexia couldn’t help herself.

“Estás sola?” (Are you alone?) she asked, surprised by the roughness of her own voice. The woman glanced over. Her English accent curled around her reply.

“Maybe. Depends who’s asking.”

Alexia smiled, tilting her head. “Just… someone.”

“Someone always is.”

They shared silence. A beat. A song change.

Then a touch — her hand brushing Alexia’s, light and deliberate.

“I don’t do this,” the woman said.

Alexia raised a brow. “Do what?”

“This. Strangers. Eye contact. Ibiza clichés.”

“Then…we’re two strangers not doing it together.”

The woman laughed — a soft, unexpected thing that made Alexia’s chest ache a little.

“I am staying nearby,” Alexia said, voice lower.

“Good to know.”

“And you?”

“Does it matter?”

It didn’t.

They didn’t exchange names.

Not in the cab.

Not as they undressed like poetry in a borrowed apartment.

Not as Alexia kissed the curve of her spine and felt the shiver she tried to hide.

The sex was slow. Unrushed. Almost reverent.

Alexia memorised the sounds she made — bitten-off gasps, whispers like confessions, the quiet plea of don’t stop that needed no translation.

They moved like people who knew this was temporary.

And yet—

There was something permanent in the way she traced Alexia’s tattoo with her mouth.

After, they lay still. Her back to Alexia. No need for words.

In the morning, she was gone.

No note.

No goodbye.

Just a faint trace of perfume on the pillow, and a memory so sharp Alexia would carry it like a wound for months.

Weeks later

Alexia had agreed to the gala for two reasons:

Her foundation, Eleven, was in preparation to open a London chapter - meetings with the potential strategic partners, local grassroots representatives to name a few.

Marianne — her CEO, lifelong best friend, and professional extortionist — had texted: “You owe me three black-tie events and one therapy bill. You’re going.”

And so here she was. A full day before the gala, suited, stuffed into a plush velvet seat at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, waiting for a ballet of all things.

Giselle.

She’d Googled it.

Ghosts. Love. Betrayal. Drama.

Marianne said it was romantic. Jana said it was depressing. Irene had just said “ballet?” and sent a confused GIF of Mapi.

Alexia wasn’t exactly expecting to enjoy herself.

But then—

The curtain rose.

And there she was.

Her.

Not the character. The woman.

The one from Ibiza. The night she never talked about. The shadow she never shook.

Except now she was real and here, turning centre stage with aching grace, the entire audience silent in awe.

Alexia didn’t breathe.

She forgot to.

She sat, stunned, through the entire first act — watched her leap, bend, collapse like beauty had a breaking point.

Her face was painted, yes. But there was no mistaking her. Not when Alexia had memorised the shape of her mouth. Her shoulders. The curve of her spine under a moonlit sheet.

Marianne nudged her at intermission. “You’re pale.”

Alexia said nothing. Just blinked.

Then: “She’s the woman.”

Marianne frowned. “From—?”

“Sí.”

“…Mierda.”

She didn’t stay for the second half.

Her legs took her backstage before she even processed it. She flashed the Eleven Foundation pass and her face — enough people knew who she was.

And twenty minutes later, she saw her again.

Standing in front of a mirror, taking off her pointe shoes.

Alone.

Just like the first time.

“Hi,” Alexia said.

The ballerina looked up.

And froze.

For a moment, she said nothing. Then:

“You.”

Alexia nodded, awkward. “I… did not plan this.”

“You’re stalking me across cities now?”

“No,” Alexia held up her hands. “I swear. Gala. Tomorrow. I didn’t know.”

The woman — Y/N — tilted her head. “But you stayed for the ballet?”

Alexia hesitated. “No. I left… after first part.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“No! You— you danced too good. I got… overwhelmed.”

Y/N stared at her.

Then grinned.

“You’re worse at English than I remembered.”

Alexia flushed. “I read good. Speak… average.”

“Well, you speak better than most people I’ve dated.”

“Is… that compliment?”

Y/N shrugged, amused. “It’s something.”

They walked that night. Through quiet London streets, neither of them were sure what to say.

“I googled you,” Alexia confessed.

“Same,” Y/N admitted.

Pause.

“You’re kind of a big deal.”

“You are Giselle.”

“Touché.”

They didn’t sleep together that night.

They didn’t need to.

But Alexia left a name, and her Instagram handle.

It was something.

A name.

A chance.

And for the first time in a year, she felt the flutter of something terrifying.

Hope.

Y/N

She’d danced Giselle a hundred times.

But that night?

That night, her body moved like it had something to prove.

The moment she saw her in the audience—barely one row from the stage, all cheekbones and startled eyes—something inside her tilted.

She didn’t miss a step. But every step after that meant something.

Alexia.

Of course she remembered her name. She’d googled her the moment she left Ibiza.

Typed “Spanish women’s football captain blonde tattoo hot” like some pathetic teenager. The internet delivered.

Captain. Barcelona. Three-timed Ballon d’Or. Multiple Champions Leagues. Double-timed World Cup winner. Euro 2025. Legend.

The kind of person whose life was all forwards, momentum, legacy.

Not someone to get caught in the orbit of a maybe-dying ballerina.

Backstage, when Alexia appeared like a fever dream in sweatpants and nerves, Y/N felt every reason she’d left that morning in Ibiza rush back to her:

Don’t get involved. Don’t risk hurting someone. Don’t let them watch you fade.

But she couldn’t help it.

Because Alexia smiled like someone who forgot how to.

And spoke like someone trying.

And looked at her like a mystery solved.

It wasn’t lust that cracked her chest open.

It was how earnest she was.

They walked for nearly an hour after the show.

Alexia kicked a pebble into the Thames by accident and muttered, “Mierda, that was not… goal.”

Y/N had laughed. “You’re not smooth.”

“I have other talents.”

“Do you? I barely remember.”

Alexia flushed so red it was criminal.

Y/N tried not to want her.

Tried not to remember the way Alexia’s hand felt on her thigh. The way she’d whispered “¿Estás bien?” into her skin like it meant something.

But the way she spoke? Her slightly broken English? The proud tilt of her mouth when she pronounced “Giselle” with two hard Spanish Ls?

It was undoing her.

She shouldn’t have replied to that DM.

Should’ve left it as a perfect night and a ghost.

But she replied.

She followed back.

And the next time Alexia was in London, she invited her over with the excuse of “showing her the difference between tap water and ballerina tea.”

Alexia brought biscuits. They were terrible. She ate five out of politeness and complained in three languages.

Y/N laughed so hard she nearly cried.

That night, they kissed again.

Clothes never came off.

They didn’t need to.

But Y/N knew, in that moment — she was on the edge of something she couldn’t undo.

And she didn’t know how to survive it.

The morning after, Alexia shyly asked to exchange numbers.

Alexia

They never talked about what it was.

Not when Y/N flew to Barcelona and stayed in her apartment for two days straight.

Not when Alexia sent her late-night texts like “¿Estás despierta?” (Are you awake?) followed by a link to something stupid — a meme, a clip of her teammate and close friend - Jana, slipping during training, a dog that danced to reggaeton.

Not even when Y/N kissed her in the lift and pulled away just as the doors opened, lips swollen and eyes unreadable.

It was physical.

On the surface.

But Alexia wasn’t an idiot. She just played one with conviction.

Every time she left Y/N’s flat in London, she stared at the ceiling on the plane ride home and thought, say something next time. Ask what this is.

Then she didn’t.

Because when she asked, things tended to break.

And she couldn’t bear to lose this.

Whatever this was.

Jana once asked, “So, who’s the person?”

Alexia choked on her recovery shake.

“¿Qué?”

“You’re flying to London more than the Spanish government.”

“I have meetings.”

“Eleven doesn’t even have an office there yet.”

“Cállate.”

Y/N was always there when Alexia needed the quiet.

She never tried to impress her. Never asked her about football. Never looked at her like she was someone famous.

She looked at her like she was just Alexia.

And that, somehow, made everything worse.

They were in Y/N’s flat one night.

The windows were open. A record was playing low — Nina Simone. Alexia had never understood her lyrics until then. She was more of a mainstream pop aficionado. She just knew the voice made her feel like her skin was too small.

Y/N’s bare legs tangled with hers on the sofa, and her head was tucked under Alexia’s chin like it belonged there.

Alexia ran her fingers through Y/N’s hair. Soft. Familiar.

Too much.

Y/N mumbled, “You always smell like rain.”

Alexia blinked. “I don’t understand that.”

“It’s not a metaphor. You literally bring rain every time you visit.”

Alexia laughed quietly. “I am Catalan storm.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I try.”

She wanted to say it.

I’m falling for you.

But Y/N looked so content in that moment. So at peace.

So Alexia swallowed it. Again.

And kissed her forehead instead.

Y/N

It started with a tremor.

Nothing dramatic. Just a twitch in her left ring finger while rehearsing the final pas de deux. Her partner didn’t even notice.

But she did.

And that was enough.

The test wasn’t impulsive.

She’d known it was a possibility since she was seventeen, when her mother was officially diagnosed. Y/N had watched her decline with the sharp clarity of a dancer — hyper-aware of physicality, deterioration, the betrayals of the body.

Huntington’s was no metaphor. It wasn’t poetic.

It was brutal.

A slow surrender.

Y/N had always told herself she wouldn’t get tested. That knowing would change nothing except everything.

But then there was the tremor.

Then there was Alexia.

After submitting her blood for testing, she didn’t tell anyone.

Not her company manager.

Not her father.

Not even Alexia — who texted her that same day, asking if she’d want to spend New Year’s together in Barcelona.

“Just us. No family. No friends. Just… tú y yo. W Hotel. Sunset view. I book. You rest.”

Y/N stared at the message for five full minutes before replying.

“You really want to spend it with me?”

Alexia answered immediately.

“I already spent the year falling for you. I want to end it the same.”

She said yes.

Because how could she not?

Barcelona was quieter than she expected.

Or maybe Alexia made it quiet — her presence somehow softening the edges of the city’s neon, its noise. The hotel room was big, sleek, flooded with light. There were oranges in a bowl and champagne in a bucket and Alexia in a towel by the balcony.

Y/N walked up behind her, kissed her shoulder.

“Nice view.”

Alexia smirked. “Same.”

They made love that night like it was the last night on Earth.

Slow. Unhurried. Skin to skin. No bravado. Just need.

Y/N rode Alexia like she was memorising the shape of devotion. Every kiss, a promise she didn’t want to make. Every gasp, a goodbye she didn’t want to say.

And when she finally collapsed onto Alexia’s chest, slick and trembling, her heart ached like truth.

The next morning, Alexia was still asleep.

Y/N stood by the glass wall, watching the horizon blur gold over the sea.

She grabbed her coat, her passport, and left quietly.

Not because she didn’t want to stay.

But because she knew—

The test result would be ready within the week.

And she didn’t want Alexia to see her break.

Not yet.

Alexia

She woke up to emptiness.

No note. No coffee. No perfume lingering in the sheets.

The robe was gone from the back of the door. Her coat too.

Y/N had vanished.

Alexia blinked into the pale morning, sheets still warm where a body used to be. It took her a moment — that odd slow-processing you only get after making love and dreaming about future things you don’t dare say out loud.

Then came the knot in her stomach.

Not panic.

Not yet.

Just… a hollow. Familiar.

She showered. Waited. Texted.

¿Estás bien?

You still here?

Breakfast?

Te has ido?

No reply.

By the time Alba arrived at Alexia’s apartment that evening — invited over for post–New Year leftovers and wine — Alexia had already re-folded the same towel four times and reorganised the spice drawer by alphabetical order.

“Hola,” Alba greeted, kissing both cheeks before stepping inside. “¿Dónde está la misteriosa bailarina?” (Where is the mysterious dancer?)

Alexia muttered as she shut the door. “Se fue.” (She went away).

Alba blinked. “¿Cómo que se fue? ¿Tipo… ghosted?” (What do you mean, she left? Like…)

“No dijo nada. Solo… desapareció.” (She didn't say anything. She just… disappeared.

Alba set the wine down and studied her sister. “¿Y la noche fue bien?” (And the night went well?)

Alexia looked away. “Fue… buena. Muy buena. I think… I think I love her.” (It was… good. Very good…)

“¡Joder!” Alba raised her eyebrows, then added with a grin, “At least you had fun.”

Alexia rubbed her face. “¿Cómo puede irse así?” (How could she leave like that?)

Alba poured them each a glass. “Did you say algo raro? ¿La asustaste con tu weird romantic football poetry?” (Something weird? Did you scare her with your weird romantic football poetry?)

Alexia took the glass, shook her head. “No. Just… we slept. She curled into me like… like she belongs. Then I wake up. Nada.”

They sat at the kitchen island. For a while, Alba just watched her.

Then, gently:

“Ale, si la quieres, lucha por ella.” (Ale, if you love her, fight for her.)

Alexia sighed. “¿Y si ya se fue del todo?” (What if she’s already gone for good?)

“Entonces luchas más fuerte.” (Then you fight harder.)

“¿Y si está asustada?” (What if she's scared?)

“Then be patient. Like you are con tu rodilla vieja y tus defensas lentas.” (…with your old knee and your slow defenses.)

“Ey.”

Alba winked. “Es broma. Kind of.” (It’s a joke…)

Later, Alexia opened her phone.

She stared at the open message thread with Y/N for a long time.

Typed:

Are you okay?

No entiendo qué pasó. If you need space, I wait. Pero si me necesitas… estoy aquí.

(I don't understand what happened. If you need space…But if you need me… I'm here.)

She hit send.

Then waited.

An hour. Then two.

Finally:

Lo siento. It’s not you. Just… me. I’ll explain. Soon.

Alexia’s chest pulled tight.

She whispered, “Por favor… no desaparezcas otra vez.” (Please… don’t disappear again.)

Y/N

Her father flew in from Moscow wearing the same coat he’d worn since 2010s — a woolen coat that smelled faintly of snow and arrogance.

He greeted her with a bear hug and the kind of side-eye only Russian men perfected. “You look skinny. Are you depressed or just in London too long?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Hello, Papa.”

“Don’t avoid the question.”

“Both, probably.”

They ate at her flat. He refused restaurants. Called them overpriced performance spaces for bad wine.

She cooked mushroom stroganoff. He complained it was too mild.

“Not enough death in the flavour,” he said.

“Sorry I didn’t season it with despair.”

“You used to be funnier.”

“You used to have knees.”

He laughed — a loud bark of it. “Fair.”

After dinner, he opened the bottle of vodka he smuggled in from home. One glass each. Always only one. It wasn’t about the alcohol. It was ritual.

Y/N sat beside him on the couch. Silence stretched.

“I did the test,” she said softly.

He didn’t flinch. Just sipped his vodka.

“And?” he asked.

She stared at her glass.

“Positive.”

A pause.

He nodded slowly. “Of course.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“Y/N… it was fifty-fifty. Everything in life is. Marriage. War. Parking tickets.”

“Comforting.”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“I knew when you said you’d never marry. You got that from your mother. Refusing joy just to protect people from pain.”

She bit her lip. “I didn’t want to become her.”

“She didn’t want to become her either. But she did.”

“Do you ever think about it? What she lost?”

“Only every damn day.”

His voice cracked, just barely. Then he composed himself.

“She danced until the end, you know? In her mind. Even when her body failed, she choreographed in her sleep.”

“I remember.”

“She would’ve wanted you to live. Not wait to die.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have met her. Alexia.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Football woman?” Recalling the previous information his daughter had shared.

Y/N nodded.

He smirked. “Does she know you are emotionally unavailable and genetically doomed?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Scare her slowly.”

She laughed through her tears. “Papa—”

“Y/N. Lyubov moya. If this is your dance… dance it how you want.” (My love.)

“You always make things sound so poetic.”

“I was principal for the Bolshoi and Royal Ballet for twenty years. I earned the right.”

He held her face gently.

“You want to cut her off? Fine. But not because you think she can’t love you. If you walk away, make sure it’s because you want to. Not because you’re afraid.”

Y/N pressed her forehead to his.

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You already will. Loving people does that. Now get me another glass before I get sentimental.”

She did.

And when she turned back to pour, her father muttered in Russian, just loud enough for her to hear:

“Пусть она любит тебя, даже если ты танцуешь в темноте.”

(Let her love you, even if you dance in the dark.)

The knock comes just after midnight.

Y/N opens the door in an oversized T-shirt, bare legs, eyes shadow-tired but bright.

Alexia stands there in a bomber jacket and joggers, rain speckled in her hair.

“¿Puedo pasar?” she asks, voice soft. (I can come in.)

Y/N steps back. “If you brought something better than British wine.”

Alexia raises a pastry bag. “Churros. Emergency carbs.”

“Acceptable.”

They barely make it to the kitchen. Alexia sets the bag down; Y/N leans against the counter pretending she isn’t shaking.

“So,” Y/N says, folding her arms. “You’re back.”

Alexia shrugs. “Te extraño. I miss you.”

Three words. A small detonation.

Y/N’s smile wobbles. “Your English is improving.”

“My heart? Still clumsy.”

The silence that follows is thick—part longing, part things-unsaid.

Then Y/N exhales, steps forward, and hooks two fingers in the waistband of Alexia’s joggers.

“Stay,” she whispers.

Alexia kisses her—slow, searching, tasting rain and fear.

Y/N answers with teeth, with impatience, with the hum always just beneath her skin.

They stumble down the hallway, shedding clothes like breadcrumbs no one will follow.

In the bedroom, Y/N pushes Alexia to the mattress and straddles her.

The dim lamp paints both their bodies in gold and shadow; the tension is almost a third presence in the room.

Alexia’s hands slide beneath Y/N’s T-shirt—palms warm, reverent, framing her ribs.

She lifts the fabric slowly, mouth trailing up the soft underside of Y/N’s breast.

A hiss leaves Y/N’s throat; her sarcasm dissolves into need.

“Touch me,” she mutters. “Properly.”

“Siempre,” Alexia answers, voice breaking.

Her fingers drift lower, mapping hip to thigh, pausing at the slick heat already waiting.

She slips one finger in—then two—curling deliberately, pacing the thrusts to Y/N’s stuttered breath.

Y/N rocks against her hand, nails digging crescents into Alexia’s shoulders.

Each roll of her hips is less controlled, more plea.

When Alexia’s thumb finds her clit and circles—slow, then faster—Y/N’s head snaps back, a ragged moan tearing loose.

“Don’t—” She pants. “Don’t stop.”

“Jamás,” Alexia murmurs, pressing kisses along Y/N’s sternum, tasting salt and heartbeat.

The tremor starts in Y/N’s abdomen, rippling outward until her entire body bows—shuddering around Alexia’s fingers, mouth open in silent cry.

She comes hard, clinging, shaking, every wall she built cracking under the force of it.

Y/N collapses forward, breath hot against Alexia’s ear.

“Your turn,” she growls, flipping them with dancer precision.

Alexia laughs—a broken, breathless sound—until Y/N’s mouth seals over her breast and laughter turns to a gasp.

Y/N drags teeth down Alexia’s stomach, tongue dipping into her navel before settling between her thighs.

“Dios,” Alexia mutters as Y/N licks—long, slow, unhurried.

Her hands fist the sheets; her hips lift, chasing more.

Y/N hums, the vibration shooting through Alexia’s core.

“Más… por favor,” Alexia pleads.

Y/N’s answer is pressure—tongue flattening, then flicking, one finger sliding inside, then a second.

She sets a rhythm that unravels Alexia: steady swell, sudden sting, retreat, repeat.

Alexia’s Spanish fractures—half curses, half praises—“Joder… sí… cariño…” until words die altogether, replaced by soft, desperate sounds.

Her orgasm crests sharp—hips surging, thighs trembling around Y/N’s shoulders, a sob of release escaping into the dark.

Y/N doesn’t move until the shudders fade.

Then she crawls up, kisses Alexia slow.

They taste each other—salt, sweetness, need, relief.

They lie tangled, heartbeats drumming in the quiet.

Alexia strokes Y/N’s hair. “Te sientes bien?” (Are you feeling okay?)

“Physically? Bliss.” Y/N sighs. “Emotionally? A dumpster fire.”

Alexia’s chest tightens. “Dime. Tell me.”

Y/N’s gaze flickers, then slides away. “Not tonight.”

A pause.

Alexia kisses her temple anyway. “I’ll wait.”

Y/N closes her eyes, lets the lie stand.

Because she isn’t sure how to say: my body is ticking, I’m terrified, I love you too much.

Instead, she whispers, sardonic as ever, “Bring better churros next time.”

Alexia’s dry laugh rumbles against her. “I’ll buy the whole bakery.”

And for a moment, wrapped in warmth and promises half-spoken, the distance between them feels almost bearable.

Alexia

The rooftop café in El Born offered what she needed: fresh air, distance from her phone, and people who didn’t ask her to explain everything she was feeling.

Jana arrived first, her scarf knotted like she’d been running through Plaça Catalunya. She slid into the seat across from Alexia and took a long sip of horchata.

“Estás rara,” (You look weird) she said, peering over the rim of her glass. “Like… nerviosa rara.”

“I’m bien,” Alexia replied, tapping her fingers against her coffee cup.

Jana’s brow arched. “That’s the worst lie you tell.”

Before Alexia could respond, Marta and Caroline arrived together, laughter already stitched between them. They looked effortless in that way couples grow into — long-term, unhurried, familiar. Caroline placed a box of pastries down like a peace offering.

“She brought crema catalana,” Marta announced with a proud grin. “We win.”

“Sí, sí. MVP,” Alexia muttered, managing a smile as she peeled the lid open.

Irene showed up last, carrying a container of olives and her usual dry wit. “So, are we here for coffee or to rescue Alexia from her emotional swamp?”

“Ambas cosas,” (Both) Jana said, reaching for a pastry.

“I’m fine,” Alexia insisted.

“Claro,” Irene muttered. “You’ve flown to London cinco veces in dos meses.” (…five times in two months.)

Caroline tilted her head. “You said you were going for Eleven stuff, right?”

Alexia shrugged. “Meetings, sí.”

“But Eleven doesn’t have a London office,” Marta said, squinting at her. “No yet.”

“She just likes British breakfast,” Jana quipped. “And ballerinas.”

Irene grinned. “Ay, mierda. She’s in love.”

“No estoy enamorada,” (I'm not in love) Alexia said a little too fast.

Caroline, who had been unwrapping a napkin, gave her a soft look. “Then what is it?”

Alexia hesitated. “She’s not my girlfriend.” (But do you want it to be?)

“¿Pero tú quieres que lo sea?” Jana asked.

Alexia nodded slowly, almost embarrassed. “Sí. But she… she doesn’t want more. I think.”

The table quieted.

“Maybe she scared,” Alexia added, glancing down. “Or maybe… maybe I am.”

“You? Por favor,” Irene said. “You’re scared of no one.”

Alexia sighed. “I’m scared to lose her.”

Jana reached out and touched her hand.

“Then don’t let her run,” she said, gentle now. “People like her don’t come often.”

“She said no label. No promises. Just… us. Como estamos ahora.” (…As we are now.)

“And you agreed?” Marta asked.

Alexia nodded.

“Entonces don’t complain,” Marta added with a smirk. “You said yes to the circus. Enjoy the elephants.”

Caroline laughed. “That’s not a saying.”

“Now it is.”

The pastries were half-eaten. The air was warm. The sound of the city murmured beneath them like a constant hum of something alive.

Jana picked up her phone. “I have to call Aggie. We’re syncing sleep schedules.”

“Instagram romance still going strong?” Irene teased.

Jana replied with faux seriousness. “Love language: double tap.”

Caroline raised her glass. “To confusing long-distance lesbians and footballers in denial.”

Alexia raised hers half-heartedly. “Salud.”

Before they left, Marta leaned over and said softly, “If she breaks your heart, I’ll fly to London.”

Caroline added, “Count me in.”

“Necesito amigos menos dramáticos,”Alexia muttered. (I need less dramatic friends.)

Irene smirked. “Demasiado tarde.” (Too late).

Jana kissed her cheek. “Just… don’t forget. You deserve someone who stays.”

Alexia watched them go, one by one — Marta and Caroline, fingers linked; Irene with her bag of sarcasm; Jana smiling at her phone, already texting Aggie.

And Alexia stood alone for a moment, her phone still heavy in her hand.

No new messages.

She whispered to herself, “Todavía te espero.” (I'm still waiting for you.)

Y/N

The envelope was plain. No drama. No bold red lettering screaming you have a terminal gene, congrats.

Just her name.

Typed.

Neat.

She stared at it for twenty minutes.

Then she opened it.

Read the first line.

And closed it again.

She didn’t cry.

Not because she was brave, or stoic, or anything admirable.

Just because the silence inside her was louder than any sob could be.

She stood in her flat for a long time, unsure what her hands were supposed to do. Whether to scream. Or call someone. Or Google something.

Instead, she sat at the kitchen counter, pulled her laptop close, and booked a flight to Barcelona.

She told no one.

Not even her father.

The plane smelled like disinfectant and stale air.

She took the window seat, plugged in music she didn’t hear, and stared at clouds.

Somewhere over the Pyrenees, she muttered to herself, “Great. One year closer to shaking myself into the void.”

The businessman next to her looked mildly concerned.

She smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not dangerous. Just genetically cursed.”

He turned away.

She sipped tomato juice and pretended that helped.

Barcelona greeted her with sun and the scent of coffee and diesel and overgrown optimism.

She didn’t go to a hotel. She messaged Alexia.

Just three words.

I’m in town.

The reply came thirty minutes later:

¿Dónde estás? I come. (Where are you…)

Alexia didn’t ask questions when she arrived.

Just wrapped her arms around her like she always did — firm, grounding, smelling faintly of something citrus and warm linen.

Y/N buried her face in Alexia’s shoulder.

“You okay?” Alexia whispered, slightly broken English catching in her throat.

Y/N didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, she kissed her.

Like she was asking permission to forget.

And Alexia let her.

They didn’t speak much that night.

Not about genes or futures or ticking clocks.

They just… existed.

Tangled on the sofa.

Kissing like they still had time.

Touching like they weren’t already grieving.

And when they finally made it to the bedroom, Y/N exhaled against Alexia’s collarbone.

“I needed to feel something,” she admitted.

Alexia kissed her temple. “Estoy aquí. Con todo.” (I'm here. With everything.)

It wasn’t a solution.

Just a heartbeat.

But sometimes, that was enough.

Alexia

The morning came too soon.

Y/N was in the shower, steam curling under the bathroom door. Alexia sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands together like they could give her answers. The sheets still smelled of Y/N’s skin. And something else.

Sadness. Maybe.

Or truth trying to surface.

She checked her phone. One message from Alba:

Estás viva o no? Send location. Mami asking.

She ignored it for now.

Her eyes wandered to Y/N’s suitcase — half unzipped on the floor. Inside, neatly folded black leggings. A white blouse. One book: Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

She recognised it from an earlier visit. The pages were bent. Well-loved. Or maybe just reread out of habit.

She walked to the window. Barcelona was loud, alive. Nothing like the silence Y/N carried with her.

Y/N emerged in a towel, wet hair slicked back, eyes a little too wide.

Alexia smiled. “Te ves… very guapa.” (You see yourself…)

Y/N gave her a tired grin. “Thanks. I look like I wrestled a ghost in my sleep.”

Alexia shrugged. “You win.”

That pulled a real laugh. Short, crooked.

“I was thinking,” Y/N said, towelling her hair, “maybe I’ll walk around today. Go see the sea.”

“Quieres company?” Alexia asked. “Or… solo?”

Y/N hesitated. Then: “Solo, I think. Need to… think.”

Alexia nodded. Tried to keep her voice casual. “Vale. I wait here?”

Y/N kissed her cheek. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Later, when Y/N left, Alexia made coffee and sat on the balcony.

She didn’t call anyone. Not even Alba, who would’ve mocked her concern in the most loving way possible.

Instead, she stared at the clouds and whispered into her mug:

“Algo pasa… y no me lo dice.” (Something's going on... and she’s not telling me.)

She remembered how Y/N had kissed her the night before — fierce, almost desperate. Like she was trying to hold the world together with her mouth.

Alexia knew that feeling.

She’d kissed like that after her ACL surgery.

She’d kissed like that when they’d lost the Champions League final in Turin.

And after her father died, when she couldn’t speak without breaking.

She knew the taste of grief in someone’s mouth.

Y/N had tasted like that.

When Y/N returned hours later, smelling of sea salt and wind, she looked lighter.

Alexia didn’t ask anything.

Just handed her a glass of water and pulled her in gently.

“Quédate esta noche también?” she whispered.

Y/N nodded against her chest.

And so they stayed.

Wrapped in silence.

Y/N

Her flat in London had never felt more clinical.

Too white. Too clean. Too quiet.

Her father, who had flown in from Moscow with only a scarf and vague disdain for Heathrow, surveyed it with a grunt.

“Still looks like a showroom. Where is mess? Where is proof you live like human?”

“I vacuumed.”

“Mm. Mistake.”

He tossed his coat onto her kitchen stool like he owned the place and opened her fridge.

“No vodka?”

“Water, tea, or oat milk. Choose your poison.”

“You’re barely surviving.”

They sat at the kitchen table, sunlight stretching between them. She slid the letter across. The one she hadn’t told him about. The one that lived in her bones.

He didn’t open it. Just looked at her.

“Positive,” she said, finally.

He nodded once. Then shrugged.

“You thought it would say you are secretly Swedish?”

“I was hoping for ‘unremarkable.’”

“Life is not remarkable either,” he muttered. “Yet here we are.”

Y/N rubbed her temple. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You do. You just hate that it’s not perfect.”

She stared at him.

He sipped his tea. “You are your mother’s daughter. Drama and terminal streak of control issues.”

Y/N laughed despite herself. “She’d hate you saying that.”

“Which is why I say it.”

He stood suddenly, walked around the table, and placed a hand gently on her head.

“Cut your hair.”

“What?”

“Cut it. To here.” He mimed a chin-length bob. “You look like the girl in that stupid show. Emily in Paris.”

She blinked. “Are you seriously telling me I resemble the actress?”

“You do. When you’re not making the face like someone stepped on your cat.”

Y/N stared at him. “You want me to get a breakup haircut for my DNA?”

He smirked. “New chapter. No control. Chop it.”

She didn’t fully understand why she listened.

But that afternoon, she sat in a salon in Soho, watching strands of herself fall away.

The stylist squinted at her after the first few snips.

“You know… you look a lot like Emily in Paris.”

“God,” Y/N muttered. “You too?”

The woman grinned.

That night, she looked in the mirror.

The haircut didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t erase the gene.

Or the fear.

Or the shadow behind her ribs.

But it did shift something.

She looked… different. Less fragile. More like someone deciding to live, even with the worst kind of countdown.

She sent a photo to her father.

He replied instantly:

“Now you just need a red lip and dumb French boyfriend.”

She laughed until she cried.

Alexia

She was already waiting outside the gallery when Alexia arrived — coat belted, scarf wrapped, hands buried in her pockets.

The haircut hit her first.

Short. Sharp. Elegant. A bob, curling slightly at the chin.

Alexia blinked. “You… you cut your hair.”

Y/N tilted her head, expression unreadable. “You hate it?”

“No. It’s… joder. You look…” She paused, fumbling for the word. “Perfecta. Like a movie star.”

“Funny,” Y/N said. “Someone said I look like Emily in Paris.”

Alexia squinted. “Who is Emily?”

Y/N burst out laughing. “Never change, Putellas.”

They walked side by side into the exhibit — modern Catalan sculpture, abstract shapes that made little sense but offered quiet.

Alexia didn’t know much about art. But she liked the silence it offered. It reminded her of recovery days after matches — when you just needed a wall to lean on.

Y/N was quieter than usual.

Even with the haircut.

Even with the smirk she gave when a sculpture looked vaguely like male anatomy.

Alexia glanced sideways at her, brow furrowing. “Estás bien?”

Y/N smiled. “Yes.”

But it was the kind of yes that meant don’t ask again.

After the gallery, they walked without talking — past Plaça Sant Jaume, down toward the water.

Alexia watched her.

Something about Y/N was more delicate now. Not physically — no, her posture was still as upright as a dancer. But there was an emotional lean. Something softer. Worn.

She didn’t ask.

Instead, she bought them both cortados and led her to the same bench they’d sat on once months ago. Back when this all felt new.

“Sabes,” Alexia said after a long silence, “I have never dated someone who makes silence feel… good.”

Y/N looked at her. “Maybe I’m just boring.”

“No,” Alexia said softly. “You’re… calm. And scary.”

Y/N smiled. “That tracks.”

Later, when they made it back to Alexia’s flat, and Y/N kissed her without hesitation — Alexia let herself hope.

Hope that maybe the haircut wasn’t about cutting away something terrible.

But about making space for something new.

For them.

For the possibility neither of them dared speak aloud.

Y/N

She wanted to tell her.

Right there — in the hallway of Alexia’s flat, where their coats were still half-off and their shoes were a mess on the mat. Where the city hummed just outside the window, and the overhead light flickered like a heartbeat.

She almost said it.

“I have Huntington’s.”

Instead, she kissed her.

Alexia melted into it like she always did — gently at first, then deeper, then full of that quiet urgency that always made Y/N’s knees feel like melted wax. Her hands found Alexia’s waist, then her neck, thumbs grazing just beneath the hinge of her jaw.

She whispered something that wasn’t English. It might’ve been breath. Or fear.

Alexia didn’t ask.

She never asked.

She just pulled her closer, and kissed her like she wasn’t afraid of anything.

They made it to the bedroom, somehow, shoes kicked off along the hallway, jackets forgotten on the couch.

Y/N let Alexia push her onto the mattress with a strength that still surprised her. For someone so slight, she knew exactly how to press her weight into a moment — into her.

Y/N’s breath caught as Alexia slipped her hands under her shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin with reverence. Not lust. Not this time.

Something else.

She shivered.

Alexia paused. “Too much?”

“No. It’s… good. You’re good.”

When their clothes finally fell away, it wasn’t fast or rough. It wasn’t the kind of sex they’d had before — wild, escapist, electric.

This time, it was slow.

Alexia kissed every part of her like it mattered. As if memorising the way her collarbone curved, the small freckle below her rib, the scar near her hip.

Y/N traced the muscles in Alexia’s back with her fingertips, breathing her in, grounding herself in her heat.

She didn’t want to disappear.

Not yet.

They moved together like a conversation. Like a rhythm only they understood.

Y/N arched into her touch, exhaled her name like a question, a plea, a prayer.

“Ale…”

Alexia murmured something in Spanish against her skin. Too soft to catch. But she didn’t need to translate. She felt it.

She cried, a little.

Not from pain.

From how much she wanted this to last.

After, they lay tangled under the sheets.

Y/N watched the ceiling.

Her body was warm, sated, safe.

Her heart was a mess.

She rolled onto her side, pressed her forehead to Alexia’s.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered.

Alexia opened her eyes. “¿Para qué?”

Y/N kissed her softly. “For anything that makes this… real.”

Alexia didn’t flinch.

She nodded. “Vale.”

And held her tighter.

Alexia

She didn’t like birthdays.

Not because of the age — por favor, she’d been a professional athlete; time was always measured in seasons, not numbers.

It was just… attention. Too many eyes. Too many questions she didn’t want to answer.

But this year, she’d made one change.

She invited Y/N.

“Mami va a cocinar demasiado,” (Mommy is going to cook too much) she warned her a few days before, voice muffled as they lay tangled on her sofa.

“Good,” Y/N replied, half-asleep. “I’m emotionally dependent on Spanish carbs now.”

Alexia laughed into her hair. “Alba will bring her new caos. Latest date. I think this one’s a poet.”

Y/N grinned. “So she’s evolving.”

“Jana will come. Aggie couldn’t make it. Long distance is mierda, but Jana says they’re in love.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Instagram love?”

Alexia smiled. “Started with a like. Now it’s FaceTime and matching hoodies.”

“And your best friend?”

“Marianne? Sí. She says she’s only coming to interrogate me about ‘mysterious trips to London that were definitely not work-related.’”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Fair.”

Alexia kissed her shoulder. “You’ll come?”

There was a pause. Then: “I’ll come.”

The next time Y/N was in town, Alexia fetched her at the airport and they made their way to Mollet de Vallas - her childhood home, where her mother, Eli, still resided.

Her mother, Eli, greeted them at the door with open arms and absolutely no context, saw Y/N and said:

“¡Guapa! Mira esto. ¿Por qué no me la traías antes?” (Beautiful! Look at this. Why didn't you bring her to me sooner?)

Y/N blinked. “Hello. Um. Thank you?”

Alexia groaned. “Mami…”

“She is beautiful, Alexia,” her mother insisted in a stage whisper, already leading Y/N toward the kitchen. “And she has better posture than you.”

Jana hugged her like a sister, teasing her about the scarf she always wore when she was nervous.

“¿Y cómo están las cosas con la misteriosa londinense?” (And how are things with the mysterious Londoner?) she asked under her breath, before noticing Y/N behind her. “Oh. Hola.”

Y/N smiled. “Hola.”

Jana leaned forward conspiratorially towards Y/N. “No sé qué haces con esta tía, but Ale’s been insufferable since you showed up.” (I don't know what you're doing with this girl…)

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Gracias, hermana falsa.”

Caroline and Marta arrived later, looking smug and unbothered. Caroline kissed Alexia’s cheek. Marta gave her a birthday slap on the back that nearly winded her.

“Another year closer to becoming a civilian,” Marta said.

“I am retired.”

“Then stop dressing like you’re still on the bench.”

Marienne came bringing more wine, much to the delight of Alba. Irene arrived shortly after alone, without her wife and their son, Matteo - “My wife sends her regards,” then passed a neatly wrapped box to Alexia. “From us.”

Dinner was loud, layered in Spanish, English, Catalan — food passed around like currency, laughter ricocheting between wine glasses and inside jokes.

Alexia kept glancing at Y/N across the table. She looked so there.

Not just present.

Rooted.

She laughed at Eli’s unsolicited stories, teased Jana about FaceTiming Aggie during dessert, and even defended Alexia when Marta mocked her pronunciation of “candlelight.”

“She’s adorable,” Marta declared. “But terrible at English vowels.”

“I understood her,” Y/N said with a smirk. “You’re just mean.”

Everyone ooh-ed. Even Caroline clapped.

Later that night, after the guests had gone and the flat smelled like leftovers and too much cake, Alexia brought Y/N to her childhood bedroom and closed the door behind them, leaning her head against the wood.

“You fit.”

Y/N was already looking around the bedroom, “What?”

“You fit… con ellos. With me.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am.”

A beat.

Then Y/N stepped closer. Rested her forehead against Alexia’s.

“I don’t know where this is going,” she whispered. “But I’m still here.”

Alexia exhaled. “Good. Quédate.” (…Quédate)

And she did.

Y/N

It happened in the studio.

Not on stage, not in front of a sold-out theatre, but in the grey silence of morning rehearsal — where her feet usually remembered the floor better than her mind did.

A twitch. Then a slip.

Then the floor met her like a memory she didn’t want.

She didn’t cry. That would’ve been too theatrical. Instead, she sat there, legs splayed out on the Marley floor, staring at her trembling hand.

The pianist paused. Her dance captain rushed over.

“Y/N?”

“I’m fine,” she said immediately. Too quickly.

They helped her up. Her ankle was fine. Her pride — slightly bruised. But her thoughts? Loud.

She didn’t finish rehearsal. Said it was cramps. Said she hadn’t slept. Said everything but the truth.

That night, she stood in her bathroom mirror, brushing her teeth.

She stopped halfway through and watched her hand tremble again. Just for a second.

Like a glitch in the choreography.

Like something inside her was already unlearning grace.

She laughed. A short, bitter thing.

“Encore,” she muttered. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

She didn’t tell Alexia.

Instead, she texted her something cheeky. Sent a photo of herself in a hoodie and leggings, her freshly cut bob slightly tousled, one brow raised in playful defiance. The caption read:

“Your favourite London gremlin still has most of her marbles. Hair’s shorter, sarcasm longer.”

Alexia replied:

“Mi gremlin favorita. Te echo de menos.” (My favorite gremlin. I miss you.)

And then,

“Estás bien?”

She typed and retyped her answer before finally landing on:

“I miss you too.”

Two days later, she was back in Alexia’s flat in Barcelona.

Alexia wrapped her arms around her the moment she walked in.

Y/N leaned into her, inhaled her familiar scent — citrus and something gentle, like a warm place in a cold city.

Alexia kissed her temple and asked, “¿Estás cansada?” (Are you tired?)

“A little,” she lied.

“You want to lie down?”

Y/N nodded.

But she didn’t sleep.

They made love that night like they hadn’t in a while — slow, intentional, with Alexia murmuring in Spanish and English between kisses.

Y/N was silent.

Focused.

Trying not to let her hands shake.

Afterwards, they lay there tangled, skin to skin.

Alexia brushed hair from her face. “You are quiet.”

“Just tired.”

“You say that mucho lately.”

Y/N smiled softly. “Well, I am dating a retired football legend. It’s exhausting.”

Alexia grinned, kissed her cheek. “No soy legend. Only… tired too.”

Y/N laughed. It caught in her throat.

She wanted to say something.

To confess.

To unravel.

But instead, she kissed her again.

Because silence, for now, was easier to choreograph.

Alexia

Alexia didn’t keep score, not really.

But she noticed things. It was part of being a midfielder for most of her career — you didn’t need to be flashy, just aware.

And lately, Y/N moved like she was conserving energy. Like her bones were overthinking it.

She smiled the same. She kissed the same.

But she sat down more quickly. She avoided stairs when she could.

And once — just once — Alexia saw her hand tremble on FaceTime, then quickly tuck itself away from the camera.

It was nothing.

And everything.

“Algo no me dices,” (You're not telling me something) she muttered aloud, stirring her cortado.

Marianne looked up from across the café table. “What?”

“Nothing.” Alexia blinked. “Estoy… dumb.”

“Sí, but elaborately so. What’s on your mind?”

Alexia sighed, glancing out the window. “Y/N. She’s… tired.”

“Okay?”

“But more tired. She says it’s work. But algo… algo feels off. She kisses me like she’s memorising my mouth.”

Marianne leaned in, lowering her voice. “Ale, that’s literally your dream scenario.”

“No, it’s—” She stopped. “It’s not like that. It feels like… like goodbye. But she stays.”

Marianne studied her. Then shrugged. “You’ve had worse problems. At least she’s not a DJ from Madrid.”

Alexia gave her a look. “Low blow.”

“Still true.”

Later that week, she met Jana and Alba for lunch at a tucked-away terrace in Gràcia.

Alba arrived first, kissed both her cheeks and declared immediately, “No tienes cara de enamorada. ¿Qué pasa?” (You don't look like you're in love. What's wrong?)

“Hola, hermana. I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“Liar. ¿Qué te hizo la bailarina?” (What did the dancer do to you?)

Alexia took a sip of her agua con gas. “Nothing. She’s just… different.”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “¿Different cómo?”

“She’s tired. Quieter. I don’t know. Maybe I overthink.”

Jana, ever the diplomat of the group, reached over and patted her hand.

“Or maybe estás enamorada and paranoid.” (Or maybe you're in love and paranoid.)

Alba, on the other hand, just tilted her head. “Maybe she’s pregnant.”

“¡Alba!”

Jana snorted. “She’s a ballerina. Not impossible, but highly unlikely.”

Alba shrugged. “You said ‘tired.’ I gave possibilities.”

Alexia rubbed her temples. “I hate asking this… but do you think I should ask her?”

Jana replied gently, “Si te duele no saber, pregunta. Pero con cuidado.” (If it hurts not to know, ask. But ask carefully.)

Alba added, “And maybe… don’t say ‘te ves mal, estás enferma?’ Try romance first.”

“I will not say that.”

“Good,” Jana said, “Because Aggie tried that once with me and I nearly broke up with her.”

“You are still with her,” Alba muttered.

“Almost.” Jana smirked.

That night, Alexia sat on the edge of her bed in Barcelona, thumb hovering over her phone.

She typed:

“¿Puedes venir este fin de semana? I miss you. We don’t have to do anything. Just… be.”

(Can you come this weekend?…)

Y/N replied a minute later:

“I’ll see if I can take Monday off. Might just need… you.”

She arrived that Saturday morning — quiet, hoodie pulled over her bobbed hair, duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Alexia kissed her like she was afraid she’d vanish mid-breath.

They didn’t go out.

Didn’t cook.

Barely moved from the sofa.

Y/N curled into her lap like it was the only place she belonged.

Alexia stroked her hair and said nothing.

Because she could wait.

Even when everything inside her whispered:

“You already know.”

Y/N

She didn’t fall this time.

But she felt it — the sudden spasm in her thigh mid-pirouette. The slight drag of her foot when it should’ve flicked cleanly into second position. The momentary blackout in her focus. Like static in her brain.

She finished rehearsal. Because ballerinas are trained to finish — through pain, through bloodied toes, through humiliation.

She smiled during cool-down.

Laughed at a joke from one of the new girls.

Even stayed late to answer a question about partnering etiquette.

Then she walked into the changing room, locked the door, and sat down on the bench, very slowly.

Her hands were shaking again.

She stared at them like they weren’t hers.

“I’m thirty-five,” she whispered. “Not eighty-five.”

The bench beneath her creaked.

She muttered to it, “Don’t start.”

That night, she FaceTimed her father.

He answered from his apartment in Moscow — still shirtless, still with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, despite her twenty-year protest.

“Ah. My dying swan,” he said in Russian. “What tragedy are we rehearsing today?”

Y/N switched to Russian herself, more comfortable here. “I think I twitched.”

He lit his cigarette. “We all twitch. The trick is to do it on beat.”

“I think it’s started.”

Her father paused. Took a long drag. Then leaned forward into the frame.

“Do you want me to say it’s nothing?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to tell you you’re brave?”

She shook her head.

“Do you want me to fly over there, slap a neurologist, and burn down the Bolshoi for giving you this trauma?”

Y/N cracked a laugh. “Tempting.”

He exhaled. “It was always going to come. The question is: what now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You love her?”

Y/N blinked. “I didn’t say anything about Alexia.”

“You didn’t have to. You called me.”

A silence passed.

“She wants more,” Y/N finally said. “She has not outrightly told me, but I could sense. I like our fluidity.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Fluidity. How modern. You’re scared.”

“I’m practical.”

“Ah, yes. The ballerina with the catastrophic genetic prognosis is practical now.”

“I don’t want to ruin someone else’s life with mine.”

“Too late.” He pointed his cigarette at her like a wand. “She’s already ruined. You think people stay this long - just for sex?”

“Papa.”

“Let me finish. You have two choices: die fast, or live loud.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You already are.”

Y/N blinked again. “You’re terrible at comfort.”

“I’m Russian.”

That night, she stared at her phone.

Alexia had texted earlier:

“Hoy entrené con Irene. We miss you aquí.”

(Today I trained with Irene. We miss you here.)

Y/N didn’t reply yet. She felt brittle. Like if Alexia’s words were too tender, she might fracture.

She finally typed back:

“Still here. Still dramatic. God help us”

Alexia responded almost instantly:

“Te quiero igual. O tal vez más.”

(I love you just the same. Or maybe more.)

Y/N looked at the words for a long time.

Then put the phone down and cried into her pillow.

Alexia

Alexia knew when someone was pulling away.

It had happened with coaches, with old friends, even teammates. The drop in eye contact. The subtle shift of tone. The pauses between texts growing just long enough to plant doubt.

But Y/N wasn’t pulling away.

Not exactly.

She was still there. Still replying. Still smiling in selfies. Still saying she missed her.

But something in the rhythm had changed.

The silences between words carried more weight.

The jokes were still sharp, but there was something unsaid underneath.

Something Alexia couldn’t name.

And she hated not knowing.

“Estás un poco… apagada,” (You’re a little…off) Eli said over lunch.

Alexia blinked. “No estoy.”

“Sí que estás. You stir your coffee like it insulted you.”

She set her spoon down. “Mami…”

Eli reached over and brushed a piece of hair from her daughter’s face. “Did you fight?”

“No. No hay pelea.”

“Entonces, ¿qué hay?” (So, what’s up?)

Alexia looked away. “Ella… cambia. Slowly. She is still her. But tired. Softer, but not peace. Like she is folding herself small.” (She is changing…)

Eli sighed. “That sounds like someone you love.”

Alexia nodded.

“Then ask her what she’s hiding. Don’t wait for her to vanish.”

Later that day, she FaceTimed Marianne.

Marianne didn’t even say hello. Just: “On a scale of one to full breakdown, how existential are we today?”

Alexia exhaled. “El café ha perdido su sabor.” (The coffee has lost its flavor.)

“That’s… not usually a reason to spiral. No hay necesidad de adivinar, Y/N?” (No need to guess…)

“Pero the way she texted. Like, she says ‘still dramatic. God help us.’ ¿Qué significa eso?”

Marianne blinked. “It means she’s dramatic. So are you.”

“No. No es drama. It’s—” Alexia frowned. “It’s like something is wrong but she doesn’t want to say.”

“Have you asked her?”

“No quiero push her.”

“Okay, but Ale—sometimes love is push. Not shove. But nudge.”

Alexia rubbed her face. “I’m not good at words. I say things… messy.”

Marianne smiled. “Messy’s honest. Try it.”

————————————————————————

Continue to Part 2

[luvyeni]

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ─── you need to let him … but you just can’t …

( 対 ) anton lee + fem. reader wc. 0.9k genre smut · contains! toxic!anton , unprotected sex , breeding kink down bad anton mature content. / back to library

you remember that night all too well; no matter how much you tried to forget it — it played over and over in your head. the screaming , the cursing , the throwing glass around the house… it played in your head like a reoccurring nightmare — you kicked him out that night , slamming the door in his face.

he called so many times; but you ignored him , eventually blocking him , you just needed space for a bit to think — anton wasn’t gonna give you that , he showed up to the apartment , knocking on the door , speaking through the door to let him in , you were tempted , the way he spoke , so softly , you had to force yourself to walk away. this space was good for you , the both of you needed this time away from each other.

the thing is, anton didn’t want space from you , he needed you. you were his life line , his only reason for living… he couldn’t just let you go…

you knew you shouldn’t have unblocked him , never gave him the opportunity to have access to you while you were still healing and trying to figure things out — but he said he needed his clothes and some other things , and although you were pissed at him , you cared for the boy deeply and this was still his home so you let him come back — that was your biggest mistake.

“baby please — anton no.” you pushed him away , but he followed behind you. “we can just talk this out , i don’t want it to end like this.” he grabbed your wrist , spinning you around so you were facing him. “anton— no i’m not giving up on us.” he kissed your cheek , down to your neck. “please don’t end it , i need you.” he breathed against the wet spot. “do i need to get on my knees and beg , baby i will beg , i’ll fucking beg if i need to.” he gave you no room to breathe , you felt so overwhelmed. “t-ton.”

you felt his hands sliding down your waist , down to your bum. “shh , stop talking..” he said softly, taking you into his arms , your arms wrapped around his neck , he knew what he was doing , anton knew how to make you crumble in his arms even if you didn’t want to. “yo-you need to go, ge-get your things and leave.”

the quiver in your voice as he laid you down , crawling on top of you. “i don’t want to.” he said. “i want to stay here with you.” he kissed down your neck , you gasped. “i want to lay next to you.” he kissed all the way down your chest to your stomach , your legs responding to his words , opening slightly , he pried them open. “i want to feel you.” he kissed the inside of your bare thighs. “you smell so good.” kissing your clothed cunt. “i want to taste you.” he lick your folds , making your body arch up. “anton.” he moaned into your cunt as he licked you , like he’d been starving for you. “anton fuck.”

it’s like his tongue was magical , because as you came into his mouth and he drank you up like you were his favorite drink — you completely forgot why you were mad at him , all you could think about was him , that’s exactly what he wanted.

“hold still.” he pinned you down by your waist. “fuck.” his cock pressing against your hole. “so fucking tight.” you moaned as he pushed himself inside. “anton.” you yelled as he began to pound into you , he was gone for a week — but he was fucking you like he’d not seen you for ages. “fu-fuck , i missed you so much.” he groaned into your ear. “i missed the way you felt around me , the way your pretty pussy remembers my dick.” he was deep inside you , kissing your cervix. “you were made for me , made to be mine.”

your hands were pinned up above your head as he claimed you once again , you couldn’t do anything but moan his name as he carved himself back into your life. “you’re mines.” he whispered into your ear. “t-ton.” he moaned at the way you desperately called his name. “you can’t leave me , i won’t allow you to.” you clenched at that. “fu-fuck see? even your body knows , your body knows it belongs to me , just gotta get that stupid head to understand.” grunting out. “say you love me.”

“i-i love you.” you knew you’d end up regretting it again , but you didn’t care at the moment. “i love you so fucking much!” he growled , speeding up. “say you won’t ever leave me , say you’ll stay with me forever.” he grabbed your jaw. “fucking say it!” he yelled in between deep thrust. “anton i’m gonna cum!” he wasn’t ready for you to , he wanted to hear you’ll never leave him. “not until you say it.”

“fuck anton ! i’ll never leave you.” you moaned out , your body begging for a release. “please , please let me cum , i’ll never leave you, i promise.” your poor body was already trembling. “good job , now cum for me.” he whisper in your ear , biting down on the lobe. “cum all over my fucking cock.” you finally let go , your mouth dropped open as you came around him , he cursed , completely forgetting about his own orgasm until he felt his cock twitch , his seed spilling inside you. “ah sh-shit.” he bit on his lip , letting himself fill up your waiting womb , you let out an exhausted whimper. he kissed the side of your cheeks. “good girl , taking all my cum like that.”

“when you’re all round and swollen for me , you won’t be able to leave me.”

©️LUVYENI

[andy-15-07]

okay so a joel miller x reader where joel saves reader before jackson. and after they are in jackson joel forgets reader or smt. like she doesnt come down to eat anymore etc, but the reason why she doesnt come down anymore is because she just completely lost it because she is not used to community. then at one point she asks tommy for another house for her one and somehow joel and reader talk and she first gets mad but then she calms down :)) thank youu

Too Many Walls

PAIRING:Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 1197| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

You remembered the snow the most.

It had dusted Joel’s hair as he tore through the blizzard to get to you, blood blooming through his sleeve, dragging you from a house half-burned and surrounded by infected. You remembered the fire in his voice when he found you. His hands,rough, bleeding,cupping your face like you were something worth saving.

Now, in Jackson, there was no snow. Just silence.

You hadn’t been downstairs in three days. The warm halls of the house you and Joel had been given felt too wide. The windows too clear. People walked by every morning and waved through them. You always ducked. The idea of breakfast with strangers made your skin itch.

The first week, Joel had stayed close. Then, slowly, he’d stopped asking if you were coming to the dining hall. He'd leave in the morning, come back in the evening, sometimes with Tommy, sometimes alone. He always asked if you were okay. You always lied.

Today, you knocked on Tommy’s door.

He blinked at you in surprise. “Y/N?”

“I need a new place.”

“What?”

“A house,” you said. “A smaller one. By the fence. Or even something unfinished. I just… I can’t stay there anymore.”

Tommy scratched the back of his neck. “Did something happen with Joel?”

You looked away. “He doesn’t even notice I’m not there.”

Tommy sighed. “He does. He’s just... Joel. He thinks giving space is helping.”

“Space is one thing,” you muttered. “But I feel like a ghost.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll check the west side,there’s a little place near the barn no one’s taken yet.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“Don’t disappear, though,” he said softly. “You’re not invisible. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer.

Joel noticed when the mugs stopped appearing in the sink.

She hadn’t come downstairs for coffee.

She always made coffee.

Even during the chaos of the first few weeks in Jackson, she’d cling to that ritual,her hands shaking, sometimes crying quietly as the kettle boiled. But it gave her something. And it gave him something too.

He waited until dusk to knock on her bedroom door.

“Y/N?”

No response.

He leaned closer. “You hungry? I can bring somethin’ from the hall.”

Still nothing. Just silence, and maybe the faint creak of the floor as she turned away.

The next morning, she was gone.

Tommy found him in the stables.

Joel was brushing down a mare when Tommy leaned against the post and said, “Y/N moved out.”

Joel froze. “What?”

“She came to me yesterday. Said she needed her own place. Said she couldn’t stay with you anymore.”

He blinked at the horse’s side. “Why the hell didn’t she say anything to me?”

“She tried, man. Not directly, but… Joel, she’s drowning. This place, it’s... a lot.”

“She’s the one who said she wanted to be safe.”

“Yeah. Safe, not suffocated. You ever think maybe she doesn’t know how to be okay in a place like this?”

Joel’s jaw clenched.

Tommy crossed his arms. “You’ve been quiet lately too. You ain’t talkin’ to her. She thought you stopped caring.”

“I was givin’ her time,”

“Well, it didn’t help. Go talk to her, Joel.”

The house Tommy gave her was half-finished,bare walls and creaky floorboards, but no big windows. No people walking by. No hallway that echoed with every step.

Y/N was unpacking her small bag when a knock hit the frame. The door wasn’t even fully hung yet, just tilted on its hinges.

She turned, and there he was.

Joel. Hands in his coat pockets. Frown in place.

“Nice place,” he muttered.

She straightened slowly, her face unreadable. “Did Tommy send you?”

“No,” Joel said. “I came because I saw the kitchen and realized you weren’t there. Again.”

Her lips thinned. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Tell the truth?” she snapped.

Joel’s shoulders tightened. “You could’ve just said you wanted space.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said, her voice rising. “Joel, I waited for you to notice. I waited for you to say something, anything, about how I was spiraling. But you just stopped talking to me.”

He looked wounded. “I was tryin’ to give you peace.”

“Well, it felt like abandonment.”

A long silence fell.

Y/N’s eyes burned. “Do you know what it’s like to go from running for your life every damn day to waking up in a warm bed in a quiet town, and feel nothing but guilt for it? Like maybe you don’t deserve it?”

Joel swallowed. “Yeah. I know that.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Joel,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to be a person here. I freak out when someone waves at me. I panic if I hear kids laughing. I spent months expecting to die. And now…”

He stepped forward, slowly.

“You don’t gotta figure it all out at once,” he said. “And I didn’t stop carin’, alright? I thought I was helpin’. I was wrong.”

Her shoulders trembled.

“You saved me,” she murmured. “You dragged me outta hell. And then you just... faded.”

“I didn’t know how to be around you when you started pullin’ away,” Joel said, his voice cracking. “I ain’t good at this. I thought maybe you’d feel better if I wasn’t hoverin’.”

“Well, you weren’t hovering,” she said, her voice breaking now. “You just vanished.”

Joel looked down. “I’m sorry.”

She turned away, wiping at her eyes.

“You know,” she said bitterly, “when I asked Tommy for this house, I told myself it was because I needed space. But I think I just wanted to see if you’d care.”

Joel took another step forward. “And I do.”

Silence again, thick and heavy.

“You didn’t even ask where I was going,” she whispered.

“I was scared,” he said.

She blinked at him, surprised. “Of what?”

“Of sayin’ the wrong thing. Of holdin’ on too tight and pushin’ you away more.” He sighed. “I’ve lost too many people, darlin’. I thought if I gave you quiet, maybe you’d stay.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Joel’s face twisted with something like pain.

She looked down at her bag. “I’m not ready for Jackson. Not really. But I thought maybe... maybe I could be ready with you.”

He stepped closer again, now inches from her.

“I want that,” he said softly. “I want you. Even if you’re scared. Even if you hide away sometimes. Hell, I do the same thing.”

She let out a shaky breath. “So what now?”

He hesitated. Then: “Can I stay here? With you? Not forever. Just... tonight. Maybe we can talk. Or not. Just sit. If that’s all you can do right now, that’s enough.”

Y/N stared at him.

And then her shoulders finally dropped.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “But you’re makin’ the coffee.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh. “Deal.”

That night, they sat in her unfinished living room, a mug of coffee each, two pillows on the floor, no electricity yet.

No more silence, either.

Just the sound of breathing. Of Joel quietly humming a tune under his breath. Of Y/N finally leaning her head on his shoulder.

Neither of them said the words. Not yet.

But they stayed.

And in Jackson, that was the first step.

[cherrygarcia-07]

Hi Cherry! I just saw that your requests are open, and I was wondering, what are your Spencer headcannons? Like in a relationship but maybe also in general?

aaaah thank you so much for asking I love making up little spencer scenarios in my head !! apologies if these aren’t that interesting they’re just the thoughts off the top of my head but thank you for giving me an opportunity to ramble about him :3

in a relationship

(i’m a firm bisexual spencer believer so these are all gender neutral)

-he’s a big cuddler. i feel like that’s a generally excepted one in the community but like that man hangs on like a koala. there’s times when he’s overwhelmed and needs to be alone, but there’s more times when he just wants to be as physically close to his partner as possible and live in their skin . also he looooves to be the little spoon.

-speaking of, he’s kind of like a great dane with lap dog syndrome. he kind of forgets how big he is when he wants to lie on top of his partner or cuddle up into them. think how he always tries to curl up on the jet with his big long legs folded all awkwardly lol

-he’s not a huge pet name user, at least not at first. honestly, he loves to just use his partner’s name because it’s theirs and he loves them and how their name feels in his mouth. however the pet names he uses are classic ones, like honey or sweetheart (i’m a big sweetheart spencer enthusiast) and they often come out when his partner is upset/stressed and he’s calming them down. in my opinion he wouldn’t really use baby himself but he would melt when it’s used on him. i think he’d probably also come up with some cute nickname personal to his partner, something unique referencing some kind of inside joke or book they read together.

-if his partner doesn’t speak english as their first language you bet he is learning their native language as soon as possible. he loves the way they light up and speak with more confidence in their native language and he wants them to be able to do that freely. if you walked into his apartment you’d find stacks and stacks of books about their culture and their home country.

-he matches his ties and sometimes his mismatched socks to his partner’s outfit on date night. it’s something silly that makes the two of them happy, and he really just loves making the effort for them. he likes everybody he walks past to know that he’s theirs.

-biiiiig love letter writer/note leaver. literally words are his love language. he thinks it’s magic how they can have so much power, how many ways you can use them to say i love you in a million different ways. the letters he writes are like something out of an old timey romance novel, like they were literally written at his desk in the candlelight with ink and a quill. he also loves leaving little notes around for his partner with quotes from poems and literature. (he also doodles on them a lot)

-in relation to that this man is SO romantic but literally has no idea. he’s not even trying to be. he knows he’s not the type for grand gestures or big public displays like he sees in movies so he thinks he has no game but then he’ll turn around and hand his partner a poem he read and say some shit like “the line about the sunset reminded me of how beautiful you looked in the light of the refrigerator that time we danced in the kitchen.” (or something much more elaborate than that but i have no game myself to think of an example). he’s romantic in the small gestures, in the flowers he picks for them on the walk home because he thought they were pretty, in the way he holds his jacket over their head when it’s raining to protect them, in everything he does.

-he loves parallel play. his brain is always working overtime around other people so with his partner he loves that the two of them are so comfortable enough with one another to just sit and co exist and not worry about anything else. he’s just happy to be near them.

-he lets out his goofy side in his relationships. think his clint eastwood impression or the karaoke scene. his partner is always sitting through impressions of various characters from different things, or listening to him awkwardly singing along to his old records as he cleans or brews his coffee. he’ll tell them all the stupid puns and jokes he can think of even if he laughs at them harder than they do.

in general

-he gets along so well with old ladies. like they love him so much he’s practically an old lady in his heart. i think when not in work he craves something mundane or normal, so he joins a knitting club or a book club or something with a bunch of old ladies and he either joins in all their chatting or just sits back and listens to them gossip.

-speaking of… he is such a gossip. he will deny it til the end of the earth but he is. he can be trusted with secrets and he’ll never tell anything private or sworn to secrecy but sit him and garcia in a room together and everyone’s petty business is getting aired.

-on that note he lowkey loves reality tv. another thing he completely denies. he’ll say it’s boring or not appealing to him but if someone is watching it around him they’ll catch him lingering quietly in the background. if asked he’ll say he’s studying their behaviour or something like that but really he’s just kinda messy.

-loves jim henson. the muppets, labyrinth, everything. it’s just wacky and weird and wonderful which is everything he is but he’s also fascinated by puppetry and everything that goes into the craft and making the shows/movies and it’s something he loves to infodump about.

-on halloween he keeps candy by his front door for trick or treaters in the apartment building and he goes all out for them. he buys a mask or a simple costume for himself and maybe makes a silly monster noise when he opens the door to make them laugh, and of course after that he compliments all their costumes and tells them they look awesome. in my opinion he was never taken trick or treating as a kid and as a lover of halloween he wants to make it special for all the kids that stop by.

-like everything he owns is from vintage/antique stores, especially all his trinkets and oddities. a perfect afternoon for him is just strolling the stores with a cup of coffee in his hand. he always tries to find out the history of the items he’s buying from the owners and he feels especially attached if whatever it is has a little story behind it. they’re also just a great excuse for him to ramble. if someone is in his apartment and compliments something he gets to break out into his ‘it’s made of this kind of ceramic and it was made in this year and comes from this country’ and he just loves doing that so much.

-he has an old old teddy bear that he treasures. it was either his as a young boy or his mums when she was a kid. it’s worn, it’s weathered but that’s what makes it charming. he doesn’t play with it or anything but its comforting to have around. he props it up on his pillows every morning when he makes his bed, or sometimes sits it on the other side of the chess board when he’s playing by himself. he might talk to it a little occasionally, like narrating the chess game or apologising when he wakes up and finds it on the floor.

-he corrects staff at museums or exhibits and stuff if there’s any misinformation and they lowkey find him annoying for it but i think it’s endearing. he’s just passionate about the facts and that’s okay.

-loooooves rainy weather. not necessarily to be in it but just to sit at his window and watch with a book in his hands and a cup of coffee next to him. he finds it cosy and relaxing, like white noise for when his brain is going a thousand miles a minute.

-he keeps notebooks for everything. he has one where he writes about his pet fish, their names and personalities and anything cute or amusing they did that day. he makes up little stories for them, like if two of them are acting odd he’ll write that they’re bickering and speculate why. he also has a notebook full of book reviews and essays that he writes just for fun, because to him reading is only half the fun and the rest of it comes in the analysis.

sorry i went on for SOOOO long but I just love talking about this man so much he’s the love of my life😭 i hope this was enjoyable for you!!!

[bigdumbbambieyes]

Childhood best friends Harringrove losing their virginity to each other one sticky hot July night, the summer after their junior year. Whispered declarations of everlasting love as they lay tangled together in the sheets on Steve’s bed. Vowing to be each other’s one and only.

anon...you requested this back in September 2022 and it was at the very bottom of my drafts...I'm so sorry 😭 I'm not sure if you're still in the fandom or not but I finally finished your request!! light smut at the end!

-

He had expected it to be awkward. And, it kind of was, but he hadn’t expected it to feel like this - like what he’d been missing for so long as finally there, right where it was supposed to be.

Their lips had brushed for the first time at the age of 13 and 14, as a dare, at Tommy’s birthday party. And when Steve had pulled away, he saw this confused look in Billy’s blue eyes, his brows furrowed slightly. They’d been friends since the tender age of 6, when Steve had spotted a blond boy with curly hair standing alone at recess on the first day of kindergarten. They’d been inseparable ever since.

But once the girls and boys at the party had begun to giggle at them, they had laughed it off, Billy pushing at his shoulder like he always did, and Steve pushed that evening to the back of his mind, content to forget all about it.

Except, he couldn’t. Whenever he looked at Billy, his eyes went to his lips. Shaped so perfectly, pink like his mother’s azaleas, with a sharp cupid’s bow and plump bottom lip that drove Steve crazy. 

And as they grew, muscles filling out and limbs elongating, jaws becoming scratchy with stubble, Steve still found him beautiful. His eyes, so intense, even when they were staring off into the distance and disconnected from the moment. His hair, always curled and set to Billy’s specifications, smelled of hairspray and cigarettes and Steve loved it. The freckles that dotted Billy’s nose and cheeks made Steve’s knees weak, along with the ones on his shoulders - especially those ones. 

He spent so long admiring Billy and convincing himself that it was nothing, that he never noticed Billy doing it back. Looking when Steve wasn’t. Hooking up with girls that had brown hair and brown eyes. Grabbing Steve’s biceps during gym class and grinning at him knowingly, “You been lifting weights or something?” even though Billy knew they worked out together multiple times a week.

Perhaps it was just building up to this moment, at Steve’s 17th birthday party. His parents had fucked off to wherever they were that month and Billy had convinced him to throw a party, whispering in his ear all week at school.

“C’mon, dancing queen. You’re only seventeen once.”

‘Dancing queen’. As if Billy listened to ABBA. 

Obviously, he gave in. He told a few people, who told others, and those others told their friends, and now here Steve was, being helped upstairs to his room by Billy. A strong arm around his waist, both of them giggling drunkenly as they get into the room and Billy shoves him onto the bed with a grin.

“Sleep it off, Stevie,” he hummed, not even bothering to look away as Steve rolled onto his back and began to undress, always one to sleep in just his briefs when he was drunk.

“I’m—" a hiccup, “I’m gonna, okay? S’your fault for giving me so many shots...” He mumbled as he kicked off his jeans, feeling Billy help him when they got caught on his ankles. He managed to open his eyes - unsure of when he’d closed them - long enough to see Billy standing at the foot of his bed, a soft smile on the blond’s face. “You gonna sleep here?” He asked softly.

Billy had nodded, “Yeah. M’not tired, though.” There were still guests downstairs, after all. And Steve trusted his best friend to make sure everyone left or had a place to sleep before going to bed himself.

“‘Kay,” Steve whispered, “G’night.” 

“Night, Stevie.”

When Steve woke up the next morning, his brain feeling way too big for his skull, he found Billy next to him, asleep. And despite the hangover, Steve had sleepily blinked through the waves of nausea to admire Billy in the morning sun: messy hair, thick eyelashes casting a shadow fanning across his cheekbones, and his lips slightly parted with deep breaths. Clothes missing except his briefs, so comfortable and safe in Steve’s bed.

Steve’s heart had skipped a beat and he knew he was in love with Billy in that moment.

He’d always been a fool for love, but with Billy, it was different. It ran deep, something that felt like it was in his DNA, like he’d been made to love Billy Hargrove before he even knew it.

In the summer after their junior year, it all came to a head, when he kissed Billy in his backyard.

It was a hot July evening, and instead of melting in his room, Billy had shown up on Steve’s front door with a six pack of beer, a towel over his shoulder, and a familiar smile as he asked, “Wanna go for a dip?”

And who was Steve to deny him anything?

-

The sun is hot but at least the beer is cold, Steve thinks as he leans back on a recliner and sips at the lip of his can, watching Billy flop down in the recliner next to him, cracking his beer open with a happy hum. 

It’s easy, with Billy. They’re assholes to each other but it’s the way they work. Snide comments, mean smiles, soft looks, inside jokes. They talk and drink for the entire afternoon, finally taking a dip in the pool once their skin is hot to the touch, and even then they’re splashing each other because it’s a competition and Billy never backs down, keeps poking Steve until he gets a reaction.

Maybe that’s why Billy swims him into a corner, a smirk on his flushed face, water clinging to his eyelashes and soaked curls. Steve lets himself be cornered, a hand resting on the edge of the pool as he grins at his best friend, ready to splash the blond but Billy has this look in this eye then. Something a little intense, a little serious, and it makes Steve freeze. 

He sees the way Billy’s eyes flick down to his lips, for just a second, but it’s long enough that Steve notices. 

And, he freezes, for a moment. The tension is thick and Billy falters, that cocky expression slipping away to uncertainty for a moment, like he's realizing that he's made a mistake.

Steve hates it. Hates that Billy would think for even a second that he wouldn't want this.

So, he pushes off the wall a bit, until he's pressed up against his best friend and he's clumsily pressing his lips to Billy's for a second before pulling away, eyes wide.

Billy's eyes are equally as wide, his jaw dropping a little in surprise.

And because Steve is Steve, he breathes, "I'm sorry."

Which has Billy blinking in confusion, his brows furrowing for a moment before he huffs in exasperation and splashes Steve in the face again.

"What the fuck!" Steve coughs, feels the chlorine burning his nose and eyes as he wipes at them, and when he opens them Billy is climbing out of the pool, the wet muscles of his back flexing under the sun so perfectly that Steve is stunned into silence at the mere sight.

Billy stands and turns around, an expectant look on his pink face as he stares down at Steve, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He waits a moment before asking, rather impatiently, "Are you getting out or what?"

"Are you going to throw me back in when I do?" He asks cautiously, already swimming to the edge where Billy had just lifted himself out from.

"You're making me want to, the longer you stay in there," Billy mutters, watching Steve climb out of the pool and standing there just a few feet away.

They look at each other for another moment, unsure of what to do, because it's settling in that they kissed without a dare or an audience and it meant something.

"Do it again," Billy mutters suddenly, almost whispers.

And Steve doesn't need to be told twice.

He steps close, their chests nearly touching, leaning in to press another kiss to Billy's lips - when he feels a shove to his chest and he's indeed flailing backwards into the pool.

When he resurfaces, Billy's frowning down at him and all but hissing, "Why the fuck would you apologize?"

"I don't know!" Steve gasps with desperation, a hint of a whine in his voice as he swims back to the edge of the pool, pushing his wet hair back from his face and glaring up at Billy as he folds his arms over the edge of the tile, "I...I panicked, I guess."

"Yeah, no shit," Billy huffs, his mouth twitching, "C'mon. Get out."

Steve gives him a look, which makes the blond roll his eyes before taking a step back from the pool, a safe distance away from Steve as he climbs back out again.

And then Billy's charging at him again, and Steve tenses and squeezes his eyes shut, expecting to feel himself thrown back in the pool, but then there's only warm skin and strong arms around his shoulders, pressing him down into the earth, and then Billy's demanding mouth against his.

His mouth is wet, hot, sucking Steve's tongue inside with a soft sound. Steve's immediately wrapping his arms around Billy in return, pressing into his body, tilting his head as he lets Billy claim his mouth.

It's aggressive, a little rough, so Billy.

The blond pulls away, his lips so red now, his eyes so blue under heavy lids as he whispers in a tone Steve can't refuse, "Upstairs."

They track water inside, but no one's around to give them shit for it, and it's hard for Steve to care when Billy's pushing his shorts down, so beautifully naked and hard in Steve's bed.

He pushes his own shorts down and climbs onto his bed, crawling on top of Billy and letting his best friend pull him down, feeling a hand gripping the soft-firm muscle of his ass, encouraging him to rock his hips down.

"Billy," he breathes, slotting his thigh between the blond's, their lips meeting again in a kiss as they rock together, desperate and needing and wanting.

Billy moans into his mouth, the sound so low and rumbling, settling in Steve's chest where he never wants it to leave.

It's embarrassingly quick, their first time, with the sensation of their cocks sliding together so slick and hot, pushing each other over the edge with a gasp and hissed curse.

And under that gauze of bliss, where Steve feels like he's floating, he begins to talk.

"Want you forever," Steve murmurs, unable to stop the swell of affection in his chest as Billy begins to rock under him again, their bodies so intertwined he didn't know when he started and Billy ended.

"One and only," Billy whispers, his voice a little shaky, staring up at Steve with such raw vulnerability, "You."

"Don't want anyone but you, Billy," Steve smiles gently, leaning down and pressing sweet little kisses to Billy's warm cheek, again and again, and Billy accepts them without complaint.

In fact, he looks pleased, with his own soft smile and pinked cheeks.

He looks happy.

Glowing with it, maybe.

Steve wants to see him like this, forever.

"It's always been you, and always will be," he promises, gently bumping the tip of his nose against Billy's, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "Gonna love you forever, whether you want it or not."

"I do, want it," Billy whispers, his voice cracking a little with emotion, his blue eyes so wet as he clings to Steve, "Promise?"

"I promise," Steve murmurs, kissing him again and again in his too-hot room, humming happily when Billy whispers his own promise against his lips.

[kurizz]

Pink Poly Club (miromabby) Part 3

click for part 2

Summary: They successfully dashed out of the studio. But it started raining heavily outside, making it unsafe to drive. Mira, not wanting to let them know where she lives, ended up at their place instead. She needed to relax after being stressed out by that interview.

Word count: 1127

a/n: gotta clarify that it's an alternate universe where the saja boys are regular humans.

-----

Maybe she should’ve just checked into a hotel. But after that stunt they pulled earlier, that would've been a terrible idea. Without Bobby or the rest of the company staff around, people would gather and ask questions. Too many questions.

Mira sank into their couch with a weary sigh, tossing her feet up on the small table. “Don’t get any funny ideas,” she muttered. “I just needed to relax, so I took the offer.”

“Hot cocoa? Something to drink?” Romance lazily called from the kitchen, clinking around in the cabinets. “Abs, turn up the heater. It's freezing in here.”

“On it,” Abby replied, already moving.

He was right—it was getting cold.

Mira stared out through the tall windows, the curtains were pushed to the side. It displayed how the rain lashed the glass in harsh, steady bursts. Bobby was probably still pacing, worried sick about where she’d gone after ducking out of the studio earlier than scheduled. She had told him the truth. Not that it helped. It only added to his worries. 

The girls would surely want in on everything. She’d tell them when they meet. For now, her phone was shut. She needed to relax.

“Once the rain stops, I’m heading home.”

Romance hummed. She hadn’t even answered his question.

“Feet down, please,” he called out, holding two mugs of hot cocoa.

She dropped her feet on the floor quickly.

He set one mug in front of her. “Here. Have a drink.”

“I didn’t say I wanted one.”

He slowly raised a brow, “I’ll drink it then. You sure you don’t want it?”

“I…I’ll have it,” she grumbled, grabbing the mug from the table.

The couch creaked as Abby plopped down beside her, leaning in towards the mug in her hands. “Careful, it’s hot. Let me help.”

He wrapped his hands over hers and guided the cup closer to his mouth, trying to blow away the steam.

Mira recoiled, eyes wide. “Stop! You’re getting your saliva all over it!”

Abby paused, stunned. Romance slapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Mira was fuming, she wanted to pull the mug away from Abby but she was careful not to spill it.

Abby let go and slumped back, turning his head away like a kicked puppy. Was he sulking now?

Romance drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it together. That earned him a glare from Abby, “You’re really enjoying this.”

Romance grinned. “Don’t be mad just because I’m her favorite.”

Abby turned his glare on Mira.

She returned it right back. “I don’t like either of you. I could’ve blown on it myself.”

“I was trying to be nice.”

“By spitting on my drink?”

Abby’s ears turned red, his glare was more of a pout than a threat. Why did that make him kind of…cute?

“Forget it.”

“I can't drink this anymore,” Mira grumbled, setting the mug down. She leaned her back onto the couch and rubbed her cold hands together. Abby got up and walked away. What, is he more upset now?

“Have mine instead. I haven't taken a sip yet.” Romance offered, sitting beside her.

“…thanks, if you don't mind.”

She took one sip and welcomed the warmth that entered her system. The cocoa tasted so good. But she wouldn't say that out loud. It helped rid her of the cold a bit. She needed the warmth from the drink that badly.

Romance and Mira drank hot cocoa in complete silence. The sound of harsh rain was filling up the room for them. She glanced at him sideways, wondering how long he’d stay quiet. Oddly, it felt comforting.

Then, there were loud footsteps. She paid it no mind and focused on her drink, knowing it was just Abby coming back to the living room. His steps grew closer. A warm blanket was draped over her shoulders, the fresh lavender scent engulfed her senses. She was pleasantly surprised. So, that’s what he was up to.

Abby also tossed one blanket to Romance. He was wrapped in one himself, a small frown still evident on his lips. He said nothing and only sat on her other side—the one unoccupied by Romance—in silence.

Mira sighed, giving in. “Thanks,” she whispered softly.

Abby pretended not to look pleased, “No problem.”

He wrapped the blanket around himself tighter. Romance was still sipping on his cup.

There it was again. That stretch of silence surrounding them. If it weren't for the rain, she would've assumed that her hearing was gone.

Normally, they were chatty. Teasing her left and right, trying to get a reaction out of her. She wasn't sure if she preferred this side over their playful side. This definitely was new. She hummed in thought, setting down her mug once she finished drinking.

“I didn't get to say thank you earlier.” she paused, waiting for them to respond. Once they didn't, she kept going. “You must've known I was uncomfortable so you took me out of there.”

“Not sure what you mean.” Romance pretended to be fascinated by his mug, he wouldn't even look at her.

“Don't start thinking we did it for you.” Abby murmured, “…because we did.”

This time, it was her turn not to respond. They did it first, anyway.

Out of nowhere, Abby rested his forehead on her shoulder. “Just a few minutes…I won't do anything else.”

His voice was low and soft. It had a mild pleading tone to it that sent a delicious shiver down her spine. He was way too close, the heat from his body threatened to consume her. She couldn't help but fix her posture—it only made Abby scoot closer.

Romance sighed, grabbing her attention. He nuzzled his head on the other side of her shoulder, “I can't help it anymore. Give me a few minutes too, Mira.”

“What are you guys…”

She didn't know what to do. That awful fuzziness she felt in her chest was clearly trouble. She doesn't need it, go away. Why is she giving in…clearly it must be the weather. It's messing up with her way of thinking.

She plopped her head back, her gaze softening as it met the ceiling. She wouldn't admit it, but this felt nice. Being wrapped in a blanket and almost cuddled up amidst the heavy rain outside made her slightly woozy, her eyelids getting heavy.

She closed her eyes, but reminded herself not to sleep. She's just going to rest for a bit. Just for a bit. It’s fine.

Minutes went by.

Abby noticed the rain had subsided, so he pointed it out.

Weirdly enough, Mira hadn't had the urge to get up and leave anymore, but she had to go. She had to go before they let the moment carry them away.

-----

a/n: still getting a hang of this thing. btw, my fingers were itching not to italicize almost everything. also, golden is just so good of a song but so hard to sing—my voice cracked like rumi in their practice. probably the only thing we have in common.

author's note? no. author's ramble.

@suzieq1948374 @unmooredandfulloftrepidation

[firingstars]

no one asked for this, but this is a dissection of my own fic bc i love this characterization of bucky x reader and tbh i might just do this to other fics that i adore. <3

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day.

guys bucky wrote reader a LOVE LETTER in the first fic and told her during their first date that he hated his phone and everything about it. however?? bro still texts reader like its his job. like its the only thing he knows.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

bucky tells reader everything. he told reader everything about his past. and obviously, she took it like a champ. this was part of his non-negotiables that he quietly hinted at during match made that he was kinda scared to actually say out loud. someone to accept him and his faults. the reason why he fully accepted reader to begin with was because during the first date she said:

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.” (this is from match made not locked in lols)

AND SHE DIDNT EVEN KNOW THE EXTENT OF IT she js knew what was put online as the backlash bc of the mfs that were like ?? congressman assassin???!?!? extra: bucky once asked her what she thought abt that and she said she still thinks he's better than the other politicians by a loooooonnnnggg shot so she rly doesnt care extra extra: she's worked with clients that are way worse than him and never elaborated. bucky is confused on what that could possibly mean

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual.  “I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

bucky complains, but does he ever mean it??? no. bro is whipped. always whipped. do not forget man is the same man that did not understand reader when she said people generally have one love language. he has all five.

- “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.” - His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles. “I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile. - “I bought [these shoes] for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer. ... he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

and the influx of flowers after reader confirms that she loves flowers teehee. he's always getting her flowers. there's always fresh flowers somewhere. always. if he sees the flowers he last got her wilting?? oh lord. someone's dying

- He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. - Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way. - ... you still had to do work when you came home ... Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you.  - “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

the wording was very deliberate- bucky learned over time. do you know how many times. there was trial and error in the beginning of their relationship bc bucky still wasn't up to speed with modern dating (and obviously still isnt with how nervous he was about asking to move in) but reader was very patient with him throughout all the speed bumps bc she understands his struggles and his past, which is exactly what he was looking for from the very beginning of this whole matchmaking shenanigans

idk this entire fic was just a love letter to reader because i didn't feel like writing an actual

dear y/n, blah blah blah love, bucky

kinda thing.

someone did ask me what the love letter did entail and i rly did entertain the idea of writing the love letter... but i felt too lazy. so this fic if what came out of it. which honestly. feels like the opposite of laziness.

locked in

— a sequel to match made

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend have been together for a strong nineteen months and counting. problem is, you’re starting to notice he’s hiding things from you.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, semi-public (?) stuffs, oral (f+m receiving), hair pulling, face grabbing, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, backshots, fingering, window… sex…, soft dom bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky is the best boyfriend ever and loves you very much

word count: 15.2k

a/n: due to popular demand, here’s a second part! this is also my formal apology for whatever happened in love, persevering <3 please accept. // also if anyone saw this get prematurely posted with NOTHING attached you didn’t fucking see it. i wasn’t made aware until EIGHT HOURS LATER and the fic wasn’t even done yet!!! 😔 i always make my fic intro template things before my fics are done for motivation

masterlist

You almost lost your fucking job. 

You expected it, honestly. With the amount of lines you crossed, boundaries broken, and toes you stepped on… Yeah. There was only so much that your boss could take from you— star employee or not. 

Thankfully, your boss kept the whole thing quiet from the rest of your coworkers to spare you the embarrassment since you had the decency to come to her and tell her the truth. 

It still meant you had to refund Sam Wilson the entire Ador Luxury Matchmaking Package, which your boss was not happy about.

Sam, on the other hand, was over the moon. 

When he received the refund transaction, he called you almost immediately. You had to go into a private conference room to answer the call, away from your coworkers.

“Mr. Wilson,” you answered the phone, trying to keep your tone light.

“Hey, Ms. Matchmaker,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Did Buck cancel his membership?”

“That is correct,” you said, clearing your throat. 

“I thought we had an agreement. I paid you guys extra to not allow him to bully you guys into ending the program,” Sam said. You can hear the frustration in his voice. You don’t blame him. “What happened?”

“I can assure you– the refund is not due to Congressman Barnes just cancelling the service,” you said. “In fact, he is no longer in need of my services.”

“What? Then he’s been on a date?” Sam asked. “If that’s the case, then why the refund? If the date was successful, then doesn’t Bucky get the benefits or whatever?”

There was no response from your end for a good handful of moments. You were stuck, unable to respond. You couldn’t figure out how to say the words in the most professional way possible. You needed to find the right concoction, just in case there was someone walking down the hall at that exact moment,  and overheard your conversation. 

In the end, all you could think was that Bucky was a dead man walking.

You were going to kill Bucky. You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, seeing as he was the one with the years of experience of fighting between the two of you, but you would do it. You were hoping that he would’ve told his one and only friend that he had a girlfriend. 

Then again, Bucky refused to answer any of Sam’s calls. You texted Sam back most of the time when you got ahold of Bucky’s phone, pretending to be Bucky. Bucky didn’t care that you were doing that– though you wondered if Sam would be heartbroken if he ever found out. 

“Hello?” Sam asked, calling out your name. “Are you there?”

“Congressman Barnes terminated his membership with Ador as he and I have mutually decided to pursue a more personal relationship with each other,” you quickly answered him, cringing at your own words. You took a quick breath in before continuing, “The refund is due to my own oversight, and is serving as an apology to you for wasting your time on our service. I truly hope that you will forgive me for being unable to maintain a more professional connection with the client.”

It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. You had to check your phone to make sure that the call was still active. There was a slight rustle on the other end, letting you know that he was still there– that he was on the other end, dissecting your words, gears processing through his mind.

“The matchmaker I hired is dating my friend?!” he cackled. 

“Mr. Wilson, I truly apologize for the inconvenience–” 

“There is no inconvenience!” he cut you off, still laughing. “Holy shit, let me tell you– after that first meeting with you? I asked Bucky what he thought about you as his matchmaker and his only words? He thought you were pretty. Would not say anything else. Fuck, listen, let me call you back– or let’s all go to dinner. You, me, Buck, and my girl. I gotta head down to the office and harass Bucky right now.”

You went on an unpaid suspension for eight weeks after the refund transaction went through. The HQ of Ador had to undergo a full on investigation to figure out if you were worth keeping around as an employee or not, seeing as you ended up breaking client-employee conduct. 

Your boss wasn’t awful, though. In fact, she was only pissed off about the refund because she knew that headquarters back in London would have been alerted. Either way, it was still the right thing to process the transaction. She promised you that she would be your biggest advocate during the investigation, and she would try to argue for you to get the time to be paid seeing as you were the best employee in the New York branch.

The second you told Bucky– who told Sam– you found money wired into your account the next business day. It was the same exact amount that you had refunded back to Sam. It was still more money than you would’ve made if you were working those eight weeks. 

Neither man told you how they got ahold of your bank information. Neither man would look you in the eye when you questioned them. 

So, you had eight weeks of basically overpaid, free vacation to do whatever the hell you wanted, and a new boyfriend. Which meant you spent damn near every single day in his office, cosplaying as some government worker– an intern or secretary. And you were helping him. You actually were. 

“You really don’t have to do any of this, baby,” Bucky told you. You had been coming for an entire week straight at this point.

“If I stay stationary for two months, I think I might die of brain failure,” you told him, stealing a stack of his files from him. “Besides. You look like you need some help. You should really hire a secretary. Or someone to help you out. A personal assistant, maybe?”

“I can handle it on my own,” he sighed, shaking his head. Despite his words, he looked grateful as you took the files to the lounge area of his office and spread them out on the coffee table.

“Tell that to me when you sleep more than two hours a night, handsome,” you said, tucking your legs under you.

With less sensitive information that he was allowed to hand over to you, you organized and kept tabs on. You summarized documents for him perfectly that made his life easier. You helped train other onboarding interns that didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You managed his calendar when he looked like he was about to combust into flames. You got to spend time with him during his breaks, have lunch with him, eat dinner with him, and he would drive you home, and spend the night with you most nights.

Not that anyone knew that, though. They thought you were an actual employee of this official government building in New York. With the way that you walked side by side with Bucky every single day, holding files and looking down at his work phone– they really thought that you were working for him.

“Where’s your secretary today?”

You don’t know who asked the question, and you don’t really care. There’s about three other officials in this room that barged in out of nowhere, when you were on Bucky’s lap. 

Both of you had panicked, and he had shoved you into the hiding space beneath his desk before any of them could see the scandalous position he had you in. 

Unluckily for him, he had chosen the wrong place to put you. 

“At a training session with other interns,” Bucky said, tone clipped and short. He was irritated at being interrupted out of nowhere, but also at the fact that you were ignoring his warnings. 

You grinned, pressing an innocent kiss to the hand that gripped over your wrist. Tight, but not enough to hurt you. You continued to palm over his hardening length with your free hand. 

You weren’t paying attention to any of the fancy words that were being thrown around over your head, but you were certain that Bucky wasn’t either. You rested the side of your head against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense and hardened at your touch as you continued to lazily play with him over the fabric of his dress pants. 

Bucky’s metal hand slipped from your wrist to your hair, carding through it and stopping at the base of your skull– another cautionary message being sent to you as Bucky tried to focus on the sudden meeting thrown his way. Thankfully, these men loved the sound of their own voices. They couldn’t hear you slowly unzip him, and free Bucky from the confines of his slacks. 

“Your thoughts, Congressman Barnes?”

Your boyfriend cleared his throat above you as your lips kissed the tip of his cock, wrapping your hand around the base of him to keep him in place as his dick twitched in response. You fought back the small hum that threatened to come forth as you licked up the small bead of precum that leaked out.

“It’s a very… worrying matter,” Bucky said slowly, clenching his jaw as he took in a slow breath. You licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock– focusing on the thick vein that you knew was sensitive. “That is very worrisome. And we’ll get to the bottom of this uh– worrying... issue.”

You paused at his words, unable to believe what you were hearing from him for a moment. You pulled away from him for a moment, hand still wrapped around his dick as you pressed your face to his thigh, trying to hide your laugh into his flesh. 

Bucky’s hand tugged back on your hair roughly, pulling your head back and away from his thigh. Immediately, his metal hand shifted from your hair to clasp around your face, covering your mouth. His fingertips dug into the soft skin of your cheeks, daring you to make another noise. Surprise and excitement shot through your body in response.  

You could test him. You could press it. 

You decided against it, and licked his palm instead, closing your eyes. You could feel his hand twitch against your face— he told you once that his arm was calibrated to feel sensations. That he felt nerves like his other arm did. You smiled just a little, then kissed right where your tongue had just been. 

All the while, your hand was still pumping at his dick in lazy strokes. Nothing too much, nothing that would alert anyone of your presence, nothing that would make him let out noises that were only yours to hear. 

“Right,” one of the officials said slowly. “Well– we have lunch with some of the other representatives in ten minutes. You are welcome to join us, Congressman. If your secretary comes back from her training, she is more than welcome to join us as well. Lord knows we need a little more eye candy around here.”

A chorus of laughter rang around the room, but not from Bucky. In fact, he just stared at them until their laughter became uncomfortable, and they awkwardly excused themselves. 

The second the door to his office shut, Bucky’s chair was rolled back instantly, and your hands weren’t touching him anymore. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him as Bucky stared down at you, hand still on your face to shut you up before you had been caught laughing at his inability to form proper words with your mouth on his cock.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby,” he murmured, hand shifting to cradle your face.

A metal thumb brushed against your lip slowly, a shiver running down your spine involuntarily. His touch was gentle. Reverent. He touched you like you were made of glass. Unlike the blown out, hungry look in his eyes, the gruff, low tone of his voice as he whispered to you. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw his other hand tuck himself back into his pants. When your eyebrows furrowed in response, he let out a soft chuckle.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up tall. He rolled his shoulders back, but you couldn’t focus. Your eyes were on him, and the aching bulge above his zipper. 

“I have to go to lunch, sweetheart. When I get back, you’re going to get exactly what you wanted from me, okay?” 

Your boyfriend left you there. Left you partially under his desk, still on your knees. What was supposed to be you teasing him, quickly shifted into you being extremely hot and bothered. You didn’t know how long lunch would take, either. 

You busied yourself with literally anything else. Not that it worked. Every footstep that came down the corridor, you were jumping in attention like some rabbit in heat.

Except, Bucky moved like a ghost. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps. 

When he finally returned, you didn’t even hear him until the sound of the office door locking caught your attention. You barely had the time to turn around before he was all over you. Lips were on yours as he hoisted you upwards, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to his choice of christening. 

An arm swiped his desk clear of any debris so no pens or other office supplies would be digging into your skin. He bunched your skirt up to your hips, and pulled your panties to the side. Bucky bent you over his desk with fingers shoved into your mouth to keep you quiet as he did what you wanted from the beginning. He curtained you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispered sweet nothings to contrast the punishing thrust of his hips— letting you know that he still very much adored you, but was also extremely annoyed by your little game earlier.

Afterwards, Bucky cleaned you up gently. Kissed you softly, held you tightly in his arms. Then presented you with food that he brought back for you– he ordered you lunch while he was out eating since he knew you wouldn’t have left the office while he was gone. 

You almost jumped his bones again right then and there for how considerate he was of you.

So yes, you almost lost your job, but you weren’t necessarily upset about it. Not when you got to spend an entire month with Bucky, helping him out at work, cuddling with him at night, and waking up at whatever time you wanted the next morning. On the rare days that you weren’t at the office with him, it was because you were somewhere else– still with him. 

Eventually, you were called back into work.

You convinced Bucky to hire an assistant to take care of his little things— stuff that you did for him to make his life easier so he could focus on more pressing things. It managed to ease his workload just a little bit, but not by a lot. Bucky still managed to bite more than he could chew, and you knew he was stressed from how slow the process was for passing bills and getting change to happen. 

Despite it all, the two of you were content. Happy. Overjoyed, really. He was perfect, and he swore to the heavens that you were, too.

A cacophony of voices, poppers, music, and sparkles were blasted into your face as you pushed open the door to the office. Streamers were shot directly into your face, colors cascading directly before your eyes, showering you with colors of the pastel rainbow. 

Your coworkers, all dressed to the nines, were cheering. A few of them held flutes of champagne. Two of them held balloons– together making the number twelve together. One of them held a cake that read congratulations.

There was a catering table set for the party that was clearly waiting for you. You saw the table set, ready for everyone to dig into. You knew your boss didn’t hold back when it came to celebrating any kind of achievements, especially not your own. You were the best at what you did here.

Your grin wasn’t smug, even though you had every single right to be. You shrugged your blazer off as you sauntered into the room, allowing the applause and cheers to wash over you. You dropped your purse and other materials off at your desk as your boss approached you with a grin, hands going to your shoulders.

“My star employee– our number one matchmaker!” she cooed at you, everyone shouting around you in response to our praise. “Tell me, with this wedding upcoming this weekend, how many will you be responsible for?”

You paused, only for dramatic effect. The ceiling looked suddenly oh so interesting as you smiled. Then, you guessed, “Twelve?”

“Twelve!” your boss roared, the girls around you jumping up and down with excitement and cheer. 

“Do a speech, a speech!” your deskmate urged, and you only let out a small, playful sigh as everyone died down around you.

You were handed your own glass of champagne, led to the front of the room, and turned to look at all the girls. Girls that you worked with for the past six, almost seven years. Your boss had been doing this job for well over a decade now. There were a few new faces that had just started a few months ago. 

With your glass lifted into the air, you smiled, “Love is all around. It’s easy to find the perfect match for someone.”

They squealed, toasting to you. The cake was brought to you, letting you blow out the candles as if it was your birthday or something– just a tradition your company had for good luck. Something to bring more successful matches and weddings to your clients.

Your two clients, Luke and Jessica, were tying the knot after twelve months of dating, and another four months engaged. One year and four months— which was a relatively short time, but who were you to judge? They both told you they knew the other party was the one after the first date. Who were you to stand in the way of them? 

Just because you were fucking bitter, and jealous that you couldn’t spend time with your own boyfriend despite the fact that Luke and Jessica got together three months after you two did didn’t mean a thing. Not a single thing. 

You masked your growing irritation well with your clients. After all, your performance margins had been going through the roof within the last six months. Your productivity has never been better, your clients have never been happier with your performance, and you have been churning out perfect match after match like you might as well have been Cupid himself. 

Yet, you couldn’t find a single time for your own boyfriend. 

When you had a free night, he didn’t. There was a dinner that he had to get to, one that required secrecy amongst government officials. You understood that. You didn’t hold that against him– especially not when he looked pained to tell you that you couldn’t join him when you offered to come with him the first time he said he had the work dinner. Because you didn’t mind joining him for work related activity. You just wanted to spend time with him, by his side.

But you were a fucking matchmaker. You didn’t have any business being in a government setting, and you knew that. He knew that. The entire government knew that. 

Sometimes it wasn’t even dinner. Sometimes, he wasn’t even in the city. Or the state. Or even the fucking country. Bucky always let you know in advance when he had to travel for work, but there was usually never any chance for the two of you to meet for even a brief look at each other across the road. Just to see each other in person before he had to hop on the plane and head hours away from you.

On the rare occasions Bucky had a free night, you most certainly did not. You had a proposal to plan for. Not a policy or business proposal like he worked on. A marriage proposal. One that had you sneaking around parks in bushes, setting up trails of rose petals, hiring and arguing with musicians– things that you didn’t need your boyfriend around to trail you like a lost puppy asking you if there was something that you needed help with. 

If it wasn’t a proposal, you had another work event. A client on the verge of a breakdown because their date cancelled on them, or some bullshit like that. You would be so close to finally being in your boyfriend’s arms, but you would have to cancel on your own lover to play therapist even though you were severely undereducated and underpaid for the position. 

Bucky was understanding. Too understanding. So understanding that it made you want to bash your head into the wall. 

The two of you had working hours that were strenuous, strange, and demanding. 

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day. He reminded you to eat at least twice a day knowing you were only running on the fuel of your own brain to make it through your work hours.

Absence definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. If anything, your heart was growing irritated. Angry. These happy couples around you were pissing you off. 

Each and every single one of your clients that reported to you that they were falling in love with the person that you set them up with, was like another person setting you up for failure. You were a ticking time bomb just ready to explode, and the only one who would ever be able to defuse you is currently locked away in his office with his pretty fucking secretary that you know he doesn’t care about, but spends more time with than you do. 

You’re not jealous of her perse. 

You’ve seen them work together. It’s strictly professional. You don’t know if she has a boyfriend, and you don’t really care if she does or doesn’t– you trust Bucky, bottom line. He hasn’t given you a single reason to not trust him. You know he has eyes for you and you only. What you’re envious of is the time that she gets to have with him. She sees him every single day. She handles his schedule, hands him coffee, speaks to him face to face, sits with him during meetings, and discusses his fucking policies with him. 

You’re jealous of the time that you don’t get to have with your own boyfriend. You haven’t seen him in over a week and a half by this point. Last time you saw him, it was for a brief lunch that lasted forty-two minutes before you both had to run into meetings. Before that, two weeks. 

You scratch angrily into your notebook, then rip the page out. You crumple it up, throwing the wasted piece of paper into the bin with a frustrated groan before scrubbing a hand down your face. 

The time on the clock reads 1:44am.

Bucky should be getting home by this time, you think. Your phone hasn’t rang otherwise. There’s no good night text yet. 

This was easier before. Easier before you got so attached to him. Easier before your world got shifted on its axis, and started to rotate around him, just a little bit. Easier when you didn’t love the man so fucking much. 

You couldn’t dwell on this though. Not when you had to go to sleep. You had somewhere to be tomorrow, and you couldn’t look like death itself. You sent off your own text to him, then let your sorrows and loneliness cuddle you to bed. 

As much as you wanted to wait for him to text you back, you couldn’t. You had a battlefield to get to. A networking event. A bride to maybe convince that she wanted to marry her groom. 

By the end of the wedding, your purse was full of business cards, and your lips were full of promises to call women on Monday to get them on your books as clients. Your face muscles hurt, your feet ached, and your heart was breaking.

Your phone was full of notifications, and not a single one of them was from your loving boyfriend. Did he get JFK’d somewhere? He couldn’t have. It would have been all over the news already if he did. Sam would have called you, too. Besides that, the serum in his veins would have him feeling the murderous intent from a thousand miles away.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

You make it through the rest of the wedding, get invited to the afterparty, decline, and step out into the street to wait for your Uber to arrive. A car pulls up to the curb that you know is not a silver hatchback like the app indicates, so you ignore it–

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a Friday night?”

Your head snaps up at the voice. Bucky’s stepping out of the driver’s side, holding a colorful arrangement of fresh summer flowers for you, wrapped in kraft paper, tied off with a bow. He’s dressed in a formal suit– bowtie and everything. You vaguely remember him telling you that there was a gala event that was happening tonight the last time that you two had a chance to speak on the phone. He must have had a chance to slip away from there. 

“Need a ride?” he asked, feet stopping just right before you.

You let out a laugh, looking up at him. You take a moment to admire him. Bucky’s smiling at you. There’s so much love in his eyes for you. There always is. In fact, it seemed as if there was more love there than there was than the last time he saw you. You were certain that there would be double the amount the next time you would meet.

“I have one,” you sighed, deciding to play coy with him. “Coming in about five more minutes.”

Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Five minutes? That’s too long. Shouldn’t make you wait out here for even a second.”

You couldn’t fight back the grin that makes its way onto your face. You close the remaining distance between the two of you, your hand resting on his chest as you lean upwards towards him to meet his lips. Bucky’s hand wraps around your back, holding you to him to stabilize you, a small sigh escaping through his nose. 

“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, parting from him. 

Your smile only widened a little more when Bucky chased after your lips instinctively, wanting more. Wanting another kiss. You gave him just a couple more pecks before you settled the heels of your shoes back onto the cement of the sidewalk. A laugh rumbled through you at the disappointed look on his face.

“How’d you know where my wedding was, Congressman?” you asked, looking back at your phone to cancel the ride. 

“Oh you know. A birdie told me,” Bucky said, shrugging as he moved to open the passenger door for you.

“You had Redwing spy on me?’ you raised an eyebrow at him, stepping into the car..

“More like I had Sam send a trail on you tonight. Don’t know if he used Redwing,” he corrected, holding the flowers out for you to take. 

You rolled your eyes at him as you took the bouquet. He was messing with you, and you knew it. You shared your location with him on your phone a long time ago, and he only just figured out how to use the function of it a few months back. He was even shocked to find out that there was such a feature so easily accessible on regular technology. Bucky even asked you if you had his location. You didn’t, and you told him that you didn’t want it. You figured he would be weirded out by that kind of stuff as a former spy, and you were right. He was more at ease after your reassurance. 

However, he did enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to go through several satellite feeds and camera playbacks to find where you were.

In the car, the music is soft. Low. Something from the forties that you don’t really listen to unless you’re with Bucky. He’s tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the song, and you find yourself relaxing into the comfortable leather of the seat. 

Neither of you are speaking, nor do you find the need to. 

Bucky knows you. You’re exhausted after an event like this. He used to ask you how the job went, like a mission debrief. To you, it is a mission. This was your battlefield, and you just fought against enemies and kept your cool against a thousand different obstacles that could’ve made the mission go sideways.

He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. Bucky used to think that you wanted to talk after these events, which wasn’t totally wrong. You talked if the event went horribly wrong and you needed to vent your frustration out to someone that wouldn’t get you fired. You talked his ear off because you couldn’t say what you wanted to in front of your own clients.

Bucky misunderstood and thought you wanted to talk after every single event. Eventually, he realized that most of the time, you enjoyed the peace and quiet of a job well done. That you wanted to sit without having to force a smile anymore, to close your eyes, and feel the weight of his hand on your thigh comfortingly as he drove. 

The sound of a text message coming through cut off the music momentarily. Your eyes cracked open, and on the center screen of Bucky’s dashboard, you saw there was a message from Bucky’s one and only friend.

Don’t Respond [12:08am]: Did she find out what you’re doing yet?

“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked, shifting to reach for Bucky’s phone that was in the cupholder. 

Bucky was faster. His hand left your thigh, grabbing the device before you could. He looked at the small screen momentarily, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Then, you watched as he long pressed the side of his phone, turning it off completely before putting it back in the cupholder.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I’ll text him back later,” Bucky said, giving you a smile before looking back at the road. His hand returned back to its rightful place on your thigh. 

You stared at the side of his face, blinking at him. There was no more music in the car, since his phone was turned off. You were left in silence, just the low thrum of the engine and your thoughts being your only source of entertainment as Bucky turned into your apartment’s parking garage.

Bucky will text him back later? Bucky will text him back later?

No the fuck he won’t. 

As much as Bucky loves new technology like a nerd loves Star Wars, he hates it all at the same time. He thinks it’s disgusting for any sane person to spend the amount of time they do glued to their phones willingly outside of educational and work purposes. He’s a man that had zero choice in life, and he prefers to see the world. If he has free time, there is no way in hell that he will waste it typing away on a tiny screen to text back anyone. 

Except you, of course. He’ll only text and call you.

His reaction was even more strange. Bucky didn’t swat your hand away or anything like that. He didn’t scramble to get to his phone before you did– but he did react. He didn’t answer you. He deflected. He’s always answered your questions to the fullest.

Besides that, this wasn’t anything new between the two of you. You always texted Sam back through Bucky’s phone. When Sam texted, you would read it out loud, Bucky would answer, and you would type what Bucky said, but in a nicer… less aggressive way. In fact, 99% of the conversations Bucky had with Sam through text was done by you. Sam still did not know of that fact, and you were not going to be the one to tell him. 

You’re still reeling in your own thoughts by the time you get to your apartment. 

You shove your downward spiral for just a moment to accept Bucky’s extremely tempting offer to shower together– which is never anything sexual. 

Bucky enjoys the intimacy of being able to hold you, bare, and help you get cleaned from your day. It’s one of his favorite things to do. You revel in the way he takes his time, hands scrubbing at your scalp slowly to lather up the shampoo. He’ll ensure that not a single part of your body goes untouched.

You do the same for him. You take great care in every part of his body. You remember the first time you touched his scars– paid close attention to them. It looked self-inflicted. Nothing like a surgery or done by doctors or scientists, like how he said the arm was attached to him. When you saw his face, you knew you were right.

Every once in a while, you can still see the dark shadow casting over his eyes when your hands run over his shoulders. You simply move to kiss against the scars to quietly remind him that you aren’t afraid of him, and you watch as the shadows fall mercy to the light.

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual. 

“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

“And I’m trying to make sure that you don’t look like it,” you replied over your shoulder. 

Bucky huffed, but continued with the routine that you strictly put him on. He complained, but he never went against your words. You knew that he was still following it even when he wasn’t spending the night at your place, too. He’s always been a handsome man, but you would say that he’s been leveled up even more since you came around.

While he’s distracted, you move towards his bag. 

You don’t distrust him, but you’re not stupid either. Turning off his phone, saying things out of character– yeah. Something is different. What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t have any of his usual things with him. There’s only his laptop. He doesn’t have any of his regular written notebooks or calendars that he usually carries around with him. The man loves his written, visual items. He likes to flip through pages and see things with his own eyes, to be able to edit with a pen instead of a tap of his fingers.

You hear the last cap of the bottle close, and shut his bag. You’re only left with more questions as you move his bag towards the hanger where your own purses hang.

“Ah– sorry,” Bucky apologized, seeing you move his stuff. 

“It’s alright,” you hummed, thankful you were able to play off your snooping.

The two of you move towards your bed, sliding under the sheets. You settled into his arms naturally, assuming the position that the two of you had found most comfortable in the almost two years of dating. Your head rested on his bicep like it was a pillow, his metal arm coming around you to wrap around your waist to keep you cool against his furnace of a body. 

“You ever respond to Sam?” you whispered into his chest, closing your eyes to snuggle closer into him.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, moving to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him. You immediately shifted, just slightly– to try and see the screen.

But so did he.

With one hand, he angled his phone so that it was distorted. The brightness was down low enough that you weren’t able to properly see the messages between both men. However, you saw him silence the chat. You saw the swipe of his thumb, and the icon that signified a silenced message.

Then, Bucky put his phone face down on the nightstand before returning to you.

“Good night, doll,” he murmured to you, hand moving to tilt your head up to him. He kissed you once, twice, a third time before settling back against the pillow. “I love you.”

“Night,” you whispered back, though your mind was everything but asleep. Suspicion was creeping up on you. You could feel it– the sign of something coming. You pushed your gut feeling down. “I love you, too.”

Bucky ❤︎ [2:48pm]: What days do you think are your most free days right now?

You paused, staring at the text on your screen. This is different. This isn’t a text that you normally received from Bucky. Especially not in the middle of the work day, either. Momentarily, you want to entertain the idea that someone stole his phone, but you were certain that someone would be injured or dying if they even got close to ever trying to rob Bucky.

Me [2:50pm]: Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:53pm]: I’m trying to plan one instead of our random spontaneous ones, yes. Can you let me know what days work best for you so I can look at my calendar?

Last time he ‘planned’ a date, the two of you went to Romania for your first year anniversary for a week. You didn’t even realize that’s what he meant by planning a date until you were at the fucking airport with no luggage. Except he packed for you, had your passport, and everything else you could possibly need. You were just completely oblivious to the entire thing. 

Me [2:54pm]: Is this a trip kinda date?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:55pm]: No, but I do need two days of your time.

Me [2:56pm]: You’re asking for a lot, handsome.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:01pm]: I promise I’ll be worth it.

You smile at your phone at his words. Of course he’ll be worth it. You take a moment to go through your calendar, flipping back and forth between all your different events. You cross check between client meetings, event plannings, meetings with your coworkers and boss, and then text him back with your response. 

Me [3:12pm]: Weekends are really bad right now. Mondays, too. Wednesdays are also surprisingly bad… Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best. Fridays are a hit and miss.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:25pm]: Tuesdays are bad for me. Rep. dinners on Tuesday nights and Wednesday morning debriefs. Can you block out Thursday and Friday for me two months from now? The 17th and 18th. I’ll give you more details about our date when it comes closer.

Two months? That’s more than enough time to block out. You’ll even take the weekend off for good measure, just in case. Still, two months is a long time to prepare for just a date. You can’t help but tease him a little bit.

Me [3:27pm]: You don’t plan on seeing me for two months? :( 

Bucky ❤︎ [3:30pm]: You’re funny. We’ll still have our random and spontaneous dates. Like tonight. I’m picking you up for dinner. Don’t call a ride after work.

Excitement flutters in your chest. You saw him four days ago, but you’re still happy. 

Time is thankfully on your side today, and he’s waiting for you outside your company’s building. You’re starved for food, for his affection, attention, and everything in between. 

Except all of that dies once his phone rings in the middle of dinner. Bucky silences it, and you see the screen. It has a name that you don’t recognize, then his phone goes faced down onto the table. A few moments later, it buzzes, indicating there was a voicemail left. Bucky swipes the device, pocketing it safely away. 

You’re really trying to not let this bother you. But change doesn’t just happen overnight, and this is Bucky’s personal phone. This isn’t even his work phone. He leaves his work phone in his bag, permanently silenced when he’s not working. This is his phone that he carries with him that he purposely ignores, that is only supposed to have two contacts in it– yours and Sams.

Bucky drove back to your apartment, even though his apartment is closer to the restaurant that he chose for the two of you to eat at tonight. 

You’re lying awake in his arms that night, listening to the sounds of Bucky’s soft snores as he sleeps beside you. It took him a long time to be able to sleep first between the two of you. You used to see how long you could stay up, to see if you could fall asleep after him. The first time he fell asleep on your lap, you almost cried.

Now, you’re staring at his sleeping face wondering if he thinks you’re a fucking idiot. 

The signs are right there. All the blaring signs are screaming in your face, loud and angry. The hidden phone screen, calls, and texts. Hiding his calendar, and all his written notes from you. The sudden trip planning, even though there was nothing special about two months from now. Two months was your twenty third month together. Not even the second year anniversary. 

Yeah, Bucky thought you were stupid.

The biggest sign? You’re currently sleeping in your own bed, and not in his. He’s hiding something in his apartment that he doesn’t want you to find—

An engagement ring. 

You go through Bucky’s drawers like those are your own clothes to wear because they are, and he loves to see you in his shirts. You once spent an entire weekend properly organizing his apartment in a way that made sense because his junk drawer consisted of bullets and lego pieces from when Sam’s nephews came over.

You once found guns and daggers in his apartment just by dropping pens and searching for them. There’s absolutely no way that Bucky can hide a velvet box anywhere in his apartment from you that you won’t accidentally stumble across. Hell– you found a loaded nine millimeter in your own apartment, and asked what the hell it was doing there. 

“Safety,” is all he answered with.

This was your job. This is what you did for a living. You helped other boyfriends hide proposals from girlfriends like this. This is exactly what you did– this is how you told them to do it, though you were a little more slick with it. You definitely made sure your clients weren’t hiding their phones from their potential fiance’s, that’s for sure. 

You made sure that your clients did not know that they were being proposed to. It was your mission, honestly. You saw enough of those TikTok’s where women truly had that gut feeling where they knew it was happening. You refused. It needed to be a surprise. You scouted out every single person in your client’s lives to ensure that every single moment would come to be a surprise. From ensuring that their nails would be done to the ring itself- everything would be perfect. 

Your boyfriend of almost two years was planning on proposing to you in two months, and he thought you wouldn’t find out? Jesus Christ– what were you going to do with him?

Marry him, you supposed.

If you were anyone else, if you were any less stable in your emotions, you would’ve thought he was cheating on you. Hiding his phone definitely made your eyebrow twitch for half a second, if you were being honest. Thankfully, you were able to maintain a rational and sane mind.

Sane was an overstatement. You were now planning an entire wedding in your head without the engagement ring on your finger. You were anything but sane. Insanity was taking over every single cell in your brain as you stared at Bucky, imagining your future. The thought made you extremely giddy. 

A smile crept up on the corner of your lips as you moved into the warmth of his embrace. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and he let out a soft, contented sigh.

You can’t keep it to yourself as the date starts coming closer and closer. 

Mel, who has graduated as your client and now has become your friend, is sitting in your apartment, telling you about her most recent date with her boyfriend of six months. Not in a way that she would when you were her matchmaker, but as friends would. You find yourself liking this arrangement much, much more.

“Enough about me though,” she grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “Tell me about you and Bucky. How are things going?”

“You really wanna talk about the guy that your boss hates?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as you take a sip out of your own glass.

“I can separate work from girl talk,” Mel said, smiling at you. 

“Well,” you said, smiling at her, “If you’re free the rest of the evening, I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done with me?”

“Nails?” Mel repeated, raising her eyebrows at you as she brought the glass to her lips.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I think Bucky’s gonna propose to me on Thursday.”

Her eyes widened as she choked on her wine, the alcohol spluttering back into the glass. You couldn’t hold back a laugh before you jumped to your feet. You turned, rushing to grab paper towels from your kitchen to wipe off her face before it dripped, and stained her clothes. 

“Shit– shit! I’m so sorry,” she coughed, patting her face. 

“It’s okay,” you said between laughter, desperately trying to compose yourself. “Do you– do you want more wine?”

“Do I want– No! What? We need to go to the salon now! One of us needs to drive! Why the hell don’t you have a car again?!”

“Uh… I just… order a ride everywhere, or Bucky drives me,” you answered her, sheepish. “I’ll just order us a ride, we’ve both had a glass already. We don’t need to drive there, Mel.”

“Must be nice–”

A knock on your door makes you both pause. You move, going to check the peephole and find your boyfriend standing there with a box in his hands. You rip the door open, shocked.

“Bucky?” you asked, surprised. “Don’t you have a dinner to get to soon? It’s Tuesday.” 

“Yes, but I wanted to drop this off to you,” he said, giving you a smile. He leaned over the box, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”

“What is it?” you asked as he transferred over the gift box to you.

“A dress,” he shrugged. “What are you up to today?”

“Mel’s here,” you said, opening the door further so he could see her. He looked past you, giving her a small wave that you’re certain that she returned back. “We’re about to go get our nails done. I was about to order a ride.”

“Oh? Don’t do that. I’ll just drop you two off. You’ll go the place you always do, right? It’s on the way to the dining hall,” he said.

“What? I don’t want you to be late,” you said, frowning at him. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. “They can start without me. Talbot is late more than a few times anyways.”

“It’s true,” Mel said from behind you. You turned around to look at her, finding that she was gathering her jacket and purse. “Talbot is always late.”

“See? Thank you, Mel.” There’s a bit of a gloating tone to his voice that makes you smack his arm. Bucky chuckled in response, a smile settling over his face. “Come on now, grab your stuff so we can get down to the car so I’m not too late for the meeting.”

You sighed, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to change his mind and get him to leave you. You put the box on the counter to inspect once you return later, and snatch your purse from where it’s resting on the table. Both you and Mel follow Bucky down to the car. He holds open the back door for both of you to climb into the backseat like he’s your chauffeur, and not your boyfriend.

Bucky drives in silence, you and Mel scrolling through pinterest hurriedly during the car ride for inspiration pictures for your nails while trying to be subtle about the fact that you know that you’re getting proposed to. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you know, though.

Once he pulls up to the salon, Mel thanks him for the ride and slides out. You lean over the console to give him a kiss, and he grabs your hand, stopping you.

His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.

“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.

You want to race down the aisle right at that moment. 

Instead, you get your nails done with Mel, swallow down butterflies that are forcing their way up your throat, and get to the restaurant that Bucky told you to meet him at while he runs late at his last meeting before your date. 

It’s a beautiful skyline restaurant in the middle of New York that your own company can’t even secure a date at. You’ve tried multiple times. In fact, your own clients have wanted to get proposals done at this restaurant. It just couldn’t be done. Reservations were booked out at least a year in advance, and somehow Bucky was able to secure the two of you a spot with two months to spare. 

There’s live music playing here by world renowned musicians. The chefs are even more well known. The lighting was low so that it wouldn’t take away from the view outside the windows. The time of night that Bucky chose was perfect– New York was lit up like stars on the ground from the table that you were sitting at. 

You were dressed in the gift Bucky bought for you. A backless, square neckline gown. The straps came up and wrapped around your neck like a halter top would, and tied around the back in a thin bow, the long straps kissing down your bare spine. It was soft and airy against your skin. 

Bucky arrived earlier than you expected, but you were sure he was still later than he wanted to be. Either way, he still had another bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands for you that you two had placed under the table. Of course, he didn’t take a seat before giving you a kiss for a greeting, and murmuring his apology for not being able to pick you up.

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling at you. “I didn’t think you would wear it tonight.”

“I thought you bought it for me to wear tonight?” you asked as he placed the flowers under the table. You watched as he sat down across from you. 

“Mm… Well, I bought it for you to wear,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. You easily slipped your hand into his, watching him bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “When you wear it doesn’t matter to me. I just wanted to get you a present.”

“A present?” you echoed, unable to stop smiling. “Even though you already do so much for me?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t want to do more for you, sweetheart,” he hummed. 

The waiter came by not a moment later, letting you know that the first course would be coming out momentarily. You both thanked him, and returned back to each other. 

“I feel like I don’t see you as much these days,” Bucky said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. 

“It’s been really busy for the two of us,” you agreed, releasing a soft sigh. 

“I even contemplated hiring you as a matchmaker again, just so I could block out meetings and have you in my office again,” he joked, making you laugh. 

“That would be fraudulent, Congressman,” you teased, shaking your head. “For you and me.”

“What are they gonna do? Threaten to fire you again?” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face is firmly planted, and isn’t moving anytime soon. 

“You know our dates don’t always have to be somewhere big or fancy, right?” you tell him, your voice softer.

“So you keep telling me,” he hummed, squeezing your hand a little bit. “I know, sweetheart. You said this to me. Several times. I just want to do this for you. For me, too.”

You soften a little bit at his words. You’re gently reminded of a previous confession he told you from when you first started dating. 

You told him that you were more than happy to just get takeout with him on busier days. To get fast food or something quick, if it meant that you two would have more time to spend together. You didn’t always have to sit down and eat somewhere nice. He said that he knew that, and he liked doing that, too. But as a kid in the forties, he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

This kind of thing was healing for him, too.

“We can get burgers tomorrow,” Bucky said, giving you a smile. 

“Deal,” you grinned at him. 

The first course of your meal was brought out to the two of you. You two never spoke about work over food. It was your rule. You talked about everything else. Sam. Mel. Your parents and siblings. The conversation Bucky overheard while he was in line getting coffee the other day. 

There was always a lot to talk about when you two never saw each other. Then again, you were certain that you would ever run out of words even if you spent every waking moment with him. If there ever came to be a time when that was the case, you were more than happy to spend the rest of eternity in a peaceful silence with him, as long as you were able to hold him. 

Topics never ran dry between the two of you. More than once, you two needed to remind yourselves to shut the fuck up in this fancy establishment because there were sophisticated people around you having very nice meals. 

“I’ll book a private room next time,” Bucky said under his breath.

“I don’t think they’ll let us come back, babe,” you whispered between soft, gasping laughs. “The host is glaring at us.”

That only made Bucky snort, which made you have to cover your own mouth in return before another fit of giggles wrecked through your body. It took everything in the both of you to compose yourselves before dessert was brought out. 

Once your table was cleared off, and you were left with just your wine glasses and the centerpiece on the table, you and Bucky smiled at each other. You were strangely reminded of your first date with him. So you told him that.

“This reminds you of our first date?” he said, his nose crinkling just slightly. “How so?”

“Mm… The ambiance,” you said, shrugging just a bit. You rested your chin in your palm. “You. Me.”

“It’s always you and me on our dates, sweethearts. Who else would it be?” he sarcastically joked, rolling his eyes at you.

“You know what I mean,” you scoffed at him, watching him smile a bit. “I just… feel a bit nostalgic. Just a… who knew, kinda thing.”

“I knew,” Bucky said, making you pause for a second.

“You knew?” you repeated his words, raising an eyebrow at him. Your heart picked up speed just a little bit. This felt like the start of a speech– the start to the speech.

Bucky cleared his throat, and your chest grew tighter at the sound. He shifted in his seat, and you watched as his hand dipped into his pocket. Oh, shit. It’s coming. Your eyes shot back to his face, and your mouth went dry.

“I thought you were the matchmaker, sweetheart. You didn’t know that we would end up together?” he clicked his tongue at you. “I knew I couldn’t trust a matchmaker that didn’t have a boyfriend of her own.”

“I have a boyfriend now, don’t I?” you asked, but thought– Not for long.

He smiled, eyes meeting yours. Then, a velvet box is produced. Placed right on the table in front of you. You can’t bring yourself to look down at it, not when Bucky is still looking at you.

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you. And it’s getting really fucking hard when I can’t see you all the time because we both live on opposite sides of the city, and have awful work schedules that keep us apart. Even so, I love you so much and I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he confessed to you. Bucky takes in a deep breath that slightly shakes before he whispers out your name, nervous, “Will you move in with me?”

You freeze.

What the fuck?

“Move in with you?” you echoed, blinking.

Bucky opens the box. It’s a key. A shiny, silver key.

“I bought a penthouse in Manhattan,” Bucky said, sliding the box over to you to inspect the key even closer. “I want to see you more often. Not just the random dates when we both have time– I want to sleep next to you every night, and wake up to you in the mornings.”

“A penthouse… In Manhattan,” you said slowly. 

Your brain was short circuiting. In fact, it was fried. Gone.  You were still staring at the key, lips parted. He… wasn’t proposing to you tonight?

“I’m sorry. Am I– Are we moving too fast?” Bucky suddenly asked you, and you could hear the panic in his voice. 

Your head snapped up to look at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry, eyes scanning all over your face. You slapped yourself mentally. You could only imagine how you looked just now– staring at him and the key with a blank look on your face, and giving him no answer.

“What? No! No, Bucky– we’re not moving too fast at all,” you reassured him, hands darting across the table to take his hands in yours. “Most couples our age move in together by the first year or so. Mel and her boyfriend are already planning on moving in together when Mel’s lease breaks in a couple months.”

Bucky lets out a breath of relief, and you watch as his shoulders drop. You feel guilt surge through you at the pure stress that is released from his body at that moment.

“God– I just… You know, the penthouse… It’s fully furnished. I’ve been– Sam has been helping me out, actually. He helped me meet with some realtors, get the place fully furnished and decorated,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been living there for the past two and a half months while waiting for all the furniture to come in, and it’s finally all finished as of yesterday and it never occurred to me that you could possibly say no until just now.”

“You’ve been– Is that why you take me back to my apartment after our dates? Instead of yours?” you asked, surprised.

“I already got rid of my other place, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small, anxious smile. You can see him bouncing his leg up and down just slightly. “Got the penthouse so that we could have enough space for your stuff and mine.”

“You took me out to a fancy dinner, and prepared a speech for me to ask me to move in with you?” you whispered, your heart feeling fuller by the minute.

“I grew up in a time where couples didn’t move in together until after they were married, doll,” Bucky reminded you, his voice small and soft. 

You’re speechless, for just a moment. You take your eyes off of him, to look down at the key in the box, a smile finding its way on your face. You look back up at him, watching as he mirrors your own smile.

“I think it’s time to head home, Congressman.”

Bucky trails behind you quietly as you step into the penthouse. The elevator directly leads to your home– something that you had only ever seen in movies before. You barely took a step into the rest of the home before you were running numbers into your head.

“What’s my share of the bills?” you asked, heart racing as you look up at the high ceilings. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry about it, Bucky. If we’re living together, then we’re splitting bills. I don’t care that you make more money than me–”

“We’ll talk about finances later, baby,” he cut you off, hands rubbing your shoulders to soothe you. “We’ll split it equally based on our incomes. Just go explore for right now.”

“I don’t know if I can afford this, Bucky,” you said, turning around to look at him. You were freaking out.

“Your salary was put into play when I got this place,” he said, cradling your face. “Sam and I met with the banks. We met with financial advisors to ensure that this would be feasible for both you and me. Please don’t ask how we got your information.”

“Is there a loan–”

“There’s no loan,” he assured you. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” you answered instantly. 

Bucky gave you a smile, then pressed a kiss to your lips. You melted into his embrace, feeling your worries wash away with just one touch. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. When he pulled away, another kiss was pressed to your forehead. 

“I’ll give you all the documents later to look over. If you still hate it, then we’ll break the lease, and we’ll find somewhere else. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be somewhere that’s with you,” he promised. 

“Okay,” you breathed, nodding. 

Bucky’s hands leave your body, and he steps away from you. He’s quietly urging you to take a look around. 

You had two floors to explore. The elevator opened up the first floor, where there was an open concept condo. You were staring at a living room, kitchen, floor to ceiling windows, and there were built-in shelves on the wall that held Bucky’s books– and had empty spaces for your own books. Down here, there were two doors– one leading to a half bath and the other leading to a home office. 

You saw two desks, separated by a bookshelf. Bucky’s desk was already occupied with his things, while yours was empty and waiting to be used. On the shelf were pictures and other momentos collected by Bucky over the duration of your relationship so far. There was space for you to decorate with whatever you pleased. On the other end of the room was a daybed and some other furniture to cozy up the area. 

Upstairs, there was a platform for another lounge area. Also furnished to hang out in case the two of you ever had any guests come over. Here, your bedroom was behind a closed door. 

A king sized bed was in the middle of the room, along with two nightstands on either side of it. There was a full walk in closet, Bucky already having his stuff hanging on his side with yours waiting to be filled. The windows are touching the floor just like they are outside, and Bucky has the curtains pulled back so you can see the city lights from your bedroom window. 

“What if I get fired?” you whispered, Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind. “I won’t be able to pay my share of the bills.”

“I’ll pay then,” he said, pressing kisses to your bare shoulder and neck.

“What if you get fired? Or what if you quit? Join Sam and return back to action?” you asked, heart racing. 

Bucky chuckled against your neck, squeezing you against him. 

“Iron Man’s late wife donates a large portion every year to the heroes that do the work. If that’s me, then we’ll be fine,” he promised you. “It’s how Sam gets paid right now.”

“Oh,” you breathed, nodding a little dumbly. You tilted your head to the side, allowing him more access to more skin. You felt him smile against you. 

“You like the place then?”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

“I hide you from the entire American government so you can continue to walk the streets of New York without being asked about politics that you don’t care about. I hid Romania from you. I think I can hide an apartment,” he listed off, scoffing softly at the end.

All of your hair is gathered in one of his hands to get it out of his way as he continues to press dizzying, nipping kisses against your body.

“A penthouse,” you managed to correct.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and you felt him tug on the string of your dress. A moment later, the soft fabric was sliding down your body, and pooling at your feet, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta christen the place.”

You’re being turned around to face him, and your arms move to slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. Bucky’s lips met yours in an opened mouthed kiss halfway, tongue gliding over yours easily. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed into his mouth, feeling his hands glide up and down the sides of your body. Something about him being fully dressed, and you with nearly nothing at all did something to the both of you.

Your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his dress shirt, tugging him into a deeper, needier kiss. Bucky groaned into your mouth in response, hands finding purchase on the flesh of your ass. His fingers dug into the supple skin, making you moan softly as he groped you.

Your boyfriend gently pushed you until your back was pressed against the window. Once you were situated where he wanted you, Bucky parted from your lips, only to attach himself to your neck once again. He kept shifting, moving down to your collarbones, your chest, your sternum. Lower. 

You watched helplessly, every inch of you thrumming with desire and need as Bucky slowly shifted to his knees in front of you. His hands moved down your body, dragging your underwear down your legs as he positioned himself to sit back on his feet, thighs spread just a bit for comfort. You’re certain your breathing was erratic as you stared at him.

Usually, you were the one on your knees for Bucky. This was different– this was new. You were more than certain that you would still be the one at his mercy.

“Don’t your feet hurt in these heels?” Bucky asked, hand closing around one of your ankles to lift your foot off the ground slightly. “They look uncomfortable. Very tall.”

“It’s not too bad,” you whispered, unable to trust your voice to speak any louder. “I like these shoes.”

“I bought them for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.

“That’s why I like them,” you murmured.

Bucky chuckled just a little bit, shaking his head. He moved slowly on purpose, undoing the strap around your ankle and slowly pulling it off of your foot like you were some sort of princess. He gently led your foot back down to the floor, keeping an eye on your posture to make sure you didn’t suddenly fall from the shift in height. When he was certain that you were stable, he switched over to the next foot, repeating the same process.

Except, he didn’t put your foot back onto the ground. Bucky lifted your leg higher, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, eyes closing as he did. When they opened, he met your gaze, never looking away as his kisses went higher and higher up your leg. He settled your knee to hook around his shoulder, moving to fully kneel before you as his hands went to grab your waist, keeping you pressed against the glass behind you. A firm, tight grip. 

You wouldn’t be able to run from whatever he was about to do to you. Not that you would ever want to.

If he wasn’t holding you up, you were certain you would’ve folded over and collapsed the second his tongue met your heat. The vibrations from the groan sent shockwaves through your entire body that made you tremble above him, hands darting to grab onto his shoulders for an extra form of stability as his tongue parted your folds and flattened against you.

“Shit, Bucky,” you moaned, your mind going blank. All you could feel was him. 

His tongue dipping just slightly in and out of your aching hole, only to drag up to your sensitive clit to swirl figure eights around the nub. Bucky’s hands on your torso, his thumbs  drawing circles into your skin to soothe you against the stimulation he was giving you. The heat of his body radiating against yours from where he was positioned beneath you. 

“Your pussy is squeezing around nothing, baby,” he murmured, pulling away from your core for just a moment, a whine ripping through your throat in response. Bucky clicked his tongue at you, and kissed the inside of your thigh to subdue you. “Have I been neglecting you? Not fucking you enough for you to be so needy?”

Definitely not. Maybe it was the fact that everything was crashing down on you. The fact Bucky went so far to secure the two of you an entire home without you knowing, furnishing the whole place, meeting with financial advisors– all of it made you incredibly desperate for him. 

It was like that one time when you watched him do the dishes for the first time at the beginning of your relationship. He was at your apartment, doing your dishes that you were too lazy to do before he came over. You don’t know what the hell happened to you at that moment, but you just watched him. The second the water turned off, you were unzipping his pants and giving him head. It confused him, but he also wasn’t complaining. 

“I’m always needy for you,” you barely managed to answer him.

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes scanning your figure above him for a few moments. Then, one of his hands left your waist, and two fingers were shoved into you without a single warning. 

A moan ripped through your throat, and you weren’t given a chance to even recover before his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and flicking at the sensitive nub. His fingers entered and exited you at a delicious speed, and he could feel you coming apart around him. Your body was beginning to tremble, walls beginning to shake– and he curled his fingers the way he knew you liked.

You came undone, Bucky’s hand moving to press against your stomach to keep you from collapsing forward. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you whimpered his name, tugging on his hair weakly to pull away from your overstimulated body. 

Reluctantly, he released you. Bucky’s hands never left you as he stood, keeping you upright. Your legs were still shaking when you had both feet on the ground, but fuck if you were going to let Bucky stay dressed. 

You had every intention of returning the favor once Bucky was just as bare as you were. Bucky saw it in your eyes, too. The way your gaze dropped down his torso to his cock that was stiff and high up against his stomach, waiting for you. You barely moved your hair to the side before you were being spun back around, chest pressed to the glass– eyes to the view of the New York city skyline. 

“Next time, doll,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade that made you shiver. You let out a small moan as you felt him drag the length of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick to get him ready to enter. “Gotta be inside you right now or I might go insane.”

“Hurry up, then,” you whined to him, pressing your ass back further into him. A mistake, and you knew it. Not that it really was a mistake on your end though.

His hand came around from your stomach, gripping your throat and jaw, pulling you back into him. Your back was arched, hands resting on the glass for some sort of security in the position he had you in. Bucky forced your head to turn, to look at him. 

Bucky wanted to watch your face contort with pleasure as he finally slid in, watch as you fell apart as he speared you full with his cock. There was a look of satisfaction and fucking arrogance in his eyes with the way your mouth fell open in a noiseless moan. Bucky took advantage of it, shoving his tongue into your mouth to swallow up any of the noises that he knew would start coming once his hips started moving.

You couldn’t keep up– not with his kiss, not with the pacing– not with anything that was happening right now. His hips were snapping into yours at such a brutal pace, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you in place, and you barely managed to pull away from his lips to breathe. 

“So good– so good,” he groaned as you turned back to the glass, chin falling to your chest for a moment as you moaned in response. 

Bucky didn’t let your head hang for too much longer. He pulled your head back up to look out the window, and you could feel his breath against your ear as he continued to pound his hips from behind you.

“Isn’t the view so nice, baby?” he whispered to you.

“Wh… what?” you moaned, mind spiraling for just a moment.

“It’s so nice,” he continued, grunting behind you, “I know your pussy loves it– loves it when I fuck you in front of all of New York to see.”

Excitement shoots through you, and you unexpectedly clamped around him. Bucky’s hips stuttered as he cursed softly. You were close– again– and Bucky wasn’t making this any better for you. Then again, you almost just brought Bucky over the edge with you.

“Shit. I knew you were a fucking freak when you tried giving me head in front of my coworkers,” Bucky muttered, a small laugh falling from his lips.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “I’m so close–”

“It’s too bad. New York can’t have you,” he cut you off, pulling out of you. 

The sense of loss is immediate, but not for long. Once more, he’s spinning you around. This time, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs are wrapping around his waist immediately, and he’s sinking you back down on his length within seconds. 

Your lips are collided with Bucky as he’s fucking you against the window now, holding you up in his arms as you hang onto him for dear life. Your fingernails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders, scratching down his chest in a way that he once admitted that he loves, and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths.

The thrusts are growing sloppier as the kiss grows messier– there’s no need for words between the two of you anymore. You both know your tells at this point.

Bucky angles his hips just slightly to hit that one spot in you, forcing you over the edge as his own orgasm threatens to take him. Your body seizes, and you can’t kiss him back anymore. Bucky busies himself with your neck, leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you through your high, chasing his own that comes just moments later, coating your walls and dripping down onto the new floors of your new room together.

You’re still panting and trying to catch your breath, head dropped onto his shoulder when Bucky moves, carrying you to the bathroom to clean up. His kisses are softer as he walks over, his words more gentle. His body separates from yours as he rests you on the edge of the bathtub so he can start the water to fill the tub.

“How’s the view?” Bucky asked you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft laugh rips through you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“The view is perfect, handsome.”

You didn’t find a single number out of place in the documents he presented you either. You took an entire weekend going over the numbers while Bucky watched you quietly. He didn’t bother you while you did so. In fact, he just stayed nearby and took the days off work, too. Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.

Which only made your heart grow fonder for him, if you were being honest. He knew you like the back of his hand.

Once you were satisfied with everything, he helped you move all your stuff from your previous apartment over to your new home. Bucky timed the move in perfectly– your lease was about to break the following month, so you had just the right amount of time to tie up all your loose ends. 

All you really had to move over to the new place was your wardrobe, books, and sentimentals. You found out very quickly that during your random dates where Bucky would come home with you, he started taking stock of all your little things around the house. Anything that was running low, he just went ahead and bought so it was already at your new home, ready for you to use.

The last couple weeks were spent with you listing all your unneeded furniture up on the marketplace for an extra few bucks. Things like your dining table, sofa, coffee table– everything that Bucky had already bought and decorated for your home together. 

“You know this couch?” Sam asked you as he flopped down on it. “And the coffee table? The rug? Those barstools? The fucking light fixtures?”

You and Bucky invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner for a small celebration– a little get together to commemorate the fact that you and Bucky were officially fully moved in together now. 

“What about it?” you asked, handing him a bottle of beer.

“I picked it. Me. Bucky just swiped his card. You’re so fucking lucky, matchmaker. Your boyfriend sucks. If I wasn’t there– shit. You would’ve had clashing colors and patterns in this luxury penthouse,” Sam scoffed, taking a long swig. “I had a fucking headache just standing there. The sales associate thought we were married the way I was arguing with him in the store.”

“You two basically are,” you said, grinning against the rim of your own bottle.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky muttered, a shudder running through his body. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life with that idiot.”

“God, I’m glad we agree,” Sam groaned, shaking his head. 

“We picked more neutral stuff,” Bucky told you, sitting beside you on the couch. An arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “We thought it would be easier for you to add whatever additions or colors you’d want in the future.”

“Oh, so you did think about me when you purchased an entire penthouse and furnished the whole damn thing without telling me,” you teased. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Yes, sweetheart. I thought of you.”

With the two of you living together now, it was easier for you both to see each other. You reveled in the fact you could fall asleep every night in his arms, even if you went to bed first. He didn’t want you waiting for him if he had an event that had him staying out late, but you would often wake up to him pulling you into his embrace.

In the mornings, Bucky would usually be the one to wake up and leave first. 

You no longer set an alarm on your phone. Bucky’s sweet kisses were your wake up call every morning. He wouldn’t leave until you kissed him back, no matter how long it took you to wake up. 

“Morning,” you would whisper to him.

“Morning,” he’d reply, kissing you one more time for good measure. “I made you breakfast. It’s on the table.”

“Wake me up earlier tomorrow so I can eat with you,” you whined to him, though you just rolled over on your side, closing your eyes again.

Bucky chuckled, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your temple. You sighed, letting the morning wash over you for just one more moment before you pushed up off the bed. You’d follow him downstairs, watch him grab his blazer off the seat of the dining table, and you’d tie his tie for him at the door.

“I’ll be home early tonight. I don’t have any events today,” you said, smoothing out the fabric on his chest.

“You’ve been coming home early every night,” he said, raising his eyebrow at you.

“So have you, Congressman. Almost like there’s something you’re running from. Something you’re avoiding at work?” you teased, smiling at him.

“No. Just trying to get home to you,” he hummed, smoothing out your bedhead with both hands before he held your face gently to kiss you one more time before he went off into the world.

This was your new daily morning routine. 

The trade off on coming home early meant that you still had to do work when you came home. Both of you. However, Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you. 

You two would spend your evenings there before dinner for a few hours, finishing up any work that you weren’t able to do at your respective offices. You two would be silently working on your own jobs.

You, researching your clients preferences and trying to match them up based on their profiles. You would also be looking up the best date spots, trying to keep up with the latest trends for dating, and making sure that you weren’t falling behind on anything else.

Bucky would be going through packets upon packets of different meetings that he would have attended. There were several different duties that he had acquired since you first started dating, and there were a lot of responsibilities that he had started shouldering. You were certain that he was also helping Sam on the side, though he couldn’t tell you full details as per usual. 

Usually, you would stop working when you heard Bucky stop working and open the door to the office. He normally ordered food for the two of you, and would go out to the lobby to pick it up, and bring it back for you two to eat.

It was your signal to put everything down, and relax with him for the rest of the night.

You heard him close his binder, heard the wheels of his chair roll backwards, but you didn’t hear the elevator open and close to signify his departure down. You shook it off– wondering if he just went off to the bathroom or something.

Then, you felt him behind you. 

Bucky’s chest was pressed against your back, enveloping you in his warmth. His hands were on your shoulders, and as always, the left side of your body was colder from the touch of his metal prosthetic. 

“Hi, handsome,” you said, a smile coming onto your face. “Is it time for dinner?”

“Almost. Delivery is on its way,” he answered you.

His hands slid down your shoulders, goosebumps rising on your bare skin as his hands moved all the way down to cover your own hands. He left his hands on top of yours, and you hummed, happy to feel him all over you for just a moment. Bucky’s head pressed against the side of yours, then he dropped his forehead into the crook of your neck.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him more space to rest. He took it, burrowing deeper into you.

“Yeah. Just a little nervous,” he murmured into your skin, taking a breath. 

You were about to ask him what he was talking about, to turn around and look at him properly. Then, you felt his hands slide up just a little bit, resting now on your wrists instead of covering your hands completely. Except, there was a weight he left behind that wasn’t there before. Your eyes shifted downwards, and your breath caught in your throat at the ring he slipped onto your finger– the cool metal that he masked with the metal of his own arm.

Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes widened at the sparkling star on your finger. Bucky plucked this thing out of the fucking sky– he had to. There was no way. 

“Marry me, sweetheart?” he asked softly. There was a slight tremor to his voice that you caught. A slight shaking in his right hand that you could feel. 

You couldn’t repeat what you did at the restaurant, make him freak out with worry over your quiet shock and silence.

Your sudden jolt into standing surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his lips, then his cheeks, his eyes– everywhere you could as tears were beginning to well up and spill over. You couldn’t help it. You felt Bucky’s anxiety release with each kiss, his hands resting on your waist to hold you against him.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, smiling at you.

“Why would I ever say no to you?” you demanded, making him laugh. “Fuck– I thought you were going to propose to me at the restaurant when you asked me to move in with you!”

“The restaurant?” Bucky asked, blinking. “What– really?”

“Yes!” you nodded, wiping your tears away roughly. Bucky caught your hands, putting them down to your sides so he could wipe your tears away in a more gentle way with his thumbs.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, looking appalled. “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

“If it was you, then I would have changed my mind about it right away!” you argued with him, stubborn. “If it was you, you could’ve proposed to me with a candy ring, and I still would have said yes! We can elope– I don’t need a fancy wedding or anything. I just– just you. I just want you, Bucky.”

You watched as his eyes softened for you as he looked all over your features. You were certain that you looked like a mess right now, but you were finding it harder to believe that with the way he was looking at you right now. He looked as if you were the one that created the universe, and solved all his problems. There was nothing but admiration, love, joy. These were eyes that only you had the privilege to see. 

A smile came onto his face, one that you adored. A smile that you were going to be able to have for the rest of your life.

“Well, I’m your fiancé now, but you’ve already had me from the beginning, doll,” he said, “I’ve had this ring for over a year now, actually.”

“A year?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask,” he admitted, a bit sheepish. “And just… right now. It felt right.”

“Me working in the same room as you felt right?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at your blatant sarcasm. Except, he’s still smiling. He never gives you a real attitude. He wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much to ever do that.

“The fact that we’re both able to do our own thing in silence, but still be together felt right. We don’t need to speak. We don’t need to be touching. Don’t get me wrong, I love all those things, but… When I looked over at you just now— I felt at peace. Peace that I never thought I was ever allowed to have. So yes, it felt right.”

You’re about to cry again. You’re about to start fucking ugly sobbing in your boyfriend– your fiancé’s arms. You have a thousand things to say, but you know none of them will make sense right now. So, you bury your face in his chest and hug him tight, his arms coming to hold you even closer to him. 

“I love you,” you settled with, your voice breaking slightly.

“I love you, too,” he chuckled in response.

You listened to his chest rumble with laughter under your ear, felt his head rest against the side of yours. He led your bodies in a gentle sway, rocking the two of you back and forth. He took in a breath, releasing it slowly in a contented way. 

Your mind is racing still, and you ask one single question– just one to get his opinion. 

“Where should we get married?” you whispered to him. 

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments. A few moments too long. You pull back from him to look at his face, finding a smile on his lips, and a small sparkle in his eyes.

“I have some friends that want to meet you. Do you think you’re up to traveling to Wakanda?”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn let me know if you would like to join my general bucky taglist for whenever i post a fic!

[aastroopheel]

Plz do another Cook one you write him so well!!

I'd love to see an enemies to lovers kind of thing where reader hates him after they had hooked up at a party a year prior and Cook ghosted her immediately after. She ends up with an arsehole boyfriend that ends up abusing her at a party and Cook walks into the bathroom (in his usual party state, pissed drunk and all) and he finds her crying in the bathroom and sees whats done to her. He tries to act like he doesn't care much for her but deep down he feels protective of her. (And he probably would bash the bf lmao 🙈💗)

Thanks sm!!

Hey babes! Sorry for the wait I had exams to take care of lol (RELEASE ME) (i am finally free so HERE YOU GO)

GOOD PARTIES AND HARD WORDS

You two were definitely NOT on good terms. Actually, there were no terms between you two. He fucked you in some random bathroom at one of the many parties you attended and then…he left, like nothing, like it didn’t even happened. 

It was one night. One of those parties: bodies pressed tight, music so loud it made your ribs vibrate, and Cook, wild-eyed and charming in the way that made girls throw themselves at him like it meant something.

You weren’t that girl. Or at least, you told yourself that. But he caught your eye that night, really looked at you, not like everyone else did. Not like a game. Not like a conquest. It felt real, raw, messy. However, later you found out he was just high and horny. 

“That was mad, thanks!” and he left you there, panties still undone and your heart still going crazy, your reflection in the bathroom mirror  laughing at you.

You didn’t forget though. It wasn’t your first time, thank god, but you did have a crush on him and he just…he was Cook, what were you expecting?

Since then, your paths cross more than you’d like, mutual friends, shared parties, college events. Every time he walks in, your stomach knots. And he? He still acts like the same arrogant, messy boy. But every so often, he watches you  when he thinks you’re not looking. Like he wants to say something. Like he regrets it. 

He jokes about screwing girls that are his friends when you’re near. No one gets it, they think he’s talking about Effy or even Panda but you know, of course you do.

You took a long drag from your cigarette, the end glowing like the rage bubbling in your chest. The rooftop was cold, but not enough to numb what was clawing its way out of you.

“God, Cook is such a twat.”

Katie snorted. “What’d he do now?”

“What hasn’t he done?” you shot back, gesturing vaguely toward the group of teens sitting behind them where his laugh—loud, obnoxious, way too confident—filled the air. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Like, Olympic-level assholery.”

“You used to like him.”

You raised a brow. “Correction: I liked the idea of him. Briefly. Very briefly. Until he reminded me he’s emotionally unavailable with the maturity level of a feral cat.”

The red headed grinned. “So you’re totally over it?”

You laughed. “Oh, 100 percent. I’ve transcended. I'm on a whole new spiritual plane where Cook doesn’t exist, except when he opens his mouth and reminds me why birth control should be handed out with his name on it.” There was a pause. Then you added, more casually: “But really… imagine shagging someone and then pretending they don’t exist the next day. Like, bold of him to assume I’d be begging for round two.”

The straight twin gave you a look.

“What?” you said, shrugging. “I’m fine. I’m great. I just hate him with the fire of a thousand suns and hope he trips over his own ego someday. That’s all.” You crossed your arms and looked out toward where he was, loud as ever, like nothing could touch him.

And you told yourself again: You don’t care.

“Oi.”

You flinched before you even turned around, that voice had a way of cutting through any noise, somehow always managing to sound like it belonged and didn’t at the same time.

Cook stood a few feet behind you, bottle of something cheap in hand, expression unreadable. His usual swagger was there, chin tilted, eyes heavy-lidded, like he didn’t care. But his jaw was clenched.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Eavesdropping now?”

“Didn’t have to.” He took a sip. “You were basically narrating it to the whole roof.”

Katie suddenly found the sky fascinating and backed away with a mutter, “Gonna go find Effy…”

Now it was just you and him. Again.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said coolly. “It wasn’t about you. It was just… inspired by you.”

He chuckled once, dark and low. “Right. Just casual slander.”

You rolled your eyes again. It seems it was a natural reaction to his presence. “If it was slander, it wouldn’t be true.”

He stepped closer, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could smell the smoke and whiskey on him. “You’re still pissed.”

“Nope,” you lied, arms crossed. “I’ve evolved, remember? Leveled up. Transcended.”

“You called me a twat,” he reminded you, like that somehow proved he cared.

“You are a twat,” you said, voice calm. “One who thinks ghosting someone after sleeping with them is just part of the Cook Experience™.”

He winced, just a flicker, but you saw it. “I thought—” He paused. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

You scoffed. “Wow. Did you rehearse that apology or is it just naturally that pathetic?”

That one hit. You watched it land. 

He looked away for a second, back toward the group, then at you again — a little quieter now. “Look, I’m not good at the whole... aftermath bit. I mess shit up, alright? You’re not the only one I’ve ghosted.”

“Oh, cool,” you snapped. “So it wasn’t personal? Just part of your routine? Great. Really makes me feel special.” You turned to walk off, adrenaline buzzing, but his voice caught you.

“It was personal.”

You froze.

He didn’t move, didn’t step closer — just stood there with his stupid messy hair and his cracked voice and the look of someone who actually gave a shit but didn’t know how to say it.

And that made you even angrier.

You laughed under your breath. “Too little, too late, Cook. Go back to your little crowd. Be loud. Be funny. Be forgettable.”

And with that, you walked away.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You’d told Katie at least five times that you were “definitely staying in tonight”, which was code for lying in bed with cold tea and ignoring texts. But then she showed up at your door with eyeliner, cheap wine, and that look that meant you weren’t winning the argument.

So now you were here, in someone’s too-warm kitchen with music pulsing through the walls and the overwhelming smell of weed and deodorant wafting in from the hallway.

You stood with your back to the fridge, one hand wrapped around a drink you didn’t really want, the other tugging absently at your sleeve. You were zoning out, not at anyone in particular, just… out, when someone bumped your arm.

“Shit- sorry,” came the voice, not aggressive, just surprised. You blinked, pulled yourself back to earth, and turned your head. He wasn’t familiar. Which was rare at these things.

Tall. Dark hair curling just slightly at the ends. A hoodie thrown over what might have once been a school uniform shirt. There was something soft about him, even in the dim kitchen light. The kind of guy who didn’t lean too close, who kept his hands visible like he was careful about taking up space.

He glanced at your cup. “Didn’t spill it, did I?”

You looked down. “Still intact.”

He grinned. “Then I’ve officially done better than last time I tried to pour myself a drink here.”

You gave a quiet laugh, despite yourself. He stuck his hand out. “Matt.”

You hesitated just long enough for him to notice, then shook it. Your name left your lips before you had time to overthink it.

“Nice to meet you, mystery fridge girl,” he said.

You snorted. “Terrible nickname.”

“I know. I panicked. I’m working on it.” There was a pause, but not the awkward kind. More like an exhale. You realized, distantly, that it had been a while since someone new made you feel… not on edge.

He didn’t ask what school you went to. He didn’t scan the room for someone hotter mid-conversation. He didn’t ask to go to a more private room. He asked about your hobbies, your friends, what drink was of your liking, the name of your pet and he even asked for your phone number!

“Alright, you better expect a call from me soon” he told you after his friend came to take him away from you and ‘your fridge’ as he called it. You smiled and he waved goodbye to you until he couldn’t see any more.

The first time Matt kissed you, it was raining.

You didn’t realize how starved you were for simple kindness until it came in the shape of someone like him.

Not the dramatic, rom-com kind, just a fine mist, the kind that made your hair stick to your forehead and your clothes dampen in patches. You were walking home after a late-night convenience store run, a plastic bag swinging between you, filled with biscuits and some terrible energy drink he swore by.

He stopped under the awning of a closed-off bakery and looked at you like it was obvious.

You tilted your head. “What?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just… you look like someone I don’t want to stop looking at.”

And then he kissed you. Soft, unsure at first, like he was giving you a chance to back out. You didn’t. It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t adrenaline. It was warm.

And warm was what you needed.

He was warm every time after that. He never grabbed. Always asked. He noticed things, when you were too quiet, when you picked at your nails, when you looked at your phone and sighed like the weight of everything was sitting in your chest.

“You overthink too much,” he said one night, tracing circles on your thigh as you lay in his bed, your head tucked under his chin. “You can just be… with me.”

And maybe it was cliché. Maybe he’d said that before to someone else.

But that night, you let yourself believe it.

It started small.

The first time was when you wore that sheer black top to a party.

 You’d barely made it past the front door before Matt appeared at your side, his hand gentle on your arm, his voice light but firm.

“You going out dressed like that?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, not sweetly, not cruelly. Just… tightly. “Just thought we talked about that one. It’s a bit much, yeah?”

You looked down at yourself. It was nothing you hadn’t worn before. Nothing you hadn’t felt confident in. But suddenly, your skin prickled. You tugged your jacket tighter.

He kissed your cheek. “Didn’t mean to upset you. Just saying. You're better than needing to show off like that.”

You nodded. Even smiled.

He loved you. He just didn’t want other people to look.

The second time, it was about Cook.

Of course it was.

It was after another party, one where Cook had barely even spoken to you. Just nodded across the room, that cocky half-smirk on his lips, like he knew something you didn’t.

You hadn’t even acknowledged him.

But Matt saw.

And the second you stepped outside, his hand found yours — too tight.

“Still into that dickhead?” he asked.

You yanked your hand back, shocked. “What?”

“Cook,” he said, like the name tasted bitter. “You looked at him.”

“I didn’t-” You paused. “Matt, seriously?”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t snap. He just sighed. “I just don’t want to be a joke to you.”

You stared at him. “You’re not.”

He nodded. Kissed your forehead. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

And you didn’t say anything after that.

But you stopped going to parties if you knew Cook would be there.

Just in case.

You still remembered how he could be soft.

Like when he rubbed your back while you cried after failing that exam. Or when he biked twenty minutes to your house because you texted, I just don’t want to be alone right now, and he was there before you’d even closed your phone.

It made the cold moments harder to hold against him. Because he could be warm. He was good. Most of the time.

And when he wasn’t…well, maybe you just said the wrong thing. Or looked at the wrong person. Or wore the wrong shirt. Or stayed quiet when he needed you loud. He didn’t hurt you. He just… made you feel like you could hurt him, if you weren’t careful. And that made you careful. All the time.

The vibration of your phone cuts through the quiet. You glance at the screen. It’s a message from Katie.

Party tonight at Nate’s. You’re coming, yeah?

You hesitate. You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under you, your phone clutched tight. From the kitchen, Matt is rummaging through drawers, swearing under his breath about something insignificant, again.

Dunno. Might be staying in.

Katie replies in under ten seconds.

Babe. Don’t do this again.You haven’t been out in weeks.

Before you can type a reply, your screen lights up: Incoming call from Katie.

You answer in a whisper. “Hey.”

Her voice is all brightness at the surface, but there’s an edge underneath.  “Please don’t tell me Matt’s got you locked down again.”

“It’s not like that,” you say automatically. Too fast.

“Mmm,” she says. “Sure.” There’s a beat of silence. You pick at a loose thread on your hoodie sleeve.

“He just… doesn’t love parties. Says they’re full of idiots. And I went to the last one without him and he-” You stop. You’ve said too much.

Katie doesn’t miss a thing. “And he what?”

“Nothing. It was stupid.”

“Is he watching you right now?”

“No,” you sigh. From the kitchen, a cabinet slams. You flinch. “I just don’t want to fight tonight,” you add, softer now.

Katie’s voice softens too but it still cuts.  “You wouldn’t need to fight if you were with someone who actually respected you.” Silence. The heavy, guilty kind. “Look,” she says, gentler now, “you don’t have to drink. Or dance. Or even talk to anyone. Just come. Be around people who love you. Remember who you are.”

You swallow hard. Your eyes sting unexpectedly. “I don’t know if he’ll let me,” you whisper — and immediately hate yourself for the wording.  Let me.

Katie doesn’t say anything at first. But when she does, her voice is quiet, heavy. “That’s not love, babe. That’s a cage.” You can’t speak. You just sit there, staring at the floor. “I’ll send you the address,” she says. “I’ll be waiting outside. One hour.”

The call ends.

You stare at your screen. The text with the party info buzzes in seconds later. Your thumb hovers above it. The kitchen has gone silent. You hear Matt’s footsteps getting closer.

You lock the phone, shove it under a pillow, and paste on a smile. He walks in from the kitchen, two beers in hand. That familiar grin on his face, all charm, all ease,  but you can already feel it: the weight of his gaze scanning you like a spotlight.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks casually, settling beside you.

Your throat tightens. “Katie.”

He hums like the name itself is a warning.

“What’d she want?”

“Party invite,” you say, eyes flicking toward the muted TV.

He hands you a bottle, pops open his own with a hiss. “You told her no, right?” It’s not a question. Not really.

“Yeah,” you lie. “Of course.”

He leans in, kisses your temple, and murmurs, “Good girl.” The conversation’s over. But your heartbeat doesn’t calm. Not even close.

Later, he’s passed out next to you, one arm thrown across your ribs like a lock. His breath is heavy with beer. His weight anchors you to the bed. You lie there staring at the ceiling, chest tight, jaw locked. Then, carefully, you slide out from under his arm like you’re escaping something dangerous. Because you are.

He mumbles something. Your heart skips. But he rolls over and starts snoring.

You dress in silence. A loose t-shirt. Jeans. A flick of eyeliner, not too much. Just enough to feel a little more like yourself.

You check your phone.

Outside. I’ve got shots and zero judgment. —Katie

A small, shaky smile tugs at your mouth. You slip out the front door without a sound.

Nate’s place is alive when you arrive. Lights glowing behind the windows, music pulsing through the floor. The kind of night that swallows you whole.

Katie finds you in seconds. Arms wide. Grinning. “There you are,” she breathes, pulling you into a hug that squeezes the tension from your bones. “You look like shit. In a cute way.”

You laugh. And it feels strange  but good. Like remembering an old language.

The night unfolds around you like something you almost forgot existed. Drinks are pressed into your hand. Compliments. Faces you recognize. People who don’t ask you to apologize for existing.

You dance. You smile. You breathe. And for a little while,  maybe longer, you forget Matt even exists.

Until you see him.

He’s there, leaning against the hallway wall near the stairs. Arms crossed. Gaze fixed on you like you were never really out of his sight.

He doesn’t look angry. That’s worse. He looks calm.

“Hey,” he says, as if you just bumped into each other at the grocery store.

Your smile vanishes. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes off the wall, all smoothness. “Funny. Was gonna ask you the same thing.”

Your pulse spikes. You turn to leave.

But he’s already at your side, fingers looping around your wrist — not bruising, not rough. Just… firm. Too firm.

“We need to talk.”

“Not here,” you whisper, eyes darting around. No one’s looking. No one sees or at least that’s what you think. 

There’s a pair of blue eyes on you. Always.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. The bathroom door creaks open. He pulls you in. Clicks the lock. The sound is deafening.

“What the hell, Matt?”

“You lied to me,” he says. Still calm. Still smiling. “You looked me in the face and said you weren’t going. And yet…”

“I just wanted to go out,” you say, breath shallow. “You were asleep.”

He laughs. But it’s empty. “I’m asleep for one hour and suddenly you’re off playing single. Dressed like that. Grinding on strangers.”

“I wasn’t- Matt, I didn’t do anything” You say as if you were defending yourself to the cops.

He steps closer. The air changes.

“You think I’m stupid?”

“No, I- please, I’m not-” your words choke you, his gaze is drowning you.

“You’re making me look like a fucking mug in front of everyone,” he hisses, heat rising in his voice now. “You want them thinking you’re available? You want someone else to take you home?”

“I never said that,” you plead, your voice cracking. “You’re twisting it-”

He takes another step. Your back hits the sink. Nowhere to go.

“You lied,” he growls. “You lied to me. And you let her poison your head. Katie’s been whispering shit for weeks.”

“Stop,” you whisper. You push at his chest but he doesn’t budge.

“You were mine,” he says. Voice trembling now, like he’s the one breaking. “And you threw it all away for one night.”

Then he lifts a hand, you flinch but the slap hits you anyway. You gasp as you touch your –now read and stinging— cheek. Your eyes burn. Your breath turns shallow. Panic coils in your chest.

He stares down at you, he is furious, jealous. You beg him but soon his hands are on you, he kisses you roughly as if he was apologising but for you he was just making it worse. You move your head away from his and he grabs it to kiss you again. He bites your lip so you open your mouth and he can get his tongue inside of it. 

“Stop it” he almost growls in your mouth. “Stop fucking crying!” he shouts and you sob, your hands clinging on his jumper. He looks at them and then at you and he sees a crying mess with her lip bleeding and her left cheek red and swollen. He sighs and steps back to give you some space. “Listen, I’m going to get a beer and then we’ll leave. You hear me?” You say nothing “I’ll take that as a yes. Fix your face before coming down, I don’t need any more attention to you” 

The door slams shut behind him, and the bathroom feels too small, too quiet. You slide to the cold tile floor, arms over your head, hands trembling.

“Fucking idiot,” you whisper to yourself, the words heavy with salt and shame. Because how the fuck didn’t you see this coming? How many excuses had you made for him? How many times had you lied to your friends, to yourself,  pretending it wasn’t this bad?

Your cheek still stings. Your lip’s throbbing now, the metallic taste of blood sticking to your teeth. You breathe in too fast and it hitches, comes out as a sob.

A knock, no, more like a bang, hits the door a minute later. Then a twist of the handle. You freeze.

“Bathroom’s in use!” you shout from outside, annoyed. Another rattle. Then the sound of the lock being picked.

Your heart spikes — what if it’s Matt again?

But when the door swings open, it’s not him.

It’s Cook.

Half-drunk, eyes red, jacket hanging off one shoulder like it always is. A bottle in one hand. He stumbles slightly, then catches himself. His mouth opens with a cocky line already forming. 

Then he sees you. Everything changes. He goes still. Completely still.

His gaze drops to your face. The cheek. The blood on your lip. Your puffy eyes. The bottle in his hand lowers slowly. “What the fuck,” he mutters, voice suddenly raw.

You flinch. Try to wipe your face. Look away. “Get out,” you whisper. “I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”

“You think I give a fuck what you want right now?” he snaps, not cruel, not angry, but furious in a different way. Furious for you. “What the hell happened?”

You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

His eyes darken. “It was him, wasn’t it?” You don’t answer. But that’s answer enough. Cook’s jaw tightens. His fists ball. He looks like he might tear the walls down with his bare hands.

You close your eyes. “Please. Just… don’t. I can’t handle you being a dick on top of everything else.”

“I’m not gonna be a dick,” he says, and his voice has dropped again. This time softer. Wounded, almost. “Not to you. Not right now.” A long pause. Then, quieter: “I didn’t know he was like that.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, bitter. “Neither did I.”

Cook crouches slowly in front of you. Not touching. Not even reaching. Just… there.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

You laugh. Or maybe sob. It’s a broken sound either way. “Bit late for that, Cook.”

He looks at you then, really looks. And suddenly there’s nothing reckless in his eyes. No party-boy shine. Just something fierce. Protective.

“I didn’t mean to leave you like that,” he says. “That night. After the party. I should’ve called you. Texted. Anything.” You don’t say anything. You can’t trust yourself to. “Let me help now,” he says. “Please.”

That word hits harder than anything else: please. He’s still crouched in front of you, waiting. No rush. No pressure. Just there. Like he’s not moving unless you say so.

“Help me how?” you ask him, he is staring at you with dizzy eyes and a scowl on his face. “You’re not- you are too wasted to do something for me” 

He shakes his head, disagreeing with your words. “I can do what I’m best at” You look at him with a brow raised. “I can ruin his night” He has that devilish expression on his face as he moves his feet closer to yours, touching the front of your shoes with his dirty ones. You look there and then back at his face and somehow he does look like he means it. Like he wants to help you. “I’ll call Katie for you and then I’ll do my part of the plan” 

“What plan?” You watch him get up.

“I already told you” He rolls his eyes, steading himself on the wall. “I’m fucking ruining that motherfucker night” His words don’t really uh…form? or at least for you because he just mumbles them before getting out of the bathroom. 

Cook slams the bathroom door behind him, jaw tight, breath ragged. His fists are still shaking. He can feel your broken voice still echoing in his ears, feel the heat off your cheek like it’s burning into him instead.

That prick put his hands on you.

He charges down the stairs, pushing past a couple making out on the landing, past music and bodies and noise, all of it blurred, all of it background now.

He needs to find Katie.

It doesn’t take long. She’s near the kitchen, laughing at something some guy just said, drink in hand. But as soon as she sees Cook storming toward her, that laugh dies instantly.

“Where is he?” Cook growls.

“Where’s who?” Katie frowns, eyes scanning him.

“Matt.”

Her expression shifts. Sharp. Focused. “Why?”

Cook doesn’t answer right away, just runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. Then he steps closer, so only she can hear.

“He hit her.”

Katie goes completely still. “What?” she says, voice quiet, deadly.

“In the bathroom,” Cook mutters, glancing back over his shoulder. “I found her on the fuckin’ floor, Katie. Cryin’. Cheek red, lip split. Said he slapped her. Tried- tried to force himself on her. She told him to stop and he didn’t listen.”

Katie’s jaw clenches so tight her teeth grind. The plastic cup in her hand cracks a little under the pressure of her grip. “Where is she now?” she says, already moving.

“Still in the bathroom. Locked it behind me. Didn’t want anyone to see her like that.”

Katie’s eyes flicker with something dangerous. Protective. Almost maternal. “I’ll go to her.” Cook nods once, and steps back.Then she grabs his arm. “And you?”

His voice is low, lethal. “Gonna find that cunt.”

Katie doesn’t try to stop him. She just looks at him, something fierce behind her eyes. “Don’t hold back.”

“I won’t.”

And with that, they part ways. Katie disappearing back up the stairs like a bullet, and Cook storming through the crowd, fists already clenching, gaze burning like a lit fuse, ready to find Matt. 

The door rattles gently. Your head jerks up.

“It’s me,” Katie’s voice says, soft through the wood. “It’s just me. Open up, babe.”

You hesitate. The idea of anyone seeing you like this, puffy eyes, trembling hands, lip bloodied, it feels unbearable.

But it’s Katie, your best friend. And you can’t hold this alone anymore.

You reach up, unlock the door. She pushes in carefully, slowly, like she’s afraid you’ll break if she moves too fast. Her eyes find your face, her breath catches. A hand flies to her mouth.

“Oh, my god…”

You look down. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Katie’s already on her knees beside you, wrapping her arms around you without hesitation. “No. Don’t. Don’t shrink like that. This isn’t on you.” You sob into her shoulder, and she holds tighter. “Cook told me,” she whispers. “He’s going after him.”

You lift your head, heart skipping. “No, no- he’ll- Matt’s gonna lose it, he-”

“Good,” Katie says, fierce. “Let him.” She pulls back just enough to look at you, hands framing your face so gently it makes your chest ache. “Listen to me. You’re not alone anymore. You hear me? You’re not.”

Cook’s heart is still thudding from the bathroom. He doesn’t care who sees him now. He barrels through the crowd, eyes locked on one thing: Matt.

Matt’s still by the kitchen, casually chatting like nothing happened. Drink in one hand, leaning back against the counter like he owns the place.

Cook wants to take a shot and then shoot that stupid cunt. But he won’t, he knows you wouldn’t want to see him in jail..again. He pushes past two people and grabs Matt’s shirt with both hands, slamming him hard against the cabinets. Bottles clatter. A girl nearby screams.

“The fuck did you just do?” Cook spits, nose inches from Matt’s.

Matt stumbles, confused, caught off guard. “What are you-?”

Cook doesn’t wait. He swings. The punch lands hard, right across Matt’s cheekbone. The same place he had slapped you. He crashes sideways into the counter, groaning. Beer spills, glass shatters. The music dips for a second, just long enough for people to realize something’s happening.

Matt tries to recover, shaking it off, but Cook’s already in his face again.

“You laid your fuckin’ hands on her?”

Matt coughs, tries to shove Cook off. “You don’t know what she-”

Cook shoves him again, harder this time. “She was crying on the floor! You think that makes you a man, yeah?”

Matt swings this time, a clumsy, panicked jab. It grazes Cook’s jaw, barely. But Cook sees red now. He lunges, grabs Matt’s hoodie, drives him back against the fridge.

“Touch her again and I’ll put you in the ground,” Cook hisses through gritted teeth Now people are really watching. Someone yells for Nate.

A pair of arms grab Cook from behind, pulling him off. “That’s enough, mate!”

Cook resists, trying to break free. “Let me go!” Matt slumps against the fridge, panting, face red and lip busted. He wipes his mouth, eyes darting nervously.

“She lied to me,” he mumbles. “She fucking… she fucking used me!”

Cook’s voice is deadly calm now. “Are you victimizing yourself right now?” Matt opens his mouth, but Cook just shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t. You’ve said enough.”

Cook yanks himself free from the arms holding him and turns toward the stairs, toward you  jaw tight, knuckles raw. Someone mutters, “Jesus, what the fuck happened?”

But Cook doesn’t look back.

“I’ll be right behind that door, oaky?” Katie smiles softly at you before she walks by Cook. “Behave yourself” Cook winks at her and closes the door softly .It’s quieter up here, away from the chaos of the party. Just the muffled thump of bass through the walls, far away now.

You sit down on the edge of the bed slowly. Not because you want to, but because your legs feel like they’re giving out. The ache in your cheek is sharp now. Your lip stings every time you move your mouth.

Cook stands near the door. Still. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to come any closer. You don’t look at him. You stare down at your hands, knotted together in your lap.

“I know you don’t like violence but he deserved it,” he says finally. His voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You swallow, barely nodding. “I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, rough. “Listen, what he did….” That makes you look up. He catches it, shakes his head. “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Silence.

“I thought you didn’t care about me anymore,” you say. It comes out smaller than you mean it to.

He huffs, almost a laugh but there's no humour in it. “Yeah, well. Thought ignoring you would make it easier.” He shrugs, still not moving. “Didn’t.”

You meet his eyes.

There’s something new there. Still wild. Still restless. But softer, somehow. Guilt around the edges.

He finally steps forward, slow like he’s walking up to a ledge. He crouches in front of you, hands on his knees, but doesn’t touch you.

“I’m sorry,” he says, low. “About before. That night. After.”

You nod, just a little, but it’s too much. You look away quickly. “I don’t know why I let it happen,” you whisper, voice tight. “Matt. All of it. I thought he loved me.”

Cook is quiet for a long moment.

“You’re not stupid, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “He’s just good at acting like a decent person until he’s not.”

Your throat clenches. “He told me no one else would want me. Not really.”

He exhales hard. “Then he’s a bigger fucking idiot than I thought.”

You manage a shaky breath.

“I would’ve wanted you,” he says, softer now. “I mean. I did. I do. Just didn’t know how to be… enough, I guess.”

You finally look at him. His face is all sharp edges and shadows. But his eyes, they’re open now. Unhidden.

He stands slowly, offering you a hand.

You hesitate.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds. “Just… let me get you out of here.”

You take his hand.

“Didn’t know you were this nice” you joked.

It’s warm. Solid. The first safe thing you’ve felt in weeks.

“It’s probably the vodka in me” He says back to you with his usual smirk.

He doesn’t let go.

I think this is the longest i've ever written lol.

Let me know what you think!!!

Bye bye queen

[rawrmadzilla]

This is probably not going to make sense or get to the people I want it to, but I’m still going to go on my knees and beg. Please please please people who are going to The My Chemical Romance concerts, please please please be on your best behavior. I wasn’t there a couple years back to see how people acted back then, but I know our fanbase is known as one of the most annoying when it comes to music fan bases. I don’t think I have any say in that idea, I’m not too sure, social media is the way I’ve interacted with this fanbase. BUT I just went to Vidcon to see SMOSH, and I can say I was severely disappointed with that fan base. They were insanely disrespectful, rude, attention seeking, etc. old men were trying to get in a fight with me and my friend who are small 19 year olds. It opened my eyes because I’ve never interacted with a fan base that was like that before. It was a harsh reality to see that not everyone is caring and kind even when we all like the same things and just want to see the same people. I’m over here like can’t we all just get along ☹️. Anyway back to MCR, it’s sort of the same thing with the SMOSH fandom, a lot of millennials, along with Gen Z. Theater kids, gamers, Emos, Punks, just a lot of different groups of people. I also know that since the pandemic, concert etiquette isn’t really a thing. I am actually so scared of going to this concert because what if people do end up ruining what would have been a great time because they cannot control themselves. Don’t forget it’s not only your $200s on stage. It’s all of ours! I’m hoping to make so many friends at this concert because I’ve seen what this fanbase is like. It’s full of fun, creative, funny, and amazing people who I appreciate. So if someone tells you to cool it down a bit, maybe reconsider and do it. If someone is saying you are making them uncomfortable by touching them or taking space up that isn’t yours please listen. Please drink water, take your meds, eat something before the concert, and for the love of God, SHOWER!!!!! scrub your armpits, undertheres, and everywhere else. Put on perfume or cologne, and maybe a nice scented lotion, AND DEODORANT, BRING SOME WITH YOU PLEASE!!! Anyway, there’s my rant. Be kind and respectful to each other, we’re all brothers, sisters, and siblings of the Black Parade <3