#they just might. or they might stare back without a word

[maskedbyghost]

this is part 2 to toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni

You hadn’t planned to cry, and honestly, you weren’t even sure why your chest felt tight in the first place. It was just supposed to be a walk, nothing more, just some fresh air and sunshine and maybe a break from your own thoughts.

You thought moving your body might help. Maybe if you just walked far enough, breathed deep enough, looked up at the clouds instead of staring at your bedroom ceiling, something would click into place and you’d feel like yourself again. Like a person again.

But the universe clearly had other plans.

Because every corner you turned, there was another couple.

They weren’t even being obnoxious about it. It wasn’t the affection that made you roll your eyes or want to vomit. It was worse. It was the soft stuff, the connection you could feel without even hearing a word of it.

A guy was walking with his girlfriend, and his hand was resting right at the small of her back. Another couple sat under a tree with a checkered blanket spread out beneath them. She was half in his lap, trying to balance her drink, laughing at something he had said, and he was holding her as if she were made of glass and sunlight, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other brushing her hair with his hands, slowly.

An older couple walked by, holding hands, their fingers intertwined so casually that it made your throat ache. She was talking, he was nodding, and they stopped every few steps to point at the flowers planted along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world.

And you just… froze.

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even sadness, just this deep yearning that settled heavy in your chest and refused to budge, this desperate ache for something that didn’t hurt, something soft, something simple, something that didn’t feel like you were holding your breath all the time, afraid of saying the wrong thing or asking for too much.

You wanted to be held. Not grabbed, nor thrown onto a bed because someone couldn’t control themselves. You wanted to be chosen in the quiet moments, when there was no sex or tension or drama to sweeten the deal. You wanted someone to look at you and think, There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.

You sat down on the nearest bench, dropped your phone into your lap, and just stared at the grass. You didn’t want to cry in public, not really, but the sting was there, just behind your eyes, and you blinked fast, hoping it’d go away.

Your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even want to check. You already knew, somehow, like a sixth sense, or maybe just muscle memory.

“Come over. I’ll order Thai. You can stay.”

As if it was some kind of prize. Like the offer of food and his bed was supposed to feel anything other than a pity invitation. Like that sentence wasn’t the exact same breadcrumb he’d been throwing your way for months, just enough to keep you following, never enough to satisfy.

He wasn’t saying I miss you. He wasn’t saying I’m sorry I hurt you or I didn’t know what I had until you were gone. He was saying Come over. Like this was still a game he was winning.

And maybe a week ago, hell, maybe even yesterday, you would’ve paused. You would’ve stared at the message with that same dull throb in your chest and thought maybe this time will be different. Maybe he means it. Maybe he’s trying.

But right now?

Right now, you felt done.

Done with making excuses for him. Done with confusing attention for affection. Done with dragging your heart behind you like dead weight every time he pulled you back in with nothing more than a half-assed promise and a takeout order.

Your fingers hovered for a second, just long enough to acknowledge the part of you that still wanted to believe he’d ever be capable of giving you what you needed.

And then you typed:

“No. We’re done, Simon. For real this time. Don’t text me again.”

Your thumb hit send before your brain could stop you, before your heart could scream, before the echo of what if could take root and grow into something dangerous again.

And then, without waiting for the three dots to pop up, without giving yourself a chance to hesitate or soften or let him back in even a little you blocked the number.

And that was it.

Your hand was trembling, your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. And your heartbeat was steady in your chest, like it was relieved.

You looked up at the sky. Watched the clouds move slowly across the blue. They didn’t know what it meant to panic over someone who didn’t care.

You weren’t happy, not yet. But for the first time in too long, you didn’t feel chained to him anymore.

And that, in itself, felt like something.

...

You hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.

No texts, no calls, no sudden knocks at your door. No glimpses of him near your job, no DMs from new burner accounts, nor mutual friends trying to convince you he was “going through it.”

And honestly? You were starting to think he’d finally gotten the message. That maybe he’d realized what it meant when you said we’re done. That he’d felt the silence for what it was: a full stop, not a pause.

But then he showed up. Of course he did.

You were walking home from the grocery store, just a quick trip for bread and milk and some random snacks you didn’t need but bought anyway because the act of filling your cupboards made you feel happier. You’d just turned the corner onto your street, earbuds in, music low, mind somewhere else entirely, when you looked up and froze.

He was leaning against your building. And he had the nerve to be casual about it too, his arms crossed, head down like this wasn’t completely insane. He looked up when you stopped walking, and his mouth did that slow curl into a grin that used to make your stomach flip but now just made your jaw tighten.

You pulled your earbuds out and said nothing.

“Hey,” he said, as if this was normal or completely not out of bounds. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

“Simon,” you started, your voice flat, your pulse already kicking up. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “You blocked my number and my backup email. You weren’t really leaving me a lot of options.”

You blinked, stunned at how casually he said it. “So you decided to stalk me instead?”

“That’s a dramatic word,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward you like you weren’t already backing away slightly, trying to hold onto your grip. “I just wanted to talk. You made that impossible.”

“I made it impossible because we broke up,” you snapped, dropping your grocery bag onto the steps with more force than necessary. “I told you not to text me. Not to call. I said we were done—done, Simon—what don’t you get?”

He smiled again, that infuriating smirk, like you’d just said something cute instead of trying to set a boundary.

“Yeah,” he said, cocking his head. “We broke up, sure. But that doesn’t mean you get to erase me.”

You stared at him, jaw slack. “Are you actually hearing yourself?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Simon said, stepping closer now, his voice calmer, which, honestly, made you want to scream. “You think a couple texts and a blocklist are gonna make me forget what we were? You really think that’s enough?”

“I don’t want you to forget,” you snapped. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to understand that this—whatever this was—is over. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, just a flicker. A twitch of his jaw, a tightening of the eyes. You’d seen that look before, right before the walls went up. Right before the mask slipped into place.

“You keep saying we’re over,” Simon said slowly, “but you don’t get it.”

He stepped in so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the scent of his skin, that cologne he always wore too much of, the one that used to make you ache but now just made your stomach turn.

“You and me?” he whispered. “We’re never really over.”

Your breath hitched, and for a second—for one stupid, fleeting second—you felt that pull again. That old, broken, magnetic force that lived in the space between his mouth and yours, in the memory of what it felt like to be wanted by him.

But you were so fucking tired of confusing that with love. So you stepped back.

You looked him dead in the eye, and you said:

“What do you want from me, Simon? Seriously. Do you want me to scream? Do you want me to cry? Do you want me to fall apart in front of you just so you can feel something? Because whatever this is—it’s not love, it’s not real. It’s you, trying to control me. And I’m done letting you.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there. And you picked up your bag again, turned on your heel, and walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t have to.

Because this time? You were the one leaving him behind.

...

It had been weeks.

Weeks of silence, weeks of healing, and pretending you were ready to move on, even when your heart still felt like a battlefield he’d walked away from without ever looking back.

So when your coworker asked you out—the nice one, the one who remembered your coffee order and always held the elevator—you said yes.

You didn’t feel fireworks, nor did you get butterflies. But you also didn’t feel dread, or the bone-deep exhaustion that came from chasing someone who only ever looked back when you were halfway out the door.

And maybe that was enough. Maybe soft was what you needed now. Safe and simple.

He took you to a cozy little restaurant tucked off the main street, the kind with candlelight and mismatched chairs and a menu written entirely in cursive. He held the door open for you, pulled your chair out when you sat, complimented your dress without looking at your chest. And you smiled, even if it felt a little forced. You laughed, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You tried...

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to the bathroom. The ladies’ room was down a narrow hallway in the back, quiet and dim, music muffled through the walls. You were halfway there when you felt it.

That shift in the air.

That awareness that only ever came from one person. And you didn’t even get the chance to turn around before he was there.

He stepped out from the shadows of the hallway like a fucking ghost, like he’d been waiting, like he knew you’d be here and timed it down to the minute. And before you could speak, before you could even breathe, he had you pressed up against the wall, one arm caging you in, the other sliding slowly along your waist.

His mouth was at your ear in an instant, voice low, thick, dirty.

“Really, sweetheart?” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “This the best you can do?”

Your heart slammed in your chest. Your hands went to his chest, pushing lightly, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He leaned in closer, body not quite touching yours but so fucking close, you could feel the heat radiating off him like fire.

“You think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?” he whispered, and it wasn’t even a question—it was filth wrapped in confidence. “You think he even knows what to do with you? Bet he doesn’t even know how you sound when you beg. Doesn’t know how your thighs shake when I’ve got my mouth on you—”

“Stop it,” you hissed, voice shaking, but your knees were already weak and your throat felt tight.

Simon smirked, eyes dark and gleaming. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can you? His hands won't feel right, will they? Bet you’d picture mine every time he touches you.”

Your hands pushed harder now, but he didn’t flinch.

“And what about when he’s inside you?” Simon rasped, mouth brushing your jaw, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you gasp. “You gonna close your eyes and pretend it’s me?”

“At least he’ll fucking stay,” you snapped, louder now, anger burning through the haze. “At least he won’t leave the second he gets what he wants. At least I won’t wake up to an empty bed.”

That got him. His jaw clenched instantly.

But he didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing hard, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to touch you or punch a hole in the wall beside your head.

You shoved him. Hard.

“Get the fuck out of my way.”

Simon didn’t move right away. He just stood there, watching you like you’d gutted him, like your words had cut deeper than you’d meant them to—but you didn’t regret it.

Not this time.

You stepped around him, ignoring the way your legs trembled beneath you, head high, heart pounding like it was trying to tear its way out of your chest.

You didn’t look back.

You walked straight back to the table, sat down, and smiled at your date like your ex hadn’t just whispered filth into your ear in a hallway like a man possessed.

“Everything okay?” your date asked gently.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “The bathroom line was just long.”

...

The walk back to your apartment felt like an out-of-body experience.

Your date had walked you home, smiling the entire way, hands tucked into his pockets, making soft jokes that you tried to laugh at, even though your stomach had been turning since the second you stepped out of the restaurant. He was kind. He listened, he held the door open, and he even complimented your dress without leering. And when you reached your door, he leaned in and kissed you, soft and gentle, just like the kind of kiss you should want from someone like him.

And you felt nothing. Not even a flicker, not even a spark.

You kissed him back out of politeness, maybe even a little guilt, and when you stepped away and thanked him for dinner, he smiled like he’d had a good time. And you hated that you hadn’t. Hated that he was everything you said you wanted—safe, respectful, sweet—and all you could think about the whole fucking night was Simon’s mouth, Simon’s hands, Simon whispering filth and promises and pain in your ear like he was made to ruin you.

By the time you reached your door, your hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from rage.

From this endless, exhausting loop of trying to do the right thing and still craving the wrong one.

You fumbled with your keys, cursing under your breath, eyes burning. You wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to shove Simon’s face into the fact that he’d broken you so thoroughly that now, even when someone was good to you, it felt wrong.

The door opened. And there he was.

Simon.

Sitting on your couch but he didn’t look cocky this time. Didn’t smirk or lean back with that smug glint in his eye. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he didn’t even know what to say anymore.

You dropped your purse.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” your voice cracked, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

He stood, slowly, but you were already walking toward him, hands clenched, eyes blazing.

“How dare you?” you hissed. “How fucking dare you be here again. After everything.”

“Just listen—”

“No!” you snapped. “No, you don’t get to talk. You don’t get to sit there and act like you’re confused about why I don’t want you in my life. You ruined me, Simon.”

He flinched, and good. You wanted it to hurt.

“You took everything I gave you, every part of me, and you made it ugly.” Your voice shook now, rage mixing with grief. “You used me when you wanted company. Tossed me when you were bored. And I kept coming back, like a fucking idiot, thinking maybe this time you’d mean it when you kissed me.”

He was quiet.

“I went on a date tonight,” you spat. “With someone who treated me like I mattered. Someone who held doors and remembered things I said and kissed me like he gave a damn, and do you know what I thought the whole time?”

Simon swallowed, barely whispering, “What?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes now.

“I thought about you,” you said, voice cracking. “I thought about your fucking mouth, about your hands. I thought about how I’d rather have your soft kiss than his perfect one. And I hate myself for it.”

Simon took a step forward. “I never meant to—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice trembling now. “Don’t stand there and act like this just happened. You did this. You made me believe you’d never care, and now I’m so fucking broken I can’t even feel anything from someone who actually tries. I still picture you when I think about love, Simon. That’s the worst part.”

He was right in front of you now, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide as he just watched you split yourself open in front of him.

“I imagine you,” you whispered. “But better, softer, and kinder. I imagine you as the version I needed, the one I deserved, and it kills me, because I don’t even know if that version of you exists.”

Silence.

He reached out then, so slowly it made your breath catch, and placed one hand gently on your cheek, the lightest touch he’d ever given you.

“I can be him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to God, I’ll try. I’ll be him.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Because he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then another, on your temple. One on your cheek, your jaw, your nose.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered between them. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You were crying now, full-on sobbing, body shaking like it had been holding this in for far too long. And he didn’t grab you, didn’t pull you into him like he used to. He just stood there, kissing every tear that fell like he was trying to wipe them from existence.

“I didn’t know how to love you right,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But I will. If you let me. If you give me a chance, I’ll change. I’ll do the work. Just… don’t shut the door on me yet.”

You didn’t answer.

Because even after everything, even through all the rage and resentment and raw wounds, his kisses still felt like home.

And that was the scariest part of all.

He kissed your tears like they burned him, as if each one that slid down your cheeks was proof of what he’d broken, and he was trying, pathetically, hopelessly, to piece it all back together with nothing but his mouth and the weight of his regret.

You didn’t say anything when he pressed his forehead to yours. Didn’t pull away when he wrapped both arms around you like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You just stood there and let yourself breathe him in, his warmth, his scent.

“Let me show you,” Simon whispered, voice raw. “Please, just once. Let me make it right.”

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, but you let him take your hand.

He led you to the bed and didn’t tear your clothes off like he usually did. He didn’t grab or push or bite. He just kissed you, like you were something fragile, something he didn’t think he deserved to touch but was begging to try.

His hands trembled when he slid your top up over your arms. He took his time with every button, every hem, because rushing would ruin it. When your bra fell away, he kissed the center of your chest—not your breasts, not your neck—your chest, right over your heart, and rested there for a second like he was trying to feel it beat.

“You don’t have to forgive me now,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m gonna earn it. All of it. Whatever it takes.”

You didn’t stop the tears. You didn’t hide from them. They slid quietly down your cheeks as he lowered himself between your legs and pressed his mouth to your stomach, your hips, your thighs—anywhere but the place you were already aching for him.

“I’m gonna learn how to love you right,” he murmured against your skin. “I’m gonna give you every soft thing I never thought you’d want. You won’t have to beg for affection anymore. You won’t have to guess if I’ll stay.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then the other, then finally pressed his mouth to where you needed him. It felt as if he was praying with his tongue. Like this was how he was going to worship you now.

You gasped, hands fisting the sheets, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

And he noticed. Of course he did.

He looked up from between your thighs, his face a mess of want and pain.

“You don’t have to cry,” he said softly, crawling back up your body. “I mean… I know why you are. But I hate that I’m the reason for it. I swear, I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

You cupped his face, fingers trembling, and he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

He lined himself up, slow and careful, and when he pushed inside, he went still. Completely still. Just breathing against your mouth, his hands cradling your face like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this close again.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Fuck, you always did.”

He moved slowly, painfully slow. Like every thrust was an apology. Like he was rewriting the way he touched you, undoing every rushed, selfish fuck with something tender and earned.

Your tears didn’t stop. And neither did he.

He kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, and your jaw. Whispered everything he’d never said when it would’ve mattered most.

“I’m gonna do better.”

“I’ll take care of you. I swear I will.”

“No more games. No more pushing you away.”

You whimpered beneath him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, clinging to him like you didn’t know how to let go anymore.

He rested his forehead against yours and kept moving, slow and deep, every thrust sending something hot and unbearable through your chest.

“You deserve flowers,” he breathed. “And check-ins. And hand-holding and fucking morning texts and someone who doesn’t make you cry every goddamn day.”

His voice cracked again. You felt it.

“And I want to be him,” Simon said, nearly choking on it. “I need to be him.”

Your body trembled beneath him. You were already so close, not just because of his cock, but because of the way he was inside you.

You came with a broken sob, your nails digging into his back, your legs shaking.

He came a moment later, groaning into your neck, and holding you tightly.

He didn’t pull out and didn’t move.

Just wrapped his arms around you, face pressed to your shoulder, and kissed you again and again and again, believing that if he just stayed close enough, the damage might finally start to heal.

...

Morning came quietly.

You woke to the pale gray light bleeding through your bedroom curtains, the kind of early morning glow that made everything feel hazy. For a few seconds, it was peaceful. Warm.

And then you remembered.

The weight behind you wasn’t just a dream.

Simon.

Still here, and breathing steadily against your back, one arm draped around your waist.

Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t that last night had been bad. It hadn’t. If anything, it had been too good. Too soft. Too vulnerable. It was the kind of night you used to pray for back when you thought he’d never give it to you.

And now?

Now it just felt like weakness.

You untangled yourself from his arm slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him as you sat up and slipped your legs over the side of the bed. But he stirred anyway, and you felt his hand twitch behind you, reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

You stood up and didn’t turn around when you said it.

“Simon… you need to go.”

Silence.

Then the quiet sound of bedsheets rustling behind you.

“...You serious?” His voice was rough from sleep, low and uncertain in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You nodded, still facing the window. “Yeah. I am.”

He sat up, and you could hear it, the shift in weight, the creak of the mattress, the pause before the sigh.

“Last night—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Was a moment,” you said, finally turning around to look at him. “That’s all. A moment of weakness. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay.”

He blinked at you, eyes bloodshot, hair messy, mouth parted.

“I meant everything I said,” he told you quietly. “Every word.”

“I know,” you said. “But meaning it isn’t enough. Not yet.”

He was quiet again, looking down at his hands, he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding you.

“Okay,” he said eventually, dragging a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”

You watched as he stood, pulled on his jeans, his hoodie, his boots. He didn’t rush, nor beg. He just moved with weighted sadness, like leaving was physically hard to do.

But at the door, he paused and turned around. “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. That I meant what I said. That I’m changing. You’re gonna look at me one day, and you’re not gonna feel stupid for loving me anymore.”

You didn’t reply.

You just looked at him, arms crossed, your heart pounding.

And then he opened the door and stepped into the hall, casting one last glance back over his shoulder.

“I’ll win you back,” Simon said, voice like a quiet promise. “Even if it kills me.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you didn’t breathe until you were alone again.

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

@nightunite I'm not done with this bitch yet.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Imagine Joel taking your virginity

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

WC: 5.4k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, porn with no plot, unspecified but big age gap, oral (m!receiving), virginity loss, unprotected piv, thigh riding, daddy kink, baby-talking, young and innocent reader, creampie, condescending joel, terms like baby girl, sweet little girl etc.

Even thought this part is a standalone, you might want to read a previous part: Joel teaches you how to go down on him.

Today was just another quiet afternoon in Jackson, you’d been heading back from the greenhouse, you weren’t paying much attention to your surroundings, too focused trying to brush the dirt off your knees, until you saw them…

Joel was outside the stables, half-laughing about something with a woman, gray in her hair, deep lines around her eyes from a life lived outdoors, she looked about the same age as Joel. She was standing close to him, not too close, nothing inappropriate, nothing that would give you the right to get pissed, but the kind of close that felt natural.

You stopped walking without meaning to, and you watched as she touched his arm and laughed. They looked right together, and it hit you like a sucker punch, the breath caught in your lungs and wouldn’t let go. Maybe because you’d never look right with Joel next to you, at least not in the way people expect a couple to look. People didn’t assume you two were together, hell, you’d even been mistaken for father and daughter more than once whenever someone new showed up in Jackson.

You turned away, heading back home before you could watch more. You felt so small, so young, like some little kid playing grown-up. You weren’t enough, not for him, not when he could talk for hours with a woman who remembered the same pre-outbreak songs, who didn’t need Joel to teach her how to shoot, or how to suck him off, a woman who could take all of him, not just the tip.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed after you reached your house until you heard the door open, footsteps crossing the threshold. Joel’s voice followed a second later, light and casual.

“Hey, darlin’. You home already?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t get the words out of your mouth. You felt so insignificant, who were you trying to fool? There would come a day, because of course there would, when Joel would get tired of playing house with a little girl pretending to be a woman.

Joel walked into the bedroom, you didn’t look up, you were staring hard at the floor, fists clenched in your lap. He paused in the doorway, sensing the shift in the air instantly.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head.

“C’mon now,” he said gently, stepping closer. “I know when something’s up, sweetheart.”

You finally glanced up, and the moment your eyes met his, everything cracked.

“I saw you,” you said quietly. “With her. That woman.”

Joel blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Her. Outside the stables.”

His brow furrowed. “Oh, you mean Carmen?”

You nodded once, the name sounded even worse spoken aloud.

Joel crouched in front of you. “What about her?”

You let the silence hang for a second too long, he caught it, could see it on your face. What were you supposed to say? He hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t cheated or anything like that.

“Goddammit,” he murmured. “My baby’s got herself twisted up, huh?”

“She’s your age,” you whispered. “She laughs with you. She gets your stories. She probably remembers music on the radio. And—and—I feel like a stupid little girl. You’re a man. You’ve lived this whole life. I don’t even… I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, I just pretend, and you’re just—You’re Joel. You don’t need me.”

“You really are just a dumb little thing, huh?” Your breath caught, he wasn’t cruel when he said it, just… exasperated, deeply, lovingly exasperated “Little dumb baby.”

Your breath was shallow, tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. Joel didn’t say anything at first, just reached for your hands, gently unclenching them.

“I’m gonna say this once,” he said, voice low. “And I want you to hear me, alright?”

You nodded, barely.

“You’re my baby. You're soft, and sweet, and so fuckin’ easy to wreck I can barely keep my hands off you. You look at me like I’m good, even when I ain’t. And yeah, baby, I like that you need me. I like teachin’ you. I like when you look up at me all scared and excited, askin’ me to show you things no one ever has.”

He pulled your hands to his chest, right over his heart.

“I want you. I choose you. Every single goddamn day.”

Your throat closed, he sounded sincere, and you really wanted to believe him

“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked. “I see someone who makes me laugh when I forget how. Someone who touches me like I matter. You know how long it’s been since I’ve felt that? I feel alive, baby. I feel like a man again. Not a ghost.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw how wrecked he was now, how deeply this was hitting him too.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re not a phase. You’re not pretendin’. And you’re sure as hell not some kid to me, you’re my girl.”

“I just… I know I’m not what you’re used to. I’m not older. I don’t know how to do stuff. I had to ask you to show me how to… suck you, and then I couldn’t even take you, not really. Just the tip.” your voice cracked on that. “You’ve waited so long already and it’s not fair—”

“Stop.”

You blinked, his voice was quiet, but it had teeth. Joel pushed himself up slowly, sitting beside you on the bed, and looked down at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think I don’t want this?” he asked, voice low and gravel-deep. “You think I’d rather be off with some older, experienced woman who could deep throat me and ride me into the goddamn sunset?”

He shook his head, almost laughing, but there was no humor in it.

“You think I give a single shit that you don’t know what you’re doin’? Sweetheart, I like teachin’ you. I like that you’ve never done this before. I like bein’ the first cock you take. I like that I get to be gentle with you. Take my time. Watch you fall apart under me.” He leaned down, bracing himself over you, hand sliding to your cheek. “You think I’m sufferin’ ‘cause I only had the tip inside you? Baby girl, that was the best fuckin’ orgasm I’ve had in years.”

Your breath caught.

“You were clenchin’ around me so tight, I damn near came the second I pushed in. And you were so sweet—so good—lookin’ up at me all wide-eyed, sayin’ please, Joel, please just the tip, like you didn’t know you were ruinin’ me.”

You looked away, a bit embarrassed by the memory, but is hand gently brought your face back to his.

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said, softly this time. “You think I want someone who’s had twenty dicks in her mouth and five up her pussy?”

Your eyes widened, Joel was always so blunt, you let out a startled laugh, he grinned, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip.

“I want you, baby. I want this tight, shy little thing that don’t even know how sweet her own mouth feels until I show her. I want the girl who looks up at me while she’s suckin’ and asks, am I doin’ good, Joel? like it don’t drive me fuckin’ insane.”

You nodded against him, voice small. “I just… I want to be enough for you.”

Joel pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up. You were so clueless, Joel thought, how couldn’t you see how much he loved how soft and innocent you were? How you were all he’d ever wanted? Your sweetness made both his heart ache and his cock throb.

“You are enough. You’re fuckin’ perfect for me.”

You searched his face, the lines, the grey at his temples, the quiet sadness behind his eyes, and all you saw there was truth.

“Even if I need you to teach me everything?” You whispered.

“Especially that,” he murmured. “’Cause I’m gonna teach you right. Teach you slow. You’re gonna learn everything from me, and only me."

“Joel... I wanna try again,” you said, and your voice came out soft, but sure. “With my mouth.”

Joel stilled, his eyes darkened slow, oh, the things you did to him, hearing you say those filthy things with that sweet, innocent mouth of yours. He smiled, slow, crooked, filthy.

“You mean suckin’ my cock?” he asked, all teasing drawl and patronizing sweetness.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want to.”

Joel’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “You askin’ real nice, baby girl.”

You leaned closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Please, Joel. I wanna make you feel good. Wanna do it right this time.”

He groaned, low and sharp, hand flexing on your skin.

“Alright, then, but only cause you want to, not because you feel like you need to prove somethin’,” he muttered. “Go ahead. Show me what you remember.”

He shifted back on the bed and unzipped his jeans with one hand, tugging them low enough to free his cock, already half-hard, thick, and flushed. You sat up on your knees between his legs, suddenly so aware of how big he looked like this, broad and spread out, just waiting.

Your hand wrapped around the base of him, he twitched in your palm, and you leaned down slowly, licking a soft stripe up the underside like he’d shown you before.

Joel exhaled sharp through his nose. “Thassit. Just like that, baby.”

“Hi there,” you said softly with his cock on your hand.

Joel huffed a laugh, low and almost incredulous. “You talkin’ to my cock now?”

“Maybe,” you said to Joel, before focusing your eyes back to his cock. “Hello again,” you said sweetly, leaning in to kiss the head. “Missed me?”

His breath was already hitching, you took it as a good sign and did it again, this time licking the head in slow, teasing circles, letting your tongue slip under the ridge.

“Look at you. Such a good boy. Getting all big and strong for me.”

Joel groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. You’re one of a kind, baby girl.”

You batted your lashes up at him. “You like it.”

“I love it,” he muttered, eyes fixed on your mouth as you gave another teasing lick up the underside. “Love my silly baby girl talkin’ nonsense while she plays with her food.”

You giggled and leaned in, rubbing your cheek affectionately against his cock like it was a plush toy. And then you leaned down and kissed it with over-the-top reverence, soft little “muah” sounds, little nose nuzzles. You really liked his cock, sure, it was the only one you’d ever seen in person, so you didn’t exactly have a reference point, but still… if you had to guess? It was the kind of cock a woman would want

He gave you that slow, dangerous smirk. “You gonna make out with him right in front of me, baby?”

You nodded solemnly. “Don’t be jealous, daddy. He deserves love too.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain, throwing his head back on the pillow. “Christ, you’re such a goddamn brat.”

You were driving him absolutely insane, on your knees, looking like a sweet little angel who’d fallen from heaven, your innocent little face nuzzling all over his cock, rubbing your cheek against it, pressing soft kisses… He wanted so badly to grab your hair, shove his cock down your throat and hold you there as he emptied his balls.

You kept flicking your tongue over his tip over and over again, watching as it began to leak more

“I’m your brat.”

“Damn right you are,” he said roughly, running a hand through your hair. “My sweet dumb baby. Givin’ daddy a heart attack every time she opens her mouth.”

“He missed me,” you whispered, tongue tracing around his tip. “He loves my mouth, doesn’t he?”

Joel’s voice dropped, rough and sweet and low. “Yeah, baby. He does. You got the best fuckin’ mouth. He wants you drooling all over him, don’t he?”

“Mhm.” You licked a fat stripe up the underside, then wrapped your lips around the head, making Joel moan, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “You been practicin’ in your dreams or somethin’, baby girl?”

You smiled against him. “Just been thinkin’ about it,” you whispered. “Thinkin’ about makin’ you feel good.”

“Better just be that,” Joel groaned, “and not you practicin’ on any of those boys from round town.”

“Jooeeel,” you giggled, sweet and teasing, “you know I don’t want anyone else but daddy.”

He growled, and you let your lips close around the tip and sucked, hollowing your cheeks, going slow, shallow, just the tip, in and out, working your hand at the base to match like he'd taught you last time.

“Atta girl,” Joel groaned. “That’s it. Look at you. My good girl. My perfect little cockslut.” Joel’s hand came to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just resting.

“Jesus, baby. You’re learnin’. Makin’ daddy feel so good…”

You moaned around him, and he twitched in your mouth, the vibrations were just adding to the intense pleasure you were already giving him.

“Fuck—yeah, do that again. Moan on it. Shit.”

You moaned and took him a little deeper, your throat felt tight, but you were determined, wanting to prove him you were a big girl, one that could take his entire cock in your mouth. You pulled back after you ran out of breath, and sucked softly on the tip, letting spit drip and smear down your fist.

He groaned loud. “Look at you,” he panted. “Look at this fuckin’ mouth, takin’ my cock so sweet. You were made for this, baby girl.”

You got bolder by his compliments, and licked down to the base and back up again. Let the head rest on your tongue and gazed up at him, eyes wide and wet, mouth full.

“Oh fuck, baby—don’t look at me like that, I swear to God—”

“You like that?” You asked, lips glossy with spit. “You like watchin’ me do it?”

“I love watchin’ you do it,” he growled. “You’re so good, baby. S’good for me. This mouth’s made for suckin’ daddy’s cock.”

You whimpered, and he caught your face in both hands, gently guiding you down again, rocking his hips just a little. He needed it, yes, he loved the gentle flicks of your tongue, the toying with his tip, but right now he needed to hit the back of your throat.

“You take what I give you,” he murmured. “Little bit deeper now. That’s it. Just like that. My good girl. Take him all the way. Show him how much you love him.”

You worked him with your mouth and hand together, taking breaks to lick, to suck, to breathe—and each time you paused, he praised you, whispered filth like you were doing him the biggest favor in the world.

“Goddamn, baby, you’re so pretty like this… pretty mouth full of me…”

“Yeah, just like that, take your time… fuck, I ain’t gonna last…”

“You feel how hard I am for you? You know what you do to me, baby girl?”

You sucked him harder, hand twisting at the base, Joel groaned, full-bodied and deep. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Ain’t gonna last another minute with you takin’ it like that.”

You whimpered around him, thighs squeezing together. Just his moans and those bold, filthy compliments were enough to get you wet and aching.

“Aw, baby’s gettin’ wet just suckin’ cock, huh? Poor little thing. Gonna need me later?”

You nodded, still bobbing, spit running down your chin. You pulled off just enough to murmur:

“He’s gettin’ twitchy.”

Joel grunted. “Yeah? You feel him startin’ to cum?”

“Warn me, daddy,” you said around him. “But I’m not stoppin’.”

You smiled and sucked him back into your mouth, sucking deep, and you didn’t let go until he was shaking, grunting, hips stuttering.

“F-Fuck… baby—daddy’s cummin’, he’s cummin’—fuck, right now—” Joel groaned, voice rough and desperate, his hips jerking up into you as the pleasure overtook him.

He came down your throat, hot and thick and salty, you liked the taste of it more than you did last time. You swallowed around him, let him ride it out in your mouth, his hands cradling the back of your head, thumbs stroking your cheeks like you were precious.

When you finally pulled off, he was panting, staring down at you like he didn’t know what hit him.

“Holy fuck, baby…”

You smiled, wiped the corner of your mouth. “Did I do good?”

Joel laughed, breathless. “You did perfect.” It was only the second time you’d sucked him, and you’d already outrun every other woman who’d ever been in his life.

He pulled you up onto his lap, arms tight around you. His thigh shifted beneath you, solid and warm, and you didn’t realize you were grinding down against it until he did.

“Ohh,” he said lowly, voice nearly a growl. “There she goes.”

You froze, a little ashamed by the fact that you were so horny you hadn’t even realized you were unconsciously humping his thigh, but Joel leaned in, lips brushing your cheek. “Don’t stop now, sweetheart. Keep ridin' me like that.”

Your eyes fluttered. “On… on your thigh?”

He nodded slowly, letting his hand drag up the curve of your back. “Mhm. That’s it. That’s what a sweet, shy girl like you needs. Nothin’ too scary. Just daddy’s thigh to start.”

“Joel,” you whispered, embarrassed and overwhelmed and aching so bad.

“S’just like dancin’, baby,” he cooed. “You know how to move your hips, don’t you?”

You nodded shyly, lashes still wet from sucking him, clutching at his shoulders. He adjusted your legs so you were straddling one thick, muscled thigh, your knees braced on either side of his, making you feel the corded muscle shift under you.

“Try movin’,” Joel whispered, voice all honeyed patience. “Rock your hips on me. Just a little to begin with. Just rub your sweet lil’ pussy on my thigh. Pretend it’s my cock if you want.”

You hesitated, but then rolled your hips forward, slowly dragging your clothed pussy over the ridge of his thigh, the friction made you gasp and clutch your fingers on his shirt.

“There we go,” Joel cooed. “See? That feel good? That’s what I’m gonna teach you to do all on your own. Go slow at first. Just lil’ rocks, baby.”

“Oh…”

“Atta girl. You’re doin’ so good. S’just like that.”

You moved again, the soft cotton of your panties growing damper with every pass. Joel watched you like a starving man, eyes hooded, hands staying right at your hips, guiding your movements.

Your breath came quicker as your clit caught on the firm pressure beneath you. The friction was perfect through your panties, rough enough to spark pleasure but safe enough not to scare you.

“Feel good, baby?”

You whimpered. “Y-yeah.”

“You ridin’ me now, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Even if it’s just my thigh. So desperate to be a big girl, you just had to feel it, huh?”

You nodded, moving again, this time more confidently, moaning under your breath as the pressure hit just right.

“Aw, my poor baby,” he whispered, mock sympathy dripping from every word. “Look at you grindin’ all over me like you need it to breathe.”

Your cheeks burned, you buried your face in his neck as your hips rocked faster. “Feels so good, daddy…”

“I know it does. This is what happens when you trust me to teach you. I’ll show you everythin’, baby. Start you slow… get you used to it.”

You moaned into his skin, your clit catching just right on his thigh.

“Bet you’re gettin’ your pretty panties all wet, huh?”

You whimpered again in response.

“Yeah, I can feel it,” he growled. “Soakin’ through. You keep goin’, baby girl. Use me. Rub that little pussy right on me ‘til you cum.”

“God, Joel, it—feels so good—”

He nodded, hand sliding up your back. “I know it does, sweetheart. That’s your little pussy learnin’ how to get off. Keep goin’ for me

“Joel—”

“You need to cum,” he said, gently but firmly. “You need it, don’t you?”

“I—I think so—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned. “Think real hard. Wanna cum for me, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately, now chasing every movement of your hips, the pressure was building and building, your clit throbbing against the strength of his thigh. He let you do your thing, just watched you unravel slowly, whispering praise like poison in your ear.

“That’s it. Just like that. Look at you—so sweet and dumb, so fuckin’ precious. Bet if I let you cum like this, you’ll be beggin’ me to show you what ridin’ my cock feels like next, huh?”

“I think—I think I’m gonna—Joel—”

You cried out, back arching, your thighs shaking as the orgasm hit. It was hot and dizzying and so much stronger than you expected just from grinding him, but you’d never done anything like this, never been talked through it like this, handled like this. You kept rocking even through it, drawn-out and needy, until Joel’s hands stilled you.

“Shh. That’s it. That’s enough, baby. I got you.”

Joel held you close through it, murmuring praise into your hair, arms wrapped around you like you were something breakable. When your breath finally slowed and your hips stilled, you whispered, “Joel…”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Yeah, baby?”

You swallowed, voice small. “I think I’m ready.”

He stilled, blinking, breathing harder now.

“Yeah?” he said after a second, thumb still pressed to your mouth. “You sure, sweetheart? Don’t say it if you’re not. I can wait. I’ll fuckin’ wait forever for you.”

You nodded. “I want it to be you.”

Even though that orgasm had been mind-blowing, your body was still craving more. You were a little scared, but you knew Joel loved you, and that he’d take such good care of you in every step of the way.

Joel let out a shaky, wrecked sound and leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, your lips. He kissed you like you’d given him something holy. He felt so honored to be the one, the only one, to take that part of you. To be the first cock to stretch you open, to fill you up completely.

“Alright,” he rasped. “Alright, baby girl. We’ll go slow. Real slow. I got you.”

He laid you spread open on the bed, softly, like you were made out of glass. He kissed down your chest, your stomach, your thighs, murmuring as he went.

“I just…” You swallowed, cheeks burning. “I’m nervous. I don’t know what it’s gonna feel like.”

Joel exhaled softly, his voice dropped low.

“S’a stretch, baby. First time always is. You might hurt some. But I’ll be right here the whole time. I’ll help you through it. You just gotta listen to me, yeah?”

You nodded.

“Gonna be s’good for me,” he breathed. “You’ve been s’good for me already, haven’t you? Lettin’ me teach you. Lettin’ me touch you. And now you’re gonna let me take you all the way. That what you want, baby? Want daddy to take your little virgin pussy?”

Your thighs trembled. “Y-Yeah.”

Joel pulled back just long enough to wrap his hand around himself, hard, and heavy, all over again.

“Look at this cock, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You really think you’re ready for all this?”

Your eyes flicked to his cock, shy but sure, it was all you needed right now. “I want it.”

He groaned, moving between your thighs again. “Alright. Gonna give you just a little first, okay? Gotta stretch you open slow, baby. I ain’t lettin’ you hurt.”

His fingers stroked through your folds, slick and ready, spreading you for him, and then you felt the broad head of his cock, warm and insistent, pressing right at your entrance.

“Deep breath,” Joel said, his voice like velvet. “Just the tip first, like last time. Let daddy in.”

You exhaled, and he took that moment to push forward, just barely, just enough to breach you. You gasped, your whole body tightened around him instinctively, but Joel was already soothing you, already leaning over you with kisses and murmurs and praise.

You gasped—your hands flew to his arms, nails digging in. “Joel—oh—wait—”

“Shh, shh,” he soothed. “I know, baby. I know. It’s a lot. Daddy’s so sorry.”

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. You were shaking, even if he wasn’t moving.

he whispered. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “Just… hurts more than I thought.”

“I know, baby. I know it hurts. Just breathe f’me. You’re doin’ great.”

You tried to breathe through it, feeling the dull burn of being opened by something too big, too thick, but still, you wanted it, you wanted him.

“Shhh, baby, that’s it. You’re doin’ so good. Tight little thing, ain’t you? Gonna suck me in so sweet. I knew you’d be tight, but fuck—you’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You let out a shaky laugh that turned into a cry as he gave another slow push.

“It’s a lot, huh?” he whispered against your ear. “Big cock stretchin’ you for the first time. Feels full, don’t it?”

You nodded, jaw trembling. “So full.”

“Too much?”

“No. Keep going, daddy.”

His breath hitched. “Jesus. You’re so fuckin’ brave, baby girl.”

And then finally—finally—he was all the way in, buried to the hilt, making you gasp again. Joel froze, holding you tightly, his whole body shaking above yours.

“Christ,” he groaned. “You took all of me. First time and you’re takin’ me so goddamn deep. That pussy was made for me. You feel that?”

You could only nod. Tears prickled the corners of your eyes. Joel looked down, utterly wrecked by the sight of your pussy swallowing him whole, of that tight little hole stretched around him.

You could feel everything, every twitch, every throb, every part of him stretching you open in ways you’d never imagined. It hurt, he was so big, and your body was struggling to take it, but you knew the pain would fade, your just needed to give your body a minute to stretch, to get used to him, and once it passed, the good part would come.

Joel rocked gently, barely moving, just letting your body adjust. You whimpered at the pressure, at the fullness, at the intensity of it all.

Joel just babied you. “Such a sweet girl. So fuckin’ brave. You lettin’ me be your first, baby? Makin’ me feel honored.”

“Don’t move yet,” you whispered. “Just… stay.”

“I ain’t movin’,” Joel said. “You tell me when. This pussy belongs to you until you give me permission.”

Your heart ached by how sweet he was, you wrapped your arms around his neck, held on, breathed, and slowly, the pain dulled, the sting turned to heat, the fullness turned to need, you needed more, you desperatly needed friction.

“Okay,” you whispered. “You can move now.”

Joel pulled back, just a little, and then rolled his hips forward, slow and steady. And again, and again. Each stroke made you gasp, made you cling to his shoulders, the feeling of him sliding deep, hot and heavy and perfect, dragging against every tender, untouched nerve inside you.

Every thrust was shallow, slow, careful, but it still made your thighs tremble. The pain was a shadow now, replaced with a tight, delicious ache and something filthy blooming low in your belly.

“Good girl,” he kept whispering. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. I knew you would. This sweet little pussy was just waitin’ for me, wasn’t it?”

You moaned so loud your throat felt sore. You would’ve been so embarrassed if you hadn’t been so completely lost in the overwhelming, electric pleasure coursing through your body.

He was trying to hold back, trying to stay gentle, because he knew how important a first time was, and you were his baby, you deserved for it to be nothing but soft and sweet. But in the back of his mind, he was already tasting the future, already imagining how he’d have you in all fours soon, when your body was ready to take more. He’d be rough then, fucking you deep and hard, just like he knew you’d want it once you got a real taste of him. But not now. Not yet.

“You wanted this cock,” he murmured. “You needed it. Wanted daddy to teach you how to take it. Fuck—look at you, baby girl, takin’ every inch. Buryin’ my cock all the way in this perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, not quite from pain anymore, but from how full and overwhelmed you were. Joel kissed them away, he started to move faster, the heat built with every slow thrust, every slick grind of his hips against yours, and then his hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts.

You arched under him, sobbing louder now, overwhelmed and shaking from how deep he was. It felt like he was in your stomach, stretching places you didn’t even know could feel pleasure.

“J-Joel, it’s so much,” you whimpered. “I—didn’t know it could feel like this.”

He groaned low, voice thick and wrecked.

“That’s right, baby. That’s me all the way up in there,” he murmured, pressing his palm flat against your lower belly, feeling the bulge where his cock reached so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock. Want this little pussy to milk me dry. Can you do that for me, baby?”

“Y-Yes—yes—Joel—”

You didn’t even have to try, the tip of his cock found that perfect spot inside you, that sweet, aching place you didn’t even know could feel that good, and the moment he hit it you saw stars, and then he hit it again… and again… and again.

You came hard, it was all so new, so perfect. You clenched around him, voice breaking, and the spasms of your cunt made Joel snap. His thrusts got rougher, deeper, his hips stuttering as he groaned your name over and over again.

“I’m gonna cum—fuck—gonna fill you up, baby girl, give you every fuckin’ drop—mine, you hear me? This pussy’s mine.”

He spilled inside you, grinding deep, holding you to him as you both fell apart. You clung to him, trembling, panting, tears still slipping down your cheeks. It was strange, so strange, a sudden heat blooming inside you, you swore you could feel his thick and warm seed being spilled inside you, and then sliding back out, dripping from your sore, used hole, slick and messy between your thighs. You whimpered at the sensation, so sensitive now that even the slow trickle of it made you twitch.

“You did so good,” he whispered. “So goddamn good. You’re mine now, baby. Every part of you.”

Afterward, Joel gave a few slow, shallow thrusts to push his cum deeper inside you before going completely soft. Even as he pulled out with a low groan, he watched the last of his seed slowly drip from your hole.

“Fuck… look at that, baby,” he rasped, his voice still thick with lust and awe. “Can’t even keep it in. I filled you that good.”

You could barely speak, barely breathe. All you could do was lay there and feel his release leaking out of you in hot waves.

“Daddy made a mess in you,” he murmured, his thumb gently playing with the warm slickness, spreading it over your folds and making you flinch from the sudden sensitivity. “D’you want me to clean you up, baby?”

“Mmm, can I stay like this, daddy?” you whispered. “I wanna feel you inside me.”

It felt… nice. Comforting, even. Being this marked by him. Joel just nodded, he didn’t move away from you, he just stroked your face, your hair, kissed your cheeks and whispered how good you’d done, how proud he was, how much he loved you.

And even though your body ached, your legs were still trembling, and your thighs were sticky with him, you felt safer than you ever had in your life.

He kissed your face, your hair, your lips. You were still crying a little.

“You did so good, baby girl,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ good f’me. I’m so proud of you.”

You held onto him, safe in his arms, and whispered.

“…I love you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. “I love you too, sweetheart. More than I ever thought I could.”

A/N: This definitely ended up being much longer than I intended, especially for pure porn without plot, lol

I’m so happy to see how much you liked the previous part I posted🥹 I immediately started writing this other one, and I hope you enjoy it just as much. If you do, please consider showing some support, it would mean the world to me🩷🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[nekoashiii]

Hiii Ashi!! I have a request! Can you make one where the lads love interest are showing MC/Reader affection by kissing or hugging her in front of their children? I would LOVE to their children's reaction ^^

Notes: How i feel after disappearing and re appearing, also incase you don't know whenever i say tonight i mean the next night (●'◡'●)

Pairings: Dad!Lads/MC + Their kid (Part 1: Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne)

Extra: Masterlist || Sylus and Xavier will be on part two

Zayne:

The clock above the stove ticked softly, its hands inching past midnight.

Zayne ran a tired hand through his slightly tousled hair as he leaned back on the couch. His white shirt was wrinkled, the scent of hospital antiseptic still faint on his skin. The tie had been the first casualty the moment he stepped through the door. Now it lay somewhere near the front shoe rack, forgotten in favor of the warm home. and you.

You’d been waiting. Despite the exhaustion in your bones from days of Constant Wanderer missions, you’d stayed up just for this. For the quiet comfort between you two, For him. The two of you sat side by side now, a half-finished dinner sitting on the table, the sound of some low, peaceful movie playing on the screen, though neither of you were really watching it anymore.

He turned slightly, eyes tracing your profile in the dim living room light. “You’re still in one piece, celebration worthy” he murmured, voice low and warm.

You smiled faintly. “Just barely. Wanderers don’t take breaks.”

“Neither do surgeons” he replied, and his hand brushed against yours.

You shifted closer to him without thinking. It was one of those small, shared silences. The ones filled with so much more than words could express.

Zayne exhaled, pulling his arm around your shoulders, settling you against his side. His head tilted to press a slow kiss to your temple, just the kind of tired affection built from years of choosing each other again and again, even when everything else demanded otherwise.

He kissed you again, this time lingering near your cheekbone, fingertips brushing your arm. Your body eased into his side, melting into the rare comfort.

And then—

SSLLLUUUURP.

You both froze.

Zayne stiffened mid-movement.

Another sluuurp, unmistakably from a juice box, echoed from somewhere in the room.

Very slowly, you turned your head toward the sound.

Standing in the corner of the living room, half in the shadows and completely still, was Elias.

Wide-eyed. Tiny. Hair sticking up in every direction. Holding a grape juice box in one hand and sipping it with all the dramatics of a cartoon villain.

Zayne blinked. “...Elias?”

The six-year-old didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sipped.

You sat up straight, heart thumping. “I thought you were asleep!”

“I was…” Elias said flatly, lowering the juice. “Then I heard Dad come home. And i was thirsty, and i couldn't reach the glass cupboard for water...”

Zayne ran a hand down his face, half-laughing in disbelief. “You scared us. You were just standing there.”

Elias took another slow sip, completely unaffected. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You squinted. “Interrupt what?”

He looked between you and Zayne, blinked slowly, then stared at the TV like the answer was too obvious to say out loud.

Zayne sighed. “Elias… were you watching us this whole time?”

The boy gave a single nod.

Zayne looked almost horrified. “Why?”

Elias shrugged. “You were...hugging. I didn’t know if I was supposed to say something.”

You stifled a laugh and patted the seat next to you. “Come here, juice ghost.”

He climbed onto the couch, wedging himself firmly between you and Zayne. He leaned slightly against his father, still holding the juice box with both hands like a protective artifact, knowing daddy deary might start nagging on the fact that he drank sugary liquid late at night.

“You should go to bed,” Zayne said softly, glancing down at his son.

“Okay. later” Elias leaned closer into him, almost shyly. “I just wanted to… be here.”

Zayne blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching. He draped an arm around Elias wordlessly, pulling him in without a fuss.

The three of you sat there in the quiet.

The movie played on.

Rafayel:

The bridge glowed under warm, golden lights strung between its beams like stars, their reflections glittering in the water below. The night air was cool but not cold it was perfect, the breeze was carrying a soft scent of sugar and sea salt from the snack carts lining the cobblestone walkway of the bridge. Tourists bustled everywhere. couples holding hands, kids licking their ice creams, musicians strumming guitars with bright smiles.

Rafayel, always the picture of effortless elegance, walked beside you with a quiet kind of pride. His dark-ish purple hair fell slightly over his brow, ruffled by the sea breeze. A charcoal-grey scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The edges of his long coat brushed against his boots as he strolled at a relaxed pace, holding a paper cone of roasted chestnuts. Feeding seraphina some.

Your hand was clasped firmly in his. Seraphina skipped ahead of you, her curls bouncing, face sticky from the powdered donuts she’d practically inhaled ten minutes ago. She was wearing the little yellow jacket you picked out for her months ago but never got the chance to give until now.

“Look, look!” Seraphina shouted, rushing toward the side of the bridge. “There’s a boat down there with pink lights!”

Rafayel chuckled, shifting his hand so his fingers laced through yours more tightly. “This place is surreal,” he murmured. “Almost feels like it was painted for us.”

You smiled at that. “Spoken like a man who’s painted enough cities to know.”

He stopped, tugging you just slightly closer to the railing, his voice lowering so only you could hear it. “No painting I’ve ever made could compare to you in this light”

You flushed and rolled your eyes at him, even as your heart fluttered. “You’re embarrassing.”

“I should be. I was gone for two weeks in Paris.” He leaned in slowly, his hand moving to the small of your back. “Missed everything. Especially this face.”

Before you could respond, Rafayel dipped his head and kissed you—soft and sure. Not rushed at all, Just the kind of kiss that said I know you. I love you. I’m home.

You melted into it for a breath or two, your hand settling lightly against his chest.

Then—

“EWWWWWWWW!”

The high-pitched shriek of your daughter cracked through the moment like a bottle dropped on tile.

You broke the kiss, laughing into Rafayel’s coat as Seraphina clutched each of your legs like she was about to faint. Her cheeks were puffed, her eyes wide with theatrical horror.

“I saw that!” she squealed. “Daaaad, that’s so gross! as gross as a legless crab!”

Rafayel grinned, turning toward her with an utterly unrepentant expression. “Your mom’s beautiful.You know I’m allowed little fishy.”

“Not in public!” Seraphina squeaked, stamping her foot. “Other people are looking! They’re gonna think you guys are in love!”

“Oh nooo, what shall we do now?! the seas are going to dry up and its all going to be my faullttt!” he said sarcastically, bending down to pick her up despite her squirming protests.

“Yes daddy! it is, and you two are married. That’s different from being in love!” she protested, though she was giggling as she tried to wriggle out of his arms.

You laughed, watching Rafayel nuzzle his cheek against hers while she let out a muffled scream of mock indignation. “Stop kissing everyone! You’re gonna get me cooties!”

“That’s the risk you take when you travel with artists,” Rafayel said, his eyes flicking to you with a wink. “We’re known for being passionate.”

"no!” Seraphina, now draped like a limp cat in her father’s arms.

“You didn't get that from me,” you teased, pinching her nose lightly.

“No, I get my normal me from you!”

“See?” Rafayel chuckled. “Now she’s turning into a critic. We’re doomed.”

Eventually, Seraphina insisted on walking again—only after Rafayel promised not to kiss anyone for the rest of the bridge walk. She marched forward with her chest puffed and her donut box like a shield, keeping at least a foot of distance in case her parents got weird again.

But every few seconds, you caught her glancing back. Her eyes were squinted suspiciously, sure, but they held something else too.

Joy.

Caleb:

It’s been a long day, you’ve been working two missions back to back in the new work program that the hunter’s association has established, also thanks to that Caleb had to take some shifts off to take care of your little 7 year old son Noah.

The sun was already setting by the time you trudged up the front porch steps, the weight of your gear dragging at your limbs. Your boots were covered in dust and dirt, Your shoulder throbbed from the recoil of your blaster rifle. Two missions back-to-back was brutal. But eversince your boss had been moved and replaced, the new work program at the Hunter’s Association didn’t exactly ask if you were tired. You were one of the few capable of handling the more grotesque, unpredictable alien creatures that kept breaching containment zones. So, you did what you always did: pushed through.

The scent of grilled cheese and Fried wings wafted through the front door the moment you stepped inside. The lights were warm and soft. Your hearing still rang faintly from the concussive force of earlier explosions, but even so, you caught the faint patter of socks on hardwood before you heard the shout:

“MOM!”

You barely had time to drop your pack before Noah launched himself at you like a guided missile, arms flung wide. He crashed into your legs with all the force his small body could manage, wrapping himself tightly around your waist.

“Whoa—hey, kiddo,” you breathed, crouching down, even though your back screamed in protest. “Easy, I’m still in one piece. I promise!”

Noah sniffled, clearly holding back tears. “You said just one mission.”

“I know,” you said, brushing his messy black hair back. “Got reassigned last minute. You know how it is.”

Caleb’s footsteps came from the kitchen, heavy and precise. “That’s not an excuse” he said, but his voice was quiet.

You looked up at him.

He had the sleeves of his gray undershirt rolled to the his biceps, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. His uniform jacket was draped over a nearby chair. His hair was slightly tousled—clearly Noah had gotten his hands in it earlier, but his eyes, those stormy Purplish pink eyes, locked on yours like you were the only person in the room.

“You’re home,” he said simply.

You nodded. “Mhm”

He didn’t say anything else. He just walked forward, wrapped an arm firmly around your shoulder, and pulled you into him. You let your face fall against his chest. The warmth of him, the strength, the safety, for a few seconds, it melted every ache of your bruises and every ugly image from the day. His hand smoothed down your back, a firm, slow drag. Then you felt him tilt his head down and press a lingering kiss to your temple, right against the place where your skin was still smudged with ash.

You closed your eyes. Sank into it.

And then—

“EWWWWWW!”

Caleb didn’t move. His lips curved against your skin instead.

“Disgusting!” Noah wailed, half-laughing, half-betrayed. “That’s—gross, Daddy!”

You pulled back just enough to glance at your son. He was standing there with both hands over his eyes, fingers spread wide enough to peek through, his nose scrunched like he’d smelled rotten milk.

Caleb smirked. “It’s affection, Noah. You better get used to it.”

“No! You’re not supposed to kiss Mom! She’s a Hunter! She fights monsters, she’s cool, she doesn’t get kissed like that!” Noah flailed his arms dramatically and dropped to the couch like he was dying.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Hunters don’t get affection, huh?” you teased, glancing at Caleb.

“I guess I missed the memo,” Caleb said, brushing your hair off your cheek and leaning in again—purposefully slower this time—to press a quick kiss to your lips.

Noah screamed again. “DADDY STOP! I’M RIGHT HERE!”

“Then stop looking,” Caleb muttered with zero remorse, pulling you even closer.

“I have EYES!”

You chuckled, resting your forehead against Caleb’s. “Come on now, no more, He’s gonna lose it.”

“He’ll survive,” he murmured. Then, quieter, meant only for you: “I missed you.”

You softened. “I missed you too.”

Behind you, Noah was flailing around on the couch again, trying to smother himself with a pillow and declaring that this was “THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE.”

Caleb rolled his eyes but gave you a final squeeze before letting you go. “Come on Pipsqueak 1 and 2 . Food is still warm.”

[ay0nha]

When the Music’s Over | Dr. Jack Abbot

SUMMARY: Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something heavy, but the words caught in his throat and never came. Instead, he gave a short, quiet nod, like he was tucking whatever that was into his chest for later.

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 27, Prompt: "Even though the road to get here was long, at last I am home." (I reworded it to fit a little better sorry x) Color: Green

PAIRING: Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader (physician assistant)

WORD COUNT: 7.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled confessions, veteran affairs (I have OPINIONS on the care of veterans and today's political climate/military industrial complex BUT held back from making this political but fuck the government), group meeting/therapy, allusions to PTSD and what comes with being a combat veteran, prothesis/amuptation conversations, religious jokes-ish, smoking, mainly just all angst to fluff, NOT proofread so be kind, movie magic plot, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! This was really cathartic to write as it hits home some, so I hope you all enjoy. Thank you to @fuckoffbard for listening and helping. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED! THEY FUEL ME!

The clinic lights always tried to mimic the morning light, but it was always too sterile, too awake. There was no natural gradient to welcome you into a new day. Instead, it was the kind of light that made you feel like you hadn’t slept enough, and never would, even if you had.  

You were the first to arrive. It was hard to lose the habit, but it gave you time to review the backlog of missed calls. The quiet preparation was the only time you had to decompress before the day, but the rusted bell rang, knowing you never truly got reprieve. 

Not many came in this early. Certainly not without appointments. Most regulars were punctual, others late, flustered, avoiding eye contact like the entire hallway and staff were some kind of moral jury. 

Yet, this man was already looking at you. You turned, and there he was. 

You were met with an already long day’s worth of stubble, a jacket zipped halfway, and a UPMC badge dangling low like a relic from a night shift not long ended. His shoulders filled the doorway like he hadn’t quite committed to being inside yet. 

However, you recognized him immediately. Abbot, Jack. Early 50s. Transtibial amputation of rthe ight leg. Two canceled appointments in March. One in April. No follow-up scheduled. 

His chart was one of those you flagged mentally; he was the kind of patient who only walked through the door once a year, just long enough to keep his services active before disappearing for another twelve-month stretch. 

Jack cleared his throat, low. “You take walk-ins?”

You blinked. Technically…no. Not this early. Not without calling ahead. Not when it was a physical rather than an urgent medical concern. Yet, your mouth moved before policy could catch up. 

“Give me a moment to get you checked in.” You nodded, words automatic and practiced.  “First and last name?”

He looked like he might leave right there. But then he exhaled—just enough air to say: Okay. I’ll stay.

“Jack. Abbot. Had an appointment a while back…” He spoke like his confession would make up for wasted time and resources. “...couldn’t make it.”

You hummed, tapping the keyboard, pretending to scroll through the records you already knew by heart. 

“Well,” You stared, standing. “Third time’s a charm.”

Guiding him through the narrow hallway, your shoes hit softly on the tile, linoleum too thin to hide the grout lines from the floor beneath. The overhead lights buzzed in that tired, mechanical way fluorescent bulbs always do after too many years and too few replacements. You moved past mismatched wall sconces and half-peeling placards that still bore the faint imprint of a previous tenant’s brass plates.

This place used to be a law office.

You could see it in the layout; the corner turns that led to nowhere, the heavy wooden doors that didn’t quite fit the newer hinges. Even the break room still had a long strip of polished wood where the receptionist’s counter once stood. Someone had slapped a rack of patient forms on it. A forced transformation.

Rented-out facility. Government-issued furniture. Nothing quite fit. Everything was too small, too sterile, or too hollow. And somehow, that made it perfect for a VA satellite clinic. A place repurposed by necessity. Like most things touched by war.

Jack didn’t make small talk, and you didn’t push. Glancing back, you could see the way he moved, shoulders slightly hunched, but still alert. He walked like someone used to being in charge of emergencies, but bone-tired from them, too. Like the ground might shake, but if it did, he’d know what to do. He just didn’t want to anymore.

Exam Room One. 

You gestured him in, and he stepped through without hesitation. The room was small, cold in the way all clinics are. Pale blue walls, a single high window smudged with old tape residue, and an exam table that creaked when he sat on it, the paper crackling beneath him. 

You picked up the prepared clipboard. 

“Before we get started, any changes in your health since your last visit?”

Jack’s mouth twitched like he might say something sardonic, but it passed. He shook his head.

“Still breathing.” He gave a slight nod. No argument. No complaint. Just a quiet readiness, like someone used to being told what to do in a language he didn’t bother translating anymore.

“Good place to start.”

You ran through the intake questions like you always did, but you kept your tone light, measured. You knew better than to fill silence with something unworthy. Especially not with veterans like Jack; men who’d learned how to hear the things people didn’t say.

You moved slowly, on purpose. You’d learned, over time, that fast hands spooked the ones who carried invisible wounds. As you stepped closer to take his vitals, you noted the small details: the subtle shift of his leg as he adjusted, the way he sat still, like movement required permission now, but his gaze tracked you steadily. Quiet. Present. 

Different than most.

Most avoided eye contact when you got close. Looked at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Or the floor that looked like it had been washed a thousand times but never once looked clean. Jack didn’t. His eyes followed your hands, your shoulders, your breath. Not intrusively. Just like someone trained to read a room for danger. Or maybe reassurance.

You wrapped the cuff around his arm, checking the alignment. The Velcro hissed softly. He didn’t flinch.

“BP’s holding steady. Good.” You murmured more to yourself to note. Then, you glanced up at him with a touch of dry levity, “I’ll let you keep your driver’s license.”

That got a small exhale of amusement.

Encouraged by the break in tension, however slight, you reached for the stethoscope slung around your neck. The room was cool, and the metal already had that unforgiving chill to it. Out of habit, you rubbed your hands together briskly, trying to warm your fingers before touching him. The stethoscope, however, was another story. 

You curled the diaphragm in your palm to try and bring it to room temperature, but you knew from experience it would still be cold against skin. Jack didn’t comment, just pulled the thin cotton of his shirt up without being asked.

You stepped closer, moving to his left side, and placed the warmed back of your hand against his ribs first as a courtesy, a warning. 

“This’ll be cold.” You commented apologetically as you pressed the stethoscope against him. 

Jack gave a small grunt in acknowledgment, but didn’t pull away.

The chill made his skin prick instantly. You saw its trail along the slope of his side, pale against old scars and the faded outline of a long-healed abrasion near his flank. 

“Deep breath in.” You instructed gently. He inhaled. You listened. “Again.” 

The sound of his lungs filled the bell, steady, hollow, the faint pull of old tension sitting low in his chest. You knew what clear lungs were supposed to sound like, and Jack’s weren’t far from it, but there was something shallow in the way he exhaled. Something practiced. Measured, like he was holding back.

“Again.”

He breathed in deeper this time, like he wanted to prove something. You moved the stethoscope slightly, trailing it across the muscle between his ribs.

You were close enough to feel the shift in his posture, how still he went once your hand touched him. Not rigid. Just very aware. Another breath. Another exhale.

“Any shortness?” You asked, moving to his back, your hand brushing the curve of his shoulder blade.

“No.” He breathed out. “Just tired.”

You let out a small hum in acknowledgment, pressing the stethoscope to the space between his spine and scapula. The hush of his breathing filled your ears again.

He inhaled. You listened. Something shallow in the left lobe, but not worrying. Just tension. The kind that never really leaves the body once it learned the shape of impact. You noted the way his shoulders resisted it, like his ribs had forgotten how to fully trust their own expansion.

You placed the stethoscope lightly to the left of his sternum first, where the apex beat lived beneath the ribs and years. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath under your palm as you steadied yourself. The silence narrowed around you.

His heartbeat thudded into your ears: slow, firm, echoing.

“Heart sounds good.” 

Normal S1 and S2 heart sounds. No murmurs, gallops, or rubs auscultated. You knew he knew this. 

You pulled the stethoscope away gently, but your hand lingered, resting for just a second longer over the center of his chest. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you just wanted to feel it. Really feel it.

That was the thing about hearts. You could listen all day, but you never really knew what they were holding until they trembled under your palm.

You scanned his chart again, thumb grazing the line that made you pause the first time. Chronic low back pain. No follow-up. Recommend monitoring posture w/ prosthetic use.

Still unresolved. You moved behind him, palm resting lightly between his shoulders.

“Your last visit flagged some lower back strain.” Your tone was neutral, leaving space for more. “Flares up when you’re on your feet too long?”

Jack gave a faint grunt. “Sounds like something they’d put in just to make me come back.”

“Well—” You applied gentle pressure down his spine. “—if that was the plan, it worked.”

He didn’t respond, just sat steady as your fingers pressed lower, feeling through the tension under his shirt. When you neared the curve, you slowed, palpating carefully on either side of the spine. You knew where to look, especially with someone bearing the uneven weight.

“It’s important to check for overcompensation.” You continued quietly. “If the alignment’s off, you’ll feel it in the back long before the leg.”

“I’m fine.” Jack huffed, low. 

You looked up at him. “Do you ever rest the site? Or let it breathe?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Which meant rarely. You marked that silently.

“The hospital isn’t exactly known for scheduled rest periods.” He spoke, and you could hear the smirk in his voice even if he didn’t turn. “If I sit, it’s to chart. If I stand, it’s to fix something.”

You pressed your thumb a little deeper, just left of his spine, right above the sacrum. He flinched, just a little. The smallest involuntary grunt, like a breath caught the wrong way. You let your hand settle there for a moment. Not scolding. Just noting.

“Right.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt the faint shift in his posture. Not defensive. Not defeated. 

You made the mental note and stepped to the cabinet without a word, retrieving the otoscope. The instrument clicked softly in your hand as you turned on the light. It cast a warm glow between you in the still room, humming faintly as if to fill the space your fingers had just left behind.

“Ears, then eyes.” You spoke gently. 

Jack turned slightly, letting you tip his head the way you needed. Your fingers were light under his chin, at the hinge of his jaw. The otoscope glinted softly as you angled it toward his ear.

But while you worked, Jack watched you. You could feel it, his gaze not just drifting but reading. Like he was still deciding what kind of person you were. Still trying to place you.

“You new here?” Jack finally asked. “You don’t seem like the city type.”

“Bold assumption to make so early in the morning.” You teased, pulling the light back and moving to the other side.

“Just an observation.”

“I was born here, actually…” You answered the question you always got casually. “...left for a long time. Transferred back this year.”

“VA brought you back?” Jack tilted his head slightly. You checked his pupils next, flicking the light across his eyes as they adjusted, one at a time. He didn’t squint or shy away. Just let you look.

“God, no—” You cursed. And then, to cover what threatened to leak out around the edges: “—I just sleep better here. Can’t fall asleep without the noise.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch. “Most people say the city keeps them up.”

“I like knowing something’s still moving out there,” You laughed lightly through a huff. “Ambulances, garbage trucks, people yelling outside bars. Need to fall asleep to a world still spinning…”

Jack adjusted his scrub top absentmindedly, the material wrinkled from a long shift and a longer week. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, clinical, unforgiving, same as the ones he worked under most nights. But here, in this quiet exam room with your back against the counter and your arms folded, something about the hum felt less surgical. 

“Silence gets loud, y’know?” He’d said it like a joke, but you could tell it wasn’t one.

You tilted your head, watching him—not with pity, but with that quiet, observational calm some people wore like armor. He recognized it. Carried the same kind of thing into trauma bays.

You nodded, but said nothing. You knew better than to fill the pause.

He gave a faint, humorless huff. “Anyway, that’s why I stopped in. Better here than my apartment, staring at the ceiling with my ears ringing.”

“So this is a drive-by enrollment renewal?” You smiled softly. 

“Don’t act like that’s the worst thing you’ve seen in here.”

“It’s definitely in the top ten.” You replied dryly.  “Right between the guy who thought 'disability claim' meant show-and-tell, and the Marine who cried when I told him to hydrate.”

Jack didn’t laugh, not really, but something in his posture eased, like he was letting himself rest against the moment for the first time all day. Maybe all week. His hand brushed over his knee, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm, restless in that way only people wired for emergency ever were.

He watched you write like he wasn’t used to being on the other side of the clipboard. The subject instead of the observer. It wasn’t shameful. It was something quieter than that…displacement, maybe.

“You okay over there?” You asked, teasing just a little.

“Yeah. Just...weird.” He blinked like you’d pulled him out of a thought. 

“What is?”

“Being the one getting charted.” He nodded toward your pen.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get that.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Honestly?” You thought for a moment, tapping the pen against your thigh.  “I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor.”

That got a real look out of him. Not disbelief, just confirmation. That quiet, private awareness: Of course. You too.

“It’s hard…” You admitted. “When you’re used to being the one who knows the systems. Knows what they’ll say before they say it. Harder when you can’t picture someone on the other side knowing what to do with you.”

You watched him for another beat, then let your gaze drift to the clock. Not rushed, just reminded. You were still working. 

The rhythm of the clinic moved on, woke up, even when the air between you had stilled. Somewhere down the hall, a printer coughed. A phone rang and went unanswered. Staff clocked in.

You cleared your throat. “Regardless, everything looks good— I’ll send the go-ahead so your enrollment stays active.”

Jack gave a short nod, business-like again. Like a door had been pulled mostly shut, though not all the way.

You stepped away from the counter, your hand brushing the edge of the sink as you crossed the room. He rose at the same time, out of courtesy and instinct. 

“I’ll walk you out.” You held the door open for him.

The hallway outside was waking up,  the liminal space between morning chaos and whatever came next. Jack walked beside you, not hurried, not tense. You both moved like people who’d learned how to conserve energy in sterile places.

You waited until you reached the corner near the exit, the spot where patients usually asked about paperwork or turned around to remember they’d forgotten something.

Instead, you spoke up, “We run a group. Off the books.”

Jack glanced sideways at you.

“Thursday nights—” You went on, like you were reciting a neutral fact. “—across the street, at the church. It’s in the community room. It's unofficial. No sign-in, no rank, no talking if you don’t want to. Just people who prefer the noise.”

Jack said nothing, but you didn’t mistake silence for disinterest. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure out the angle. But there wasn’t one.

You didn’t fill in the rest. Didn’t say for people like you. Didn’t have to.

He nodded slowly. Like he didn’t know what to do with the information, but he understood it wasn’t being handed out lightly.

“I know you work nights. It probably doesn’t fit your schedule.” You couldn’t help but encourage, continue. “But in case it ever, you’re always welcome.”

Then, you pushed the front door open, holding it just long enough for him to pass through. The morning was bright out there, harsher than the lighting inside. He squinted against it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He answered finally, voice quiet but deliberate.

As he stepped out, you said, without ceremony, “You already did the hard part.”

He turned halfway, brow raised. “Which part was that?”

“Walking in.” You made it sound so simple. Maybe it was.  “Letting someone see you before you’re bleeding.”

Jack stood there for a breath longer, the door propped open between you. You were close enough to see the small shift of his jaw, the ghost of tension at the corners of his eyes, like something flickered through him and caught behind his teeth.

He nodded, then he left.

—

The room smelled like burnt coffee and whatever detergent the janitorial staff bought in bulk. One of the folding chairs was broken, so you’d leaned it in the corner, hoping no one would try to use it. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, indifferent. Outside the windows, dusk hovered like it wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

You were halfway through introductions when the door opened.

Late. Not by much—seven minutes, maybe—but still, you glanced up instinctively, ready to gently redirect whoever came in. And then you saw him.

Jack Abbot.

He was still in scrubs, jacket thrown over the top, collar slightly wrinkled like he’d wrestled with whether or not to come and only won five minutes ago. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him, older somehow, even if it had only been a few weeks.

He hovered in the doorway, one boot inside, the other not. Caught between the hall and the possibility of something uncomfortable.

You felt the shift in the room. The group noticed him how he carried himself. It wasn’t just his build. It was the posture. That straight-backed, high-alert bearing you only ever saw in two kinds of people: soldiers and people trying very hard not to fall apart.

You stood slowly. Smiled like you weren’t surprised to see him, even if a small part of you was.

“Hey.” You were warm.  “Come on in.”

Something in Jack’s shoulders eased, just slightly. You turned to the rest of the group, your voice calm, unforced.

“This is Jack. He’s joining us tonight.” No last name. No backstory. Just the gesture of arrival. That was enough.

A few nods, murmured hellos. One guy said, “Welcome,” like it was a rule. Jack gave a chin-dip in return.

A man, Martin, shared first,  talking about how his daughter stopped calling in March. Two others chimed in with variations of the same wound. The room did what it always did: it stretched itself to hold whatever pain it was given, without fixing it.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget either. He sat still, eyes forward, but not glassy. Listening. Taking inventory. And you watched him. Subtly, out of the corner of your eye, like you weren’t waiting for the moment he’d stand and say he didn’t belong here because you could feel it.

He looked like he was scanning every word, every crack in the ceiling tile, trying to make it make sense. His eyes occasionally drifted to the door. His hands stayed in his lap, steady, but his foot tapped once—twice—before stilling again.

He wasn’t unsettled because it was a group. He was unsettled because, for the first time in a long time, no one needed him. No one was coding. No alarms were beeping. No one called Doctor Abbot.

He was just Jack.  And that didn’t feel like enough.

So, he didn’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Instead, Jack sat like he was made of poured concrete: solid, unswayed, unmoved. But the stillness wasn’t ease. It was maintenance. A posture that said: Don’t look too long or you’ll see the cracks.

The others took turns with practiced vulnerability. Another veteran, Lisa, talked about the baby next door who cried at night and how it sometimes made her want to knock on the wall and scream. 

Someone else recited their weekly mantra about how small talk at the gas station kept them tethered to the world. Every voice added weight and oxygen to the room in that strange way group therapy worked: no one fixing, no one solved, but everyone surviving, together.

You didn’t push Jack, but when the lull came, when the air went quiet in that half-second of unclaimed silence, you turned to him. Not a spotlight, not pressure, just an open door.

He shifted, as if preparing to run, though he didn’t. His fingers rubbed the side of his leg, slowly. You saw the muscle clench in his jaw before he spoke. “I traded my shift to make it here.”

It came out simple, but the effort behind the words was unmistakable. He paused after that,  long enough for it to seem like he might leave it there.

Yet, he exhaled, glanced toward the window, and you could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, searching for a safer way to say what he meant. Something polite. Digestible. 

And then he gave up on that,  letting his tone drop into something flatter. Colder. Not harsh—just clinical, like he was delivering bad news to a patient’s family through a closed curtain.

“This isn’t a waste of time.” He started defensively, scared to offend your effort. “But sitting… idle like this for something I can’t even name… feels wrong.”

A few people looked up. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes now. He kept speaking, as if he didn’t let the silence in, he wouldn’t be so measured.

“I don’t talk about things unless they have names. Symptoms. Patterns. Diagnoses. That’s the trade. You name it, we treat it. That’s how I work. That’s how I stay upright. But this…”

Jack trailed off again. Then shrugged, a short, tired motion.

“...this doesn’t bleed the same way.” He finished. 

The words didn’t land like a dramatic revelation. There was no gasp, no cinematic hush—just the steady hum of a room that knew the texture of what he meant.

Jack’s fingers stilled against the side of his leg. He looked down at his hands like he half-expected them to be covered in something—blood, maybe. Or purpose. But they were clean. Still. Useless.

“I spent my whole career knowing what to reach for,” he said. “Chest compressions. Epi. Clamp and cut. Even when it was bad, even when it was too late, at least I could do something.”

He leaned back slightly in the folding chair, the metal legs creaking faintly beneath him. The gesture made his prosthesis shift under his pant leg, and he winced, not in pain, but in awareness.

“But this?” His voice dropped, vulnerable now. “This is like watching a code slow down in real time and realizing you’re not the one running it. You’re just watching the monitor. And the line’s not flat yet, but it’s close.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking, but you could feel it hanging in the air: I traded a shift. I changed my whole night. I said yes to something I barely believe in. And this—this silence, this seat, this half-truth I just spoke—is all I have to show for it.

So, the quiet held. 

Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present. The way it got in that room—when someone finally said something so honest it didn’t need embellishment.

No one jumped in to reassure him. No one offered clichés. That wasn’t what this space was for.

You didn’t speak yet, either. You just sat with it. With him. The same way he’d done for the last thirty minutes. Like the room itself was trained to carry the weight for a while. He stayed, and that was what mattered.

Finally, Martin, the same man who had spoken first, shifted forward in his seat.

“I get it.” He agreed. “Post service, I became a firefighter…After I retired, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without looking for exits, looking for a problem.  Couldn’t sit in my living room without wondering what the hell I was doing just sitting there.”

Jack didn’t nod, but he didn’t flinch either. He just stayed where he was, breathing evenly, like the effort of being in the room was more taxing than a double shift.

Lisa spoke next.

“It took me a year to figure out I wasn’t broken. Just… not useful in the way I was trained to be. No one ever tells you how to exist when there’s no task in front of you.”

Jack swallowed, his throat working hard against nothing. He blinked slowly, then glanced your way, but only for a beat.

The group kept moving, circling. No one tried to fix him. They just laid their pieces down beside his. You waited until the conversation had stretched on, shifted. Until someone made a dry joke about how the snacks were always good, and the weight in the air lightened just enough to carry again.

Only then did you speak—quietly, but clearly to everyone in the room.

“Remember, it’s now always about coming here to feel better.” You didn’t pose the sentiment to be questioned. “You can always come to not feel alone while it’s bad.”

The rest of the session moved on. The others began to speak again, and Jack stayed silent for the rest of it. Not because he didn’t want to be part of it, but because that was his part. The kind of sharing that left your bones hollowed out afterward. Like saying anything else would cheapen the breath it took to get that out.

Even after the session, when the folding chairs had scraped back across the linoleum and the regulars had filtered out with their usual half-smiles and murmured thanks, Jack lingered. Not awkwardly. Just unhurried, like his body hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that the talking was over.

Lisa was the first to approach him. Extended her hand, firm and sure, and told him where she served. Jack didn’t flinch, just nodded and returned the shake.

Someone else, Curtis, Navy, chimed in with a timeline, a base. The names passed like currency. The kind of shared vocabulary that didn’t need to be explained.

You were still inside, tossing coffee cups into the trash, wiping down tabletops that had already been clean.

By the time you stepped out into the night, the group was gone. The lot was nearly empty except for your car and one old truck idling at the far end. 

The sharp chill of early spring hit your neck, and you hunched your shoulders as you reached into your coat pocket. Keys. Lighter. Cigarettes. A ritual, half-forgotten.

You moved toward the concrete steps at the front of the church, letting yourself exhale for the first time all night. You sat, letting the cold seep through your pants.

It was a habit, really—staying much longer than needed. No one around to clock you. No rules left to follow.

You tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slid it between your lips. Lit it with a tired flick of the thumb.

“Now that’s one hell of a sight.”

You startled. Jack’s voice came from the shadows, dry as whiskey left out overnight.

You turned to see him leaning against the stone railing, just out of reach of the yellow glow from the overhead bulb.

Then, you let out a soft huff. “It’s medicinal.”

“Oh yeah?” He nodded toward the cigarette. “What’s that treat?”

“Empathy fatigue.” You deadpanned. “And low-grade moral despair.”

Jack laughed, really laughed. Not loud. Not long. Real.

You glanced at him, surprised to see he was still here. Even more surprised by what his presence was doing to your posture, you weren’t standing straight anymore. You weren’t leading anything. You were just here.

You gestured to the space beside you on the steps.

“Come on then. You’ve already seen me sin. Might as well sit through the confession.”

Jack hesitated, then climbed the two steps and lowered himself beside you. He sat with the same precision you’d seen in the exam room, like even resting was something to be executed properly.

You flicked ash to the concrete. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“Didn’t want to go back yet.” He admitted.

You both looked out across the street, quiet for a moment. He didn’t seem rushed now. He was just untethered. 

“You know, this is the first time in five years I haven’t done a night shift.”

You turned to him. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were still on the street, jaw set like he’d said too much.

“It’s killing me—” Jack added. “—sitting still. Watching the hours pass without something bleeding or burning or breaking.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let the weight of the admission settle.

“You could’ve gone home.” You said eventually.

“I wouldn’t have stayed.” He looked at you then. And you saw it, clear in the way his green-hazel eyes softened; this wasn’t just a delay tactic,  it was survival. “Don’t know what to do with the quiet.”

You offered the cigarette pack, not pushing, just holding it out in case. He didn’t take one, but he didn’t recoil, either.

Jack scratched his head in thought, looking sideways at you. “I don’t mean to unload on you, I know you already—I’m just—

“Don’t worry, I stayed for the same reason.” You cut him off, unwilling to entertain something so wrong. “Company makes it better.” 

You looked at him in the glow of the streetlight, noticing how different he seemed outside the exam room, outside the group. How strange it was, seeing someone become real right in front of you.

His eyes flicked to yours, then, briefly, but steadily. A flicker of something like recognition passed between you.

“You’re different out here, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips quirking around the filter. “Different how?”

“No clipboard. No script.”

You huffed a little, dragged the cigarette again before flicking ash to the side. “You say that like I’ve been reading off cue cards.”

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing. Just—” Jack leaned back slightly on his elbows, letting the stone of the step press cold against his back.  “You’re quieter. Less… contained—wasn’t expecting it.”

“What were you expecting?” You gave him a sidelong glance.

“Not someone who needs to stay behind.”

That, more than anything, made something ache behind your chest. You looked away. Let the ember of your cigarette burn a little too long.

“Well…” You were gentle with the thought. “Not all of us know how to leave.”

You don’t continue  right away. Just let the silence sit between you, a low hum of nothing but the wind moving along the street, the overhead lamp buzzing faintly like a broken thought. Yet, Jack knew the thought wasn’t through.

“...out here, I don’t have to keep anyone upright” You’d never said it aloud, afraid the guilt it would bring, but it was so relieving to admit.  “...I don’t have to hold my own spine so straight either.”

Jack nodded slowly, gazing forward again. “That sounds nice.”

“It’s not.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, but sometimes honesty read that way. “It’s just true.”

Another car rolled past, headlights stalking across the sidewalk and over Jack’s boots. The beam caught the tired set of his jaw, the way his eyes had sunk slightly into their sockets from too many nights that didn’t end the way they should have. 

Still, Jack looked better in this light. He looked less sharp, less made of stone.

“You ever try to quit?”  He turned his head slightly, demeanor ticking in quiet acknowledgment of your cigarette.

“Ever the doctor.” You gave a dry laugh, slow and low. “Every other week I think about quitting, and then someone tells me they still remember the weight of the body they had to leave behind, and suddenly I’m outside again with a lighter.”

“Guess I should thank you for staying out here long enough for me to loiter.”

“Loiter?” You echoed, glancing sideways. “You’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

The lull between you had settled into something companionable.  A mutual endurance, like you were both learning how to be still in the same moment.

Jack shifted, like he had something else on the tip of his tongue but wasn’t sure how to give it shape. His gaze dipped to the cigarette now crushed out beside your shoe. Then, to your hands, your sleeves pulled down over your wrists like instinct.

“Gimme your wrist.” He cleared his throat.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He held out a hand, patient and palm-up. “Your wrist. I’m being serious.”

A smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. “Jack, you trying to hold my hand outside a church?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m offering you a free exam. Since you admitted it’s been years.”

You laughed, not quite believing him, even as your heart gave the smallest thud of something unexpected. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” There was a new wave of confidence as he spoke. “A licensed PA, going around telling people to take care of themselves, but too stubborn to schedule a check-up? That stuck with me.”

He flexed his fingers slightly, still holding them out. You let out a long, amused sigh—but gave him your wrist.

Jack took it carefully, cradling it like it was something breakable. His fingers were warm, steady. He glanced at his watch, brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

“You’re stalling.” You teased.

“I’m being thorough—

He kept counting. His mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk, but when he finally looked up, his eyes caught yours and something shifted in the air between you. It was heavy and new.

—If I’m doing your first physical in however many years.” He clicked his teeth. “No way, I’m cutting corners.”

The line landed harder than he meant it to. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second too long. Neither did he. Then, without fanfare, Jack released your wrist, like he was afraid of making it mean more than it already did.

Jack’s eyes skimmed your face, thoughtful, quiet. Not searching for a reaction, just weighing something. Whatever hesitation had held him off earlier was gone now, replaced by a kind of gentle stubbornness that to you felt more him. 

Jack lifted his hand again, slower this time, and brought his fingers to your jaw. He said nothing, just let the touch land carefully, fingertips warm beneath the edge of your cheekbone.

His thumb shifted slightly, pressing beneath the hinge of your jaw, then slid up toward the curve beneath your ear.

You didn’t move, not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to. There was nothing performative in the gesture, nothing flirtatious. It wasn’t about romance or pretense or asking for more.

It was just Jack, still trying to be useful.

You tilted your head without thinking, letting him trace the side of your neck. His thumb swept slowly beneath your jawline, feeling for your lymph nodes.

His movements were sure, practiced. Not clinical in the cold sense, but precise. Tactile. Like each step in the exam was tethered to something older than routine.

“You had to do all this in the field?”

Jack nodded, his touch moving to the base of your neck. “Every day. No machines. Just hands and instincts.”

You heard something shift in his voice with a quiet flick of gravity. That subtle weight people carried when they weren’t talking about the past so much as living in it again.

“Vitals were all manual. Pulse checks. Respiratory counts by ear. Skin temp by touch. No monitors, no steady beeping to tell you who was slipping.”

Jack’s thumb passed gently along the tendon at the side of your neck, and for a moment, you forgot what the street sounded like. You were suddenly aware of the shape of your body in space, of the parts of you he could feel ticking beneath his fingers.

“At night we worked in blackout conditions.” He murmured, continuing a ritual he’d never forget. “No headlamps. No lanterns. Just stars, if we were lucky. Used the North Star to orient when GPS failed. Checked pupils by moonlight. You’d learn to tell cyanosis from normal by feel, not sight.”

You swallowed, but didn’t pull away. His hand was still there, anchored lightly against your throat. Not gripping, not holding. Just witnessing.

“And you trusted yourself to get it right?” You asked, not doubting him, but wondering what it had cost.

“You didn’t have a choice.” Jack’s gaze met yours again. And this time, something flickered in it, something bigger than both of you.  “When someone’s slipping under your hands, you either learn the difference or you lose them.”

You swallowed again—and he felt that, too.

Jack moved to your collarbone, pressing lightly, checking along the line where lymph nodes would swell. Your eyes flicked up to him at that, but his gaze was steady on your shoulder, his hand still carefully mapping the shape of your body like it was a page he needed to memorize. 

“You’re tense.” His fingers paused at the base of your neck.

You let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

Jack pulled back slightly, eyes finally meeting yours.

“Could say the same.” He said. 

There was a stillness between you then full of something else. A thread tied between memory and presence. Between what he’d once done to save lives, and what he was doing now to feel human again.

You shifted, giving him a small, crooked smile. “This what you pictured for a night off?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on yours, thoughtful, like he was weighing how honest to be.

“Not exactly.” He confessed. His hand dropped from your collarbone then, the air between you still carrying the weight of his touch.  “But it’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.”

“My health that riveting?” 

Then, with a faint smirk, Jack returned to himself.  “You’ve got a hell of a resting heart rate.”

You pealed with laughter. The grin tugging at the corner of Jack’s mouth softened everything in him.

“That’s your fault.”

He shrugged.

You sat back a little, feeling your own body again; your neck still tingling faintly where his fingers had been. He hadn’t lingered to touch you, not really. He’d touched you because that’s how he knew people. That’s how he made sense of the living.

And tonight, for once, he wasn’t too late.

The streetlight above flickered once, then steadied. The night still buzzed faintly with the sound of spring creeping in, but the world, for a moment, had gone small; just the church steps, the two of you, and the unspoken admission that this, whatever it was, had been needed.

And maybe, you thought, that was what healing sometimes looked like. Not talking.  Not explaining.  Just letting someone check for signs of life and finding them.

There was a kind of reverence in that. And you hadn’t expected reverence tonight.

You rubbed your fingers slowly along the fabric of your pants, grounding yourself with the texture. The quiet stretched again, but softer this time. Less like the end of a conversation and more like the lull before the next thing.

Eventually, you straightened, reluctantly peeling yourself away from the cold stone steps. Jack’s movement followed yours like a reflex;he stood, not with purpose, but with you, shadowing your motion, the way people do when they’ve been through long shifts together. When the silence between them means something understood.

Neither of you said Let’s go. But you both started walking.

Down the worn church steps, your shoes thudding softly on old cement. Gravel cracked beneath your weight as you crossed the narrow lot. It had gone almost fully quiet, just the low hum of the power lines, the wind slipping through the trees like a passing thought.

Your car sat waiting beneath a crooked lamp, light flickering as if undecided. Jack’s truck was parked a few spaces down, dust settling on the hood like it always did when someone stopped moving long enough.

You stopped at your door, keys already out but untouched in your hand. You didn’t unlock it. Jack didn’t walk past. He hovered there instead, just close enough to share the moment, just far enough to leave you room if you wanted to step away.

He rocked once on his heels, then cleared his throat. It wasn’t a nervous sound—just a nudge. Something that bridged the quiet without breaking it.

“You think that group’s got space next week?” He asked, his voice shier now, like he didn’t want to spook the stillness you’d both earned.

“We don’t do headcounts.” You smiled.  “Just chairs. If one’s open, it’s yours.”

Jack considered that. Nodded once, brows drawing slightly inward with the thought. Then, a faint smile, tired around the edges, but real in the center.

“Alright.”  He murmured, agreeable. “Might do that.”

You leaned your weight gently against the side of your car, letting yourself rest into the shape of the night for a breath longer.

“You know, Jack—” You started confidently. “—you don’t have to wait for Thursdays to talk to me.”

His brows twitched in the faintest flicker of surprise and confusion. The kind he tried to swallow but couldn’t quite manage, the suspense too enticing. 

“I mean, if something comes up.”  You smiled subtly.  “Or if you need anything. Or just… if it’s late, and things are too quiet again….”

You trailed off and held out your hand, palm open. He blinked once, the weight of your words landing slowly.

 “Your phone. So I can give you my number.” You kept your tone light. Gentle. “I’ll type it in for you. Easier than calling the front desk and pretending it’s about a referral.”

Jack hesitated, just for a second, but reached for it. His phone was warm from his pocket. The screen was still open. You clicked into his contacts, typed in your name, and entered your number without comment. No title, no clinic.

Just you.

Before handing it back, you paused with your thumb hovering over the message field, but you didn’t text yourself. Didn’t give him that easy opening. You locked the screen and gave it back.

“There.” You said, brushing your fingers against his as the phone changed hands. “If you want to reach out, you can. If not… no pressure.”

Jack looked down at the phone in his hand like it might bite back. The contact glowed softly on the screen—your name, simple and unadorned.

“You’re giving me an out.”

“Or an invitation.” You shrugged. “Depends on what you do with it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just thumbed the edge of the screen, eyes distant for a moment. Processing. Weighing.

“You don’t give this to just anybody.” He realized quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You tilted your head. “Neither do you.”

Something flickered across his face and spread through his body. The road to something like this was never clean, and it sure as hell wasn’t straight, but this? This felt like rest. Or more like something unfolding, slow and tentative, in the center of his chest. A warmth he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something bold, but the words caught in his throat and never came.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long to be casual. Like he was still cataloging something he hadn’t named yet.

Not attraction exactly—but something adjacent. Something measured. Careful. Like he hadn’t let himself think about hope in a long time, and didn’t want to touch it too directly now in case it vanished.

You didn’t break the moment either.

Eventually, he stepped back, nodding once—not goodbye, just a shift in posture. A soft signal that he’d give you your space.

You watched him walk back to his truck. His gait was slower now, less formal than before. Shoulders slightly hunched, but looser. Like he’d left something behind on those steps and wasn’t sure yet if that was a loss or a relief.

You stood still until he opened his door.

He didn’t look back. But he didn’t rush, either.

And when the engine turned over and the headlights swept across the lot, you didn’t flinch from the brightness. You let it pass through you.

There wasn’t anything to say. Not tonight.

But the air had shifted.

Like something in the dark had turned to face the light again. And maybe next Thursday, you thought, when the chairs were pulled out again and the coffee burned a little on the bottom, maybe there’d be two people left sitting under the sky.

Still not talking. Still not explaining. But quietly, unmistakably—staying.

[batsandbirdbrains]

I need Bruce trying to gentle parent Dick as a child. Like maybe Bruce isn’t exactly a good parent but tries. When Dick starts throwing massive tantrums, he just puts Dick in an empty room for time out. This does not stop Dick as he ends up destroying the room despite nothing being in it. When Dick does something Bruce doesn’t approve of, Bruce just says softly “Don’t do that.” Dick does it again. Like I need him trying and failing. Nothing he does works. Then Dick decides to turn that gentle parenting back on Bruce. No whenever Bruce makes him mad, he puts Bruce in a time-out room. Whenever Bruce is being dumb, he just gives him a pout and says “Don’t do that.” Bruce actually does his best to listen to Dick because he thinks it might foster trust or encourage Dick to follow along when Bruce does it to him. It doesn’t really work. Dick still doesn’t listen and now Bruce is being parented by the child he’s supposed to be raising. The only plus is that it calms down Dick’s more violent urges because instead of destroying shit he just sends Bruce away.

Then Dick gets shot, and something in Bruce snaps. There is no more gentle parenting, no more kind words or soft punishments. He needs to make Dick listen, and if that means hurting him, then so be it. He loses sight of the fact that Dick is still a kid, an incredibly traumatized one at that. He still lets Dick parent him, although he’s more snappy about it. Dick stops being soft with him, too, instead telling him harshly to get to bed, threatening to sic Alfred on him, or screaming in his face about how he’s the worst. Somehow they’ve fallen into this horrible dynamic and neither of them know how to get out of it. Dick blames himself for being such a troubled kid, and though Bruce never says it, Dick knows he blames him too. So Dick leaves.

Eventually, over the years their family grows, but Bruce’s softness never really comes back. He’s meaner, more controlling, even downright cruel at times. And one day when the entire batfam is arguing with him over how unreasonable he is, one them snaps and says “Jesus, B, who turned you into such a fucking asshole?” and before Bruce can even think about it, he responds “Dick did.” He closes his mouth in shock, face going ashen while everyone else freezes. The words cut straight into Dick’s heart. He replies with the only words he can think of at the moment “Don’t do that.” He meant for the words to be cold, confident. Instead they came out soft, chiding and pained. Before anyone can say anything else, Bruce turns on his heel and leaves. They all try to follow him to argue more but then stare, confused, as he walks into an empty room, locking the door behind him. He doesn’t come out for a long time.

🥺 rip out my fucking heart why don’t you, damn.

But now I’m just thinking of the scenario with Bruce saying Dick turned him into an asshole, and the whole room freezes.

Jason didn’t expect an actual answer. Tim and Damian thought Bruce would have just chided Jason for his language. Dick thought a Bruce was just going to keep yelling.

But then the way he says, “Dick did” without even thinking about it, without hesitation, it shocks everyone.

And Dick feels like he wants to cry, because sure, he knew he was a pretty fucked up kid. He was troubled. Traumatized. A problem child. But Bruce for the most part had been so patient when he was little. And when Bruce started being an asshole after Dick got shot, it wasn’t like Dick couldn’t fight right back. It was almost like a game, sometimes. But Dick has always felt so guilty about it, because Bruce had been so soft spoken and patient and nice, and then Dick went and fucked him up. Dick ruined him. It’s all Dick’s fault.

Dick has always had that thought in the back of his mind. But he’s never had any real proof that Bruce felt the same.

Now he does. And Dick’s chest feels hollow as he stares at a horrified looking Bruce.

All Dick can manage to say is a soft, desperate, “Don’t do that,” just like Bruce always tried to use with him, before he started using yelling as his go-to response.

Then Bruce turns without saying anything and walks right into an empty room, and Dick feels like he’s going to throw up. He turns too, towards his bike, and he ignores the way his siblings are calling after him. He turns off his comms and rides home, going way too fast, feeling the wind whip around him, and tears blurring his vision until he blinks them away.

When he gets back to his Blüdhaven apartment, he slides in through the window and doesn’t even change out of his costume before he’s puking in the bathroom.

He silences his phone, turns in his security system, and then spends the next hour sitting under the water in his shower, spacing out until the water goes ice cold and he has to get out. Then he crawls into bed, pulls out Zitka from under the pillows to hug to his chest, and buries his head under his pillows. If he doesn’t pay attention to it, he can pretend he’s not still crying because of the guilt.

He stays like that for a long time, not moving. He falls asleep for a while, wakes up in a panic, rinse and repeat.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but the next thing he knows, someone is sitting down on his bed next to him, laying a hesitant hand in his back. And he knows it’s Bruce, and it just makes him feel even worse.

“Go away,” he begs, the words muffled under his pillows.

“I didn’t mean it,” Bruce tries to tell him.

“Yes you did,” Dick says miserably. “And it’s true. I know it’s true, you don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

“It wasn’t you who made me an asshole,” Bruce says. “The situation-”

“Caused by me,” Dick argues.

“You were just a child, Dick.” Bruce sighs.

“A horrible, no good, rotten child!”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Bruce says firmly. “It’s not true, Dick. I don’t care what anyone says, you were not a rotten child. You were just a little boy. I was the adult, and I should have found other solutions that worked for you.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, but he eventually moves out from under the pillows to curl up with his head in Bruce’s lap. Bruce plays with his hair, and the two of them stay quiet for a long time. Neither of them really knows what to say. They’re both still upset. And they’re both awful at dealing with their feelings.

The sadness and anger and guilt they’re feeling from this fight won’t be resolved. They won’t really talk about it. It won’t be talked about without someone else bringing it up, and that won’t happen for a while.

But for now, Bruce is going to comfort his son. And for now, Dick will let him.

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (31 - Paradise Calling)

Chapter Summary: After several weeks of looking for her, you do eventually find Wanda Maximoff after she leaves Westview, but not in any way you ever imagined.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: violence, mention of blood and injury

A/N: The story continues in the aftermath of Wanda’s release of Westview. I’m still debating whether to stick with the canon concept of Billy and Tommy’s souls being real but bodiless since I started this story long before Agatha All Along entered the picture. Also, there might not be an update next week as I'll be out of town. Thanks to everyone who still continues to follow this story :) You guys are awesome. P.S. can you guess which mutant attacked y/n? :P // More author's notes here. // gif

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The Hex dissolves completely at midnight.

By then, more and more of Westview have become accessible, its walls shrinking like the last breath of a dying storm. Throughout the wait, Monica’s order remains ironclad, which is that no one who isn’t a Westview resident is to step across the boundary.

It turns out to be the right call. Letting Wanda end it on her own terms—without pressure, or interference—is the last mercy anyone can offer. So they wait at the edge of town, in the solemn dark, while those inside slowly begin to come back to themselves.

And when the last of it winds down, Monica gives the signal. The military moves in, not with weapons this time, but with medics in tow. People stumble into the streets, dazed and hollow-eyed, like toys winding themselves up after years on a shelf. Some of them rush to scoop their children into their arms, while others just stand there, holding each other, staring at their hands like they’ve only just remembered what it means to move on their own.

It’s harder than anyone on the rescue team expected. Because how do you assess damage like this? These people aren’t injured in any conventional way. Their minds weren’t broken so much as hijacked. Puppeted. Made to smile and speak and move without their consent. It’s not madness, and it’s definitely not grief that they are experiencing. 

It’s something more…alienating. Locked in the backseat of your own body, watching your hands move and your mouth speak, knowing none of it is you. It’s the kind of trauma that leaves even seasoned therapists unsure where to begin. So the medics do what they can. Blankets for the cold, water for the dry-mouthed, and a hand on the shoulder for those who can’t seem to stop shaking. 

And you—you stay rooted at the edge of the ground where Wanda’s house once stood, silently taking in the aftermath. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at the lot you bought on a whim five years ago. It feels larger than you remembered, and standing here now, it stirs more regret than pride.

“There’s no sign of her,” Clint says as he approaches. He glances between you, Monica, and Darcy. “She’s gone.”

Monica exhales sharply. “Of course she is,” she mutters.

Agent Woo’s already packed up and gone too, reassigned mid-crisis to another urgent matter. Those left behind are burdened to help pick up the pieces.

“I guess she escaped?” Darcy offers.

You wince. “Don’t say ‘escaped.’ She didn’t—” The sentence stalls, the logic collapsing halfway out of your mouth.

Monica catches it and shrugs. “Yeah, maybe ‘escaping’ wasn’t her plan.” Then, more pointedly, “But what did you think was gonna happen? That she’d stick around? Turn herself in? Like you did, Y/N?”

Right. You’re still technically a prisoner. Still walking around on borrowed time, under a conditional release that’s quickly running out, especially now that Wanda’s vanished, and no one has a clue where she went.

You’d been hoping for a moment—just one—to talk to Wanda alone. And now, you’re starting to think your presence never mattered at all. The other you, her you, was the one who got through to her, who helped her bring down the Hex.

All you’ve ever done here was make it harder for Wanda.

“And her children?” you ask quietly, turning to Clint, your voice stripped down to worry.

Clint just shakes his head. “No sign of them. Or your copy.”

Everyone’s face falls at that. They’d all felt so real, the idea that they simply blinked out of existence is hard to swallow even if the theory always seemed to suggest that direction.

Darcy breaks the spell. “Shame, really. I kinda liked that Y/N.” She shoots you an apologetic grin. “No offense to the original, it’s just... we never got our moment.”

You manage a weak smile. “None taken.”

Monica claps her hands together. “Well, I guess… that’s it.” 

You turn to her slowly, frowning. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

Monica’s hands drop to her sides. “I mean… she’s gone. The Hex is down. Everyone who was trapped is free. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Clint gives a weary shrug. “Sometimes disappearing’s the only thing a person has left.” You shoot him a glare, but he honestly seems oblivious that his words just struck you straight on.

Before you can argue further, a young S.W.O.R.D. tech jogs up, tablet in hand.

“Uh, Director?” He gestures vaguely at Monica. “We found a vehicle just outside the old perimeter. Abandoned. Figured you’d want to take a look.”

Monica glances between you and Clint. “Yours?”

You shake your head no.

“Color?” Clint asks.

“Deep maroon,” the tech says. “Old Volvo wagon. New Jersey plates.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “That’s Wanda’s.”

You’re already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth.

“Y/N—” Monica calls after you, but you don’t look back.

Clint mutters a curse and follows. Monica and Darcy hang back, letting you go.

You’re desperate for any sign of Wanda, anything that might tell you where she went. You haven’t run this far or this fast in years, and your lungs are burning from the effort. But the thought of her out there, alone and possibly hurt, keeps your legs moving, pushing through the ache.

Soon, just past the edge of the boundary, you spot the Volvo.

You slow as you approach, heart thudding in your chest.

Clint catches up beside you. “That’s definitely hers.”

You nod, already reaching for the handle. It shouldn’t open, but it does. The door gives with a soft click, swinging open without resistance. You slide into the driver’s seat and glance around. 

“She didn’t even lock it,” you murmur.

“The keys?” Clint asks.

You check the ignition. Nothing. Then the cupholders, under the seat, the center console. Still nothing.

“Glove box,” Clint says, leaning in through the open door.

You press the latch. The compartment drops with a soft thunk, and something slides forward: a single manila folder, edges crisp, your name penned in Wanda’s looping cursive across the tab. Your breath catches. Carefully, almost like it might break in your hands, you lift it. It feels like it holds everything you’ve been chasing.

Inside, everything is heartbreakingly familiar. The property deed you mailed Clint weeks ago. Photographs you never had the courage to burn when you first became convinced that Wanda wasn’t coming back. Letters and notes you randomly wrote to Wanda throughout the years she was gone. 

And resting on top of it all, catching the faint moonlight—

Your wedding ring. The one you gave her. The match to the one you still wear around your neck.

With trembling fingers, you turn the band over between thumb and forefinger; it’s still warm, as if she’d only just set it down.

“She left this car here,” you whisper. “Because she wanted me to find this.”

Clint drifts a few steps back, giving you space but not leaving. He folds his arms and waits, giving you time to come to terms with Wanda’s clear response at having found out you lied to her. And it’s not pretty.

After a long, brittle silence, he clears his throat. “So… what are you going to do now?”

It’s the same question everyone’s thrown at you all day, and you still don’t have an answer.

Instead of answering, you whisper, “Did I make a mistake, Clint? Walking away back then, leaving her to sort through the rubble alone, was that when everything started to fall apart?”

He exhales and lowers himself onto the curb beside the car. “We all made mistakes,” he says, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckles. “But no one could have known it would lead to this. We were careless, sure, maybe blind to how much she was really hurting. But this,” he says, nodding at the folder in your lap, “this was Wanda’s pain. Her choice. Not something you could have predicted.”

“I should’ve seen her slipping. I asked you to look after her and—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “And I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t there for her like you asked. I was drowning in my own mess, trying to keep my family together once we got them back… I missed the signs.”

You nod slowly and slip the ring into your pocket. Then, flat and quiet, you say, “I’ve still got about a decade of my sentence to serve.”

“I can buy you more time,” Clint offers. “Tell them Wanda escaped. Technically, this whole thing isn’t over.”

You huff a humorless breath. “It won’t matter. I don’t want to go back.”

Clint studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed. “You mean that?”

You nod again. “The second I saw her… I wanted to take it all back. The deal. The surrender. All those years I spent trying to convince myself that moving on was the right call.”

He sits with that for a while, then says, quiet and honest, “You know I can’t turn myself in either.”

You glance over at him. “I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ve got my family back,” he says. “I’m rebuilding. I can’t walk away from that.”

“I know,” you reply. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “Then what are you thinking? You planning to go back on the run? Because you remember what it was like after the Accords, right? We didn’t end up in the Raft, but we weren’t free either. We were always looking over our shoulders.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Wanda was with me back then.”

He raises a brow, watching you carefully.

“And somehow,” you add, voice soft, almost to yourself, “that made all of it bearable.”

After a long lull, Clint asks, “What were you hoping for, Y/N? When she saw you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit with a shrug. “Maybe that… that she’d recognize me, at least.”

“She probably did,” Clint says. “That might be why she destroyed the Hex herself.”

You shake your head, hard, unwilling to accept that. “I doubt it was that simple.” 

The idea feels impossible. You remember the look on Wanda’s face: hurt, disappointment, the unmistakable sting of betrayal. You have put that look there before, but this time it was different. This time, that betrayal caused her this guilt she now carries with her for something she’d done out of her mourning you—

When she never should have had to mourn at all.

—

With Clint’s quiet blessing, you slip into the night, becoming a fugitive once again, determined to reach Wanda before the authorities do. It isn’t enough that Wanda released the town willingly; the damage is already done. Westview’s residents remain traumatized and disoriented, and dissolving the Hex doesn't absolve her actions. This is exactly what Tony always fought for—the idea that even heroes, even Avengers, must answer to laws meant for everyone, not just hide behind the duty of saving the world.

You don’t blame them for hunting her. You just don’t trust them to understand her.

So you go first.

You swap your jacket for a plain coat, leave your comms behind, and start reaching out to contacts you haven’t spoken to in years. A woman like Wanda can’t move without leaving a ripple, and eventually, you learn to follow a pattern: unexplained power surges in rural areas upwards north. Clint checks in with you every now and then, but you don’t expect anything more. He’s busy these days—a civilian fully occupied with being a father. 

The first few weeks blur together. Deep down, you keep hoping Wanda will be the one to find you—not because she misses you or wants to forgive, but because she finally wants answers. Isn’t there at least one question she needs to ask? Maybe she hates you too much to bother. Maybe she hates you enough to stop caring about your reasons altogether.

That thought hurts more than you’d like to admit. Still, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve put her through. You don’t know how you’ll face her when the time comes. All you know is that she’s hurting—and a hurting Wanda Maximoff isn’t just a danger to the world. She’s a danger to herself.

Late one evening, while tracking rumors of strange sightings in the forested mountains of Vermont, you feel unease settle in your gut. The trees grow denser, their branches knitting overhead, and the pale yellow moon offers little light. Shadows slither and shift across the narrow trail. You stop, breath misting in the cold air, certain now that you’re not alone.

You hold still and listen. Over the thud of your own unsteady pulse comes a faint rustle in the undergrowth. It’s too careful, too deliberate to be wind or wildlife.

“Who’s there?” Your voice is brittle, an uncertain challenge.

In the dark forest, you know you shouldn’t make a sound. But if it’s Wanda—

A low growl answers, so deep and guttural it sends a chill racing down your spine. You spin, eyes straining through the gloom, just as a shadow barrels toward you. The movement is fast, smooth, and completely inhuman.

It slams into you with brutal force, all muscle and claws—definitely not Wanda—knocking you hard to the ground.

You scramble to your feet, breath ragged, eyes sweeping the darkness in search of your attacker. The figure rises slowly, towering and hunched, its skin a sick, mottled gray. Its limbs are grotesquely stretched, ending in claws slick with fresh blood (yours).

Its face—

No. That can’t be right. Tony’s snap wiped out all of Thanos’ army. This thing shouldn’t exist. So how is it standing here? How did it survive?

“What the—” you gasp, stumbling back.

It lunges again, jaws gaping open with teeth glinting sharp and savage. You swing your arm wildly, and your fist connects with its jaw. The impact jars painfully up your arm, but the creature barely reacts, snarling viciously as it swings one massive clawed hand toward your face. You dodge by inches, claws slicing the air with a sharp hiss.

You stagger back again, trying to regain your footing. Your breath comes out in uneven bursts of fogged air. The creature circles slowly, blocking any clear route of escape. You study it, desperately searching for a weakness, but its movements remain erratic, unpredictable. 

Your combat skills are still there, but you’ve aged some, and it’s not as easy to fall back into your old rhythm and speed, especially when facing such an aggressive foe.

“Stay back,” you warn weakly, your voice trembling despite your attempt at bravado.

It snarls louder, head twitching, neck muscles spasming unnaturally as it stalks closer. You backpedal and your foot slips on wet leaves, throwing you off-balance. You hit the ground hard, skull cracking sharply against something hidden beneath the foliage. Stars burst in your vision.

As you struggle to sit upright, the beast approaches slowly, enjoying this, you realize sickeningly. It flexes its claws, taking its time.

“Wait,” you choke out, tasting copper as blood fills your mouth.

It stalks towards you leisurely as if hearing nothing. It snarls again, lips peeling back to reveal teeth sharp as blades. It raises a hand for the final blow, claws poised high—

And all you can think is how ironic it is. That this is what you craved, once.

Back when you were Ronin.

When death felt like the only honest language left, and violence was the only thing that could answer it.

You spent five years chasing this moment. And now? Now, with Wanda back in the universe. Now, when for the first time in years, you actually want to live.

Now is when death decides to show up?

Of course it is.

You laugh, or try to, but it comes out as a choked breath through blood. The creature roars, the sound tearing through the trees. And as the snow drifts down and your vision begins to fade, you manage one last word, soft as a prayer.

“…Wanda.”

—

You wake slowly to warmth, a fire crackling nearby. Every part of you feels bruised, sliced open, and carefully stitched back together. Bandages wind tight around your ribs, your shoulders, your arms. Your throat burns dry, but you're breathing. Miraculously. 

You push yourself upright, careful and slow. The world sways around you as the blanket slips from your shoulders.

Blinking up at the slanted ceiling overhead—wooden, rough-hewn, beams exposed, nothing familiar about it—you realize you’re still in the forest. The earthy, damp scent of pine needles teases your nose. There’s no electricity, just lanterns, candles, heat from flame and old wood. The furniture is simple, hand-built, and worn from use.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet sinking into a rug so soft it draws a quiet sigh from your lips. You have no idea how long you’ve been unconscious—hours, maybe even days.

Unsteady, you find the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance. You pass a small kitchen, simple but well-stocked. A kettle rests near the fire, still warm, like it was used not long ago.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the front door slightly ajar, a narrow strip of gray light slicing into the room, dust suspended in its path.

You drift closer.

Outside, there’s Wanda.

She sits on the porch steps, wrapped in a thick sweater, her back to you. Her hair falls in loose, tangled waves, longer than you remember. Despite the biting cold, she’s barefoot, her arms draped over her knees as she stares into the woods.

You stop at the doorway, saying nothing at first. 

She looks so… peaceful. 

“Wanda,” you say at last, barely above a breath.

She doesn’t move.

You try again. “Wanda.”

Still nothing. You can’t tell if she’s ignoring you, or if your voice is simply too weak for her to hear.

Of course it was her who found you. Of course it doesn’t mean anything’s been forgiven. You take a step back, and the door eases shut behind you with a quiet creak.

You head deeper into the cabin. It’s not large, but in your condition, it feels like a maze.

At the end of a narrow hallway, you find a door left slightly open.

Something pulses beyond it—low and red and constant. Your fingers graze the frame as you nudge it open. 

The hair on your arms rises.

Wanda’s there, too.

She’s floating a few inches off the ground, legs crossed. Her eyes don’t blink. They don’t move. Just glowing red, unwavering and endless.

She’s reading. The book in her hands is anything but ordinary. Its pages shift and shimmer, symbols rearranging themselves the moment you try to make sense of them.

You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come. You’re frozen.

Slowly, like she already knew you were standing there, she lifts her head.

Her gaze locks onto yours.

The book snaps shut.

[raven-dor]

illicit affairs

in which you distance yourself from bucky barnes, and he won’t rest until he knows why

PAIRING: congressman!bucky barnes x fem!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, morning sickness, pregnancy, miscommunication (but ig it's more like refusing to communicate), given last name! (Clark), arguing, ANGSTY ANGSTY ANGST, more arguing, kissing, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

🎶 : illicit affairs - taylor swift

AN: 🩵♥️💗 - this is like my favorite angsty fic of all time, like it's up there with me and my husband (gwayne hightower) EEEK HAPPY READING!! also i might write a part two where the use the house she bought if that's something you guys would be interested in

The sun shone through the curtains, yellow and bright. You stared at the man dead asleep beside you, a contented smile creeping on your lips. He looked so peaceful, not at all like how he looked awake, always stressed, always worrying over something. If it wasn’t Congress or the team, it was you. Worry was Bucky’s main emotion, you would say when you teased him. He worried over your safety the most, often trying to convince you to stop working in the office, practically begging you to work from home. 

You glared at him every time. 

You could never bring yourself to stay angry, though. He was caring, more than most had ever been with you. You were fragile, something he cherished. 

It made you feel valuable; your cheeks warmed just thinking about it. 

He grumbled, burying his face further into your torso. His arm was lazily wrapped around your waist, and he smiled in his sleep, pulling you closer. You hadn’t wanted to wake him, but he had a meeting in forty-five minutes, and he still needed his routine cup of coffee. “Buck. You have to get up.” 

“Five more minutes.” 

“Bucky…” You laughed, running your fingers through his hair. “You’ll be late.” 

“I could run there in five minutes.” You knew from the look on his face that he was considering it. Thanks to his super soldier serum, he really could run around the entirety of Washington D.C. in less than an hour. 

“You could, but your hair would be a mess.” You frowned, reaching down to run your fingers through the sleep-tangled tresses. “A lot like it is now. Besides, think about the people who voted for you, who elected you to this office. They wouldn’t exactly enjoy learning that their congressman was late to a meeting.” 

“I hate when you’re right.” He groaned, rolling over and walking toward the bathroom, leaving the door open as he fixed his appearance. “Have I told you how lovely you look this morning?”

“No.”  You playfully glared. “And if you did, you’d be a liar.”

He scoffed. “You’re timeless, Doll. Would’ve took my breath away even in the ’40s.” Your heart fluttered from his compliment. “Are you coming into work with me?” 

You shrugged, biting your lip as you admired his back muscles. “Dunno. I think I’ll take a half day. Probably go on a walk, find a nice cafe to get some work done in.” 

He frowned. “What am I going to do without you?” 

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll be just fine. The world will turn without me running the office while you’re gone.” 

“I don’t know.” He was rather dramatic in the morning. “My executive assistant is important-” 

“We can’t go to work together.” You hissed. “You know that. The press would have a field day-” 

“I don’t care.” He sat on the edge of your shared bed. “Don’t you think it’s time the office knows?”

“Bucky. Think of your career, your position. It would look like an abuse of power, I would have to stop working-” 

“Perfect.” He looked terribly pleased with your last statement. “I’ve been trying to get you to stop working in the office for months.” 

“I like working.” You glared. “And I thought we’d finally gotten past that.” 

“We have.” He smiled, reaching out to hold your hand in his. “I just want you to be-” 

“I know.” You sighed. “But I can take care of myself.” 

“I know you can.” He leaned in, lips brushing against yours. “Doesn’t mean I can’t worry.” 

Your eyes welled up, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You love me too much.”

He shook his head, eyes darting to your lips. “Not such thing as too much, Doll.”

You leaped up, pulling him down to you, his eyes wide as you kissed him senseless. “God, I love you.” You murmured against his lips. 

He grinned, kissing down your neck. “I love you more.” 

He’d been late to work. You had to peel yourself away from his touch and practically push him out the door, waving goodbye until his car had vanished from your sight. 

His townhouse was perfect, warm and inviting. When you first started dating, it was empty, with only the bare necessities. You’d laughed when you’d entered, insisting that he let you take him shopping. He’d agreed, and you would later find out he would agree to anything you asked simply because he loved the way your eyes lit up when you were determined.

 Your stomach lurched, and you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut to try and quell the nausea. Finding your way into the kitchen, you grabbed your favorite mug, one that Bucky had bought with you in mind, and made yourself a cup of peppermint tea. Another wave of nausea, stronger than the last, hit you as the steam hit your nostrils. You realized that this was not something you could solve with a couple of deep breaths and a cup of tea; your stomach once again grumbled as you rushed toward the bathroom. 

Denial. 

That was the first stage, right? 

You stared at the tests on the bathroom counter, too shocked to cry. There was no possible way this was real. You’d been safe, you’d taken extra precautions. The science behind the super soldier serum coursing through his veins was something neither of you understood, and so you decided you’d rather be safe than sorry. 

Apparently, you thought as you stared wide-eyed at the positive pregnancy tests in front of you, your extra precautions had been for nothing. This was horrible timing, plain and simple. He’d finally made a name for himself other than the ‘Winter Soldier’. He was finally coming into his own, and you’d ruined it. 

You had to resign. You had to leave before the press found out. 

No, you reasoned with yourself. No one knew you were dating; if you simply pretended that you were pregnant by some random man, the office would believe you. 

There was one major flaw in that plan. What would Bucky think? What would he think if his girlfriend of almost two years suddenly broke up with him and showed up to work a week later, visibly pregnant? 

You decided to stick with your original plan, resigning from the office and fleeing DC. You ran up the stairs, shoving everything you’d accumulated into the two bags you kept here. Your drawer would be empty by the time he came home.

He would eventually understand that you were saving his job, saving what you’d both worked so hard for him to achieve. Besides, who knew if he even wanted that with you, a child, a domestic life? This was James Barnes, the World War II veteran, Avenger, and congressman. He had no time for trivial things like that. 

Anger. 

Your life was exactly what you’d wanted, perfect in every way that counted. Your relationship with Bucky was perfect.

At least, until now.

He had been the first man to truly love you, to care about you. You weren’t some object, some underling. You were his equal, his great love, his partner. 

You’d finally achieved your dream. You came to DC to head an office, to become a political weapon. You’d done that, you’d seen the potential in Bucky, and you had gotten him into office.

This wasn’t fair. 

You loved him, you loved him so much that it hurt. He was a gentleman. He held the door open, he respected you, he was- Angry hot tears ran down your cheeks as you lugged the bags over your shoulders, locking the front door behind you, leaving your key underneath the mat. 

This really sucked.

You hailed a taxi, smiling gratefully when the driver helped you with your bags. “Where to, Miss?” 

“Doll?” Bucky called out, shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t show up to work! Something wrong?” 

No response. You were probably upstairs, too tired to call back out to him. He set the takeout bags on the kitchen counter, shrugging off his sports coat. “I brought Indian food from your favorite place down on 8th street.” 

By this point, you were typically barreling down the hallway, jumping into his arms and peppering kisses over his face. He frowned, the house much too silent for his liking. “Baby? Are you home?” 

The hallway was dark, too dark for his liking. You were known for leaving the lights on, too scared to walk around his house in the dark. He laughed when you’d told him, but he’d never judged. If it made you feel safer, then he was all for it. 

He’d checked every room, every possible place you could be, but you were nowhere to be found. It was like you’d never even existed. His mind began to cloud, dark and poisonous. 

His first thought was that someone had taken you. That they, whoever they were, had followed the pair of you home one day, found out where he lived, and taken you as collateral. He began to dial Sam’s number when he pushed your shared bedroom door open, frowning at the sight before him. 

Your drawer was open, empty of all the things you’d brought over. He shut the door behind him, pushing the bathroom door open to find that even your products in the mirror above the sink and the shower had disappeared. His heart stopped, hands shaking as he deleted Sam’s number to make way for yours. It had rung two times before you picked up. 

“Hello?” 

“Thank god.” His voice was quiet. “Came home and you weren’t here. Thought something had happened.” 

“I um…” You felt horrible, horrible that he had thought you’d been taken. You almost gave in, almost told him the truth. He loved you, and you knew he would be excited. “I-” No, you shook your head, you had to do this for him, for his future. He loved you, and you loved him, which is precisely why you had to do this. “I think we should stop seeing each other.” 

This was his nightmare; this was infinitely worse than someone taking you. That he could fight, he could win; this was uncharted territory. His heart clenched, on the verge of breaking clean in half. “What?” 

“This has been on my mind for some time now.” Lie. “It would be best, for both of us, for your career-” You willed yourself not to cry, not to break from the sound of his voice, more anxious than you’d ever heard him. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Where is this coming from, Doll?” He sounded desperate, broken. A tear ran down your cheek. “Did something happen? Did I-” 

“Bucky.” You cried, the tears you’d tried so hard to hold back breaking free. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “I am going to make this harder than it has to be, because I love you."

Bargaining. 

His voice broke, desperate for an explanation. “Just tell me what happened, baby.” 

“I’d like to take the rest of this week off, please.” He would be better off without you, without this whole mess. This was for the best, you tried to convince yourself. “I’ll be back to work next week.” 

“Where are you?” If he could just see you, he would know. He was sure of it; he could read you like an open book. It was for that very reason that you did not want to tell him where you were. 

“I’m-” It was only a matter of time before he found where you were. Hell, he’d had your location in his phone since before you started dating, for safety purposes, of course. You’d laughed when he'd asked, giving him yours in return. It had been sweet, the way he nervously bit his lip. You remembered your cheeks flushing, stomach fluttering at the action.

Now it made you want to cry.

“I’m at my apartment.” 

“Your apartment?” He felt like he was dying, his heart clenching so tightly he thought he was having a heart attack. Maybe he was. You hadn’t been to your apartment in months, spending virtually every waking moment at his place. He’d even persuaded you to move in last week. “Thought you were moving in with me-” 

“Things change, okay?” You snapped, slapping a hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to snap like that.” You wiped your face clean of tears. “We were never going to last forever.” Lie number two. “Please, just let me do this.” 

“No.” He shook his head as if you could see him. “I can fix this, we can-” 

“I’ll see you in a week, Congressman.”

True to your word, he hadn’t seen or heard from you all week. The radio silence made him jittery, and he began to lose focus in meetings, his peers growing more and more annoyed by his apparent lack of care regarding the nation’s interest. 

He wished he could tell them that his life turned upside down on a random Tuesday, that the love of his life had left him out of nowhere, but he knew better. 

They wouldn’t care. 

He’d been counting down the days, staring at his door for some form of life, for your familiar frame. 

Your desk was right outside his office, and he often found himself watching you through the glass wall. Now he just stared at nothing, at the empty desk that turned his mood sour. He frowned, dropping his face into his hands, wallowing in misery.

“Congressman?” 

His heart skipped, head whipping up. “Ms. Clark.”

You hadn’t wanted to go back to work, but you couldn’t just quit over the phone. 

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You could have, probably should have, but your heart craved him, your eyes had to see him once more. 

Then you could hand in your resignation letter. 

You waved hello to the office as you walked toward your desk, almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you. There sat Bucky Barnes, in all his glory, with his head in his hands. If this were normal circumstances, if you hadn’t just broken up with him and were planning on moving across the country, you would have laughed. 

You draped your coat over the back of your chair, pulling your resignation letter out of your bag. “Congressman?” You cleared your throat, heart thumping hard against your chest.

“Ms. Clark.” His head whipped up, eyes wide as he stared at you. “You’re back.” 

“I am.” You reminded yourself that you were in the office and thus had to behave professionally. Placing the letter in front of him, you mustered up the weakest smile known to man. “Here is my resignation letter.” 

“Resignation letter?” Bucky rubbed his eyes, like you weren’t real, a figment of his imagination. “Ms. Clark-” 

“Thank you.” You whispered, not having the strength to look at him any longer. “For understanding.” 

“Wait just a second-” He stood up, practically racing toward the door to shut it before you could leave. “Don’t thank me for understanding.” His cologne threatened to overpower your senses. “Don’t thank me because I don’t understand.” He looked miserable, hands twitching like he was forcing himself not to touch you. “You haven’t given me any real reason.”

“Bucky.” Your voice was like a warning, a plea not to escalate things.

He didn’t happen to care, because he couldn’t let you go. Not without a fight, or at the very least, a reason for your sudden end of an otherwise happy relationship. 

He whispered your name so faintly you could have sworn he’d never said it. “I can’t let you go.” 

“This is highly inappropriate. We are at work, anyone could walk in at-” 

“I don’t care.” He hissed. “I love you? Do you know how much I love you?” 

“Of course I do.” You whispered, scared of someone overhearing. “And I- I loved-” 

“Bullshit.” He shook his head, refusing to believe it. “We were happy. You were happy. You told me you loved me that morning. What happened in nine hours?” 

“If there’s nothing else you need…” You straightened your posture. “I’ll be just outside.” 

“I need you.” He said it like it was a fact, like it was certain, etched in stone since the beginning of time. “You might not need me, but I need you.” 

Oh, how you wanted to correct him. You needed him like air, like the very oxygen that filled your lungs. You’d been in love with him for so long that you’d forgotten what it had been like before him. “Congressman-” 

“Don’t.” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hear you reject him one more time. Not when he knew that you still loved him. He knew it, even if you didn’t. “That will be all.” 

“Fine.” You nodded, turning on your heels like you hadn’t just broken his heart. Like you hadn’t just broken your own heart.

Depression.

You were actively fighting through it, fighting against crumbling into ash and letting the Earth swallow you whole. You’d been to a total of two doctors’ appointments, and even that had done nothing to improve your mood. 

If anything, it made it worse, knowing that Bucky would never be there, holding your hand and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He would never see her first steps, her playing in the front yard, her first dance recital. 

And that was fine, because he would be doing great things, he would be changing the world. 

You didn’t even know if it was a girl or a boy. You had a feeling that it was a girl; your feeling was more of a wish than intuition. You’d always known you’d have a girl; it was something that had been part of you for as long as you’d loved playing with dolls. 

Your hand fell to your stomach, caressing it gently as you whispered. “Hello, my darling.” It was too early to tell if it was a boy or a girl, too early for kicking, too early for most things. 

You felt crazy when you talked to your baby; it wasn’t like she (or he) could hear you or show you that it could. “You’re going to be so loved, so deeply loved.” 

The bed in your apartment was comfortable, but you missed your bed, the one you’d been sleeping in for almost a year. Bucky’s bed. You missed his smell, his warmth. You slept in the one shirt he’d left over here every night, pretending as if nothing had gone wrong, that you hadn’t broken the one thing that kept you sane. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” You whispered again, eyes tearing up as you thought of him. “I miss your father.” 

Only two more days until you leave DC. 

Technically, one and a half. 

It felt surreal. You’d come here with such big dreams, and now, here you were, leaving with your tail tucked between your legs.

It was fine, not everyone was made for this life. 

You thought you had been. 

You’d already put a down payment on a modest house in a small town somewhere in Pennsylvania. It was pale blue, with three bedrooms, two stories, and it took everything in your savings. 

The front yard was perfect for playing in, for growing up. The large oak tree that shaded the house was perfect for climbing, even a tire swing. 

Maybe this was it, acceptance. 

It felt like it, in some horribly strange way. You’d finally reached the last stage of grief, of mourning your past life.

Mourning your great love. 

The office was relatively quiet, a nice reprieve from a normally chaotic environment. You’d decided to make the most of your last two days to finally organize the file system, hopefully enough so that his next executive assistant had an easier time finding things than you had. 

You wondered as you flipped through a folder labeled ‘The Superhero Support Act’ if he and his next assistant would fall in love, if she would make him forget about the pain you’d caused. 

You hoped she did; he deserved happiness.

By noon, you’d already organized all the digital files, your desk, and Bucky’s office. It was time for the white whale - the file closet.

It was dingy in here, the one hanging light doing nothing to brighten the space. You groaned, knowing that this would take longer than you thought. The files were dusty; they had obviously been neglected since the invention of the computer. Deciding to organize the files chronologically, you began your last mission.

 “Thought I’d find you here.” 

You cursed at the sky, wishing that Bucky would just leave before either of you said something you’d regret. You continued to face away from him, still sorting through the files as diligently as before. “Just doing my job.” 

“Mhm.” You imagined he was leaning against the doorway, looking as handsome as always, his jacket unbuttoned. “I see that.” He didn’t speak for a while, simply watching you organize. You wished he would leave once more. 

Wishes, apparently, are not granted on Capitol Hill. 

“I love you.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Congressman-” 

“Don’t call me that.” He frowned. “C’mon, Doll-” 

“Don’t.” You stood up, finally facing him. “We are at work.” He raised an eyebrow, stepping forward and letting the door fall shut. Your eyes widened, and you stepped forward, trying to open it. “If someone finds us in here-” 

“What will they do?” Bucky laughed. “You're leaving, as you love to remind me.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” 

“Funny.” He took in your face, trying to memorize it before you left. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” 

“Stop looking at me like that.” You whispered.

“Like what?” He whispered back.

“Like you still love me.” 

“Of course I still love you.” He scoffed, following after you as you walked backwards, desperate to put distance between the two of you. “I’ll always love you.” 

Your eyes welled. “You don’t mean that.” 

“Stop telling me what I mean.” 

Your back hit the file shelf, gasping. “I-” 

He was barely a breath away from you, eyes darting toward your lips. “When will you understand that I love you? That I’m here, and I’m not leaving. That I’ve loved you since you walked into my campaign office, all frazzled, barking out orders?” His hand came up to your cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen against your will. “That I wake up in the middle of the night, and the first thing I do is look over to make sure you’re still there, that you’re breathing, that you're real?”

“Bucky-” You were sobbing, fighting every instinct that screamed to let him in, to tell him the truth. “Stop.” Every time he spoke, it softened your resolve, made you want to tell him what you’d been carrying by yourself. 

He shook his head, leaning his forehead against yours. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not going to leave you alone. I know you love me, I know-” 

You place one hand over his mouth, the other on his chest. “It’s for the best, trust me. You said you love me, so just let me do this. Let me do this for you.” 

He raised an eyebrow, delicately peeling your hand away from his mouth. “Do what? What’s going on, baby?” He grew more and more worried every second you sobbed, every second you refused to open up to him. “Did someone-” 

“No.” You shook your head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Bucky, I love you so much-” 

He grinned, a glimmer of hope breaking through his otherwise melancholy face. “I love you too-” 

“But this is for your own good.” Both of your hands were on his chest, pushing him away like he was temptation itself. “You’re meant to do great things, and you can do those, but I can’t be the person who slows you down.” 

“Is that why you broke up with me?” He laughed. “I appreciate you looking out for me, really I do, but you can’t make that decision for me.” 

“Too late.” You cried, his shirt wrinkling under your hold. “It’s too late.” 

“No, it’s not.” He shook his head, his hands holding your face like it was precious. If you had asked him, it was. “You’re scaring me, baby. What’s got you so upset? Talk to me.” 

“I- I can’t-” 

“You can-” 

“You don’t get it-” You sobbed. “I-” 

“C’mon, Doll.” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke. “I’m right here.”

“I’m pregnant, alright?” You sobbed. “There you go, there it is.” He staggered back, staring at you in disbelief. You felt jittery, manic with fear from his reaction, or lack of reaction. “I’m sorry, I just-” You hugged yourself, rambling as you tried to explain the reasoning behind your decision.

“I found out after you left for work, and I-I couldn’t live with myself if I slowed you down. You’re amazing, you’re really making a change for these people. And I’m so proud of you, so so proud. You’re my finest achievement, and I-I couldn’t see it all go to waste. I knew if I told you, you’d drop everything, and I couldn’t have that. Because you care too much, and it scares me. It’s horrifying how much you love me. I’m not used to it. You’re supposed to be more selfish, you have to be more selfish, especially in this-” 

You tilted your head, glaring at the man in front of you. “Are you even listening?” He had that same glazed-over look in his eye, still staring in disbelief. “Are you serious? I know I messed up, but the least you could do is say something.” Bucky slowly walked back toward you, like a predator stalking its prey. “I’m sorry, I really am. Just please, say something, say anything-” You gasped when his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you carefully into his hold. “Bucky-”

His lips dove to yours, your eyes fluttering shut as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, your teeth momentarily clashing, neither of you wanting to let up. Your knees weakened, glad that he had an arm around your waist, holding you up with ease. “We can’t-” 

“Are you sure?” He pulled back, breath heaving as he spoke. “Are you sure that you’re pregnant?” 

You nodded, smiling timidly. “Eight weeks yesterday.” 

“Eight weeks?” His eyes welled with tears as he stared at your stomach. “Oh, baby…” 

“I’m so sorry.” You whispered. “I didn’t want to-” 

“I love you.” He grinned, peppering kisses all over your face, your laughter bubbling in waves as you squirmed under his attack of affection. “I love you so much, and I-” He fidgeted with something in his pocket. “This is horrible timing, I know that.” 

“What?” Your heart dropped as he lowered himself onto one knee. “Bucky-” 

“Before you say anything, just let me get this out, and then you can scold me or kiss me, whatever you want.” He smiled, pulling out a small velvet box. “I’ve been trying to find the right time to say this, and now seems as good a time as any.” The ring inside was old, simple, but elegant all the same. “This is my mother’s ring. Rebecca still had it.”

“Bucky-” 

“I want to marry you. So badly it hurts. Marry me, and I swear you’ll be happy as long as you live.”  

“You know my answer is yes.” You cried, leaning down to kiss him. “A million times, yes.” 

He smiled, placing the ring on your finger. “Thank god. If you tried to leave again i was just going to blurt it out, and I didn’t think that-” 

“This is perfect. You’re perfect.” You grinned, staring at the ring as he stood up. “I’m sorry.” 

“No need to apologize, Doll.” He kissed the back of your hand, smiling when he saw his mother’s ring. “I do have one request.” 

“Yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?” 

“Next time you’re pregnant…” Your heart skipped at the way he so casually said ‘next time,’ like it was inevitable. “Tell me before you do anything rash.” 

You nodded, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind his ear. “Sounds reasonable enough.”

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When the Darkness Felt Endless (You Were the Light I Found)

4500 words - I guess this is a middle long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - Maybe this will heal the anxiety - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Mentions of depression and prostetics - Please read with care.

Writer's note: wow, wow, wow, you are all so kind! Keeps me going when the creative brain hits. Enjoy this piece while I finally get to work work. See you next week.

The headlines had stopped screaming her name. The lights had dimmed. The cheers faded like echoes in a cold, hollow tunnel.

Alexia Putellas sat in the back of her apartment, hood up, body curled into the corner of a couch she barely remembered buying. The only sound was the ticking of a clock she wished she could rip off the wall. Time was still moving. Everything was moving. Except her.

Her knee still ached, even though the doctors said it was healing. But they didn’t see the part that didn’t show up on scans. They didn’t hear the static that buzzed in her head every time she looked at her boots. Or saw the photos she’d flipped face-down.

Everything inside her was sharp edges and shame. And that voice… her own voice, somehow sounding like someone else. It told her this was who she really was: not the leader, not the fighter, not the hero. Just broken.

She hadn’t been outside in days.

And then the knock came.

It wasn’t loud. Just three soft, almost tentative knocks. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure if anyone would answer. Or wanted to.

She didn’t move.

The knock came again.

“Alexia.” Your voice was gentle, but it carried something heavier underneath. Like you knew. Like you’d been here, too.

She hated that. That you might see her like this.

Why did you see her like this? You are just one of the neighbors.

“I’m not…” she croaked, but her voice cracked like dry wood. “Just go.”

But you didn’t.

“I brought food,” you said. “You can ignore me if you want. I’ll just leave it here.”

Silence.

“I’m coming back tomorrow.”

That night, Alexia sat with the food untouched on the kitchen counter. Staring at the note you left beside it.

You’re not alone.

She hated how much she wanted to believe it.

You kept coming back.

Every day.

Sometimes with food. Sometimes with nothing but silence and that look. The one that said you see her. Not the athlete. Not the legend. Just her. And she couldn’t stand it.

The third day, she opened the door. Only a crack. Just enough for you to see the bruises under her eyes. Not from fists, but from insomnia and tears.

"You don’t have to…" she started.

"I know," you said. No hesitation. "I want to."

She hated that answer.

Because it didn’t make sense.

People only stay when they want something. That’s what her mind told her. That twisted, looping thought she couldn’t shut up.

What did you want?

Whatever it was, she didn’t buy it.

Fame by proximity? A favor? A story to tell your friends. ‘Oh, I saw Alexia Putellas fall apart once. Up close.’

Or maybe you were just like her… sick with guilt and pretending not to be.

Still, she let you inside that night.

You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push. Just sat on the floor while she stared at the ceiling. And somehow, in the silence, she cracked.

“They keep saying I’ll come back stronger,” she muttered.

You turned to look at her, eyes soft but honest. "And what do you say?"

She laughed. Bitter, low. "That I’m tired of lying.”

There it was.

The truth spilled from her lips like poison. "I don’t even know who I am without football. Without winning. Without people chanting my name. When it’s quiet like this…" she gestured around the dim apartment, “I can’t hear anything except how much I hate myself.”

Your voice didn’t break, but it trembled with understanding. “I know that feeling.”

She studied you for the first time. Really studied you. There was a weight behind your eyes. Not pity, she would’ve shut down if it were pity, but recognition.

You’d been there, too.

“I used to think if I could just do enough, be enough… maybe I’d stop feeling like a burden,” you said. “Turns out you can accomplish everything and still feel like you’re rotting inside.”

A beat passed. She almost stopped breathing.

Because it felt like you were inside her head.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Maybe because when I look at you, I see someone worth saving.” You paused. “And I wish someone had done that for me.”

She turned her face away so you wouldn’t see the tear fall. But she felt your presence, warm and still. Not trying to fix her. Not telling her to “get back up.” Just… there.

The silence between you was heavy, but not suffocating. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she was falling alone.

Later that night, as you left, she murmured it… half asleep, half broken, but clear:

“Luna.”

You turned back. “What?”

“That’s what I’m gonna call you,” she said, voice hoarse. “You’re quiet. But you show up when it’s dark.”

You didn’t reply. But you smiled. And somehow, that smile stayed with her long after the door closed.

One evening, she was distant, colder than before. You noticed it the moment you stepped in. Her eyes avoiding yours. Her body taut like a wire ready to snap.

You became her Luna, the quiet light in her darkest nights.

But even the moon disappears behind clouds.

“Alexia?” you asked softly.

She shook her head, voice sharp and brittle. “I don’t need anyone.”

That cracked something inside you. A fissure that had been growing since you met her. But you held your ground. Refusing to let her slip away.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said.

She laughed but there was no humor. “You don’t understand. Nobody does.”

Her voice broke, just for a second, but that was enough.

“I hate who I’ve become,” she confessed. “The injury, the silence, the empty space where my future used to be. Every time I look in the mirror, I hate her. Hate myself.”

The raw pain in her words stabbed you. You reached out, trembling, to touch her arm.

But she flinched.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m broken.”

You wanted to scream, to shout that she wasn’t. That no one was broken beyond repair. But your voice caught in your throat.

Because you knew this was a battle she had to fight inside herself.

Days passed, and the distance grew. Texts left unread. Calls unanswered.

You tried to respect her space, but the silence swallowed you whole.

One night, your phone lit up, a message from her.

“Go away.”

It was simple. Cold.

You stared at the screen. Heart shattering.

But you didn’t reply.

Instead, you showed up at her door the next morning. No words. Just presence.

After a long moment, she opened the door, eyes red and swollen.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

You shook your head. “You don’t have to apologize for pain.”

Her lips trembled, tears spilling down. “I’m scared you’ll leave. Like everyone else.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised. “Luna stays through the storms.”

And in that fragile moment, between fear and hope, she let you in again.

She never understood why you kept knocking. Why, out of all the faces in the building, it was yours.

The truth was, you’d never spoken more than a handful of words. Maybe five in total. Mostly just glances through half-open doors or hurried nods in the hallway.

Neighbors, not friends. But something kept pulling you to her door.

Tonight was no different.

Another knock. Three soft taps.

Alexia stared at the door like it was a stranger’s, heart pounding unevenly. She had so many questions, none of which she dared voice.

Why her? Why now? Why someone she barely knew. Someone she’d barely looked at?

She wanted to slam the door. Yo shut out the unknown. But her body betrayed her. The door cracked open.

There you stood. No food. No note. Just that steady, quiet presence.

You said nothing, just offered a small, almost hesitant smile.

She wanted to ask, Why? Why do you care?

But words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she looked away.

“It’s ridiculous,” she finally muttered. “You don’t even know me.”

You nodded slowly. “I don’t.”

“But you keep coming back.”

“Yes.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Why?”

You looked down at your hands, then back up… eyes steady.

“Because sometimes, when someone’s breaking in silence, the right thing to do is just... show up. Even if you don’t understand.”

Alexia’s chest tightened.

She hated feeling like a charity case. A project. Someone to be saved. She was a fighter, or she used to be. But now… now she felt like nothing.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said, voice trembling. “You don’t have to be here.”

You stepped a little closer. Still cautious. Still respectful.

“I’m not here because I owe you. I’m here because I see you. And you deserve more than being invisible.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, searching for something. Hope, maybe, or just the truth.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she said nothing.

And in that silence, a fragile understanding settled.

But the walls were still up.

And the healing… if it ever came… was still far away.

You started staying longer.

Never asked to. Never assumed. Just waited. Always waited for her to open the door first.

The first time she left it unlocked, you stood there for a moment. Unsure whether it was an invitation or an accident. But when you knocked softly and she didn’t flinch, you stepped inside.

She was on the floor, back against the couch, legs drawn in. A hoodie swallowed her frame.

No words. Just your breath in the quiet.

You sat down across from her, not too close. The space between you wasn’t distance. It was permission. She needed that.

The silence stretched until it didn’t feel like silence anymore.

Finally, she spoke.

“You live across from me, right?”

You nodded. “End of the hall.”

Her eyes flickered over you, cautious. “How long?”

“About a year.”

She blinked. That long?

“You ever hear me cry?” she asked bluntly.

You didn’t lie. “Sometimes.”

Her jaw tightened. She looked away. “Bet that was pathetic.”

“No,” you said simply.

She didn’t respond, but something in her posture shifted.

You looked down at your hands. “I used to cry like that, too.”

She glanced up. “Used to?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes still do. Just quieter.”

That earned a dry, bitter huff. Not quite a laugh. But not silence either.

Alexia rubbed at her face. Her fingers trembling. “You know... I thought if I lost football, I’d lose everything. Turns out I did.”

“You didn’t lose everything,” you said.

She met your eyes. Sharp, tired, guarded. “What’s left?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn’t want to say me. Not yet. Not when she barely let you touch her shadow.

So instead, you said, “Maybe something you haven’t noticed yet.”

Another silence. Heavier this time.

Then she asked, voice low, “What’s your name?”

You gave it to her.

She repeated it quietly, testing the sound. And then... without quite meaning to... she said, “Doesn’t suit you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

She shook her head. “You’re still Luna.”

Your chest ached, but in a good way.

She was letting you in. A little. Enough.

Enough for now.

You didn’t knock.

For the first time in weeks, your knock never came.

The hallway was quiet.

Alexia sat in the dark. Blanket wrapped around her like armor. Phone on the table. Screen blank. No texts. No sounds. Just the ticking again. That clock she still hadn’t taken off the wall.

Her apartment had never felt so empty.

She waited an hour. Then two.

Then three.

Maybe you were busy. Maybe you finally realized she wasn’t worth the effort. She told herself that. Repeated it like a mantra.

This is what people do. They leave. She should be used to it.

But something about your silence was off. Not cruel, not distant. Just… wrong.

So she stood. Pulled on a sweatshirt. Crossed the hallway.

Your door was closed. No sound from inside.

She hesitated.

Then knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Her gut tightened. She knocked again, firmer. “Luna?”

Still nothing.

She didn’t mean to open the door. But it was unlocked, just like hers had been the night she let you in.

She stepped inside.

And stopped.

Your place was dim. Quiet. Lived-in but tidy. And in the far room... she saw the silhouette of you curled up in bed, facing the wall.

“Luna?” Her voice was barely a whisper now.

You didn’t turn.

She walked closer. Slowly. And then she saw it. The empty socket beside the bed. A sleek black prosthetic leg propped against the wall. The skin of your thigh raw and irritated. Like it had fought a battle all day and lost.

You still didn’t turn. But you spoke, voice low and flat. “Didn’t feel like being a person today.”

Alexia blinked. The words were a mirror of everything she’d ever said. Everything she thought only applied to her.

And suddenly, she felt like a thief.

You’d been showing up for her. Over and over. And she’d never once asked if you were hurting too. She never noticed your limp, never questioned your quiet exits. Never even saw the piece of you that was missing. Not really.

She’d been drowning so deeply in herself, she never realized you might be wading through your own hell.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

You turned your head slightly, eyes tired but calm. “Would it have mattered?”

That answer gutted her.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It would’ve.”

A long silence.

You gave a tired shrug. “It happened years ago. Car accident. I was in the backseat. Some nights I still dream I’m trapped there.”

She sat down beside your bed, not touching you. Just there.

“I used to think I’d never walk again,” you continued. “Then I thought I’d never be loved. Now I just try to get through the day without wanting to disappear.”

Alexia pressed a fist to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.”

“No. I am.” Her voice cracked. “You were always there for me. And I never asked about you. I never even looked.”

You glanced at her, lips curling just slightly. “That’s okay. You weren’t supposed to. You were drowning.”

She blinked fast, but tears slipped through anyway.

“I’m tired of drowning,” she said, voice almost inaudible.

Then, softer still: “Do you want me to stay?”

You nodded, just once.

And for the first time, she lay beside you.

No walls. No armor.

Just two broken people, side by side, in the quiet dark.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through your window, painting your room with pale gold.

Today was different.

Today you were getting a new prosthetic leg.

Your first in months.

The one designed to move. To run. To jump. To feel alive again.

You turned to Alexia, heart pounding with something close to hope.

“I have an appointment,” you said quietly. “Physio and the new leg fitting.”

Her eyes flickered, hesitation written in every line of her face.

“I don’t know if...”

You smiled gently. “I want you to come.”

For weeks, she’d barely left her apartment. The shadows clung too tight. The pain was too loud.

But something about your invitation felt different. Not a demand, but a promise.

She nodded slowly, pulling on a jacket she hadn’t touched in days.

Outside, the air was cool and sharp. A fresh contrast to the stale loneliness of her rooms.

You walked side by side. Tentative but steady.

The clinic was bright, bustling with life and the sharp scent of antiseptic.

You tried on the new prosthetic. Lighter, more flexible. And for the first time in months, you felt the thrill of movement.

Alexia watched, eyes wide, a small smile playing at her lips.

On the way back, you both walked a little taller.

And then, unexpectedly, you saw her.

Eli.

Alexia’s mother.

Her face softened at the sight of her daughter stepping out into the sunlight. Not alone but with you. the stranger who had quietly become her lifeline.

“Alexia,” Eli’s voice was gentle but firm, full of the unspoken worry and love only a mother carries. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

Alexia’s lips trembled as she gave a nod.

Eli turned to you, eyes bright with gratitude. “Thank you for bringing her out.”

You exchanged a glance. Warm and quiet.

For the first time in a long time, hope didn’t feel fragile.

It felt possible.

The days after the clinic visit were quieter but not empty.

Alexia noticed it first in the mornings.

She woke without the usual weight pressing on her chest, the dark thoughts that tangled her mind overnight still there, but softer... distant echoes instead of a roaring storm.

You were part of that change.

Not because you said anything profound.

Not because you tried to fix her.

But because you simply were... a steady presence in a wrld that had felt fractured and cold.

One afternoon, Eli stopped by. She lingered in the doorway. Her eyes warm and kind.

“I see a change,” she said softly.

Alexia shrugged, unsure if she wanted to believe it.

Eli smiled gently. “Sometimes the right person doesn’t just walk into your life. They carry a light you forgot you had.”

That night, you two sat on her small balcony, wrapped in blankets, watching the city lights flicker.

She turned to you, voice quiet.

“You make this... lighter. Like the weight is still there but I can breathe underneath it.”

You reached out, fingers brushing hers briefly.

“That’s enough,” you said.

Alexia smiled, fragile but real.

In the dark, with you beside her, she let herself hope. For the first time in a long time. That maybe. Just maybe. She wasn’t alone.

The knock was soft but deliberate.

You opened the door to find Alexia standing there. A carefully balanced container in her hands.

“I made lunch,” she said, voice a little shy. “Thought you might want some company.”

You stepped aside, letting her in.

The apartment smelled faintly of warmth and effort. Something she hadn’t done in a while.

You ate together, the quiet between bites feeling less like an abyss and more like a space where something new might grow.

After the last forkful, Alexia looked at you, eyes steady.

“I’m going to the training grounds tomorrow,” she said.

Your heart skipped.

“Rehab,” she added quickly. “I’ve decided I can’t stay stuck. And they have staff there of course. Professionals who can help. Maybe even help you, too. With your new leg.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Would you like to come? Start yours together?”

You blinked, surprised.

“I… don’t really have any training clothes,” you admitted shyly, voice small.

Alexia’s lips curved into a proud, teasing smile. “You can wear mine.”

Your heart fluttered in a weird, warm way.

She caught your glance and laughed softly. “I’m serious. You’re going to need something comfortable. Besides, it’s about time I share more than just my pain.”

The morning sun spilled through the windows as you both prepared for the day ahead.

Alexia handed you a loose-fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants. Her training clothes, worn but clean.

You hesitated, fingers brushing the fabric. Feeling a strange flutter in your chest.

“You sure?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, a mixture of pride and encouragement in her eyes. “Absolutely. It’s a start. We start together.”

The walk to the training grounds was quiet at first. Neither of you knew exactly what to say, or how to act.

You noticed the way Alexia kept glancing at you. Maybe nervous. Maybe hopeful.

When you arrived, the clinic staff greeted you warmly. Ushering you both into the rehab area.

The room was filled with equipment: parallel bars, treadmills, balance boards. A physical world of challenge and possibility.

You fumbled with the new prosthetic leg, its unfamiliar weight strange against your skin.

Alexia stood beside you, silently offering support.

“Ready?” she asked, voice soft but steady.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Your first steps were awkward and uneven. The prosthetic didn’t quite feel like part of you yet, and your muscles screamed with unfamiliar effort.

Alexia’s own movements were cautious. Shadows of hesitation flickering in her eyes.

But neither of you gave up.

The physiotherapist guided you gently. Adjusting your posture. Encouraging you.

Between attempts, Alexia reached out, squeezing your hand briefly. A small anchor in the uncertainty.

You caught her gaze, and in that moment, words weren’t necessary.

Hours passed in a blur of effort and quiet triumphs.

By the end, you were both exhausted but smiling. The first genuine smiles in a long time.

On the walk home, Alexia slipped her hand into yours.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” you asked.

“For coming. For staying.”

Your heart swelled.

When you stopped outside her building. The world seemed to pause.

Alexia looked up at you. Eyes searching. Vulnerable.

Slowly, she leaned in and your lips met in a soft, trembling kiss.

It was hesitant. A question and an answer all at once.

The kind of kiss that promises more than words ever could.

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you spoke.

But the quiet between you now held something new.

Hope.

And the beginning of something real.

A few weeks had passed since that day at the training grounds.

You and Alexia were officially together now. Girlfriends, as she’d said once. Shy but sure.

Most days, you found yourself spending hours in her apartment. The place that had once felt like a prison but was slowly becoming home.

Today, you two tackled the chaos of her room. Clothes piled on the floor. Unopened letters. And the shadows that still lingered in the corners.

You laughed quietly as you worked side by side. The easy comfort between you growing.

Later, she mentioned dinner at her mother’s.

“You’ll finally meet my mamá properly,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“And my sister,” she added with a smile.

Your heart fluttered, nerves bubbling up. Meeting family felt like a big step. But one you were ready for.

Before you left, you needed to freshen up.

Alexia’s shower was small, built before your accident, not quite made for someone like you.

You hesitated at the bathroom door, voice trembling. “I… might need some help.”

She looked up. Surprise flickering in her eyes.

You’d never seen each other quite like this. Vulnerable, exposed.

But Alexia didn’t hesitate.

She stepped inside, gentle hands steadying you as the warm water glided over your skin. Her arms wrapped around you, holding you close in the tight, steamy space.

“Thank you,” she whispered softly against your ear, her voice trembling with something raw and real. “Thank you for pulling me out of the dark.”

You leaned into her, heart pounding, feeling the weight of those words settle between you like a promise.

When you finally emerged, clean and steady, Alexia smiled softly.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply.

You blushed, heart full.

Tonight, you’d meet her family.

But for now, wrapped in the warmth of each other, you felt ready for anything.

It still felt surreal. This place was yours and Alexia’s now.

A modest one-floor home nestled in a peaceful neighborhood, spacious enough for dreams and laughter and the quiet moments you both craved.

Boxes sat unpacked in the corners, a testament to new beginnings, but the walls already hummed with the promise of life unfolding.

Today was special.

Alexia had a match.

Her first game back after months of grueling rehab, of rebuilding not just her body but her spirit.

You could see the nervous energy radiating off her as she laced up her boots. Her eyes sharp but filled with a fragile hope.

Her mother was coming with you to watch. Her presence a steady, loving force that somehow made the day feel lighter.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation as you found your seats.

The whistle blew, and she was off.

Watching her move with fierce determination. The joy of the game shining through the sweat and effort, made your heart swell.

Each pass, each sprint, each goal attempt was a testament to her fight. Not just to return, but to reclaim.

Eli beside you smiled softly, whispering, “She’s stronger than ever.”

After the final whistle, you met Alexia outside the locker room, her face flushed. Breathless. Radiant.

“You did it,” you said, pulling her close.

She laughed, a sound of pure relief and triumph.

“We did it,” she corrected, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

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

Writer's note: your thoughts about this one?

[swiftjay23]

You Remember Wrong

Genre: Psychological Horror Erotic Thriller Unreliable Memory / Glitchcore Smut-Heavy Mindfuck Neo-noir Romance Paranormal Erotica, Dead Boyfriend Isn’t Dead, Or Maybe He Is, Gaslight Gatekeep Ghost Dick, Sex and Memory Collapse, Possessive Glitchboyfriend, Mirror Sex, Voicemail Moaning, Fucking Through Amnesia, Trauma-Fueled Lust, “He’s still inside you”, Is She Dead? Is He Real?, No One Knows. Especially Not You, Emotional Manipulation via Orgasm, Unreliable Narrator, Haunting as Foreplay, File://ERROR, You Died. Maybe.

SUMMARY: Every year at exactly 12:12 a.m., you receive a single text. Always from the same name. Always the same word: “Sorry.” The name? Jake. Your boyfriend. Your first love. Declared dead five years ago. You thought the case was closed. You thought you were healing. But this year, the message changes. “You remember wrong.” Reality glitches. Your reflection moves without you. He never left. And he’s not leaving now.

🔞 CONTENT TAGS / WARNINGS (Explicit): MDNI Oral Sex (M→F), Vaginal Sex, Mirror Play, Rough Sex, Creampie, Somnophilia Themes, Breathplay / Choking, Public Photo/Surveillance Kink, Voicemails Featuring Moaning, Glitching Reality / Horror, Forced Arousal via Haunting, Intense Psychological Themes, Unclear Consent in Dream/Memory Sequences, Body Memory / Amnesia, Blood Mention, Flashbacks to Sex and Grief, Possessive Behavior, Distorted Perception, Delusions of Love, Self-Pleasure Induced by Haunting, Manipulation via Pleasure, Mentions of Death, Fire, Identity Erasure, YOU DIED. (Maybe.)

Pairing! Sim Jaeyun | Jake (Enhypen) × Female Reader

Word Count: 3377

🗂🕯️ Permanent Taglist:

⟡ @tashmonellloveskpopboybands,⟡ @yuriloveshee, ⟡ @kookiesnkim, ⟡ @picklemafia, ⟡ @add-this-to-that, ⟡ @xxjoyridingxx,⟡ @enjakey, ⟡ @noidnoentry, ⟡ @avadie, ⟡ @enhaheart8, ⟡ @yourislandgirl, ⟡ @meowwwon, ⟡ @saodk ⟡ @inlovewithparkjisung, ⟡ @verycutesyverymindful, ⟡ @fleurdelises, ⟡ @queenvash, ⟡ @tyongielee, ⟡ @amzingjellyfish,⟡ @enbplvr, ⟡ @6abriellaa, ⟡ @fateismoonstruck, ⟡ @trashlord-007, ⟡ @artemesiareads, ⟡ @d0einheadlights, ⟡ @miuuuw, ⟡ @butwhyareyoureyessosad, ⟡ @rainofcrime, ⟡ @darkblueblueberr, ⟡ @zone444girls, ⟡ @bombombakudanmeow, ⟡ @en-cityy, ⟡ @koya2000, ⟡ @tttbearblog, ⟡ @yb763, ⟡ @freakseung2001 ⟡ @nics-fxy, ⟡ @irers

Your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that shouldn’t exist in a city that never fucking sleeps.

It’s not just silence, it’s a void.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, remote still clutched in your hand, your phone balanced on your chest. A candle flickers out in the kitchen. You don’t remember lighting it.

Then the phone buzzes.

You jolt, eyes unfocused as the screen lights your skin. One notification. One word. One name.

It starts the same way it always does. Phone buzzes. Screen lights up. 12:12 a.m. You don’t need to look at the name. You already know.

1 new message from: Jake

Your chest contracts. Your breath stalls. Your fingers twitch. The first year, it said "Sorry." The second, third, and fourth did too. A single word. Unchanging. Like a ghost with manners.

But tonight, tonight, it’s different.

No. This time, it’s you who’s the problem.

You sit up. Every hair on your arm stands. Because… he’s dead.

Jake’s dead. He’s been dead for five years. Found dead, stabbed, burned, unidentifiable. The authorities ruled it a home invasion. But something never sat right. Declared gone at exactly 12:12 a.m. the time carved into every death certificate, every news report, every echo of your memory.

You remember wrong.

You stare. Not at the message. At the room. Like something's about to shift. Crack. Like the floorboards might peel back and spill blood. You’re alone. Of course you’re alone.

Except…

The bathroom door is open. You always leave it closed. The faucet’s dripping. You haven’t used it all night. You back away slowly.

You pull yourself off the couch like the air’s thickened. Something’s wrong. The temperature’s dropped. Your reflection in the mirror across the room looks… too still. Like it’s not moving when you do.

You blink. It blinks back. And then. Your legs brush the edge of your bed. You sit down without meaning to. Hands trembling.

You hear it.

A clink. Metal against ceramic. From the kitchen.

You whisper it before you can stop yourself. “Jake?” The light above you flickers. Just once. A joke, maybe. A coincidence. Except you don’t believe in those anymore.

You haven’t said his name out loud in almost two years. You forgot how it tasted. Bitter. Familiar. Like copper and old perfume.

Your phone buzzes again.

Don’t say it again.

You flinch. You’re not alone. You don’t know how you know. But you know. The air shifts. Thickens. Warms. You feel something press against your shoulder, then nothing.

You turn. No one. Except your bedroom mirror. Fogged over. Like someone breathed against it. Like someone’s still breathing.

Your body moves before your brain does. You stumble to the mirror.

The words smear across the glass like fingerprints. "Shh." And behind your own reflection, someone stands.

Close. Too close. Fingertips graze your waist. Cold. Familiar.

You take a few steps back. Head to the kitchen for water and a sleep pill. You step forward slowly, heart hammering in your chest. There’s a knife on the counter. The same one that went missing last week. The same one from the police report five years ago, missing weapon, presumed disposed.

It’s back. Dripping something dark. Like it was just used.

You take one step back. And then—

A hand wraps around your waist. Familiar. Warm. Firm.

Another hand covers your mouth. You try to scream but it’s breathless, like your lungs forgot how. And then you hear him.

That voice. That fucking voice. Right by your ear. A low whisper, like silk sliding over a wound.

“Shh.” “You talk too much when I’m home.”

You jerk forward but the grip doesn’t loosen. His lips brush your jaw, lazy. Fond. Possessive.

“You weren’t supposed to ask.” “You were supposed to miss me.” You twist around. And you see him. Sim Jaeyun.

Alive.

Or at least, something that looks like him. Hair slightly longer. Skin paler. Eyes… glitched. Like a skipped frame in a movie reel. Too real. Not real enough. Both.

He smiles. And your body betrays you.

You feel wetness between your legs. Because your body remembers. Even if you don’t.

You back up. Your voice breaks: “Are you—?”

He’s already shaking his head. “You remember wrong.”

You wake up on the floor.

Hardwood against your cheek. Cold sweat on your spine. The clock on your microwave says 4:43 a.m.

The knife’s gone. The fogged-up mirror is dry. The message from Jake, deleted. And your phone? Powered off. You don’t remember turning it off.

Your throat feels raw. Your lips are bruised. Your thighs are sore.

You pull your sleep shirt down over your ass as you stand, shaky, like your body’s been used. Touched. Fucked. Like the ghost of a man fucked you open and made you forget your own name.

You try to shake it off. Go to the bathroom. Turn on the light— It flickers. No surprise. You lean over the sink. There’s blood beneath your fingernails.

By noon, you’re sitting at your desk with four tabs open: Jake’s police file An archived news report The coroner’s statement The funeral guest list

Every link says the same thing: Jake died. Five years ago. Time of death? 12:12 a.m. No body ever confirmed. Closed casket. The fire burned his face. They ruled it a match using dental records. That’s what you remember.

Except one file doesn’t open. Jake’s identity archive. The system returns a red blinking message.

FILE://ERROR – IDENTITY MISMATCH. SOURCE UNSTABLE.

You stare. The file isn’t corrupted. You are.

You hear your phone vibrate from the kitchen.

One new voicemail. Timestamped at 2:47 a.m. While you were… unconscious? Dreaming? Coming?

You press play.

You expect static. Garbled signals. You get moaning. Your moaning.

Panting, whispering something over and over. Begging.

“Jake, please, just tell me—” A wet sound. Fingers. Something deeper. Your voice breaks. “What are you, what are you doing to me?” “I’m making you forget.” Click. End of voicemail. You drop the phone.

You curl up on the floor of your apartment like it’ll help you hold shape. Your hand drifts down.

It’s not a choice. It’s instinct.

You’re soaked. You slide a hand under your shorts, two fingers curling in like they’ve been taught. Like someone trained them.

You gasp. The memory floods back, his teeth on your shoulder. His voice in your ear. “I know how to make you come harder than truth.”

The orgasm hits before you’re ready. Violent. Full-body. You come shaking, biting your hand to keep from sobbing.

And just as you blink your eyes open, he’s standing in the doorway.

Not a sound. Not a footstep.

He’s just… there. Leaning against the frame. T-shirt half untucked. Hair wet. Eyes on your fingers.

Jake.

Still not dead. Still not explaining. Just watching you unravel.

You try to speak. Your mouth opens. He raises a finger to his lips again.

“Don’t ask.” “Just come here.”

You wake up naked.

Sheets tangled between your legs. Mouth dry. Skin damp. A bruise blooming on the inside of your thigh in the shape of a hand you know too well. Jake is gone. Again. But he always leaves reminders.

The scent of him on your pillow. The ache in your cunt like you were kept up all night. The slick that clings to your inner thighs, cooling.

You try to clench your legs, flinch. It hurts. God, it hurts. Like you came over and over and forgot how to stop.

Your phone buzzes. You drag yourself to the edge of the bed, grab it with trembling fingers.

Unknown Number

1 New Photo 1 New Voicemail

You don’t open the voicemail. Not yet. Your eyes land on the photo first.

You. And Jake. Laughing. Holding hands. Drinking coffee. Last week.

Date stamped. Geotagged. Smiling.

You drop the phone. Because you don’t remember that moment. You didn’t go out last week. You barely left the apartment.

You haven’t smiled like that since—

That night, he comes back. Doesn't say a word, moves up to your room.

You follow him.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember moving. But suddenly, you’re in the hallway, feet bare, heart in your throat, the floorboards creaking like they're holding secrets.

Jake doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. You’d follow him off a rooftop right now, and he knows it.

He pushes the door open to your bedroom. Except—

It’s not your bedroom. It’s cleaner. Too clean. Sterile. Like a memory of a bedroom. Your furniture, your sheets, but wrong.

The scent hits first. Jake’s cologne. Faint. Faded. Like he’s been here this whole time, bleeding into the walls. Your knees wobble.

He doesn’t speak. Just sits at the edge of your bed. Legs spread. Elbows on his knees.

And that smile. The one that used to mean “Come here and let me wreck you.” The one that made you soft when you were supposed to stay angry.

It’s back. But colder. Hungrier.

You open your mouth, he raises a hand. Stops you with one look. “I’m not here to explain.” “I’m here to remind you.”

He pulls you by the wrist. You stumble, fall into him, straddle his lap without meaning to.

Your shirt rides up. He palms your hips like you’re his. Like he never died. Like you never forgot how good this felt.

He kisses you like punishment. Like silence. Like you’re not supposed to speak, only break.

Your mouth tastes like grief and heat and déjà vu. You don’t even notice when he lifts you, lays you down, crawls between your thighs. Because your head tilts.

And then you see it. The mirror.

Across the room. The full-length one you never liked. The one you threw a blanket over after he died. It’s uncovered.

You see yourself. On your back. Legs around his waist.

But something’s wrong.

The reflection smiles first. Not you.

Your reflection is moaning before you even feel his cock push inside. Grabbing his shoulders. Tilting your head.

You’re still gasping, still catching up. But the girl in the mirror is already cumming.

Already his. He fucks you slowly. Like he’s memorizing you again. Like he’s carving something into your bones that won’t leave, even after death.

“This is the version of you I like best,” he murmurs. “You never talk during sex. Just beg.”

You want to ask where he’s been. Why no one remembers. Why you’re unraveling. But your mouth won’t work. He’s thrusting too deep. Your voice has become sound, not sense.

The reflection lifts her head. She watches you. Smiling, dazed.

She whispers something you can’t hear— But Jake can. Because he leans down and repeats it into your throat. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You cum when his hand closes over your throat. Tears slipping from your eyes, not from pain. From remembering. Everything. Or nothing.

And just before you pass out. The reflection mouths something new. “Don’t wake up.”

You wake up naked.

The knock at your door is too normal. It jars. You tug on a hoodie. Nothing underneath. Still wet. The air stings between your legs. You’re leaking. You open the door a crack.

It’s your neighbor. The old woman from 5B.

She frowns. Takes a step back like she’s seen a ghost. “I thought… sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here anymore.” “Weren’t you the girl whose boyfriend—”

She stops.

“No, that’s not right. You moved out. Five years ago.” “After the fire.”

She leaves before you can speak. Your lungs seize.

You slam the door shut. Collapse against it.

You're not real. Or maybe reality isn’t.

You crawl back to the bed. The sheets are cold. The mirror across the room is cracked. The voicemail still waits. You hit play. Jake’s voice.

“You're tighter when you’re scared.” “When you don’t understand what I am.” “But your body does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a wet sound. Slapping. Breathing. Your voice. “Jake—please, I can’t—” “You can. You always could.” “I’m the only thing that ever felt real.”

You hear him groan. “Say my name.”

Your voice on the recording sobs it. Moans it. Over and over. Crying it into the crook of his neck. Begging for more.

“Say you’re mine.” “Say it, or I’ll fuck you until you forget your name again.”

You say it. On the tape. Desperate. Shattered.

“I’m yours, Jake—fuck—yours—” He laughs. Low. Ruined.

“Good girl.” You drop the phone again.

You don’t remember the night. But your body does. You’re sore, raw, dripping down your thighs like the proof of possession.

You crawl onto the bed again. Still open. Still warm.

And you feel it, Not just slick but him. Like he’s still inside you. Like he never left.

You reach down.

Two fingers. Wet. Warm.

You fuck yourself with the rhythm he used last night. And in the mirror, you see Jake.

Behind you. No expression. Hands on your hips. Watching. But when you spin around? Nothing.

The email from the archives comes at 3:03 a.m. Just two lines:

REQUEST DENIED. SUBJECT: Y/N [REDACTED] – STATUS: DECEASED.

You blink at the screen. Your name, blacked out. Birth certificate: not found. Hospital file: error. Death record: processed.

You’re not dead. You’re not.

You touch your own pulse just to check. And your fingers come away sticky. Slick.

You’re wet again. Still. There wasn't a time you weren't, with his breath hitting you constantly.

A knock at the door. Not tentative. Not curious. Confident. Like someone who knows you’ll answer.

You grab your robe, still braless, panties nonexistent. Because nothing stays on you these days. Jake makes sure of it.

You open the door. And there he is.

Bare-chested. Black sweats. No shoes. Neck glistening with sweat like he ran here. Or maybe… like he came. His eyes flick over you.

The robe barely clings to your shoulders. His gaze drops between your thighs.

“You’re leaking again.” “Let me fix that.” You don’t speak.

Because your body’s already moving. Letting him in. Locking the door. He doesn’t waste time.

Pushes you against the kitchen counter. Hands under your robe. No patience. You gasp when his fingers slide in—two, immediately. Like he owns the place. Like he’s coming home.

“Still this wet?” he whispers, mouth on your throat. “Even when I’m not around?”

You try to lie. Try to say it’s from the dream, the tape, the memory.

But he curls his fingers inside you just right. Finds that spot. And you choke. He smirks.

“Thought so.” He flips you over the counter.

No warning. Your robe’s yanked open, tits pressed against cold granite. One hand between your shoulders, the other already freeing his cock. You look back. And fuck.

He’s hard. Thick. Mean-looking. The kind of cock you don’t forget, even if reality begs you to.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what you are.” You hesitate. He doesn’t. He slams in. One thrust. Bottoms out.

You scream, choked, sudden, fucked full.

“Say it.” You sob. “I’m yours.” “Jake, I’m yours—”His hips snap forward, fast, brutal. Your nails scratch the countertop.

“Louder.” “Let the walls remember too.”

You say it. You cry it. You mean it.

Because he’s fucking you like he wants to leave a blueprint inside. Like when you’re gone, your cunt will still remember. You cum hard. On his cock. Around it. Slick splattering down your thighs, onto the floor.

He doesn’t stop.

“That’s it.” “Stay broken.” “Stay mine.”

He pulls out just enough, then slams back in. You feel it in your teeth.

And just before you black out— You hear it again. The mirror. A whisper from across the room. Soft. Feminine. You. “Don’t wake up.”

But you don't, you never fall asleep. The room is quiet after he cums.

He doesn’t pull out. Just stays pressed deep inside, breath tickling your neck, his palm cradling your jaw like you’re made of glass.

You’re shaking. He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

Soft. Nothing like before. No thrust. No demand. Just lips.

“You used to cry when I touched you.” “The first time, remember?”

You don’t.

But your body clenches around him like you do.

FLASH.

You’re nineteen. Jake’s apartment. Messy sheets, your first real boyfriend, his trembling fingers between your thighs.

He’s saying, “Tell me if it hurts.” You’re whispering, “Don’t stop.”

Your legs shake when you cum. You cry into his neck. He holds you like it’s sacred. Back in the present, he fucks you slow again. Almost gentle.

“You were so good for me,” he murmurs. “So fucking sweet. Always so wet. Always mine.” Your eyes sting. You don’t want to cry. You don’t know if this is memory or manipulation.

But he leans in. Kisses your lips, soft. Careful. Real.

“You still are.”

You’re riding him now. Hands on his chest. Your thighs sore. The mirror behind him cracked. Still watching.

You roll your hips. Slow. Needy. And Jake? He’s smiling.

Not that twisted grin. A real smile. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” “Let me see you. Let me remember.” Your walls clench.

You moan. Loud. Unfiltered. And Jake, his hands shake when he grabs your hips. “You’re my favorite version.” You whimper: “Which one am I?”

He doesn’t answer. Just thrusts up, deep, perfect.

And you come.

FLASH. A picnic. Sunlight. Jake handing you strawberries. Telling you your laugh is his favorite sound.

You laugh now. But it’s hollow. You collapse against him.

He wraps you in a blanket. Cradles your head. Hums. “You used to cry when I touched you.” “But now you forget.” “And when you forget, you let me touch you again.” You fall asleep like that.

Still inside him. Still unsure. Still his.

It starts with a letter. On your pillow. Folded once. No envelope. Your name in blue ink. You recognize the handwriting. Yours.

The signature, though, is Jake’s. “You used to write me letters when you were angry. You said it was easier than screaming. You only screamed when I left. I didn’t leave. You did.”

The paper smells like old perfume. Yours. Or his. You’re not sure anymore.

“You begged me to come back. So I did. I made a home in the only place you’d never look again. Inside your own memory.”

The voicemail comes two minutes later. You play it. Your mother’s voice. Shaky. Frayed. Real. “Sweetie, I—I don’t know why you keep saying his name. You always did this, remember? Imaginary friends. But Jake, Jake never existed. We thought it stopped after the… after the accident.”

“You died. Honey, you died. You weren’t supposed to come back.”

She’s crying.

“Why are you calling me from this number? Whose phone is this?Please stop. Just let it rest.”

The world goes quiet.

The room doesn’t feel cold. It feels… gone. Like the lights are on in a house that was never built. You walk to the window.

And across the street. You see it.

Your funeral. A closed casket. Mourning clothes. Black umbrellas under white sun. Your mother on her knees in front of the altar. Sobbing. The same woman who left the voicemail. Only now it’s hours later.

But you’re not there. You’re somewhere else.

The kitchen smells like eggs and citrus.

Jake stands at the stove. Barefoot. Sweats hanging low. Soft music playing from an old radio that never worked.

He looks up. “Morning.” “You look pale.” “You dreamed again, didn’t you?”

You sit down. There’s orange juice in your cup before you speak. “Jake…”

He slides the eggs onto your plate. Kisses your forehead. “I’m yours. You made me that way.” “I can’t leave anymore.”

You blink. He smiles. “Eat, baby. It’s a long life. And we’re the only ones who remember it.”

In the mirror behind him, you’re smiling.

But you’re not eating. Your reflection tilts its head. Blood drips down its nose. You wipe yours. Nothing. Jake sits across from you. Reaches for your hand. And you don’t ask if he’s real.

You just whisper: “Will you stay?” He doesn’t blink. “I never left.”

Outside, the funeral ends. They bury the casket. The wind carries a single name from your mother’s lips:

“Please. Come back.”

But you’re already home. You always have been.

The End You remember wrong.

masterlist

[mysticgoldfish]

“ azizam ” — amir (date everything) ~1.4k words

tldr bc i’m too lazy for a proper description; amir loves you more than himself (shockingly) and fucks you in front of a mirror to prove it!

cw :: smut, mdni !, p in v, no protection, prob ooc i haven’t played this sorrz, cunnilingus (he’s a munch), afab reader, body worship, genitalia referred to w/ female pronouns

a/n :: i’ve written smut on ao3 once before (ironically also mirror sex) but i’m an amateur writer so don’t expect too much, alsooooo i’m gonna use the nicknames he uses in the game (azizam & dear) + one other persian term. i’m not persian so if any corrections are needed plz tell me! okok ill stop now, enjoy!! also i didnt proofread

———

getting sent glasses that allowed you to speak to inanimate objects in your home was still a concept you were accommodating to.

the attention was certainly new. even outside of your home, you didn’t relish in any compliments you might off-handedly receive. you were average. you’d accepted this as a fact of life years ago.

some objects were nicer than others, some flirtier…or meaner. in a way, you almost preferred the meaner ones. the honesty was much easier to digest, no second guessing needed. the flirting made you feel as if you needed maggie by your side every second to decipher it. who was genuine, who was just trying to get into your pants, who was saying it because that’s just how they were?

so, needless to say you were quite surprised when you aimed skylar’s beams at your bathroom mirror and was met with amir. a beyond beautiful persian man. his lusciously thick black hair fell to his shoulders, which really only made you wonder if you needed to invest in more expensive shampoo.

plus, his eyes. god, his eyes. any time you stared at them for even more than a second, it was as if you’d spawned on a beach right as a tsunami had started to pull the waves back. yet, the disaster called to you. the storm pulled you back with the waves rather than striking the fear of god in you. his eyes the color of the storm clouds, of murky deep water.

but that was weeks ago.

he’d confessed his love to you officially only two days ago. not that he ever tried to hide it.

you aim skylar’s beams at the mirror and amir appears with a larger-than-life smile on his face. having just gotten out of the shower, a towel was wrapped around your body tightly. you almost just wanted to see what amir would have to say.

“ah, eshgham! you look especially dazzling today.” he pouts his lips slightly, taking in your form with a finger to his mouth. “you’ve even taken my recommendation on what colors suit you.” he smiled at the realization. he was blunt, but it came from a good place. you knew that by now.

“i did. i’ve stepped up my game, right?”

“more than that, azizam. i’m shocked you have yet to receive a call to be on the cover of a magazine.” amir was always gentle with his words when it came to you. even the harshest criticisms were delivered softly. you could appreciate someone like that.

you laughed at the idea of that even happening. with him still in front of you, you reach for your blow dryer.

“you’re a charmer, amir, truly.” taking amir’s compliments seriously had always been quite difficult for you. he always wanted to help you look your best, because that’s when he looked his best. he reflects what he sees.

you notice something different in his gaze today, something that makes your skin buzz. buzz as if you’d taken five shots of vodka without a chaser.

“i reflect what i see, dear.” he stepped towards you, taking the blow dryer out of your hand and placing on the sink countertop. “must i prove my affections another way?”

your heart flutters, hands coming up to clutch your bath towel. a soft, nearly inhumanely soft hand comes to your cheek. it tingles your skin like a sparkler, goosebumps rising at every small brush.

a shaky breath escaped your parted lips. “please do.”

“we’re begging now, dear? no need. whatever you need, it’s yours.” with that, amir’s lips dropped to yours, grazing against them ever so softly. your hands found purchase on his chest, his kiss quickly turning bruising.

the porcelain of the sink pressed up against your lower back, sending a shiver down your body. amir’s hands make quick work of your bath towel. the damp fabric hit the tile with a soft thud.

you shuddered at the cold air hitting your body. of course, amir has to pull away to admire you. his hands go just about anywhere they can reach. his lips part, but he doesn’t speak. it’s like he’s awestruck. at a loss for words.

his hand grazes over your breast, causing a shudder to rack through your body. the way he pinches your pert peak has you starting to pant.

before you know it, you’re on top of the counter. amir starts to suckle at your peak, looking up at you whenever he grants you with soft kitten licks. his other hand massaged the opposite breast.

he’s beyond turned on. partly because he’s mirroring you and partly because he’s so in awe of how perfect you are. when you’d moved into this house, he’d felt like an utter creep every time you’d look at yourself in the mirror bare.

now, he got to appreciate this bare form as much as he liked.

“ah, azizam, azizam.” he pants out against your breast, kissing and sucking at the flesh. he pecks his way down your body, kneeling down a bit more until he reaches your mons.

“she’s beautiful, eshgham. it looks like she wants me just as intensely as i desire her.” his thumb grazes up your slit, finding your bud almost immediately. he thumbs at it for a moment as he lifts your legs over his shoulders.

a stripe is licked up your folds, making it nearly impossible to keep any sounds quiet. you wanted to sincerely apologize to every object in the house for every sound you knew you were about to make.

he moans against you, licking and tonguing at every inch of your mound he could reach. his eyes are closed for most of it, until he decides to look at you. those beautiful mercury eyes are hooded, pupils blown out.

“eyes on me, azizam.”

you did as he said, not looking away as his tongue started to do circles around your clit. your jaw went slack, sounds beyond what could be described as lewd leaving your lips.

it doesn’t take long until you’re grasping at his hair and warning him you’re extremely close.

“amir…amir!” you cry out his name as you finish. all he does is smile with affection as he laps at you. for a moment, you got scared that you had ripped out a chunk of his hair. luckily, his beautiful waves were safe.

he stood up, hips between your legs. “i want you to see how beautiful you look when you come for me.” amir’s voice was a whisper as he picked you up and turned your back toward him.

you heard him undressing behind you, not to mention you could see him in the mirror. his body, like the rest of him, was undoubtedly perfect.

he wasted no time as he slid his cock into you with ease, bottoming out with a heavy groan. “ah, aziz-e delam.” the words were practically a whimper into your shoulder. he kissed over the birth marks there. his hips stuttered into your wetness, your warmth transferring all the way to his face and reddening his cheeks.

your hands gripped the counter in front of you, throbbing around amir’s cock as it slid in and out of you.

amir was a confident man, that was a fact that couldn’t be denied by you or any other object in the house, but that confidence wilted the moment he saw your parted lips and dazed face in the mirror.

“oh, azizam. you feel incredible.” his eyes met yours in the mirror, and he reached up to hold your jaw so you could see your face as well. “absolutely gorgeous.”

you wanted to respond to his words, but the way he was pressing up against your cervix with every thrust had you unable to speak.

you intentionally clenched around him, causing his hips to stutter. “ah, azizam…!” he moaned out, his large hands gripping your hips tightly. his thrusts got sloppier, his sounds got louder. you knew he was close. “can i finish inside, dear? tell me no if you must.” he murmured his words against your shoulder, trying to control himself.

you bit your lip, thinking over your answer. well, no. you didn’t actually have to think much about it. “god, yes.”

amir didn’t need any more convincing. with a breathy groan, the both of you came at the same time. he whimpered your name as he came inside you, kissing up your neck gently.

you panted, heart stuttering as you relished in the afterglow of it all. amir leaned to whisper in your ear.

“âsheghetam.”

[viviansturns]

𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒚!𝒔𝒖𝒃!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔'𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑

cw: angst, humiliation, just a real mean ex, p in v angsty? smut

Feburary 21st, 2024

The one time he cried in front of her, she laughed.

It wasn’t a full laugh—not out loud—but a scoff, a sharp exhale through her nose like he’d just said something pathetic instead of cracked in front of her.

“You’re being dramatic,” she said, arms crossed, voice flat.

Chris blinked, wiped his cheek with the heel of his palm like it hadn’t happened, like she didn’t just catch him feeling too much.

“I’m not,” he muttered. “I’m just—I’m tired. Everything’s been fucking heavy lately.”

“Jesus, Chris. Do you want me to baby you or something?” she snapped, stepping back like his sadness was contagious. “God, you’re such a downer when you’re like this.”

He went quiet.

Because he knew how this went. If he pushed back, if he asked for softness, she’d call him clingy. Weak. “Too much.”

So he swallowed it.

Let her words settle like concrete in his chest, like guilt for needing something more than sex and sarcasm. And when she finally came back to sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulder like nothing happened, he didn’t lean into it.

But he didn’t pull away either.

Because some love was better than none.

Feburary 25th, 2024

Chris wasn’t even thinking about it when he did it.

They’d been watching a movie—something she picked, something loud and dramatic and kind of boring—but he didn’t care. He wasn’t watching the screen. He was watching her, curled up at the opposite end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling on her phone with one hand while the other absentmindedly held the remote.

She wasn’t paying attention. Not to the movie, and definitely not to him.

And that should’ve been his cue to stay in his lane. To stay cool. Stay detached. Stay fun.

But something was gnawing at his chest. Something soft and stupid. He’d had a rough week—pressures piling up, one of his brothers snapping at him earlier that day, a fight with his mom still ringing in his ears. He felt frayed. Small.

So he slid closer.

Just a little at first. Testing the waters. She didn’t react.

Then closer still, until their legs brushed. Still nothing.

And then, cautiously—he rested his head on her shoulder.

A silent little plea: Hold me. Just this once.

She stiffened.

Didn’t look at him. Didn’t say anything for a beat.

Then she shifted her weight just enough to push him off without being obvious.

“You good?” she asked, not concerned, just... irritated. Like he’d sneezed on her.

Chris sat up straight, face burning. “Yeah. Sorry. Just got tired.”

“Right,” she said, eyes still on her phone.

The silence after that was brutal.

He stared at the screen, heart pounding in the worst way—not from nerves, but from shame. Something sour pooled in his stomach. His skin felt too tight.

After a minute, she clicked her tongue. “You’ve been weird lately.”

Chris didn’t look at her. “I’ve just been stressed.”

“Okay, but like… I can’t be your emotional support dog, Chris.”

His jaw locked.

That was it. That was the moment.

Something inside him folded up. Sealed shut.

“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “No, you’re right.”

He didn’t touch like her again for three weeks. He touched her, but not softly—needily. And even when he did—it was only ever when she initiated.

She never noticed the shift. But he did.

March 1st, 2024

It was rare for Chris to feel like this. Light.

No heavy thoughts, just warm skin, tangled sheets, and the sun bleeding through half-closed blinds in that way that made everything feel hazy and safe.

They’d slept in—really slept. No alarms, no rush. Just a lazy Saturday, limbs all knotted together, his face buried against her shoulder, her hand resting on his waist.

And for once, she hadn’t pushed him away.

He felt soft. Giddy. Like this version of the world might actually be good to him for once.

He nuzzled closer, smiling against her skin, arms tightening around her waist like he never wanted to let go. “Mmm,” he hummed, voice still raspy from sleep. “You’re so warm.”

She didn’t respond right away, so he kept going.

“I could stay like this forever,” he mumbled, kissing her shoulder, slow and lazy. “You smell good. Like—like laundry 'n sunshine 'n roses.”

He was rambling. Stupid, smiley, and soft. And he didn’t care.

“Chris,” she said suddenly, her voice flat.

He blinked.

“Yeah?”

A pause. Then: “You gotta stop acting like a girl, man. It’s honestly kinda weird.”

His heart stuttered.

“What?”

She laughed. “The cuddling. The clingy comments. You’re being mad soft. It’s giving—” she made a face, “—emotionally unstable.”

Chris went still.

Completely, bone-deep still.

“Oh,” he said, quietly.

She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care. She was already rolling out of bed, stretching like nothing happened, tugging her hoodie back over her head.

“I’m gonna make coffee,” she said casually. “You want anything?”

Chris shook his head.

She left the room, door clicking shut behind her.

And just like that, the warmth was gone. The safety. The glow.

He sat there for a long time, arms crossed over his bare chest, jaw tight, lips pressed in a flat line.

The bed felt cold now.

He swallowed hard.

Then slowly laid back down, facing the wall.

And told himself not to do that again. Not to ever do that again.

March 20th, 2024

It felt amazing— the kind where his hand was on her throat, and her nails were clawing down his back. Where the sheets were twisted under them, the headboard knocking against the wall, and neither one of them was holding back.

“Fuck—Chris,” she moaned, dragging her hips up to meet his thrusts. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

He grinned, all teeth and sweat, drunk on the way her voice cracked. “You like that, huh?” he panted, leaning down to kiss her—messy and hot and open-mouthed.

Her hands fisted in his curls, yanking hard. He groaned against her mouth.

It was perfect—fast, rough, breathless.

She scratched down his spine and he gasped, rhythm faltering for a second.

“Harder,” she demanded, legs wrapping around his waist.

Chris obliged, hips slamming into hers harder, deeper, faster—chasing that high, chasing the heat in her eyes, chasing the way she made him feel like he could be good at this. Like he was wanted.

And then she clenched around him, dragging a moan from his throat—sharp and raw and just a little too high.

It slipped out. A soft, helpless whimper. It wasn't loud, or above a breath, but everything stopped.

She blinked up at him.

He stilled, still inside her, suddenly hyper-aware of every breath, every inch of skin touching hers.

“…What the fuck was that?” she asked, brows drawn.

Chris froze. “What?”

“That noise,” she repeated. “That little—what was that? Did you just whimper?”

He felt his whole body go cold. “I didn’t mean—”

“Ew.” She shoved at his chest. “Seriously? You sounded like a bitch in heat.”

He stared at her.

Her mouth curled. “God, that turned me so off.”

She pushed him off entirely. He scrambled back, heart pounding, still hard and aching—but it didn’t matter.

Nothing about this felt good anymore.

She pulled her shirt back on without looking at him. “I need a shower. Alone.”

The door slammed behind her.

Chris sat there, motionless, shame burning under his skin like fire.

He was still half-naked, still hard, but now it just felt wrong. His own body betraying him. His voice betraying him.

He stared at the door for a long time.

March 27th, 2024

He spotted her standing with her friends, laughing and chatting like the center of attention. The sight made his chest ache in that familiar way — like he wanted to crawl inside her, disappear in her warmth.

Summoning every ounce of courage, he walked over and slipped behind her. Without a word, he rested his head gently against her neck, breathing in her scent, and wrapped his arms slowly around her waist.

For a moment, it felt like maybe this time — maybe here — he could just be soft.

But then she laughed. Not a quiet laugh. A loud, teasing laugh meant to be heard.

Her friends turned, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Ew, Chris, what are you doing?” she said, voice dripping with mockery as she tried to push him off.

One of her friends smirked. “Dude, chill. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Another snorted. “Since when did Chris get so clingy? Thought he was the cocky one.”

Chris’s cheeks burned redder than the room’s neon lights. He tightened his grip on her waist for a second — desperate to hold onto any shred of comfort — then slowly let go.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the laughter.

She just rolled her eyes and turned back to her friends, leaving him exposed and ashamed.

June 1st, 2024

The apartment was cold, despite the late spring sun pouring in through the blinds. Chris sat on the edge of the couch, hands tangled in his hair, heart racing with every word she might say.

She stood by the door, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“Chris,” she said, voice clipped, “we’re done.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We’re done,” she repeated. “You’re too soft. Too… whatever the hell you are. I can’t deal with it anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “Soft? I’m just… me.”

“No, you’re weak. And I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”

Her words hit like knives. Chris’s breath caught, his chest tightening.

“I’ve tried,” he said quietly. “I really tried.”

She scoffed. “Tried? You think that excuses you? You cry, you whine, you need—”

“Need what?” he interrupted, voice breaking. “Love? Support? Jesus, I just wanted you to be here for me.”

She shook her head, stepping toward the door. “I’m not your babysitter. I want someone who can handle me, not the other way around.”

Chris’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him like blood from a wound.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, then.”

She didn’t look back.

The door slammed behind her, echoing through the empty apartment.

Chris sat there long after the sound faded, the silence swallowing him whole.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.

Something inside him was supposed to feel relieved. That maybe he could express himself once more.

But something about her changed him. He felt like a dam on the brink of exploding constantly, but something was always holding him back

Because the part of him that hoped for comfort had been crushed, and now, years later, it still weighed him down like a stone tied to his chest.

[blissfullsvn]

bungee

summary. there are two things to know about han taesan. one, han taesan is hard to understand, and two, han taesan does not like you. it turns out that neither of these are particularly true.

pairing. han taesan x reader genre. fluff, college/university!au word count. 1.3k warning. brief mention of drinks being spiked (not from MCs) a/n. in love with the concept of taesan looking so cool but being the most idiotic specimen on earth but even i think he’s questionable here 🧍‍♀️ nonetheless, i hope you enjoy this as much as i did! reblogs are welcomed with open arms :D masterlist

taesan has always been a bit of an enigma.

he dresses like your typical emo skater boy, but is obsessed with chococat. he hates being called a cat, but has all kinds of cat-related accessories for his outfits. he looks like he would never be seen within a five-meter radius of any dessert, but always has five packs of pudding in his bag. 

but above all, what truly confuses you is how he treats you.

for starters, taesan doesn’t like you.

at the very least, he’s uncomfortable around you.

that’s a well-established fact. has been, ever since you started hanging out with jaehyun and naturally integrated with the rest of his group. taesan has always kept his distance with you, even after you’ve grown close enough with everyone else for them to show up at your door unannounced. whenever it comes to you, he’s always chosen to be at the sidelines, walk a few steps behind, pipe up with minimal responses.

but it’s not like you have anything against him for that. you know it’s impossible for everyone to get along, even if it’s within the same friend group—especially when you joined later than everyone else—and it’s not like taesan has ever said or done anything offensive to you; he just . . . tolerates you. 

as easily as your friends welcomed you with open arms, you simply accepted that that’s just how it’ll be between the two of you; floating in parallel orbits without ever reaching each other. and you’re okay with that.

. . . despite your tiny, little crush on him.

you don’t know when it started, but from some moment onwards, you frequently found your eyes drifting towards taesan. on monday, when the lecture is particularly boring; on wednesday, when the lecturer enters ten minutes late; on thursday, when his smile is especially blinding and there are strands of white fur on his black tee.

so, maybe your crush isn’t actually minuscule, and the chances of it being reciprocated are less than zero, but you can live with it. that’s just how taesan is with you.

but that’s also why it’s confusing when taesan does things that are so . . . uncharacteristic.

like when you’re having lunch at the cafeteria, and he casually picks up the banchan on his own tray to replenish yours. or when you let out a whisper that you’re cold, and he’s the first to remove his jacket to drape it over you. or when you once dug through your bag and pockets to find a hair tie before settling with a pen, and from then on you always see him with a hair tie on his wrist.

it’s even more confusing when you stare at him afterwards, equal parts flustered and fluttery, and all he does is look back at you in question, as if asking you “what's up?”, like what he did was nothing out of the ordinary; like it’s something he has no problem doing for you; like it’s something as normal as breathing.

and then, when you’re left to wonder what exactly it means, losing sleep and sanity, taesan would show up the next day, acting as usual—distant, aloof, withdrawn.

as much of a whiplash it is, you can’t say it’s particularly surprising. taesan, in all his enigmatic glory, has always been difficult to understand, to comprehend, to grasp.

but right now, you might be a step closer to figuring him out.

“don’t.” taesan’s hand is around your wrist, grip firm but gentle. he’s huffing a little, hair disheveled. it’s clear he had been running towards you, but you haven’t a single clue why. 

“what . . . are you doing?” you look at your wrist, the way his hand engulfs it entirely, and then to his eyes. his pupils are so deep and dark that you’re drawn in immediately, and it’s then that you realise: you and taesan have never looked at each other face-to-face, this close before.

instead of looking away, which is what you expected and what he would have done, he does something completely uncharacteristic, once again.

for the first time, taesan takes a step inside your orbit.

your breath hitches at the proximity, and you almost want to ask if jaehyun is around the corner, filming this as a poor idea of a prank. but it’s taesan who’s in front of you, and he would never agree to anything like that. especially not when he’s looking at you like . . . that.

it’s so intense that you have to look away, find a spot on the gravel to ground yourself. but that doesn’t last long, because you’re immediately pulled back to him when he speaks, just like a force to a satellite.

“don’t have dinner with him,” he says—commands.

under normal circumstances, you might have butterflies. be thrilled, even. because this implies that he had been thinking about you; that what you do does affect him.

but right now, what you feel is something closer to indignation. you’re all dolled up, ready to meet someone new and have some fun, and hopefully rid yourself of your chronic illness of pining. but then the reason for all this comes and demands like you owe him?

before you can chew him out, taesan speaks again, and all the words on the tip of your tongue immediately melt away.

“he’s a terrible person.” he clenches his jaw. “has a reputation for . . . tampering with people’s drinks.” his grip on you tightens. “and i overheard him offering to take someone else out tomorrow.

“so . . .” he softens, his fingers slackened against your skin, “don’t go out with him.”

“i. . . .” you open your mouth but shut it immediately. this was the last thing you expected him to say when he came up to you, so you’re not entirely sure how to reply. you decide to say the most appropriate thing first: “thank you for telling me.

“but . . .” you continue before he adds anything, “why?”

“why?” taesan repeats, reeling back in surprise. “what do you mean?”

“why . . . did you come all the way here?” you tilt your head in question. “your class just ended, didn’t it? that means you ran all the way from campus to my dorm to tell me this. which i’m super grateful for, of course!” you add quickly. “but i’m just . . . confused.” internally, you wonder when you’re ever not confused by him. “a phone call would have sufficed.”

taesan blinks, as if he hadn’t thought about that.

“oh.” he lets out. “that . . . wasn’t on my mind.” he scratches his nape. “i just wanted to see you.”

you freeze, your brain short-circuiting. it takes a while to recover, but even then, taesan is still looking at you like he hadn’t just spewed out your new sleep-deprivation material, like it’s truly something as normal as breathing for him.

“taesan.” you call out, and the way his thumb brushes your skin in response sends a jolt down your spine. “do you . . .” you pause, rethinking your wording, before deciding on a far safer option. “are we good?”

“huh?” he tilts his head, wondering if you’re making a joke. when he sees that you’re not, he answers definitively. “of course.”

you let out a shaky breath, unconsciously leaning towards him. so . . . you’re good. taesan doesn’t dislike you. that’s good enough—no, way better news than anything.

“okay.” you nod, and a strike of confidence hits you. emboldened by the newfound knowledge, you inch closer. “i’m all dressed up, but i just found out my date is an asshole. what should i do, taesan?”

“huh?” taesan looks flustered, and you revel in that information now that the smokescreen blocking your vision has disappeared. “you . . . can still go out?” his tone is hesitant and clumsy, but nothing short of endearing.

“right.” you nod. “so go out with me, taesan.”

taesan splutters. “w–what?”

“be my date instead, taesan.”

and for the first time, you know what his answer is going to be.

a/n. don’t you just love it when ppl discover communication

© blissfullsvn 2025. All Rights Reserved.

[xuchiya]

the bare minimum? || choi jongho || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. | mentions: no label yet but jongho is making it official soon.

word count: 3.9k

You tossed your phone onto the bed — harder than you intended — the dull thud swallowed by your pillows, but not enough to silence the frustration blooming in your chest. The group chat, once filled with light gossip and memes, had taken a sharp turn. It always did. One moment you were laughing about someone’s new haircut, and the next, it was unsolicited advice cloaked in concern.

"You don’t fall for someone because of their bare minimum."

The words stuck to your skin like sweat — irritating, impossible to ignore. You could still hear your friend’s voice, sharp and sure, echoing like an uninvited narrator in the background of your thoughts. Maybe they were right. Maybe they were just trying to protect you from another heartbreak, another almost-relationship with someone who gave just enough to keep you around.

You dropped onto your bed with a quiet thud, limbs heavy, head even heavier. The ceiling above you blurred slightly as your eyes stared past it, unfocused, as if hoping it might offer answers the world refused to give.

Your fist rested lightly on your chest — not clenched in anger, but curled in quiet hesitation, like your heart was trying to protect itself from breaking open again. You could still hear their voices. Friends who had seen you unravel before, who had picked you up when your heart had turned into a battlefield of “what ifs” and “should’ve known betters.”

"You always love too hard. You give too much."

Maybe they were right. Maybe you were walking straight into the same fire that burned you before. The memory of that past version of yourself — raw, fragile, sleepless — made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to go back to her. You weren’t sure you could survive her again.

You exhaled slowly, then turned your head to the side, not expecting much — just something to distract you from the chaos inside. That’s when you saw it.

A photo strip, slightly bent at the corner, tucked beneath the edge of your journal. Four small squares — moments frozen in time — each frame capturing pieces of something you didn’t quite have the courage to name yet.

It was from that afternoon at the mall. You’d passed by a photo booth and without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward it, “Come on,” you had grinned, heart racing. “We’ve got time for four clicks.”

The first was a blur — you both weren’t ready, caught mid-laugh. The second, he leaned in closer, eyes soft, almost too soft. The third, you were the one looking at him instead of the camera. And the fourth was the one that stuck. His hand resting over yours, your shoulders touching, your heads on top of each other as you both smile as the camera flashes, faces calm like the world could end and you wouldn’t notice.

You reached for the photo strip now, fingers brushing over the glossy surface. The quiet warmth of that moment crept into your chest like light seeping through cracks. Maybe you had loved too hard before but Choi Jongho made it feel different. He made things more soft. Safe and real.

And maybe — just maybe — this time, it wouldn’t end the same. 

Because Jongho

He was not the bare minimum. Jongho didn’t just show up. He stayed — in silence, in mess, in moments when it would’ve been easier to walk away. So no… maybe you shouldn’t fall for someone who only gives you crumbs.

But Jongho? He was the whole damn bakery.

Like that when it always starts with something small. Just small things. Quiet, almost forgettable to anyone else — but to you, they mean the world.

i

You’ve always been the one to fall asleep first. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Two hours before Jongho’s usual bedtime, your eyes would start to flutter shut mid-conversation, your words slow into sleepy mumbles before trailing off entirely. You’d curl up into your blanket like muscle memory, drifting off before the clock even struck midnight.

And Jongho never minded.

Not once.

While your breathing settled into a soft, rhythmic pattern across the call — or when he saw your "last seen" flicker away for the night — he’d simply plug in his charger, shift his weight on the bed, and settle into his own quiet time. Sometimes he worked on homework. Other times, he’d scroll endlessly through his phone — music playlists, dumb memes, chaotic group chats, random reels that made him laugh under his breath.

Then, like always, he'd come across something and think, "She'd like this." But he wouldn’t send the video right away. No. Jongho knew better than to let your phone buzz at 12:42 AM and risk waking you. He remembered the way you stirred the last time, half-conscious and confused, whispering “Huh? What’s going on?” with your hair a mess and voice thick with sleep when he came over to work on your project and you tend to take naps mid-way.

So instead, he did what he always did. He tapped ‘copy link’ then pasted it into messages. And added /silent before pressing send. Just a small detail. Just a tiny slash and a word most people would overlook. But it mattered — because you mattered. Because he cared enough to make sure your sleep stayed undisturbed. Because even when you weren’t awake to notice, he was still thinking of you.

Sometimes it would be three or four links in a row — a chaotic thread waiting for you like breadcrumbs in your inbox. Funny reels. A puppy wearing a costume. A scene from a show you once said you loved when you were twelve. No message. No “LOL” or “this reminded me of you.

Then you wake up, check Messenger first thing in the morning, scroll with tangled hair and bleary eyes, your thumb pausing on the softness of his words. And even before a smile reaches your lips, the warmth hits your chest. A whisper escapes. A soft, disbelieving question, like a prayer only meant for yourself.

A feature most people don’t bother with. But he does. Every single time.

Because he knows. Knows you’re a light sleeper. Know the way your body tenses even in your dreams when your phone buzzes at night. Knows how sacred your sleep is after long days that drain you from the inside out. So he never sends messages with noise. No pings. No vibrations. Just… silence.

And still — even at 3:02 AM — when his mind is wandering, when the world outside is asleep but his thoughts are too loud to silence, he writes.

About music. About the stars. About you.

Short, half-formed sentences. Late-night ramblings about his day or a song that reminded him of you. Thoughts that probably made more sense in his head than they do on the screen. But they’re there. Waiting. Gentle, sleepy words sitting quietly in your inbox like petals placed on your doorstep — fragile, deliberate, sincere.

ii

Then there’s movie night.

Which, with Jongho, is never just movie night.

It’s Discord screen shares and careful audio checks. It’s him adjusting his mic again and again until your voice—already muffled by the layers of your blanket—says, “It’s okay, I can hear you,” even though the connection crackles every now and then.

You weren’t in the mood to go out. Not just today — but most days. Your body was still shaking off the last traces of a stubborn fever, skin too sensitive, eyes too heavy. And even if the sickness hadn’t kept you in, the world outside still felt too loud, too uncertain, too much.

You were never really the type to seek noise or crowds anyway. Your soul was quieter, more private. You liked your room — the way the walls curled around you like a soft shell, familiar and safe. That space had become your theater, your whole damn planet on the days where even the hallway outside your door felt overwhelming.

It was in the way he queued up movies you mentioned once during your lunch break when you were scrolling on your phone and would show him some clips of the movie you wanted to see, or the way he synced subtitles just right so your reading pace could keep up. It was in how he'd listen for your yawns — the sleepy kind, where your responses turn into soft hums and you forget the plot entirely — but he never teased. Never say “you’re boring” or “you always fall asleep halfway.” 

Instead, he’d smile to himself, watching the tiny green light on Discord flicker less and less as your voice faded away. When he was sure you were asleep, he would slowly slide the volume bar down to zero, like dimming the last light in a room you’d just left behind. The scene might still be playing — dialogue, explosions, laughter — but you were already somewhere in your dreams. And then, in the soft glow of his monitor, Jongho would mute his mic.

You don’t know this. You don’t hear the chair creak as he leans back, or the way he stretches his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. You don’t see the subtle clicks as he adjusts the Discord channel permissions — limiting who can join, just in case someone stumbles in and shatters the quiet he’s carefully protected around you.

You fall asleep thinking you drifted off during a movie. But really, you fell asleep in a space Jongho built — gently, intentionally, like tucking someone in without ever touching them. A space made of low volumes, hushed breaths, and unspoken devotion.

You sleep in silence. Not realizing just how much love went into making it that way.

iii

Or when days weren’t filled with softness, you and Jongho had snapped at each other over nothing and everything—too-little sleep, too-many worries, a single text read the wrong way. The fight had been quick and messy, like dropping glass– sharp words scattering across the floor, impossible to sweep up without cutting yourselves.

So you’d gone quiet, convinced a little distance would soothe the sting.

The sun had long since set when the knock came—three hesitant taps that rattled through the hallway. You froze on your steps, frowning in confusion. You padded to the door in mismatched socks, glancing up at the wall clock, heart pounding worse than it had during the argument, I mean who knocks at 8:47 p.m. in this neighborhood?

You cracked the door—and time stuttered.

Jongho stood on the mat, chest rising in ragged pulls, summer sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead. His T-shirt clung to him, half from the humid night, half from the frantic back-and-forth he’d just confessed to.

“I—uh—think I looped your street… twice.” He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt out of place. “Can you remind me which house is yours?”

You blinked. “Why are you here?” The question slipped out, small and startled. He stared at his own shoes, scuffing one against the concrete. “To say sorry,” he murmured. “Text felt… too easy. Too small for how badly I messed up.”

The porch light buzzed overhead; a moth circled lazily between you. In that glow you noticed the smudges of city grit on his sneakers, the faint tremor in his hands where adrenaline still rattled his bones. Your heart cracked open—clean, sudden—like a mug slipping from the counter and shattering the silence of the kitchen tiles. All at once you pictured him missing the correct turn, doubling back under flickering street lamps, stubbornly refusing to give up because ‘I’m sorry’ deserved eye contact, not pixels.

Who does that? Jongho apparently. Someone who refuses to let mis-fired anger be the last thing hanging between you. Someone who thinks an apology should travel the same distance the hurt did—maybe farther. Someone who, even lost, chose to keep walking toward you.

You stepped aside without a word, letting the porch light spill into the hallway, “Come in,” you whispered, voice cracking like the rest of you. And as he crossed the threshold—sweat, nerves, and all—you realized getting lost might have been the surest way for both of you to find your way back.

iv

And you couldn’t forget that moment where you were in the zone — or at least, trying to be.

Hands busy, screens glowing, a half-empty mug of cold coffee pushed to the side of your cluttered desk. Notes scattered like fallen leaves. The air was thick with unspoken pressure — from deadlines, from expectations, from the loud, echoing voice inside your own head that wouldn’t shut up until everything was perfect.

You barely noticed how still the room was. Just the quiet hum of your laptop fan and the occasional clack of your keyboard breaking the silence. Your breathing was shallow, your jaw tense, your fingers flying — until they stopped.

Because your stupid, stubborn hair had slipped loose again. You’d tied it up in a quick bun hours ago, but now, strands had come free and were sticking to your cheeks, brushing across your forehead, falling right into your eyes every time you try to focus. You pushed it back once, then again, more impatient each time.

A sharp breath escaped your nose. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even make a sound loud enough to complain — just a little annoyed huff and a flick of your fingers, trying to twist the strands behind your ear. But it didn’t stay.

Jongho lowered his phone on his lap, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to your bed. Jongho had been there the whole time, on your bed watching you spiral in slow motion. You hadn’t even realized he was still there, honestly — he was so good at just being, without taking up space. Not in a way that begged attention. He never did. His gaze kept drifting back to you — to the way your shoulders rose with every exhale, to the faint frown etched into your forehead, to the way you huffed, frustrated, as strands of your hair fell again.

So when he moved, you barely caught it. No words. No teasing. Just the subtle shift of the mattress, the creak of floorboards, and his footsteps approaching — soft, unhurried.

You felt him before you saw him. He stood behind you, and in that still moment, the world seemed to pause. Not in an awkward way — but in the way it always does when someone does something gentle for you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t question it. You just let it happen.

And then — his hands.

Fingertips brush across your neck as they gather your hair, removing the non existing messy bun on top of your head. Slow. Careful. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times before — like your hair had a rhythm he’d memorized. There was no tug, no tension. Just the warmth of his palms and the deliberate sweep of fingers, smoothing down flyaways like they were delicate petals.

He pulled your hair into a low ponytail, tying it off with the scrunchie from his own wrist — one he always kept there, whether he admitted it was for you or not. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t styled. But it was secure. It fits. It was exactly what you needed — even if you hadn’t asked.

Your breath hitched slightly when his fingers lingered for just a second too long. The tie settled at the nape of your neck — light, comforting. But it felt heavier somehow. Like it carried meaning, “Your hair always distracts you when you’re trying to focus,” he said finally, his voice just above a whisper. Soft. Almost sheepish. “Thought I’d save you from it this time.”

You didn’t turn around. Because at that moment, everything in your chest unclenched. All the noise in your head quieted, like a radio fading into static. The tension in your shoulders eased. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until he stepped in.

And it wasn’t just about the ponytail. It never was. It was about the way he paid attention. The way he remembered. The way he didn’t ask, didn’t wait, didn’t make a scene — just helped. It was in the silence. In the space he made around you without ever asking for space himself. And somehow … somehow his hands on your hair felt more like home than your own ever did.

You took a slow breath, exhaled, and returned to your work — not because the pressure had vanished, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And as you sat there, posture a little more relaxed, focus finally returning, you smiled to yourself.

You sighed, long and tired, the kind that left your chest feeling a little lighter and a little emptier all at once. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of your night lamp, and the ceiling above you stared back in silence — like it was holding your thoughts for you, just for a moment longer.

You weren’t even sure why your heart felt like this — full, but aching. Like you were overwhelmed by something too soft to name. Your chest heaves in a deep inhale before another sigh escapes.

“What got you so worked up that you sigh like you have fifteen unfinished projects and three babies to feed?” You yelped — actually yelped — twisting to the side, heart skipping like a scratched record. There, leaning casually against your bedroom door frame, was Jongho.

Arms crossed. One brow raised. The corners of his lips quirked in that boyish way that meant he was trying not to laugh at your startled reaction. His hair was slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, and his whole presence felt warm — like a late-night tea you didn’t know you needed.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, pulling your blanket up like it could shield your flustered expression.  “Long enough to watch you battle the air with that dramatic sigh,” he teased, pushing off the door and strolling toward your bed. You opened your mouth to deflect, but nothing clever came out. Just a small huff as you turned to face the ceiling again, blinking fast, hoping the blush on your face wasn’t obvious under the lamplight.

Instead, Jongho sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to pull you out of your cocoon. His fingers brushed lightly against your ankle through the blanket — grounding, patient.

“You okay?” he asked, this time quieter. And you nodded, then whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Just remembering things.”

“Good things?” he asked again, his voice low now, more careful — like he was stepping into a space inside you he didn’t want to rush. You nodded against your pillow. “Too good.” There was silence then. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… still. Full of air that felt too thick with things left unsaid, and yet, somehow, safe.

Jongho’s hand brushed over your blanket again. This time slower. His thumb pressed gently into the edge, grounding himself there, “Guess I’ll just have to keep making more of them, huh?” he murmured with a small, hopeful smile.

Your chest ached — the kind of ache that feels like warmth stretching. You glanced at him, eyes catching the light of the lamp. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

He blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” you whispered. “The silent messages, the scrunchies, movie nights, showing up when you didn’t have to. You’ve been... making memories for me.”

Jongho’s mouth opened, then closed. Like the truth had been sitting on his tongue this whole time but he wasn’t sure if now was the moment. But something in your voice, your eyes, must’ve made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I have.”

You felt the words settle into your chest like puzzle pieces falling into place. He exhaled, fingers now tugging lightly at the edge of your blanket, a nervous habit. “And I think… maybe I don’t want to keep doing all of that as just a friend.”

Your heart stumbled. “Jongho…”

“I mean,” he laughed gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I think I passed the ‘just a friend’ stage back when I started carrying backup scrunchies for you.”

You could feel your heartbeat in places you hadn’t noticed until now — your fingertips, the hollow of your throat, deep in your stomach. It was the way Jongho said it. Quietly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t just asking a question — he was handing you something fragile. Something real.

“Can I… make it official?” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it cracked the air between you like a soft truth being unfolded. He was still seated on the edge of your bed, one leg turned toward you, but not pressing. Always waiting. Always gentle. His eyes searched your face not for permission, but for clarity — for a sign that you felt it too. That all the small things he did hadn’t gone unnoticed. That he hadn’t just been loving you in silence.

You stared at him for a moment, your chest too full to speak.

He looked nervous. Not because he was scared you’d say no — but because he wanted this to mean something. All of it. The /silent links he sent at 2 a.m. because he didn’t want to wake you. The way he tied your hair without a second thought because he knew how it distracted you. The scrunchies on his wrist. The muted screen shares. The apology he walked in circles just to give you in person.

He’d been writing a love story in the margins — and now he was finally turning the page to show you.

You sat up slowly, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The cool air kissed your skin, but all you could feel was the warmth of him — of his words, his presence, his intention, “Jongho…” you said his name like a secret, like something precious you didn’t want to drop.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, voice tighter now. “I know the timing isn’t perfect or — or maybe I should’ve asked sooner, but I just—”

You reached for his hand. Instinctively. Like it was the next natural step. His fingers were warm. A little clammy. He’d been nervous the whole time.

“You already were,” you said quietly, watching the way his eyes flickered at the sound of your voice. “You’ve already been mine. You were just… waiting for me to catch up.”

His breath hitched. You didn’t need to say more. That one sentence carried everything — your knowing, your feelings, your realization that all this time you weren’t just falling for Jongho — you were already in it. Fully. Deeply. Unknowingly wrapped in the love he’d been giving you in ways no one else had.

A laugh slipped out of him — not mocking, but light, airy, like he finally exhaled something he’d been holding for too long, “So…” he said, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “Do I get the whole package now?”

You smiled, laughing softly even— slow, genuine. The kind that crept up from your chest, not just your lips.

“You do.” Something in his face softened completely. Like his entire being melted — his shoulders relaxed, his lips curved into the smallest, most beautiful smile, and his eyes stayed locked on yours like you were the only thing that made sense anymore.

And then, he did something simple.

He brought your joined hands up and pressed his lips against your knuckles — just once. Not possessive. Not dramatic.

"How can anyone say this is the bare minimum?" Not a single thing that is close to being bare minimum. Because it really isn’t in the first place.

It’s love, tucked into silence. It’s choosing you — even in the quietest hours.

[munsonify]

rough edges

pairing. eddie munson x fem!reader

summary. a charming bookworm finds herself tangled up with the town freak, eddie munson

content warnings. kissing, eddie being a little shit (affectionate), eddie calling you beautiful and pretty, alludes to sex

word count. 838

disney princess collection

it was an odd sight, really.

loud, outgoing, shameless eddie seemed like the type of person who’d go for someone just like him. bubbly, talkative, someone with an edge to them. so, seeing him with you, hand in hand with him, steady walking down the school hallways, it was a little off putting.

you were nice, personable, a bit quiet. you focused on your education, something eddie figured he should pick up on. there was always a book secure in your hands, something that occupied your time. he liked a good book, though it was always fantasy. you? you read any book you could get your hand on. sci-fi, nonfiction, romance. he’s caught you red-handed reading unthinkable things, things that he used against you. he teases you endlessly for it, a soft sort of jab you knew to never take to heart. the big smooch he gives you afterwards proves that to you.

eddie saw the way people gave you two judgmental glances. he was sure you noticed, too, there was no way you didn’t. it never seemed to bother you. none of it mattered to you, not when you were as happy as you were with him. they could stare all they wanted. you were the one content with your life, not them.

you felt the way eddie’s gentle grip moved from your hip to your hand, fingers interlocking gently as he begins guiding you away from the path to your class. you noticed the way people glanced at you as he tugged you away, simply smiling, your focus solely on him. he pulled you out the back of the school, taking ahold of your bag and your book as you gawk at him.

“eddie we have class,” you told him in almost a whine, eyes shimmering up at him as he continues to drag you towards his van.

“well, sweetheart, i don’t really wanna go,” eddie told you, grip on your hand tightening slightly. “you don’t actually wanna sit through chemistry class, do you?”

you watched as he opens the back of his van, hand still in yours while he gently tosses your belongings inside. the moment he shuts the doors, he turns to you, tugging your body to his. with his hand in yours and his other bracing the side of your face, eddie kisses you long and soft, pink lips slotted between yours.

it was a little difficult for you to catch your breath after he’d released the kiss, especially with the way his fingers moved against your face, gently brushing strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. with a small, exasperated sigh, you shake your head at him. “i do when i have an exam. which, by the way, is tomorrow.”

“i know it is,” eddie told you in a whisper, eyes half-lidded and gazing into yours lovingly, faces still inches apart. “but you’ve been studying all week. you’ll live without the review. i, however, cannot live without having some alone time with you.”

he began to tug you towards the passenger side of his van with intentions of driving you away from the school for the day. you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him, a small smile on your lips. “you’re so dramatic, eds. you’ve made it this long just fine.”

“barely!” he proclaimed, opening the door for you. before he helped you in, eddie brought your hand up to his neck, pressing right against his pulse point for dramatic affect. “see? i’m dyin’ here, baby!”

you give him a quick kiss on the cheek, letting him assist you up into his van while giggles erupt from your chest. his pulse was fine, eddie’s heart was beating steady, and he was absolutely still breathing. you, however, let him keep up his theatrics. it was endearing. besides, you had been studying a lot recently, and you missed your boy incredibly much. you might as well let him drag you off for a much needed date.

“if only they could see you now, baby,” eddie told you, starting up his van the moment he hops into the driver’s seat. “sitting in my van all pretty, letting me take you on a date. it’s a beautiful sight, truly.”

it was an even more beautiful sight later that night. you were wrapped up in eddie’s sheets, one of his t-shirts covering your bare body, tiredness from how he’d just had you taking over you. you were sound asleep next to him, one of his arms wrapped protectively around your body as he flips through a fantasy book he’d been so close to finishing. he caught himself staring at you though, suddenly enamored with the thought of you.

eddie wondered how he got this lucky. how he managed to get someone as kindhearted and quiet as you are. he was grateful that he did, though, thanking whatever higher power granted him something this special. it was like you were made to soften up his rough edges, to make them more manageable.

[sooverwhitesandpinks]

Coach Cam 🏀 R.C.

.⋆☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆.⋆☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆.⋆☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

littlebrother'scoach!rafe x female!reader

warnings: none

I've never written for Rafe before, so I'm nervous. But enjoy!!

~1.5k words

ᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩

ᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩

“It’s not this turn, it’s the next one,” your little brother grumbled from the passenger seat of your car. At the age of 8, he had the type of attitude only bestowed upon the lone son of a single mother of 3. 

“You’ll be fine without your leg sleeve for practice, I’m sure it wasn’t gonna make you that much faster anyway,” you said with a smile. He begged you to turn around just past the halfway point for the overpriced piece of fabric he’d annoyed your mom into buying him after he saw his favorite NBA player wearing one. 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“We could’ve turned around,” he rolled his eyes.

“Not if we wanted to make it on time,” you rebutted. 

He’d resorted to sulking out the window at the finality of your decision. And it wasn’t like you were denying him a knee brace or anything either, just a purely decorative hunk of spandex and nylon. 

He didn’t spare you another word as you parked the car and headed into the local middle school’s gymnasium. The walls were painted white and the wooden floor reflected the overhead lights. Windows lined the very top of one wall, allowing ample enough daylight to luminate the space. Familiar in the way all middle school gyms tend to be, but completely new otherwise.

Your mom moved from Florida back to her hometown of Kildare, North Carolina just before your final year of college. Everyone joined you at school for the holidays, so you hadn’t seen the island yet, but you still hadn’t bagged a job straight out of college so why not take a long rent-free vacation. 

Free was a stretch if you counted spending your Saturday morning at Leo’s basketball practice as currency, but you didn’t mind. You hadn’t made any friends yet besides your sister so there wasn’t really anything else demanding your attention. 

Your brother ran across the floor toward the corner where a few boys were still tying their shoes. Basketballs pounding the floor already echoed throughout the gym, sneakers squeaking from the couple of kids already warming up. There were quiet hums from the bleachers where a few of the parents seemed to be catching up. 

You took an empty aisle seat just above and to the right of a group of three moms who seemed like they’d been meeting together at basketball practice since their kids could walk. 

You scanned the gym briefly, looking over the kids playing around before practice began, cones and basketballs laying around, two tall men standing at the corner of the court. One of them had dark hair and a clipboard, talking animatedly about something. The other stood broad with buzzed hair, a whistle perched between his lips and his blue eyes already on you. 

Your eyes flitted from him when you realized he was already looking at you–but they returned when it registered that it wasn’t by coincidence. The corners of his lips raised, and you felt like yours might too. So, you looked back over to where Leo was finally starting to shoot around with his friend, leg sleeve forgotten. Despite your eyes on the court, your mind was on Coach Hottie-Pants.

Was that his coach? He was fine, you thought. Your mom did not warn you about that. Your mom definitely should’ve warned you about that. You probably would’ve thrown on more than biker shorts and an old tee. Maybe even gone wild and put some mascara on. 

You blinked away your thoughts, eyes dropping to the group of moms below you. They were already looking at you too. Was that going to be a theme on this island? 

Your eyebrows furrowed, confused about their attention and the group-wide staring problem until you finally clued into someone stepping up the bleachers toward you. You weren’t sure how he’d gotten that close without you realizing it. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met yet, I’m Coach Cam, but you can call me Rafe,” he spoke smoothly, hand reaching out. “I like to introduce myself to all of my players’ families.”

You gently put your hand in his, shaking it slowly as you gave him your name.

“Leo told me about his older sisters,” he smiled lazily, dropping down to the stairs beside your seat. His hand stayed on the conveniently placed rail, giving you a perfect view of the way his t-shirt clung to his bicep.

“Did he?” You questioned, hoping the brat hadn’t told his fine ass coach something embarrassing. 

“Are you the one that used to hoop?” He nodded and asked, eyes meeting yours intently.

“I did in high school, yeah. I was pretty good,” you answered smugly.

“How come I didn’t hear about you?” He cocked his head.

“I’m not from around here,” you shrugged with one shoulder, hoping you were reading this as flirting correctly. 

“I knew you couldn’t be, or I would’ve known you looked like this before today,” he definitely flirted, eyes running over your whole face.

“Cute,” you jokingly sneered, scrunching your nose. He smiled, lips parting to speak again when his name was called. 

Your attention turned to his clipboard-wielding friend who was presumably ready to start practice, judging by the group of little boys surrounding him with their attention set on you and Rafe. 

“I better go before Coach Kelce makes me run sprints,” he joked, rising from his spot beside you. He turned to walk off, but doubled-back to stretch his hand out for another handshake. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” you smiled and returned the handshake, happy to let your palm rest in his for a moment before he finally rushed off. 

You watched him join the huddle, eyes floating from him to your little brother, whose face was subtly screwed up in disapproval at the attention his coach was giving you. He kept his eyes on you for a beat before his head shook slowly once, twice, before he turned his attention to the clipboard in front of him. 

Practice went by in a rush of blown whistles and sneakers chirping as they traveled across the glossy, wooden floorboards. Soon enough you were being dragged out of the gym by your brother, barely managing a glance at Rafe before you were back in the parking lot of Kildare County Middle School and into the bright, hot heat of the North Carolina sun. 

“What’s the rush? You barely even changed shoes,” you asked Leo, lost on why he slipped into his slides and had you to the car within a minute or two of practice ending. 

“You can’t get with Coach Cam, it’s weird,” he muttered, yanking open the door to your car and getting in. You followed, jaw slack.

“Who says I’m trying to get with Coach Cam?” You asked, incredulously. You slid the key into the ignition and started the car.

“You guys were flirting. Coach Kelce said so,” he crossed his arms. “Then the guys kept asking me if Coach Cameron was gonna bang my sister for the rest of practice.”

“It's disgusting that I speak to your coach once and a bunch of twelve year olds are asking if he’s gonna bang me,” you huffed. “He was just introducing himself.”

Part of you was glad that Coach Kelce confirmed your suspicions on whether or not Rafe had been flirting with you. Leo just rolled his eyes, already nose deep in his phone. You shook your head, turning your body as you put the car in reverse to back out of your parking spot. 

A sharp knock at your window made you jump, hand clutching your chest. You flipped around to see none other than Coach Cameron at your window, apologetic smile gracing his lips. You threw your car back into park, trying to calm the heat in your cheeks as you rolled down the window.

“Sorry,” he said first, but you just shook your head.

“What’s up?” You asked, hoping you didn’t sound too eager.

“You guys left so quick, I just wanted to remind you guys that our first game is Monday evening. We’re gonna wear the blue jerseys,” he directed the last part to Leo, but the first sentence was all yours, or at least that was the story his eyes told. 

“Noted. Thank you,” you smiled softly. 

“I’ll see you there?” Rafe’s eyes met yours again, chin tilted down like he was really hoping for a certain answer.

You pretended to think on it for a beat before you conceded with an, “I think I can make that work.” 

“I’ll see you there,” he affirmed, smile widening as he backed away from your car.

You rolled your window up as he sauntered off toward a black truck. You redirected your attention toward your journey home and trying your best not to look at Leo. 

“Please don’t make me ask you not to bang my coach again,” he piped up before you were even out of the parking lot. 

“I am not gonna bang Rafe–I mean Coach Cam!” 

ᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩

Hope you liked it! *ੈ✩‧₊˚💋ྀི ˚. ᵎᵎ

[arabella-syntax]

Update: Part 3

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: Here’s the last part of the story. Read the first part and second part prior to this.

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

The Madrid listings blurred together after a while.

So many white-walled, sterile spaces pretending to be lived-in.

Alexia scrolled through her fifth tab, muttering, “Por favor, no more grey sofas.”

She’d been helping Y/N from afar — sending links, vetting floor plans. Y/N had a few final performances left in London, and Alexia was determined that when the curtain fell, a future would rise.

Something sturdy. Something with sunlight.

“¿Qué haces?” Alba asked, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a yoghurt drink.

“Buscando piso para Y/N,” Alexia said without looking up. (Looking for an apartment for Y/N.)

Alba peeked over her shoulder. “That one looks like a dentist’s office.”

“Gracias.”

Alba tapped the table. “Isn’t Olga in Madrid?”

Alexia paused.

“Sí.”

Alba squinted. “You’re not gonna ask her for help?”

Alexia gave her a look. “¿Crees que debería?” (Do you think I should?)

“A menos que tengas miedo.” (Unless you’re afraid.)

But that night, she went through her contacts anyway.

Found the familiar name and number.

She messaged.

Hola, Olga. Need help. It’s not drama. I promise.

A few minutes later:

This is already drama.

Alexia replied:

No. Piso stuff. For someone. She moves to Madrid soon.

¿Estás saliendo con alguien otra vez?

(Are you dating someone again?)

Came Olga’s response after a while.

Alexia hesitated.

ALEXIA:

Sí.

OLGA:

Serious?

ALEXIA:

Yes. She’s… different.

OLGA:

Different how?

ALEXIA:

Prima ballerina. She deserves good place. Light. Safe. Not depressing.

OLGA:

So not like your old flat.

ALEXIA:

Exactly.

OLGA:

I’ll make some calls.

Alexia smiled despite herself.

Because that was Olga. Always the right balance of salt and heart.

They’d met after her ACL tear in 2021.

When her body broke, and she didn’t know how to put herself back together.

Olga had seen the cracks — and loved her anyway.

Three years. No public mess. Just a private world that slowly ran its course.

At one point, Alexia thought she might marry her.

But things shifted.

Lives moved.

Love didn���t end — it just changed shape.

Now, they were… not friends, not strangers. Something in between.

The kind of ex you could call for help without bitterness.

By morning, Olga had sent five listings.

One stood out — a pre-war flat near El Retiro. Arched windows. Balcony. Tall ceilings. Warm light.

Alexia stared at it for a long time.

It felt… soft. Still. Like breath.

It felt like Y/N.

This one, she typed. She’ll like the way the floor creaks. And sent another message swiftly after.

Olga replied:

You’re still romantic. It’s disgusting. I’m proud of you.

Alexia sent the listing to Y/N without fuss:

Maybe this one makes you feel safe. I like the windows.

The response came a day later:

I love the windows. I love you.

Alexia sat there for a while, hand over her mouth.

A laugh caught in her throat. Or a sob.

Sometimes they felt the same.

She whispered to herself, “Joder…”

Alba walked by. “Are you okay?”

“Necesito vino” (I need wine.)

“You always need wine.”

“Now I need to marry her.”

Alba froze. Then said, “Todos lo vimos venir. Excepto tú.” (We all saw it coming. Except you.)

Y/N

She hadn’t expected Olga to be so… stylish.

Not in a glossy, curated way. But effortless. Styled hair, black blazer, coffee in hand, attitude like a quiet blade. It made sense, somehow. Alexia didn’t do half-hearted people.

“Y/N, right?” Olga said as they met outside the building in Madrid. “You look like a ballerina.”

“Because I am?”

“That’ll do it.”

They shook hands.

To Y/N’s surprise, the awkwardness didn’t last more than five seconds. Olga was brisk, direct, but not unkind. There was a familiarity in the way she spoke — like someone who didn’t waste energy unless she meant to.

“The flat’s on the third floor. Walk-up, but the stairs won’t kill you.”

“I do pliés for a living.”

“Good. They squeak.”

They climbed in silence, save for the sound of Y/N’s suitcase wheel bumping the steps. At the landing, Olga turned to her, key in hand.

“I was going to say something dramatic here. Like, ‘Welcome to the rest of your life.’ But I’ll spare you.”

Y/N smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a weird stain near the kitchen sink I haven’t identified.”

The flat was… beautiful.

In that quiet, aching kind of way.

Golden floors. Curved windows. A bedroom that looked like it would echo in winter and hum in summer. It was empty now, but not hollow. It felt like somewhere people remembered things.

Y/N stepped toward the window, touched the glass with her fingertips.

“I could dance here,” she whispered.

Olga leaned against the doorway. “She said you’d say that.”

Y/N turned. “Alexia?”

Olga nodded. “She said you’d like the light. The floor. The way it sounds when you walk.”

There was something in her tone. No bitterness. Just a passing breeze of memory.

Y/N folded her arms. “You were with her a long time.”

“Three years. I met her just before she was angry at her knee and herself.”

Y/N looked down. “That version of her still shows up sometimes.”

“She’s softer now,” Olga said. “Not weaker. Just… lighter.”

“She loves hard.”

“She always did.”

Y/N paused. “Are you okay with this? With me?”

Olga gave her a look. “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve moved on. She has too. And from the way she talks about you… she’s not confused.”

That caught Y/N off guard.

“Talks about me?”

“You’d be surprised how many metaphors you can cram into a message about hardwood floors.”

Y/N laughed, almost shy. “She told me once I’m her favourite accident.”

Olga smirked. “That’s disturbingly romantic.”

“I know.”

They signed the papers together.

Y/N handed over the deposit, keys exchanged with the crisp slide of paper.

As Olga got up to leave, she paused at the door.

“She’s awkward as hell, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“But she means everything she says. Even when she says it sideways.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said again, more softly this time.

Olga smiled — genuinely this time.

“Good luck, ballerina.”

And then she was gone.

Later that night, Y/N stood in the centre of the flat, barefoot, her bags still unpacked.

She texted Alexia:

It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.

Alexia replied instantly:

It’s yours. Madrid’s lucky.

You okay?

Only thinking how to get to Madrid faster.

I left you a coffee mug. The one with the dog. It’s in the top shelf.

Y/N laughed.

She looked around.

Her future looked like curved windows and creaky floors and light she hadn’t even earned yet.

But she would.

She was trying.

Alexia

She stood outside the door for longer than she’d admit.

The keys felt foreign in her palm. Madrid air pressed warm and close. She could hear the low hum of street noise behind her. And beneath that, her heart, making a fool of her.

“Cállate,” she muttered under her breath, unlocking the door.

It swung open with a click.

She stepped inside.

Bare walls. Bare floor. Bare everything.

But somehow, it still felt like her.

Or rather — like them.

The mug with the cat sat proudly on the shelf, just like Y/N had said.

Alexia grinned and whispered, “Hola, gato.”

She placed her overnight bag on the floor. Kicked off her shoes. Walked the rooms slowly.

Bedroom. Bathroom. Living space.

Each room smelled like a future.

And then the front door opened again.

“Hey,” Y/N called. “Did you—”

Alexia turned. And forgot how to breathe.

Y/N stood in the entryway, cheeks pink from the evening breeze, hair tousled from her scarf. She dropped her keys with a metallic clatter and smiled like she knew exactly what she was walking into.

“Hola, mi bailarina,” Alexia said, her voice low.

Y/N dropped her bag.

No more words.

They met in the middle of the hallway.

Mouths, hands, hips. No ceremony. Just hunger.

Days of distance collapsed in seconds.

Alexia kissed her like she was remembering how.

Y/N moaned softly into her mouth, fingers tangled in the back of Alexia’s hair. The bob cut brushed just beneath her cheek, and Alexia exhaled sharply — she loved this haircut far more than she wanted to admit.

“Too dressed,” Y/N murmured against her neck.

“Take it,” Alexia whispered.

So Y/N did — slowly, reverently — lifting Alexia’s shirt over her head, pressing kisses down her chest, fingers lingering along the lines of muscle and softness alike. She peeled her out of her jeans like she was undoing something sacred.

Then Alexia turned the tables.

She pushed Y/N gently against the wall — not hard, just enough. Kissed along her collarbone, then lower. Her hands mapped familiar terrain with new reverence.

“You smell like Madrid already,” Alexia said, nipping the skin at Y/N’s waist.

“I smell like nerves.”

“Same.”

They both laughed, breathless — and then neither of them laughed again for quite a while.

The floor was hard.

The sex was not.

It was the kind that bruised knees and made thighs shake.

That left both of them panting and laughing, forehead to forehead, eyes too wide for casualness.

Alexia kissed Y/N’s fingers one by one.

Y/N cupped her cheek like she’d just been handed a small galaxy.

“You always do this,” Y/N whispered.

“What?”

“Make me forget my name.”

Alexia kissed her again. “I remember it. That’s enough.”

Later, they lay in a heap of limbs and discarded clothing on the living room floor. No mattress. No bed. Just skin, sweat, breath.

“You broke in,” Y/N teased.

“I have a key.”

“You should still be arrested.”

“Only if you do the handcuffs.”

Y/N laughed so hard she snorted.

Alexia made a note in her mind:

She wanted to hear that sound in this apartment forever.

Third Person

Madrid mornings had a different weight to them.

Softer than London. Warmer than Barcelona. They lingered like something left unsaid.

Alexia stirred first, eyes adjusting to the strange ceiling of Y/N’s nearly-empty apartment. Her arm was thrown across warm skin, cheek pressed to a shoulder that had become both anchor and ache.

Y/N sighed in her sleep.

Alexia smiled.

They didn’t say much over breakfast.

It wasn’t the kind of morning that needed words.

A neighbourhood café — all chipped tiles and perfect cortados — played quiet jazz through old speakers. They sat pressed thigh-to-thigh on a bench too small for one person, let alone two.

“So,” Y/N finally said, wiping crumbs off her lip. “We’re still doing this?”

“This?” Alexia asked, sipping from her cup.

“You. Me. Train rides. Airports. Neck cramps from FaceTiming on the sofa.”

Alexia looked at her then, properly.

Dark bob. That sleepy smirk. A softness in the eyes that hadn’t always been there.

“I want to,” she said simply.

Y/N nodded. “Me too.”

Later that afternoon, after the train back to Barcelona, Alexia ducked into a small jewellery store tucked away near Gràcia. No cameras. No fanfare. Just a velvet-lined case and a woman behind the counter who looked like she knew when to stay silent.

Alexia didn’t know what she was looking for.

Something quiet. Something sure.

Something like Y/N.

She paused at a ring that wasn’t showy — a delicate gold band, simple setting, but the stone caught the light like a secret.

“This one,” she whispered.

She paid in full.

And then, walking out into the sun-drenched Barcelona street, she pulled out her phone.

Mami.

It rang twice.

“¿Alexia?”

“Mami…”

She didn’t start with the ring. She started with everything else. The train rides. The smile. The way Y/N once wept into her shoulder after watching a Pixar film. The fear. The fierce grace. The way Madrid had started to feel like a strange new limb.

Then, softly:

“Estoy pensando en pedirle matrimonio.”

(I'm thinking about asking her to marry me.)

There was a pause on the other end.

“¿Estás segura, mi vida?” (Are you sure, my love?”

“Sí. No sé cuándo. Pero sí.” (Yes. I don't know when. But yes.)

“Entonces ya sabes la respuesta. Lo sabías antes de llamarme.” (So you already know the answer. You knew it before you called me.)

Alexia swallowed. “I just… wanted to hear it.”

Eli laughed. “You’re your father’s daughter. Always needing the permission you already have.”

Alexia looked down at the ring box in her palm.

“Gracias, mami.”

“No me des las gracias. Just make sure she never doubts.”

“I won’t.”

She didn’t tell Y/N about the ring.

Not yet.

It would wait.

Not because she feared the answer — but because she wanted to ask it right.

In the light.

In Madrid.

Maybe on a day when the wind was warm and the world didn’t feel borrowed.

But for now, it stayed tucked away in a drawer.

Between training schedules and charity gala invitations.

Waiting.

Like she was.

Like they both were.

Y/N

The screen froze just as her father raised a piece of black bread to his mouth.

“Papa, you’ve turned into a still life.”

“I’m eating. Must I perform for the Apple gods?”

Y/N laughed, balancing her phone against a stack of sheet music she hadn’t touched in months. Her father — still based in Moscow, still annoyingly sharp in the morning — appeared again in motion. Mismatched glasses, thick sweater, and the soft grumble of a man who lived too long around mirrors and dancers.

“You look tired,” he said, squinting. “Madrid not feeding you?”

“I just moved in two days ago.”

“Excuse. You always give excuses. Like your mother. She once blamed being late on the ‘existential dread of Tuesdays.’”

Y/N smiled. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Her father’s eyes softened for a moment. That particular brand of love and mourning that never really left.

“You’ve unpacked?”

“Mostly. Found a mug Alexia left. It’s got a dog on it.”

“She wants to marry you.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“She does. You can always tell. Her face looks like she swallowed a light bulb.”

“Papa.”

“You don’t believe me?” He pointed a half-eaten crust at the screen. “I saw that look once before. Your mother. When she said yes to moving to Moscow for me.”

Y/N fell silent. Let it wash over her like a small tide. Then shifted.

“I start teaching today.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “Already breaking tiny ballerina spirits?”

“It’s orientation. Not trauma.”

“Don’t be too kind,” he warned. “They sniff weakness.”

She shook her head, laughing. “Any other advice?”

“Cut your hair again.”

“It’s already in a bob.”

“Then dye it. Go blonde.”

“I’m not going blonde.”

“You’d look terrifying. I support it.”

She smiled. He watched her carefully for a beat.

“You’re afraid.”

“A little.”

“Good. It means you’re trying something new.”

She nodded. “I don’t know who I am without the stage.”

“You’re still on stage. You’ve just moved backstage. The view is different, but the magic? Still there.”

The ballet academy was tucked behind a stone courtyard in Salamanca. Grand, tasteful, too many mirrors. Her shoes echoed down the hall like they were announcing someone far more important than her.

“Miss Y/N?”

She turned. A girl — no older than sixteen — peered up at her with wide, nervous eyes.

“I’m here for your class.”

And just like that, it began.

The studio was bright. The mirrors were less cruel than she remembered. The music felt different — like something she was shaping from the outside now, rather than dancing through.

She led warmups. Corrected posture. Reminded them where breath lived in the body. The girls listened. Some with fear. Some with hunger.

Y/N saw versions of herself in every plié, every glance at the glass.

When the final bell rang, she sat alone for a moment, hands still resting on the barre.

Not crying.

Not shaking.

Just still.

She texted Alexia.

First day done. Nobody cried. Except maybe me. Internally.

The reply came fast:

Estoy orgullosa de ti, mi bailarina.

She read it twice.

Outside, the Madrid sun painted gold across the pavement.

Maybe this was the right city after all.

Third Person

Alexia stood in the back of the studio with her arms crossed, doing her very best not to get in the way. She wasn’t dressed for attention — just a hoodie, joggers, hair pulled back — but it didn’t matter. One of the girls had clearly recognised her. There had been a gasp, a whispered “es ella”, and the rest had stolen glances ever since.

Y/N carried on like nothing had happened.

It made Alexia grin.

She stood at the barre correcting someone’s elbow, then crouched by another girl to adjust her posture. Her voice was soft but certain. She moved with the memory of discipline, but her smile never felt like a threat.

Alexia’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

She was proud. She didn’t know it could feel like this — watching someone be excellent without needing to shine herself. There was no scoreboard here. No press conference. Just one room. One woman. Thirty feet away. And all of Alexia’s focus.

When the class ended, Y/N gave her a crooked smile and motioned for her to wait.

Alexia waved from the corner, muttering to herself:

“Calma. No te pongas tonta.” (Calm down. Don't act silly.)

Later, they sat side by side on Y/N’s small balcony, sharing a bottle of cheap white wine and a pack of olives she insisted were from the better supermarket. The Madrid dusk leaned in like a secret.

“You stayed the whole time,” Y/N said, toying with her wine glass.

Alexia shrugged. “You didn’t kick me out.”

“You didn’t laugh when I fell over during the port de bras demonstration.”

“I did. Internally.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re cruel.”

“You’re sexy when you’re strict.”

“Oh, God.”

They both laughed. The kind that spilled into their knees.

Silence stretched between them. Comfortable. Wide.

Y/N reached out, took Alexia’s hand. “Why did you really come?”

Alexia hesitated. Then said, “Because I missed you. Because you belong here now. And maybe I want to belong to here too.”

Y/N turned to her. “To Madrid?”

“To you.”

They made love that night not with fire, but with gentleness — like unwrapping something you’re afraid to damage.

Alexia kissed the scar on Y/N’s inner thigh like a prayer.

Y/N pulled her closer, murmuring in Russian, something Alexia didn’t understand but felt in her ribs.

Later, tangled in bedsheets, bare legs against bare legs, Y/N whispered, “What are you thinking?”

Alexia paused.

About the ring.

About how it was still hidden in her drawer back in Barcelona, burning a quiet hole in her life.

She didn’t say it.

Instead: “That I want to wake up here more.”

Y/N smiled. “Then do it.”

Alexia

The ring was still where she left it.

Tucked in the back of her sock drawer, in a box that didn’t match anything else in her wardrobe. Gold. Simple. Honest.

Alexia stared at it like it might grow teeth.

Then she closed the drawer and went straight to her mother’s.

Eli Segura was in the kitchen making bacalao al horno and humming something suspiciously close to a Coldplay song. She raised an eyebrow when Alexia walked in.

“Hola, mi amor. You only visit unannounced when you’ve done something. Or are about to.”

Alexia held up her phone. “I need your opinion.”

“That dangerous?”

Alexia opened the photo — the ring, gleaming in soft light. She passed it to her mother.

Eli was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Simple. Beautiful.”

“Like her.”

Eli handed it back. “So… you’re doing it?”

“I want to.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

Alexia opened her mouth. Closed it. Then rubbed the back of her neck.

“I’m scared.”

“Of her saying no?”

“No. Of her saying yes. And it being real.”

Eli softened. “That’s the good kind of fear, cariño. That’s the kind that grows you.”

Alba arrived an hour later, wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a takeaway croissant like it was a newborn.

“You look constipated,” she told Alexia.

“I’m proposing.”

“Oh. That explains the face.”

Jana arrived not long after — freshly tanned from training, hair pulled back in a ponytail, phone buzzing every five minutes with texts (likely from Aggie, who apparently enjoyed sending her Instagram reels of sheep wearing sunglasses).

“You’re proposing?” she gasped. “Por fin.” (At last.)

“Why does everyone act like this is overdue?” Alexia muttered.

“Because you’ve looked like a kicked puppy since March every time you leave London.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Alba and Jana said in unison.

Alexia buried her face in her hands.

They moved to the kitchen table. Eli brought out lemon tea and almonds. Alba brought chaos.

“You should do it on a boat,” she said. “In Menorca. Naked.”

“I’m not proposing naked, Alba.”

“Coward.”

Jana sipped her tea. “Do it in a café. The kind she likes. With too much tile and sour bread.”

“She’s allergic to sourdough,” Alexia muttered.

“Oh right. Then not that.”

Eli watched her daughters with bemused affection.

“You know,” she said, “it doesn’t have to be a performance. It can be quiet. It can be yours.”

Alexia looked down at her tea. “That’s what I want.”

Jana nudged her. “Then do it like you play football. Calm. Intentional. No drama.”

“You clearly never saw me play in a clásico.”

“Point stands.”

That night, Alexia lay in bed at her apartment in Barcelona, staring at the ceiling.

Ring on the dresser. Phone buzzing with a new message from Y/N:

Today was exhausting. Come back soon?

She typed, deleted, retyped.

I will. And when I do… I want to ask you something.

Then she sent it.

And finally — finally — she let herself imagine a yes.

Third Person

The café was barely the size of a decent storage closet.

Cracked tile floors. Mismatched tables. A waitress who looked like she hadn’t smiled since 1992. And the best napolitanas de chocolate in all of Madrid, according to Y/N.

Alexia had learned not to argue about food with her.

She sat at a corner table, ring box heavy in the pocket of her coat. The coat was too warm for May, but she didn’t trust herself to carry the ring any other way. It felt alive. It felt loud.

She drummed her fingers against her cup of café con leche.

Then Y/N walked in.

Hair still damp from her morning class, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She wore an oversized beige jumper tucked half-heartedly into black trousers, and when she spotted Alexia, she lit up like the whole sky.

“Hola,” she said, dropping a kiss to her temple as she slid into the seat.

Alexia smiled. “Napolitana?”

“Obviously.”

The waitress appeared, grunted, took their order.

Alexia was not nervous.

She was not nervous.

She was actively lying to herself.

“So,” Y/N said, halfway through her pastry. “What’s the serious face for?”

Alexia blinked. “This is my normal face.”

“No, your normal face is broody and brooding. This one has too much intent.”

Alexia huffed, and Y/N chuckled.

“Okay,” Alexia said, sliding her cup aside. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Y/N froze slightly. Not out of fear — but out of instinct. The same way dancers pause right before a turn, sensing shift.

Alexia reached into her coat and pulled out the ring box.

She didn’t open it. Not yet.

Y/N blinked, slowly. “Are you—”

Alexia nodded once. “Yes.”

Y/N let out a breath. “Now?”

“Now.”

“Here?”

“I mean, unless you want a mariachi band and hot air balloon…”

“No,” Y/N said quickly. “No. This is… this is better.”

Alexia opened the box.

The ring sat nestled in black velvet, simple and unapologetic. Like them.

“I want a life with you,” she said. “Whatever we get. However long we get. I want it. You. All of it.”

Y/N was quiet. Her eyes were glassy. She blinked once, twice.

Then: “You are the stupidest person in the world.”

Alexia blinked. “I—”

Y/N smiled, trembling. “And yes. Of course yes.”

Alexia let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh and relief in its purest form.

She slipped the ring on Y/N’s finger, hands trembling.

Y/N stared at it for a long moment, then leaned across the table and kissed her. Not like a dramatic declaration. Not a show for the café.

Just a kiss. Soft. Sure. Home.

Behind them, the waitress grunted, unimpressed.

Alexia grinned against Y/N’s lips.

Later, as they walked back to Y/N’s apartment, hand in hand, Y/N said, “You know my father is going to grill you.”

Alexia smirked. “Lo sé.” (I know)

“And Jana is going to scream.”

“Por supuesto.”

“And Eli will cry.”

Alexia paused. “Already did.”

They both laughed.

Madrid shimmered around them. The city was loud and sun-warmed and indifferent to their little moment.

But they didn’t care.

They were two women in love.

One with a ring on her finger.

The other with everything she’d ever dared to hope for.

Y/N

She considered texting.

She considered letting the ring do the talking the next time she and her father were in the same room, perhaps letting it glitter subtly over a shared breakfast and letting him draw the conclusion himself.

Instead, she FaceTimed him at 9:00 p.m. Madrid time, knowing full well it was past midnight in Moscow.

He answered on the third ring, squinting at the camera like it had offended him.

“You better be dying,” he rasped.

“Nice to see you too, Papa.”

He sniffed, bare-chested under a threadbare robe, cigarette already between his fingers.

“You are wearing makeup.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are glowing. This is unnatural. It must be hormonal or emotional. Which is worse.”

Y/N exhaled, held up her left hand.

There was a pause.

Then: “Is that a weapon or are you engaged?”

She wiggled her fingers. “I said yes.”

“To who? Did I miss a suitor?”

“Alexia proposed.”

He dragged from the cigarette, expression unreadable. “About time. I was beginning to worry she’d die of nerves before doing it.”

Y/N blinked. “You knew?”

“You think I’m blind? The girl’s face melts when you enter a room. Like butter in microwave.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

He tilted his head. “You’re happy?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Terrified. But happy.”

He nodded. “Then I’m happy too.”

She smiled. “You’ll come, right?”

He made a face. “To Spain? Pretend I enjoy paella?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. But only if there’s vodka.”

“There will be. I’ll sneak it in if I must.”

He waved a hand. “Then marry your Catalan and let’s get this over with before I get too old to dance at the reception.”

“For someone in ballet, you dislike dancing.”

“I do. But I love embarrassing you more.”

She laughed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making this weird.”

“Oh, it is weird. You marrying a footballer? Very weird. But she makes you laugh. That is rare.”

She nodded.

Then he said, softer: “Your mother would have adored her.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I hope so.”

“She would. And she would say… what was her British thing?” He squinted. “‘Good on you, pet.’”

Y/N laughed through the sudden tears.

Later that night, she told Alexia, “He’s in.”

Alexia kissed her cheek. “¿Fue muy dramático?” (Was it very dramatic?)

“He asked for vodka and threatened to dance.”

“So… sí.”

The chaos began the next day.

Jana sent a string of voice notes:

“Wait, WAIT. Am I a bridesmaid? Can Aggie come? Will there be pastel de nata?”

Leila sent a voice memo too, heavy on Mancunian slang from her Manchester days:

“Oi, I know people who know people who plan these things, yeah? Spanish weddings are wild — we need a spreadsheet.”

Alba simply wrote:

I’m wearing red. Nobody stop me.

Alexia’s response? A smile that could light an entire coast.

Y/N didn’t know what their wedding would look like.

But it was going to be loud. And full of food. And friends. And the strangest little family she could’ve asked for.

—————————————————————

A month later

Third Person

Marianne arrived at Alexia’s apartment in Barcelona carrying a whiteboard, a laptop, and the expression of someone prepared to launch a full-blown campaign.

“No quiero meterme…” (I don't want to get involved…) she said, kicking off her boots, “pero no puedo ver cómo estás haciendo esto sin sufrir un ataque de nervios.” (but I can't see how you're doing this without having a nervous breakdown.)

Alexia looked up from the sofa, where she balanced her laptop on one thigh and a mostly empty bag of patatas fritas on the other.

“You’re already in,” she mumbled in English. “Sit down.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “You sound tired. Is this wedding or a World Cup final?”

“Worse,” Alexia muttered. “At least finals have rules.”

Y/N’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “For the record, I welcome the chaos.”

Marianne smirked and headed straight for the dining table. “Perfect. Because Jana already sent me a Google Doc. Title: ‘Vibes and florals.’ Subtitle: ‘Aggie’s eyebrows as inspiration.’”

Alexia groaned. “She is… annoying.”

An hour later, they had two venue folders open, three overlapping Pinterest boards, and one bottle of cava breathing on the counter.

Y/N, now in Alexia’s hoodie, legs folded beneath her on the floor, tapped through PDF images with a red pen like she was grading a very mediocre ballet performance.

“This one has fairy lights in the courtyard,” she noted. “And the curfew is 2 a.m.”

Alexia perked up. “Late curfew is good. Tu padre quiere… how do you say, el show.”

“He wants vodka and drama.”

Marianne lifted her head. “I like him already.”

Then came the messages.

Marta, somehow already informed via some mysterious Barça ex-players channel, sent a voice note:

“Tías, tenéis que mirar ese viñedo cerca de Girona. Muy vibes.” (Ladies, you have to check out that vineyard near Girona. Very vibes.)

Caroline, naturally on brand, replied two minutes later:

“Absolutely not that place. Bathrooms were tragic and Marta nearly died of an allergy. Try the gallery in Montjuïc — the light’s incredible.”

Alexia dropped her forehead to the table. “Dios mío. I don’t even know who invited them to opinar.”

Y/N reached for the cava. “We kind of did. Unofficially.”

Marianne picked up her whiteboard and clicked a fresh marker.

WEDDING RULES

No venues with haunted bathrooms.

Y/N picks flowers. No debate.

No dancing before speeches.

Leila and Patri are not allowed near DJ equipment.

Eli Segura has final catering approval.

Alexia squinted at the last point. “Mami does not like spicy food. This is big problem.”

Y/N smiled. “We’ll make her a whole side table of bland, comforting things.”

“She likes you,” Alexia said softly, switching to Spanish. “Más que a mí, tal vez.” (More than me, maybe)

Marianne smirked. “She told me you’ve grown up since dating ‘the ballerina.’”

Alexia blushed and threw a chip at her.

By 11 p.m., they had three venues shortlisted. All with decent bathrooms. One with swans. The swans were up for debate.

Y/N leaned into Alexia’s side. “Do you think we’ll actually survive this?”

Alexia kissed her hairline. “I won Champions League. I think this… is harder.”

Marianne raised her cava. “To lesbian wedding logistics.”

Y/N raised hers in return. “And fairy lights.”

Alexia didn’t say anything. She just smiled — content, quiet, sure.

Sometime within the week

The drive took just under an hour. A winding road, peppered with olive groves and stone fences, led them higher into the hills until the city was a glittering suggestion behind them.

Y/N had fallen asleep with her head against the window, her bob fluttering slightly every time the wind cut through a narrow bend. Alexia kept her eyes on the road, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt.

“Joder,” she muttered under her breath. “No es tan difícil. Solo mirar lugar. Tranquila.”

(It's not that difficult. Just look for a spot. Don't worry.)

She wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself.

But as they turned into the gravel path of the old estate and the white stone building came into view, she swallowed hard.

Because it felt real now.

The venue manager — a tall woman named Blanca who spoke five languages and radiated competence — met them in the courtyard.

“It’s very rustic,” Y/N said, glancing around.

“Sí,” Alexia agreed. “And quiet. I like the quiet.”

Blanca smiled. “The ceremony would happen here,” she gestured toward a courtyard shaded with olive trees and fairy lights strung lazily overhead, “and we can set up dinner in the back terrace. There’s room for dancing inside or outside.”

Y/N wandered toward the view. The valley below rolled into green softness. Behind it, the faint glint of sea.

Alexia stayed behind.

And imagined it.

Chairs filled with faces. Some familiar, others blurry with time and distance. Her mother in the front row. Alba beside her, probably weeping despite all her tough talk. Jana in a cute cocktail dress and sneakers, probably holding Aggie’s hand under the table.

And Y/N. Walking toward her.

Hair back. That calm intensity she always carried — the one she wore onstage and off.

Alexia imagined her knees shaking.

She imagined the small hitch in her breath just before she would say: Sí, quiero.

“¿Estás llorando?” (Are you crying?) Y/N asked, appearing beside her again.

“No.” Alexia wiped her cheek, immediately defensive. “Es polvo del campo.” (It is dust from the field.)

Y/N smiled. “Right. Very emotional dust.”

They walked the rest of the venue in silence.

Alexia kept glancing at her. At the way Y/N’s fingers trailed along the old stone walls. The way she squinted up at the light as if measuring its texture.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

Y/N paused. “It feels… safe. Not perfect. But right.”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. I like… the right feeling.”

They sat for a while at the edge of the terrace. Blanca brought them water and a list of available dates.

Y/N asked, “Are you scared?”

Alexia was quiet for a long time.

“Sí,” she finally said. “But only because… I never thought I could have this.”

Y/N reached across the table, laced their fingers. “You do now.”

And for once, Alexia didn’t try to answer with humour, or sarcasm, or deflection.

She just smiled and whispered, “Gracias.”

A month after, the wedding week

Alexia

“Dios mío, esto no es normal,” (Oh my God, this is not normal) Alexia muttered under her breath as she stepped into the private room of the bar.

There were balloons.

There were pink streamers.

And there was Leila Ouahabi in a sparkling cowboy hat, screaming, “¡La reina de la noche ha llegado!” (The queen of the night has arrived!) while holding a porrón full of sangria.

Jana and Alba were clapping wildly.

Y/N turned to Alexia with her eyebrows arched. “You knew about this?”

Alexia blinked. “Yo pensé… cena tranquila. Quiet dinner, sí. Not… this.”

Y/N laughed, kissed her cheek, and walked in like she was born for chaos. Which, apparently, she was.

Irene had declined the bachelorette invitation — politely, with voice notes and the promise of a brunch later. Caroline and Marta sent a video message from Norway with a dog (Caro’s brother) barking in the background, saying, “Good luck surviving that circus. And yes, I’m referring to Leila.” Irene, Marta and Caro promised to be there for the wedding.

The room was warm, lit with too many fairy lights and filled with far too much noise. But it smelled like pan con tomate and someone had brought in three types of vermut, so Alexia allowed herself to breathe.

Even if Leila had now started DJ-ing from her phone.

“Por favor, no más reggaetón,” she begged.

“Too late,” Jana shouted, already halfway through dancing with Aggie, who’d arrived from London with a smug smile and a suitcase full of duty-free gin.

Alba leaned against the bar, sipping a beer. “You’re blushing.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. “I’m drinking.”

“Nope. That’s emotion. Admit it.”

Alexia glanced at Y/N — across the room, laughing so hard her bob shifted messily over her cheekbones.

“Estoy jodida.” (I'm screwed)

“Por fin.”

They toasted.

To love.

To heartbreak survived.

To knees held together by tape.

To ballet and boots.

To unlikely joy.

Marianne arrived an hour late and immediately took over logistics of the shots tray.

“I’m here to ensure we don’t get banned from this venue,” she said. “Again.”

Alexia hugged her.

“You’re drunk,” Marianne replied, amused.

“I’m engaged.”

“Same thing.”

Later, they sang.

Badly.

Jana and Leila’s rendition of “Shakira – Ciega, Sordomuda” nearly started a fire in Alexia’s ears.

Y/N, dragged onto the stage by Alba, sang Cabaret in a smoky whisper. Everyone fell silent. Even Leila stopped filming.

Alexia sat at the back, chin in hand, staring.

She mouthed, I love you.

Y/N smiled and didn’t stop singing.

The night ended on the floor, both of them barefoot, heels abandoned, Alexia’s voice hoarse from laughter.

“¿Fue demasiado?” (Was is too much) she asked softly.

Y/N leaned her head on her shoulder. “No. It was just enough.”

Alexia turned to her. “I’m not good with… the centre stage. Not like this. But I liked seeing you in it.”

“You’re not so bad at it yourself, Putellas.”

Alexia wrinkled her nose. “Mentira.”

Y/N giggled. “Okay, maybe a little. But tonight, you were all heart.”

And that, Alexia realised, was what this was.

Not a show. Not a spectacle.

Just… heart.

Loud, messy, ridiculous heart.

Day after

Y/N

The flat smelled like espresso, dry shampoo, and leftover tortilla.

The living room was a battlefield — feather boas clinging to the back of a chair, Leila’s glitter hat still perched proudly on a wine bottle, and Jana’s suit jacket folded neatly on the armrest with the precision only a footballer with mild OCD would possess.

Y/N padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair a mess, oversized Barça hoodie swallowing her frame. Alexia sat at the table, hunched over a mug of coffee like it had personally wronged her.

“¿Estás viva?” (You’re alive) Y/N asked in a raspy voice, flicking the espresso machine to life.

Alexia lifted her head. “Casi. Media vida.” She pointed to the fridge. “We have one yoghurt. It is mine.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “So generous. Truly wife material.”

Alexia made a face and sipped her coffee. “Estoy trabajando en ello.” (I’m working on it)

They sat in companionable silence for a while, broken only by the hiss of the milk frother and Y/N’s quiet hum of something vaguely classical under her breath.

“You know,” Y/N finally said, settling opposite her fiancée, “we never actually wrote our vows.”

Alexia blinked. “Mierda. We forgot?”

Y/N laughed. “No, we… postponed. Like emotionally repressed adults.”

Alexia pulled out a small notebook — one of those branded ELEVEN ones — and handed it over.

Inside were two sentences, scrawled in her familiar handwriting:

Te elijo hoy, mañana, y todos los días que nos quedan. Even when you are annoying. Especially then.

(I choose you today, tomorrow, and every day we have left. Even when you're annoying. Especially then.)

Y/N’s chest tightened.

“I like the second one best,” she whispered.

Alexia shrugged. “Es verdad.” (It’s true)

Y/N picked up a pen and started to write.

She wrote in English at first:

You held my hand in silence when I didn’t know how to ask for it. You made room for the weight I carry. You love the part of me that knows how this ends — and still, you stayed.

Alexia tilted her head. “¿Eso es todo?” (That’s all?)

Y/N smiled. “No, I’m saving the last line.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to say it to you, not write it.”

Alexia looked at her, eyes soft. “Me vas a matar, bailarina.” (You're going to kill me…)

“I already did. With the Cabaret solo last night.”

Alexia groaned, dropped her head dramatically on the table.

“I still hear Leila’s screams in my skull,” she mumbled into the wood.

Y/N leaned over and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re very brave.”

They stayed there, hunched over coffee and vowels and vowels-that-would-become-vows, until the late morning sun stretched its fingers across the floor.

No audience.

No rehearsal.

Just two women who’d once walked into a nightclub not knowing they’d end up here.

Day before the wedding

Alexia

“Tía, estás temblando,” (…you’re shaking) Alba said, peering at her over a cup of mint tea. “You nervous or just cold?”

Alexia shook her head, curled deeper into her oversized hoodie. “No lo sé. I think… stomach is dancing. Maybe with cleats.”

Alba smirked. “Your stomach is doing rondas.”

“Funny.”

They were sitting on the back terrace of the country house they’d rented for the wedding weekend. Everyone else — guests, friends, Marienne with her obsessive spreadsheet, Jana and Aggie trying to teach Leila a TikTok dance, even Eli — had gone to bed or wandered off. Only Alba stayed behind, barefoot, humming softly under her breath.

“You slept the night before the Euros?” she asked.

Alexia sipped her tea. “Poquito. Maybe three hours. I dreamed I forgot my boots and Jana and Vicky played in my jersey.”

Alba cackled. “You had dreams about them even then. Madre mía.”

Alexia smiled. “This feels bigger.”

“Because it is,” Alba said gently. “And because you finally chose something for you. Not for Spain. Not for Barça. For you.”

That shut her up.

For a moment, the world was quiet. Even the cicadas seemed to take a breath.

Then: “Y la bailarina? Is she sleeping?”

Alexia glanced toward the house. “She said no peeking. Superstition.”

Alba nodded. “Buena suerte con eso. You’ll sneak in anyway.” (Good luck with that…)

Alexia didn’t reply.

Because she was absolutely planning to.

She waited until Alba went inside. Until the lights in the kitchen dimmed and the breeze grew cooler.

Then she padded quietly down the hallway, socks muffling her steps, until she found the door slightly ajar.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, face bathed in the glow of a bedside lamp, reading a novel with a dog-eared page and a cracked spine. She looked up, and without missing a beat said, “Rule-breaker.”

Alexia smiled sheepishly. “No puedo dormir.” (I can’t sleep)

“You came here to steal a kiss, didn’t you?”

“Maybe two.”

Y/N put down the book and held out her arms. “Come here.”

Alexia climbed onto the bed like a teenager, crawling into Y/N’s lap, hiding her face against her neck.

“You smell like mint tea,” Y/N whispered.

“And fear.”

“Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of… feeling too much.”

Y/N ran her fingers through Alexia’s hair. “That’s the point. Feel it.”

Alexia pulled back, studied her fiancée’s face — so composed, yet so heartbreakingly open.

“You’re not nervous?”

“I’m thirty-six, marrying a retired footballer with terrible posture. What is there to fear?”

Alexia gasped. “Mi postura es perfecta.”

“Your back is a corkscrew.”

Alexia grinned. “You still want to marry me.”

“I’d marry you with a walker.”

They kissed once. Soft. Then again. Slower.

Alexia sighed. “Mañana, sí?”

Y/N nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Then,” Alexia whispered, sliding off the bed reluctantly, “hasta mañana, mi amor.”

She turned at the door. “You remember your lines?”

Y/N raised a brow. “I was born for the stage, remember?”

Alexia laughed.

And walked out into the hallway with her heart floating six inches off the floor.

Y/N

The gravel crunched under tires.

She knew that sound. It was the Audi she’d booked two weeks ago. Her father insisted on arriving in style — not for appearances, but because he hated taxis, and he’d read a one-star review about a car service in this part of Catalunya and decided never to trust them again.

Y/N opened the front door just in time to see her father climb out, looking like some misplaced opera villain.

Black linen. No tie. Silver-rimmed sunglasses. And a small suitcase she had no doubt contained five identical shirts and exactly one pair of shoes.

He squinted at her. “You look tired.”

“Hello to you too.”

He walked forward and took her face in his hands. Then kissed her forehead. “Still beautiful. Tired. But beautiful.”

She smiled against his chest. “Long night.”

He pulled back. “If this is wedding hangover, I applaud your restraint. Your mother once drank an entire bottle of champagne before breakfast the morning we married. And she still danced better than me that day.”

Y/N grinned. “You’ve told me that story a hundred times.”

“And it only gets more true.”

She led him into the house — rustic, sun-warmed, filled with voices echoing in multiple languages.

Alexia appeared first. Soft-eyed and somehow even more nervous than the night before.

She stopped short when she saw him.

He stared.

Then said, “You are smaller in person.”

Alexia blinked. “Gracias… creo?”

Y/N elbowed her lightly.

“This is Sergey. My father.”

Sergey offered a firm handshake. “You are the footballer.”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. I am… her fiancée.”

“You look like you would cry during penalty shootout.”

Alexia looked genuinely offended. “Solo un poco.”

Sergey chuckled. “Good. Men cry too little. Women should cry more than them, to make them feel shame.”

Alexia gave Y/N a helpless look.

She smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

Later that morning, Sergey found himself seated beside Eli at the outdoor table, drinking café solo and discussing how best to raise strong daughters.

Alba wandered over, glanced between them, then leaned down to Y/N.

“Tu suegro da miedo, hermana.” (Your father-in-law is scary, sister)

Y/N whispered back, “He used to scare Mikhail Baryshnikov.”

Alba blinked. “No jodas.”

“Swear on it.”

Jana, passing by with a tray of croissants, added casually, “He told Leila her hair looked like a horse’s tail. Leila said thank you.”

By noon, everyone had found a strange rhythm. Sergey sat outside polishing his glasses. Eli fussed in the kitchen. Marianne was running point on the logistics with military efficiency. Alexia had vanished into the guest room to write “one last line” for her vows, which Y/N knew meant she was probably panicking and erasing half of it.

Y/N stood in front of the full-length mirror, her dress still hanging behind her. No makeup yet. Just skin and shadow and something unfamiliar brewing in her chest.

She looked at herself.

Thirty-six. Still breathing. Still dancing.

Still here.

Sergey’s reflection appeared behind her.

“You are ready?” he asked, gently.

“I think so.”

He handed her something small — a silver ring on a thin chain.

“It was your mother’s,” he said. “She wore it under her tights every time she danced Giselle.”

Y/N blinked fast. “You kept it all this time?”

Sergey shrugged. “I am sentimental bastard.”

Y/N put it around her neck and looked at herself again. She still didn’t look like a bride.

She just looked like… her.

That was enough.

Wedding day

Third person

The house was full of hushed anticipation. The kind that settles between whispers and perfume and half-zipped dresses. The kind that slows time and makes mirrors feel too honest.

In one room, Alexia sat on a wooden stool, holding her breath as Marianne carefully adjusted the collar of her tailored white suit.

“Stop fidgeting,” Marianne said. “You’re wrinkling the whole thing.”

“I can’t breathe,” Alexia muttered. “And this shirt is choking me. Me quiere matar.”

“It’s a collar, not a noose.”

Alexia gave her a narrow-eyed glare through the mirror. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“Not as much as Leila, who’s been sneaking photos of you changing.”

From the hallway, Leila’s voice rang out: “Solo para el archivo histórico, hermana!” (Just for the historical record, sister)

“Vas a ver,” (You’ll see) Alexia threatened under her breath. But her heart wasn’t in it. It was somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. Waiting.

She pulled out the small note folded in her blazer pocket. Her vows. Written on the back of an ELEVEN Foundation flyer.

She didn’t need to reread them.

She just held them.

Across the house, in the sunlit bedroom facing the olive grove, Y/N stood barefoot in her robe. Her hair curled gently around her bob, soft waves pinned back just enough. Her makeup was minimal — just enough to survive tears, not enough to pretend.

Alba entered with a garment bag. “Ready?”

Y/N nodded.

Together, they unzipped the dress. A silk slip of a thing. Minimal. Dramatic in its lack of drama. The kind of dress that didn’t wear her — the kind that let her breathe.

“You look like a poem,” Alba whispered as she zipped it up.

Y/N gave her a look. “Did Jana write that line?”

Alba smirked. “Yes. She says hi, by the way. She’s crying already.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We haven’t even walked out yet.”

“Sí, bueno. She’s very soft now. Aggie’s fault.”

Y/N laughed. “They’re good together.”

Alba nodded. “So are you.”

Outside, the chairs were filling up. The late afternoon light turned everything amber. The breeze off the hills made the white linens flutter like breath.

Caroline, Marta and Irene were seated on the second row behind Eli, who had a handkerchief in her lap and a tissue already stuffed in her sleeve. Jana, in a simple blue cocktail dress, was fussing over the music playlist with Patri and Bruna. Mapi Leon, who together with her plus one - fiancé Ingrid- traveled from Lyon just for the wedding - arrived, clearly ready to party as soon as possible. Ona brought Lucy as her plus one, looking amused seeing the antics of her friends.

Leila wore oversized sunglasses and declared herself the unofficial emotional bouncer — no one allowed to cry unless they cried fabulously.

Their former teammates from Barca Femeni and Spain’s national team came for the wedding.

Lola, Virginia, Misa, Marionna, the two Laias.

Even Alexia’s ex-girlfriend Jenni came. Whilst it took them a while to get over their breakup after nearly seven years together, Alexia and Jenni amicably patched up their friendship.

Back inside, Alexia was ready.

Her mother kissed both her cheeks.

“Estás preciosa, mi niña.” (You look beautiful, my girl)

“Gracias, mami.”

Marianne handed her a small bracelet. “This is your something borrowed.”

“From who?”

“Jana. She said it brought her luck during the Champions League final.”

Alexia blinked. “She scored that day.”

Marianne shrugged. “Then wear it.”

She clasped it on.

Y/N stood at the back of the hallway, hand resting lightly on Sergey’s arm.

“You walk me down?” she asked, voice softer than she meant.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he adjusted her neckline, brushed a curl behind her ear.

“I walk you halfway,” he said. “The rest… you can do alone.”

Y/N nodded.

They stepped out into the soft applause of sunset.

Alexia turned.

And saw her.

Not a bride. Not a ballerina. Just Y/N.

The woman who ruined her carefully controlled heart. The woman who whispered both sarcasm and softness into her chest until it cracked open.

She smiled.

Alexia smiled back.

Her hands stopped shaking.

The chairs creaked under shifting weight. The wind made the white ribbons tied to the pergola flutter like breath.

Sergey sat in the first row, legs crossed, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Eli sat in the front row, already sniffling. Alba had subtly swapped her glass of cava for water, sensing the tears were only just beginning.

Patri whispered something to Leila — who promptly giggled, then immediately swore when a tear escaped her eyeliner. Ingrid handed her a tissue without looking away from the aisle. Jana sat between Bruna and Aggie, gripping both their hands like she might float away.

Then the music began.

Not the usual classical strings. Something quieter. Contemporary. A piano melody that felt like a letter.

Alexia stood beneath the arch, fingers twitching slightly. She wore the suit like it was stitched into her skin. But her expression was that of someone stripped bare.

Y/N walked down the aisle slowly. No veil. No bouquet. Just her father’s hand, then none — as he stepped aside halfway and nodded, proud and quiet.

Alexia’s eyes never left hers.

When she reached her, they didn’t speak.

Just hands, clasped.

A deep breath.

And then Marianne stepped forward, smiling gently.

“Welcome,” she said. “You know why we’re here.”

A few chuckles from the crowd.

“We’re not going to talk about fate, or timing, or the miracle of two people finding each other in a nightclub and somehow surviving the chaos that followed.”

Laughter again, especially from Leila and Mapi.

“We’re here because, somehow, they made it. Not by accident. But by choosing, over and over, to stay.”

She turned to Alexia first.

“Alexia?”

Alexia unfolded the flyer from ELEVEN, now creased from being held so tightly.

She took a deep breath, glanced at Y/N, and began:

“I don’t write poetry. But I know how it feels to score in extra time — And you feel better than that. You make the quiet loud. You see the version of me I thought I buried with my ACL.

You held space for me — even when you were the one afraid. I choose you, every day. Even when you talk during movies. Even when you steal my hoodies and say they smell like victory. I choose you. That’s all.”

Silence.

Not because people didn’t want to react, but because no one trusted their voice.

Y/N blinked fast. She adjusted her posture and began her speech. No paper, she had hers memorized.

She spoke clearly, with that half-smile that always made Alexia ache.

“I never planned for this. I planned for seasons. For injuries. For decline. For endings. But you’re not an ending. You’re the chapter I didn’t know I could write. You never asked me to be perfect. You just asked me to be real. So here’s the real part, I am messy, scared, irreverent. And I love you. In the mornings when you burn toast. In the evenings when your Spanish gets too fast and I just nod. I love you. Not forever — because I don’t believe in that word. I love you now. And I’ll keep loving you in the next now. And the one after that.”

Alexia looked like she was about to cry.

Or run.

Or kiss her senseless.

She did the latter.

After Marianne coughed politely.

“Do you, Alexia Putellas Segura,” she said, barely holding in her own tears, “take this woman — this wildly sarcastic, devastatingly honest, stunning creature — to be your wife?”

Alexia nodded. “Sí. Con todo mi corazón.”

“And do you, Y/N — take this awkward, painfully competitive, far-too-gifted-for-her-own-good woman to be your wife?”

Y/N smirked. “Obviously.”

“Then I now pronounce you… in so much trouble.”

Laughter, cheers.

And then — the kiss.

Soft. Fierce. Final.

Not as in the end.

But as in — finally.

Dinner was served beneath a canopy of fairy lights strung between olive trees. The air still carried a trace of sunlight, but the sky had already begun its slide into dusk. Cicadas buzzed softly in the background, harmonising with clinking glasses and bursts of laughter.

The long wooden table overflowed with food — pan con tomate, grilled vegetables, paella, roasted lamb, and a suspiciously large number of croquetas. Eli had insisted.

“Hay que comer bien después de llorar tanto,” she said, passing a basket of bread to Sergey.

Sergey took one, sniffed it, and muttered, “Better than Moscow wedding. They served borscht. In August.”

Eli nodded in solemn agreement, as if that explained a war.

The speeches began as the sky turned violet.

First came Marianne — precise, tearful, but somehow still composed.

Then Leila, who promptly ignored her note cards and instead told a chaotic story about the time she and Alexia got locked in a storage room with a goat during a preseason tour in Mallorca.

“Y la cabra tenía mejor sentido de la orientación que tú,” (And the goat had a better sense of direction than you) she said, pointing at Alexia.

“I was concussed,” Alexia replied.

“Y aún así jugaste mejor que media plantilla.” (And yet you played better than half the squad)

Laughter.

Not to be outdone, Jana’s speech has awws, oohs and laughter. She recalled the times Alexia has been there for her despite going through some challenges, and that her wish for Alexia finally came true - finding happiness with Y/N.

Caroline stood next with Marta beside her — an unlikely duo of deadpan and dry Norwegian wit.

“We knew it was serious,” Marta said, “when Alexia stopped editing Y/N out of photos before posting in our group chat.

“She never edited you out of photos,” Caroline added. “Just cropped.”

Y/N sipped her wine, amused. “Ruthless.”

Alexia flushed, muttering, “Es mentira.” (It’s a lie)

Even Sergey stood — slow, regal, and entirely himself.

“I do not make speeches,” he began. “But… today, I make exception. Because my daughter, she marries a woman who plays football like war and loves like fool. I like her.”

A beat.

“Also, she finally eats properly now. Thank you, Putellas.”

Alexia saluted him with her wine glass, deadpan.

“De nada, suegro.”

The first dance began without announcement. Just the soft drop of a song — one they’d chosen a month ago, over text, too embarrassed to discuss it in person.

It was quiet. Not romantic in the cheesy sense. Just… real.

They danced slow.

Clumsy at first — Alexia trying not to lead, Y/N trying not to trip over her own nerves.

“You’re stiff,” Y/N whispered.

“Tú también.”

They both laughed.

And loosened.

Their hands fit. They always had.

Around them, their loved ones swayed, clapped, held each other.

Aggie pulled Jana into a spin.

Patri dragged Bruna into an impromptu bachata.

Leila and Mapi competed for who could dip Ingrid better — Ingrid rolled her eyes but let them try.

Even Eli swayed with Sergey, who looked vaguely horrified but stayed.

Later, beneath the stars, after cake and speeches and more cava than anyone needed, Alexia and Y/N slipped away.

To the edge of the olive grove.

Just them.

They sat on a blanket, shoes discarded, heads close.

“I’m still not used to saying ‘wife,’” Y/N said, staring up at the constellations.

Alexia smiled. “Practice, cariño.”

“Wife.”

“Again.”

“Wife.”

Alexia kissed her.

The stars spun slowly.

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Continue the last part.