#this fic is basically just fragments

[lokimobius]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Tagged by @elodiah and @insomniaflarrow

Still writing silliness, still doing it slowly and still sharing more than seven sentences. Happy Sunday!!!!!!

Loki stepped closer to the shelves, taking in the various items on display between books. “Are you using the Tesseract as a bookend?” “Yes… It’s, uh, actually the one you had when you got taken in…” Mobius said, biting his lip nervously. “And how, pray tell, did you end up with it in your possession?” “I know a guy.” Loki raised his eyebrow. “I assume this is the same guy who helped you with your dagger collection.” Mobius nodded silently.

no pressure tags:

@kcscribbler @in-my-loki-feels @thosegayoldmen @silentxsymphony @devilbearingtrouble

@distracteddream @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @ghoulehhh @tealdropsworld

@impulsemuppet @boredintjqueen  @mirilyawrites @zephyrsobsessions

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[zaynezone]

heavenly

synopsis: getting ready is much more fun together warnings: very sweet fluff pairing: Zayne x fem!reader wc: 1.5k an: idk if anyone noticed but my account was terminated for three hours and let me tell you...horrible experience lol hence the late fic

The mirror’s fogged at the corners, and the overhead light hums low, casting everything in a sleepy sort of gold. You’re in his robe, or maybe it’s yours, but it smells like him, which is basically the same thing, standing at the sink with a toothbrush in your mouth and your hair twisted up in a clip that’s hanging on for dear life.

The shower’s still running, steam curling out from behind the glass like it’s trying to escape. Zayne’s humming some old song he refuses to stop playing around the house, his voice half-muffled by the water. You can’t make out the words, but it still makes your chest warm. Very rarely did you see this soft side of Zayne, though it had come out a lot more often once you moved in together.

You lean on the counter, elbow brushing a bottle of his aftershave, and squint at your reflection. Your eyes are still a little puffy, your skin warm from the heat in the room. You spit, rinse, and peek at the clock. Still enough time before the reservation, not that you’re really worried. Neither of you ever leaves on time when you get ready like this, half-distracted by each other and the small rituals of shared space.

The shower shuts off with a final hiss, and a second later you hear the curtain pull back. You reach for your moisturizer like it’s the most casual thing in the world, even as your pulse skips.

“Using my robe again?” Zayne’s voice comes out teasing, just barely raspy from the steam.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” you say, dabbing cream under your eyes.

He chuckles, pushing back his wet hair as he steps out, very shirtless. His towel hangs low on his hips, and there’s water clinging to his collarbones in little glistening drops. You catch his reflection in the mirror as he moves behind you, and your breath stalls for half a second before you school your expression.

He notices anyway. He always does.

“You keep staring at me like that and we won’t leaving this room,” he murmurs, standing just behind you now, another towel slung around his shoulders. The scent of his body wash, cedar and something just barely floral, ghosts over your skin.

You pretend to focus on your skincare. “You’re imagining things.”

He leans down, presses a kiss just behind your ear. “Mm. Sure I am.”

You swat at him, but he’s already moving away, rifling through the closet like he’s not just wrecked your heartbeat. You take a breath, grounding yourself against the vanity. The mirror’s clearing slowly, showing the two of you in soft fragments, your robe slipping off one shoulder, his hair sticking up in the back where the towel didn’t reach.

After finishing up with your skincare, you move toward the closet, tugging the robe tighter around yourself as you flip through hangers. Silk, satin, a slinky black number you haven’t worn in months, but it’s the blue and soft lilac dresses that give you pause. You hold them both up to yourself in the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, eyeing the way each color catches the light against your skin.

“Blue one,” Zayne says behind you, without hesitation.

You glance over your shoulder, catching him in the mirror as he buttons the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. The navy tie draped around his neck is still undone, but he already looks halfway to heartbreakingly good.

“You think?” you ask, holding the blue dress up higher. He walks over, still fixing one sleeve, and leans close to murmur low in your ear.

“Definitely.” His voice is all warmth and certainty. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, right where the robe has slipped slightly, and the heat of it lingers even after he’s stepped back.

You smile to yourself, laying down the dress on the bed before returning to the vanity. You apply your makeup with practiced ease. Zayne hums quietly behind you, tying his tie in the reflection, his movements precise and fluid.

By the time you swipe on your lip gloss, he’s standing by the door, adjusting his tie, now perfectly knotted, and you narrow your eyes at the color.

“Is that...the same shade of blue as my dress?”

Zayne meets your gaze in the mirror, not even trying to hide his smirk. “What can I say? I plan ahead.”

You shake your head, but your heart skips anyway. He walks over, eyes soft as he takes you in.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“I’m still in a robe and I haven’t even done my hair yet.”

“You could walk into that restaurant like this and still turn every head in the room.”

The way he says it, no teasing, no dramatic flair, just quiet sincerity, makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“I don’t think they’d let me in while I’m dressed like this,” you murmur, tugging the clip from your hair and shaking it out. Zayne’s already moving toward you, ready to help.

He stands behind you, fingers threading through the strands with surprising gentleness. He’s methodical, parting sections and smoothing them like he’s done it a hundred times before. You watch his reflection as he focuses, brows drawn slightly, hands warm where they brush against your neck.

“Does it look alright?” you ask.

His eyes flick up, not to your hair but to your face, and linger there like he’s been caught staring.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, it looks perfect.”

He hands you the brush, fingertips grazing yours, and steps back. You rise, undoing the belt of your robe and letting the fabric slip down your shoulders. Zayne dutifully looks away, eyes trained on his tie as you pull on your underwear and step into the dress.

Only when you adjust the straps does he glance back, stepping forward instinctively.

“Let me help you.”

His fingers move slowly, as gentle as he always is, as he zips up the back of your dress. The blue fabric feels cool against your skin, hugging your frame like it was made for tonight. You glance over your shoulder, and he’s already looking, his hands resting gently on your waist, like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Zayne just nods, lips twitching into a smile. “You’re welcome.”

You reach for your jewelry box, carefully picking out the earrings he gave you on your anniversary, delicate and flecked with tiny blue stones that somehow match your dress and his tie. You slip them in, then pause with the necklace clasp resting between your fingers.

“Here,” Zayne says, stepping in close. You lift your hair and he fastens the chain around your neck with steady fingers, then gently turns you to face him. His hands hold yours like they’re something breakable.

“Beautiful.”

There’s something in his voice that makes your breath catch. Soft awe. A kind of sweetness that feels too big for such a small moment.

“Thank you,” you say, heart fluttering. “You look very handsome yourself.”

You reach up to adjust his collar, fingers brushing the smooth line of his neck, and breathe in the scent of his cologne, fresh, woody, and just slightly spiced. The one you picked out for him on his birthday. The one he saves for nights like this.

Zayne holds your gaze for a moment longer, like he’s memorizing you, every little detail, from the shimmer of your earrings to the curve of your smile. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, absent and tender, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

“Ready?” he asks, voice quiet but warm.

You nod, heart full in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go before we end up missing the reservation entirely.”

He laughs under his breath and leans in to kiss your forehead, then offers his arm like he’s taking you to a ball instead of a downtown restaurant. You loop your hand through his, fingers sliding naturally into place, like they always do.

The apartment is quiet as you grab your clutch and he turns off the lights. You glance back once at the soft glow of the bathroom, the robe draped over the counter, the mirror still a little fogged.

Outside, the sky has deepened into twilight, street lights flickering on, casting a golden glow over the pavement. The city hums around you, but beside Zayne, it all feels a little quieter.

As he opens the door for you, you glance up at him, catching the outline of his profile in the fading light. He looks over at you at the same time, and there’s that smile again, the one that makes your stomach flip, no matter how many mornings you’ve woken up beside him.

He squeezes your hand as you step outside.

You don’t even notice the little velvet box in his pocket.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ call it survival

➤ summary: you were just trying to survive, keep your head down, follow the rules, and stay invisible. Rafe Cameron never played by the rules, and he became your savior before you could fully break

➤ w/c: 9k.

➤ warnings: domestic abuse, graphic violence, emotional manipulation, descriptions of blood and bruises, insults, mental health, self-doubt, reader is over 18, slow burn romance, kook trio causing problems, enemies to lovers, Rafe's redemption arc, very protective and down bad Rafe

➤ a/n: so far it was the most complicated work i've ever written and i reeeeally hope that my obsessed-with-insanely-long-fics people will enjoy reading it.

masterlist

Your father never explained why you had to move to the Outer Banks. One day you were packing up your life in your old town, stuffing your belongings into worn-out suitcases, and the next you were staring out the window of his truck as he drove past unfamiliar beaches and houses larger than anything you'd ever lived in. It was not your choice to leave, but you knew better than to question him.

What little you did know came in fragments. Late-night phone calls, where you heard him arguing about money with unknown people, his decision to lock all of the doors even when you were home, or the way he seemed to be nervous about other people getting too close to the two of you. 

And once you found a business card. It was creased and water-damaged, the edges curling up like it had been forgotten—or hidden. The name on it meant nothing to you, but the logo said Bayside Collections. A bank, maybe. When you asked him about it, his whole face changed. His jaw tensed, and he yanked the coat from your hand so fast it made you stumble, snapping at you to never touch his things again and mind your business. 

He was secretive, scared. That’s why he never let you make new friends, he never let you go anywhere after work, and you were forbidden from going out.  

Life in the Outer Banks wasn’t easy. You didn’t fit in with the Kooks, and you weren’t really one of the Pogues either. You kept to yourself, working whatever shifts you could find, even if your father still took all of your money, and making sure to never step out of line. Your father didn’t tolerate mistakes. If he came home angry, you made yourself small, kept the house clean, and stayed out of his way, locked up in your room when your heartbeat skyrocketing. But it never mattered because something would always set him off, and when he snapped, it finished badly.

Most of the time, his anger came in the form of words—harsh, cutting reminders that you were useless, that you should be grateful he hadn’t left you behind, that you were already too grown to be this dumb and still dependent on him, even though he was the one who tied you down to that pathetic excuse of a life. But sometimes, his grip on your wrist was too tight, his shoves were too hard, and he didn’t hesitate to slap you for “opening your mouth.”

You thought about running once. Just taking off and disappearing. But where would you go? You had no money, no plan, and basically no friends. And if he found you? You didn’t want to think about that. So you stayed, kept your head down, and avoided anything that could make him look at you the wrong way.

That was before you met Sarah, a damn sunlight trapped in a person, and other pogues who seemed to be the only people who were actually nice to you. You tried to keep your distance at first, afraid of what would happen if your father found out, but she wouldn’t let you. They knew what was happening in your family, seeing the signs of constantly appearing bruises and the way you seemed to be afraid of someone watching you, but they didn’t push, giving you time to open up naturally. 

You were careful, though. You never stayed out too late and never did anything that could get you in trouble, only once in a while skipping a shift just to feel normal with them. 

That night you hadn’t meant to go to the party, but it was too tempting—the way everyone talked about it, the way girls promised to help you get dressed and begged you to let it go for once, and how they, wanting to go there without guys, actually tried to include you—and you couldn’t say “no.” 

So you lied to your father. You practiced your speech for an hour, hoping that he would notice your trembling hands, and then made up a story about a late-night shift where you would get more money, and he, always eager to get more, waved you off.

You didn’t expect Sarah’s brother to be there. He and his friends had never been particularly nice to anyone, and it seemed that they enjoyed making trouble for your friends. Rafe himself, for some reason, awakened some feeling in you that you couldn’t quite understand. The way he was looking at you, curious, as if he couldn’t figure you out, was a bit unsettling, maybe because it was the first time you got any kind of attention from a guy, even if it wasn’t quite a positive one.

 You saw each other only occasionally when you visited his sister at Tanneyhill, always slightly catching him off guard with the way you shyly sat at one of the bar stools in the kitchen, looking so small as if you were afraid to even touch anything. You always looked fragile and cautious, and he couldn’t forget the first time he saw you in his house—the way you looked at him with your pretty, big eyes.

He would stand in the kitchen, carelessly sipping some soda, looking at you, enjoying the way you were squirming under his gaze, pretending to be interested in whatever was in front of you. Maybe it gave him some sense of power, or maybe he was actually enjoying looking at you, and it was something that he didn’t want to admit even to himself. You were still his sister's friend, basically a pogue, and Rafe Cameron didn’t do pogues. 

His thoughts were perplexing him, causing some weird feelings he refused to acknowledge, and instead he did what he used to—turned confusion into mockery, snide comments, and jokes.

So when the party was already dying down, when the kook trio suddenly felt the need to mess with your friends by actually calling the sheriff for whatever reason, you tried to run. You knew that you had to get home as soon as possible, and when Cleo and you were running towards the Twinkie, your mind was already spiraling with possible excuses for your father about the change of plans. But the universe seemed to have different ideas, sending you right into Rafe’s hands.

“Rafe, please.” You almost begged when you felt the weight of his hands around you, tugging you backwards. Your eyes were big and round, staring back at him in that pleading manner. He held your eye contact, and for a split second, you thought that they had softened and that maybe he would actually consider backing up. 

But then it shifted back to its usual appearance—cold, cocky, as if Rafe actually enjoyed seeing you behaving the way you did, the way you begged him. He knew that he couldn’t give it up now, not in front of his friends who were waiting for his sign, not when he already made such a big deal out of it. But such a thought was lingering at the back of his head at the sight of your desperate and scared eyes, and for the first time he didn’t feel the usual content of being the bad guy. 

“Please don’t do it.” You whispered so quietly, your voice seemed too broken even for your own ears.

“Call Shoupe, Kelce.” Rafe said calmly, and his friend obliged immediately, while your heart sank to your stomach. Sarah, Kie, and Cleo became as panicked as you were, all four of you looking at each other in desperation. 

“I can’t get caught. I can’t. Not right now.” Your voice cracked as you shook your head, the realization of what would happen suddenly settling in. Rafe looked at you curiously, slightly tilting his head to the side, as a hint of concern flashed in his eyes. 

But at the end of the day, you were just another Pogue, probably acting way too good to try to make him pity you and panicking over nothing. He shouldn’t care. Shouldn't even think about letting you go. But he did. 

He noticed the way his sister moved her head to the side, telling you something without any words. You looked between her and Rafe, your eyes darted down the street, and then you were running. 

Not quick enough, though. Rafe was hot on your heels, and he easily caught you before you could reach the main road or hide. He gripped you firmly by your upper arms, but not hard enough to hurt you, and held you close with your back firmly pressed to his chest when you two went back to the rest of them. You wiggled in his arms, tried to push him away, ignoring the way your body felt both flushed from closeness to him and pure terror of what he might do. 

“He’s gonna be here in a moment, and he has already called all of your parents.” Kelce points his phone at the girls and you, but if your friends just scoffed, then your shoulders and head lowered in defeat. Your throat tightened as the tears welled up in your eyes, knowing what was yet to come. 

You were not trying to get away from Rafe’s hold anymore, and he didn’t let you go either, knowing that you may try running again. He was observing your reaction, though he didn’t quite understand what was going on or why your friends were looking at you like that. Sure, they weren’t on good terms, constantly giving problems to each other, but never before had he seen such a disappointed and devastated look in his sister’s eyes. Her lips in a tight line, eyes burning holes in his head as if she was one second away from hitting him, but before he could think too much about it, the police car and your father’s truck parked not far away from your group, and you didn’t even lift your head, zoning out and focusing on your shoes. 

“Your parents are going to be here soon.” Shoupe said as he got out of the car, pointing at Kiara, who just rolled her eyes and scoffed. “And you’re going home with your brother.” He then told Sarah, who was equally annoyed. But you didn’t pay attention to any of it because you knew that your father was there and you had no escape this time. 

Your father was seething when he got out of the truck, carelessly leaving the door open and storming towards you, heavy boots hitting against the gravel with every hurried step. His eyes were zeroed in on you, and you felt it even if your own eyes were fixated on the ground. You felt cold sweat covering your skin just from hearing his hard footsteps. 

“Get in the fucking car. Now!” His loud voice cut the air, and everyone got even quieter than before, throwing confused looks at each other. He stopped a few feet away from you with his hands on his hips, licking his lips in a way that made it seem that he held back some words that he didn’t want others to hear. “Did you not hear me, girl?” He yelled again when you didn't move. Your head finally went up, and you subconsciously moved back into Rafe’s chest, seeking some kind of protection from the fire in your father’s eyes. 

Rafe’s hands tightened around your arms, and he felt a weird tugging feeling in his chest from your reaction. You were scared. Scared to the point that he, who was nothing but a pain in your ass, became a better option. Rafe’s mind was racing a hundred miles per hour, looking between you and your father, hearing your uneven breathing, and trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. Why did no one say anything, not even Shoupe? 

The Pogues were used to stepping in for each other. They kind of figured out what was happening in your family with your subtle hints and careless excuses. But seeing it in person? They just froze, looking at the scene in front of them helplessly. Shoupe stood closely to them, hands on his hips and head low, eyes on the ground. Letting it slide. Closing his eyes on it as if nothing had happened.

You knew that there was no point in just delaying what was inevitable, so with your head low again, you slipped out of Rafe’s hold before he could even react or protest. Your father’s grip on your forearms replaced Rafe's, but he wasn’t so careful, making you wince in pain. He dragged you to the passenger seat as if you were a child who was misbehaving. There was no point in protesting, asking to be gentler, and especially saying how sorry you were—it always seemed to make him even angrier—so you just followed him until he pushed you inside and slammed the door, barely not hitting you with it. 

Your eyes were stinging with tears, and your head was lowered as you were trying to focus on your shaking hands. You didn’t dare to look up, knowing that your friends, the Kook Trio and Shoupe, saw everything. 

Two days later you were sitting in the kitchen of Tanneyhill, after Sarah begged you to come there to hang out for a bit, promising that Ward and Rose were away on some business trip to Europe and that Rafe was at the golf club with his friends, so it was only her and Wheezie, who was too busy in her room. 

You hesitated, declining it for as long as you could, not really wanting her or anyone else to see the way you looked. Not to mention that your father was still pissed off and gave you a silent treatment after what he had done the night he picked you up. It was always like that, always those emotional swings, when he got violent and then did not talk to you as if it was you who had done something horrible, like it was you who was always wrong. Yet, you thought that you liked these days the most because he acted like he didn’t care and you had more personal space, even if your whole body was aching with bruises.

“We should totally go to that store today. You know, the one I told you about last week?” She said, casual as always, mixing something in her cup. You loved that about her, always grateful that even when she saw the bruises, the distant look in your eyes, she wasn't pushing. She gave you space, just like you asked her to the first time she saw everything. Sarah was a walking light, and whenever you needed it, she gave it to you and did everything to distract you from the darkness. 

“We can, but I don't have money, so…” 

“Oh, stop it. It’s my dad’s card. You think he cares where I spend it?” She rolled her eyes playfully, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and placing an icy glass with a drink in front of you. 

“I don’t want or need you to pay for me. Really. It’s not a big deal.” You refused her offer like you always did. 

“Well, I don’t care.” She tilted her head up in that playful way, biting her lip to hold back a smile. You shook your head, already giving up on fighting with her about it. “I’m gonna change quickly, and we can go, yeah?” 

She left you alone in the kitchen, running up the stairs before you could even say anything, and you let out a sigh. The same moment, as if on command, the front door to the house closed, and Rafe walked into the kitchen, looking as good and crisp as usual. 

Your breath hitched at the sight of him, your hold slightly tightening around the glass. He didn’t even see you yet, stopping in the middle of the room, texting someone on his phone. You took a chance to look at him properly. Your eyes trailed up from his cargo shorts to the blue polo that looked too perfectly tight around his biceps and to the backwards cap. Rafe was attractive, and you hated yourself that your mind automatically wandered in the wrong direction.

Then his head snapped up, as if sensing someone’s eyes, and he froze. You did so too, the moment you understood what his eyes were exactly looking at. 

Your hair or a giant t-shirt did nothing to hide the blossoming bluish bruises on your arms. The jacket that you wore on the way here was way too hot for summer heat, so you took it off the moment you walked in here, thinking that there was nothing that Sarah hadn’t seen before. But now Rafe was here, eyes fixated on your wrists that had marks looking awfully like fingerprints, and you swore you saw the moment a realization settled in him.

“What the hell is that?” Slipping his phone in the pocket of his shorts, he walked closer to you, not hesitating to walk into your personal space or even speak to you like you two weren’t something closer to enemies rather than friends. You turned on the bar stool to sit with your back to him, feeling your heart beating in your ears as you hid your hands under the table. “Turn around.” 

You stayed still, praying for Sarah to come down quicker. 

“It was him, wasn’t it? Your father. I saw your reaction. I heard the way he talked to you.” Rafe mumbled behind you, and it made you turn to face him. His eyes instantly spotted your split lip and a bruise at the side of your jaw that no amount of concealer could fully cover, no matter how hard you tried. His body tensed, slightly straightening up, as if in a defensive way, and he furrowed his brows when he realized something. 

“I didn’t know.” He said, his voice low and suddenly guilty, like he couldn't get the words out of him. “I didn’t know he’d… do that.”

You scoffed, shaking your head, the bitterness too sour to swallow. “Well, now you do. Congratulations.” His jaw clenched. You could see the guilt clawing at his skin like it was trying to crawl out of him. Rafe Cameron, golden boy of the island, rich and careless to everyone and everything, wasn’t used to feeling bad for the aftermath. Not like this.

“I didn’t call the cops for you. I mean, I did, but—fuck, I thought it would be just the way it usually happened.” He admitted, rumbling, hands balling into fists by his sides. “You and the Pogues were somewhere you shouldn’t have been, and I was pissed. That’s it. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Yeah, well, you did.” Your voice cracked suddenly, and your chest tightened, unable to hold back the fact that you did blame him slightly. “You called the cops. He got the call. And then he got me.” Rafe winced like the words physically hit him. And you weren’t trying to make him feel bad, not really. You didn’t have the energy to blame him for your messed-up life because, truthfully, you saw that he didn’t expect such an outcome, and it was the usual way he messed with his sister. You were just too tired of bruises and apologies that never came, tired of rules set by your father, and tired of people thinking they understood when they never did.

But Rafe wasn’t moving. For the first time, he didn’t know what to do or what to say. Hell, he didn’t even understand the feelings that were currently making him sick. 

“I didn’t know.” He repeated, softer this time.

You looked away, fingers curling tighter into fists. “Don’t act like you care. We’re not friends.”

“But—”

“Rafe, don’t you dare talk to her.” That was the moment when Sarah came in, interrupting whatever Rafe was about to say. She was beside you in a second, interlocking your fingers and dragging you up to stay near her. 

“Did you know about her father? Fuck, of course you did.” He laughed bitterly to himself, taking off his cap and running a nervous hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you do anything?” 

“Tell you? Yeah, that’s so funny.” Rafe’s face dropped when Sarah scoffed, dismissively looking him up and down. “Because it’s none of your business, Rafe. Stay away from it.” She didn’t let him say anything else, already guiding you out of the house. 

It was almost 11pm when you finally finished your shift and headed back home. It was a little bit later than usual, but you told your dad about it beforehand, so the only worry for now was a walk back home. 

The night was chilly, the sun had set a long time ago, and you shivered at the wind from the ocean, cursing yourself for not bringing a jacket. You wrapped your hands tightly around yourself as you looked down the road, which was barely illuminated by a poor-looking light pole. 

It was not a new thing for you to walk home alone at night, but the creepy feeling at the back of your neck never seemed to ease. You had no other choice, as you had no car, and it was way too late for the public transport. It would be a lie to say that it didn’t totally freak you out. Like someone could lunge out at any second, dragging you into the dark before you could even scream, but you simply had to deal with it because you needed the money that your current job offered. Your father was probably already at home, nursing a bottle of beer, not really caring about your well-being, as he told you many times that you were a big girl and could figure it out. 

You thought that you might jump out of your skin when the car on the road didn’t pass you by like they usually did, but it started to slow down until it was right beside you. You started walking faster, tightening your hold on the keys as if it may actually save you, not daring to look back at the car. You felt like you were about to cry because there was no one who could’ve saved you if something went wrong, but then the window rolled down and you heard a familiar voice. 

“Are you fucking insane?” Rafe, always straightforward, asked you, making you stop in your tracks. With your heart beating violently in your chest, you tried to control your breathing, but the look on your face was probably obvious enough for him to know how freaked out you were.

“What do you want?” You glanced at him, thinking about just ignoring his usual attitude and going back home. At the end of the day it was Rafe Cameron, and even if since that accident he seemed to keep his distance and not bother you or your friends anymore, you didn’t trust him fully. It’s been a week since he saw you at his house, a week since Sarah confronted him about you, and a week since he couldn’t get you out of his head.

“Why the hell are you here right now?” Through the darkness you saw his brows furrowing as he leaned in closer to the window above the passenger seat. You took in his appearance for a second—slightly leaned over, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, he looked so effortlessly hot. 

“Because I’m working, Rafe, and I need to get home now.” You scoffed and started walking again, wondering why you even wasted your time on this. 

“Get in the car.” He moved slowly beside you, glancing at you through the window, but you ignored it completely, keeping your head straight and eyes locked somewhere in the distance, not even turning your head. “Do you want me to get out of here and sit you inside myself? Get in the car, Y/N.” There was no anger in his voice, but he was firm, letting you know that he meant it.

You felt a sudden lump in your throat, maybe because you convinced yourself to be scared of him, or maybe because you hated that you were so exhausted and terrified of being alone on the street that you really wanted to accept his offer. Even if you acted tough in front of your friends, like you got used to your lifestyle, you were tired. Of having no choice, of working your ass off just to give money to your father, and of constantly being scared of him getting angry. You looked at Rafe for a few long seconds, and he didn’t break eye contact—always so sure, so confident. So you stepped over yourself and got in the car. 

It was so warm and so comfortable that your body instantly felt sleepy, surrounded by the woody and musky smell. You shifted uncomfortably under Rafe’s long and sharp gaze while he took you in, looking up and down, probably judging you, before he finally looked back at the road, with his jaw clenched even tighter than before, and started driving. 

“So tell me, why did you think that it was a good idea to go through the fucking cut alone and at night?” His hand tightened on the steering wheel as his eyes flickered back to you again. He hadn’t been able to forget the way you looked that day in his kitchen, arms bare, lip split. The image had buried itself under his skin, and now, seeing you walking alone like it was a normal thing to do, made him suddenly lose his mind all over again.

You squirmed, ignoring the lingering cold and fidgeting with the strap of your bag. 

And of course he noticed that. In a second you heard a scoff leave his lips, as if annoyed, and then something heavy fell on your lap—his grey and warm zip hoodie—and you almost silently mumbled ‘thanks’ before wrapping it around your body. 

“So?”

“I’m working, Rafe. Today it was even later than usual, and what other choice do I have? I need to get home somehow.” You shrugged casually, as if on instinct lowering your head and inhaling the fading scent of the perfume on the hoodie. 

“No—who the fuck lets you do that, huh?” His voice suddenly got bitter, fingers tapping against the wheel, as he looked at you sharply. 

“"Lets" me do that?” You scoffed, confused. “It’s not like anyone cares, Rafe. Not my father, that’s for sure. And the only other people that I know here are pogues and Sarah, and I don’t want to be a burden for them to figure out a safe way for me to get home every day.” 

“This is not okay. You cannot just fucking walk around like a piece of candy. There are bad people on the island. Dangerous, Y/N.” You almost felt like crying from frustration. He clearly was judging you, asking you questions and looking at you as if you were insane. But Rafe clearly did not understand. Not your position. Not your lack of choice. Not that you would’ve given everything to something normal in your life or someone who would actually care. It was just how things were, and, unfortunately, you had to deal with it if you wanted to escape another harsh slap across the face. 

Rafe’s free hand curled into a fist on his knee when he looked at you. How small and fragile you looked, the way he swore your eyes started watering after his words, and you instantly turned your head away from him. He hated it. Hated that he suddenly didn’t think of you as another friend of his sister, but instead he noticed you, and, for some reason, he wanted to help. 

You both fell silent, with Rafe constantly glancing at you and you ignoring it as much as you could. In just a few minutes he parked a little bit away from your house, and you could not be happier about that, knowing that your father would kill you if he saw you in another man’s car. 

“Thank you, Rafe. Um, I really appreciate it. I should go now.” You finally looked at him, for a second losing yourself in his intense gaze, before you snapped out of it and tossed his jacket in the back seat. You reached for a door handle when his voice stopped you once again. 

“When does your shift usually end?”

“At nine, why?” 

“Just asking.” You stared at him for a few seconds, not fully satisfied with the answer. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” The way he said it, his low and almost intimate voice, made your stomach drop, and you were grateful that it was too late for him to see the way your face was heating. 

“Goodnight.” 

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t understand him. 

Because since that day, whenever you stepped outside after your shift, you saw a familiar blue truck waiting for you. 

The first time you were absolutely confused and kind of scared, carefully walking around it with your eyes low on the ground as if you didn’t see him, and it ended up with an argument and Rafe threatening, again, to sit you in his car himself. You knew that there was no point in trying to argue more, because it was a simple and proven fact that if Rafe Cameron wanted to do something, he did it no matter what other people had to say about it. 

For some reason, he liked doing it. He liked that after his own exhausting day, when he was surrounded by the bunch of pretentious assholes, after his dad got him mad over the phone for not doing enough, he could see you. Weird, right? 

Rafe genuinely liked spending time with you and liked how you became more talkative after a few days of him picking you up. Maybe at first it was just guilt pushing him to do that—the guilt for causing you to get hurt, the gnawing reminder that he knew about some private and sick things that happened behind the closed door of your house, yet he couldn’t do anything. 

But then, you were nothing like he expected. Although, truthfully, he didn’t even know what he was expecting. Just to hate you because of your friendship with his sister and her little dumb buddies? Probably, but you were easy to be around—soft-spoken, a good listener, kind, funny, and just… normal. 

God, he needed normal in his life. Craved simple things, meaningless talks where nobody expected anything from each other, and just a comfortable atmosphere. It was weird, but actually good weird.

Sometimes he brought you food, a warm cup of good-smelling tea on a rainy night, which you always took with a shy smile and something like ‘you shouldn’t have to.’ 

He thought it was the least he could do. 

The weeks went by without a eighth of you noticing. You started getting comfortable around Rafe. It seemed like the person who annoyed you at some point was fully gone, and now you saw glimpses of his funny and caring side. You both would sit in the car, sometimes eating, sometimes enjoying the comfortable silence, or just humming to the songs when Rafe chose a long route to your house.

There was, without a doubt, a connection between you two. Something that you silently shared whenever your eyes stayed locked longer than they should have, when your fingers or your knees accidentally brushed. His sudden and genuinely unexpected warmth made you feel weird, and no matter how scared you were to even think about it, you were falling for Rafe Cameron.

He knew and felt it too. That’s why it was hard stopping his hand from reaching out to you whenever you were so close. Hard stopping himself from snapping when he saw another bruise or cut on you. 

Just the way you smiled every time you saw him at the usual spot made him want to do more, made him want to keep that spark in your eyes a little bit longer, because whenever it was time for you to go home, you hesitated and gave him that almost desperate look.

Over time you opened up. He never pushed about your father, though the question burned on his tongue, but he needed to know the truth—he made sure to slowly get you comfortable, make you feel safe around him, and eventually you revealed what nobody else knew. You told Rafe about your father always running away from something, about your constant moving from city to city, and about the fact that he was overcontrolling and had never let you breathe freely. 

He was careful with that theme, letting you pour out your thoughts before so hesitantly mentioning the day it all started and the way your father didn’t even hesitate to act like he did in front of everyone. When you finally got brave enough, the words seemed to flow freely, and you dissociated, with a blank stare talking about everything that happened to you. 

It felt normal to talk to Rafe. Natural. 

The insults thrown like they were nothing, the hitting whenever you disobeyed, or the money that you brought home was suddenly not enough. Around him you didn’t feel like a human, and it was hard to constantly walk on eggshells to do everything right. 

And Rafe listened. Fuming from the inside, gripping the wheel much harder than needed, but he listened and never judged. He looked at you, studying your profile, trying to focus on any little feature of your face that could calm him down. He let you cry. God, he hated crying, hated tears, though when your head tipped toward his shoulder and your body shuddered with little hiccups, he thought that he hated it for a whole other reason. 

This night was not an exception. Everything seemed to be great—the warm sandwiches with your favorite drinks met you in the car, and Rafe was so damn talkative, making you laugh the way you hadn't in a very long time. You didn't want this to end, didn't want to leave his company and go back to your own nightmare.

“Goodnight, Rafe.” You mumbled back when his car parked on the driveway next to yours, away from your father’s eyes. The air felt different, heavy, and for some reason you were barely able to tear your eyes away from his. You tried to take a deep breath to calm your heart down, but you felt your pulse in your ears when he didn’t look away, didn’t even pretend to not stare at you with a smile. 

Rafe’s head slightly tilted to the side, lip caught in between his teeth, as he watched you closing the door of his car and slowly getting closer to your house. The thought lingered at the back of his head, the one that he had been pushing away for probably the last couple of days. His eyes followed you, and when his mind finally said ‘fuck it’ to himself, he got out of the car, quickly catching you before you could reach your house. 

“Wait!” 

You froze, hearing Rafe’s hurried steps behind you, slowly turning back and looking up. His presence was suffocating as his blue eyes were studying your face, making your stomach turn again with that weird feeling. A flush of heat washed over you when Rafe stepped even closer, hands slightly lifting up, as if wanting to touch you. 

And you didn’t step back, even if you should have. His cologne washed over you in that already familiar, calming way. He was taller than you, looming over your body and shielding the lamp from the street with his broad shoulders. You knew what was coming, felt blood rushing in your ears when Rafe’s hands cupped your cheeks slowly but without hesitation, but it didn’t make the situation easier. Your mind started racing with thoughts about it being the wrong decision, about you not being able to escape your father’s presence in your life, but it all came to a stop when his lips touched yours. 

You melted instantly against him, lips moving slowly and hesitantly because, with all honesty, you didn’t know how it all worked. Rafe deepened the kiss, pulling you closer to him, groaning when his tongue ran across your lip and tasted your sweet lip gloss.

Your hands at first just froze in the air, not knowing whether to place it on top of his hands, or grab his shirt, or wrap it around his neck, or… Yeah, you were overthinking everything again. Your mind went blank, and you just let your hands settle on Rafe’s chest—soft and slightly hesitant, listening to the steady beating of his heart. He smiled against your lips, bringing you closer when his hand found your waist and fully enveloping you in him.

When he pulled away slightly, your breathing was rapid, eyes closed while you savored the moment. Rafe nudged you softly with his forehead against yours, bringing your racing mind back down, and you finally looked at his smug yet soft face. 

“That was… my first kiss.” You admitted hesitantly, savoring the taste of him on your lips.

“It was?” He smirked, playfully pulling you closer to his chest and reaching your lips again, kissing you until you laughed and turned your face away. “You’re cute.”

You looked up shyly, feeling something warm spilling in your chest, and nervously twisting the string of his hoodie between your fingers. “I should go, Rafe.” And just like that, his face dropped. Eyes narrowed slightly, looking behind you at the house that he started to dread, clenching his jaw again. 

“But you don’t have to—”

“I do.” 

He looked back at you, searching your face, and his eyes suddenly seemed sad, tightening his hold on you as if it could help him keep you safe somehow. “At least text me?” His frown deepened, and you instantly reached out to soften the crease in between his brows. 

“Okay. I will.” 

Rafe stood there, after you placed a hesitant kiss on his cheek, hair disheveled and heart pounding against his rib cage, while he was looking at you walking inside. The door behind you closed, and he slowly walked backwards to his car, keeping his eyes on your window, where the lights always turned on after a few minutes of him dropping you off. 

He waited, jaw set tight, an uneasy feeling tugging at him, hands involuntarily curling into fists at both of his sides. Because something wasn’t right. He couldn’t tell what was wrong, but Rafe couldn’t go just yet, standing on someone’s front yard and just staring at your house. 

And then a scream cut through the quiet setting of the street, making Rafe’s blood run cold. 

You walked into the house, cautiously looking around the hallway, feeling unsettled by the weird stillness. You slowly stepped inside, your phone clenched in your hand, praying that your dad was just already asleep or at least lying in front of the TV with a beer bottle in hand, not caring about a single thing in the world. But the second you turned into the living room, he was there.

Standing by the window, curtain pulled away. 

The one that had a perfect view of the street. 

Your heart dropped into your stomach, and you froze in place when the realization hit you that he saw everything. He saw you in another man’s car. He saw Rafe kissing you. He knew that you were lying to him, and by the awfully calm look on his face, this was the end for you. 

“So that’s what you’ve been hiding from me. Whoring around the island with a rich boy behind my back?” You shook your head as he stepped closer to you slowly, like a predator catching its prey with no ways to escape. You squirmed in the close proximity, shrinking into yourself when his figure loomed above you. 

Your voice was trembling before you even opened your mouth. “Dad, it’s not—please, it wasn’t like that—”

Your head snapped to the side with the force of the slap, skin burning and eyes watering not only from pain but also from how terrified and anxious you were. Your phone fell out of your hand with a thud against the floor, your legs gave out for a second, and your body stumbled back against the wall. The metallic taste of blood blossomed on your tongue. 

Tears blurred your vision when you hesitantly looked back into your father’s cold eyes, full of hate and pure rage. There was not a single part of him that felt bad for abusing you. The person who was there many years ago, when you were still a little girl, was gone. Now it was just an empty shell of a person who was supposed to be your family, your protection. 

“You think this is a game? Didn’t I fucking tell you to keep quiet and not be all over the island while I deal with stuff?” He shouted now, getting all in your face to intimidate you, voice rising with every word. “You think I put food on your table just so you could run around like some cheap slut and ruin everything I’ve worked for?”

You blinked rapidly, chest heaving, trying to stay calm, trying to breathe, but the words bubbled inside of you. No matter how scared you were, the straight-up lies made you all worked up, because not once did he do anything to provide for you. “You didn’t work for anything! You just drink and yell and—and hit me when something doesn’t go your way—”

His eyes darkened.

“Ungrateful bitch.” The words spat from his mouth like venom. “You were supposed to listen to me. You were supposed to stay out of sight, keep your damn head down, and what do you do instead? You go and spread your legs for a Cameron for fuck’s sake? Do you know what kind of shit you’ve stirred up for me?” He was coming closer again, and your instincts screamed. You turned, bolting for the front door with shaking legs—

But you didn’t make it.

His hand caught your hair in a fist, yanking it so hard you screamed in agony. You crashed to the floor with a thud, the pain blinding. Your shoulder hit first, then your elbow, your knee scraping across the hardwood as your body collapsed beneath his grip.

And then the real hit landed. A kick to your ribs, sharp and vicious, knocking the air from your lungs. You screamed again, your voice cracking with begging him to stop, high-pitched and desperate, your hands flailing to shield your face. But he was above you, yelling, still yelling, the words incoherent now, lost in the chaos of his rage.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like your head was underwater. Maybe it was your last day. Maybe it would be easier. You hoped for it. At that moment, when you lay on the floor, all you could do was think about how it all could be different. If you went with Rafe. If you asked him for help. If he could stop it all. 

Rafe knew it was you. Blinded by the rage and an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness, he didn’t even remember running up the stairs to your house. He didn’t remember banging his shoulder against the old and creaky door until it snapped open inside, hitting against the wall with a loud banging. 

The only thing he thought would forever be engraved in his head was the picture of you on the floor with your hands covering your face and a man above you holding your hair in a fist, screaming so loudly that he didn’t even sense Rafe’s presence in the room. 

He was there in a second, moving across the room like a storm, dragging the man off of you and pushing him back. Your father stumbled backwards, clocking off the glass coffee table on the floor, now fully focused on Rafe as if thinking he could handle him. 

But Rafe was quicker. His fist connected with a man’s face with a loud crack, the blood instantly streaming down, staining the light shirt.

“You think you can fucking touch her? Use her like a punchbag?” Rafe roared, hitting again and again, while your father tried to push him away, only barely making him stumble backwards. “I should’ve come after you that same day you dragged her away with you, the same day I knew you were a fucking coward for hurting someone who can’t fight you back.” 

“You don't know shit about me.” Your father choked on a grunt when Rafe lifted him by the collar of his shirt, damn nearly pulling him off the ground. 

“Don’t I?” Rafe growled, his voice low, like thunder booming in the small room. “Because I dug, asshole. I found the files. You thought you could come to this island and pretend to be someone else? Think nobody would find you here with all of the money you owe?”

Your father froze, really froze this time. A flicker of panic rippled through his face, just beneath the blood and bruises. He didn’t say anything, but that silence said everything. Rafe pushed him back again like a bag of trash, and your father grumbled something under his breath. 

Yeah, he was way too full of himself. He had never hesitated to hit you because he trained you to keep your head down and take whatever was coming your way. But he was not stupid enough to try to fight Rafe, who was bigger and much stronger than him. Your father might’ve been cruel, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew power when he saw it. And Rafe Cameron, standing there with blood on his knuckles and murder in his eyes, seemed like he could destroy everything with his bare hands.

So he, clenching his jaw and burning holes into the back of Rafe’s head, sat still. 

And Rafe didn’t waste another second to finally get to you.

It might as well have been his horror dream, because you were still lying on the floor on your side, eyes open and clearly conscious, but body so limp it looked damn near lifeless. Your eyes were focused nowhere in particular, breath ragged, tears still silently rolling down the side of your face. 

Rafe was not breathing when he kneeled in front of you—he was sure of it. His whole world shrank down to the fragile shape of you lying on that worn-out floor like something broken and discarded. His chest constricted so tightly it hurt watching the way your fingers twitched like you were trying to reach for something, someone, him, but couldn’t quite make it.

His hands were hovering above your body like he was afraid to touch you and make it worse. He had seen a lot of shit in his life. Drugs. Fights. Even Ward’s fists. But nothing had ever made his stomach turn like seeing you like that.

“Hey—hey, baby, it’s me.” His voice cracked right down the middle. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Hard reached out hesitantly. He brushed the strands of your hair away from your face, making you slightly flinch from the contact and then finally focus your eyes on him. His eyes studied your face. Wetness from your tears, a clear handprint on your cheeks that was forming into a bruise, blood on your lips—the one that he kissed not even ten minutes ago.

You blinked once, twice, slow and dazed, as if you weren’t sure if he was real or some fevered hallucination pulled from the darkest corner of your pain-soaked mind.

His hands found you gently, cradling the back of your head, his thumb brushing the tear trail down your cheek, and the moment his skin touched yours, you started trembling like a leaf.

“That’s okay. You’re safe. I swear.” His hand reached for your forgotten phone, hurriedly putting it in his pocket, before he gently slid his hands under your body and scooped you into his embrace. He stood from the floor, your head lulled against his chest, and he held you closer, hoping that his hoodie could somehow warm you up. “I’m taking you home.” 

Behind him, your father shifted just enough for Rafe to shoot him a look so sharp it instantly shut him up.

“Don’t.” He snapped. “Don’t even fucking breathe. You’re going to take all of your shit from this house and vanish, do you hear me? I don’t care how or where, but if I ever hear about you, I swear to God I’ll let them know your location, and they’ll do whatever they want with your pathetic ass.”

And your father, for once in his damn life, listened.

Warmth was the first thing you registered when your eyes opened. The room was quiet, dark, and unfamiliar, yet so safe, and as if on instinct, your body knew that there was no harm. This time you didn’t wake up because of a harsh voice calling your name or a loud bang against the door that made you jump up in horror—it was quiet. You were wearing a hoodie, a giant and heavy blue blanket pulled almost all the way up to your face, almost fully drowning you. 

The pain wasn’t gone. Your ribs still ached, your lip still stung, but it was softer now. You managed to move slightly, instantly spotting Rafe at the other side of the bed, keeping his distance. Elbows on his knees, knuckles torn, a fresh cut scabbing over his cheekbone. His head was bowed, eyes locked on the floor, leg bounced restlessly. One hand kept dragging across the same spot on his thigh, like he needed to do something, anything, to hold himself together.

You swallowed. Your throat was raw. “Where am I?”

His head snapped up at the sudden sound of your voice. “Tanneyhill.” He said gently. “Safe. It’s just us. You passed out for a while.”

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking again until you tried to sit up. The hoodie pooled around your waist as you moved, and Rafe immediately reached out but stopped himself, his hand hovering barely an inch from your wrist.

“Can I…?”

You nodded, and he moved towards you, helped you adjust the pillow, tucking a blanket up your side. Your eyes watered so unexpectedly, a sob coming out before you could even force yourself to hold it back. The tears came quickly, being an aftershock of everything that had happened to you. “I’m sorry—” You gasped between cries, your voice hoarse and fragile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I—why I can’t stop—”

“Stop apologizing.” Rafe whispered, moving closer, facing you now, and placing his hands on your legs through the blanket to give you some kind of comfort. “That’s okay, baby.”

You sniffled, voice barely above a whisper. “He trapped me, Rafe. I didn’t… I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t even have money to leave. He controlled everything—what I did, where I went, and who I talked to. I thought if I just followed the rules, if I just kept my head down, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. He leaned forward like his body couldn’t take the distance, wanting to pull you into his embrace, to keep you safe, and to try to scare all of the things that were terrorizing your poor mind away.

You looked at him, chest heaving. “I wanted to ask for help so many times, but he always made it feel like I couldn’t. Like he’d always find a way back. That even if I left, he’d show up and just kill me. And—and I don’t even understand why he tried to tie me down to him, because he didn’t love me, he didn’t want me—”

“Because he needed control, because weak men like him do that to make themselves feel better. It wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me?” His head dipped down, searching your eyes, waiting until you gave him a nod. Your hands trembled when you initiated the first contact, when you placed a palm over his hand on your knee. Rafe didn’t waste a second to take both of your hands in his warm ones, rubbing your knuckles with more softness than you could’ve ever expected.

“I have nothing. I don’t know what to do or where to go because—because I’m alone.” It came out as a whimper, your stomach tightening at your own words. “I don’t know what to do with my life.” You couldn’t resist the way your head fell forward towards his chest like it was natural. Rafe’s hand cradled the back of your head, fingers gently grazing your scalp as if in memory of the way you were held. 

“You don’t have to know now. Just stay here. Eat, sleep, rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“But—”

“You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to get better. I need to make sure that you’re okay.” You pulled back after a second, blinking at him through tears, and in that moment it wasn’t the Rafe you had met many months ago. It was Rafe who picked you up because he was worried about your safety, who rumbled endlessly about things he liked while you were in his car, who couldn’t stop looking at you with soft eyes whenever he thought you didn’t notice. 

So you leaned forward, just enough to press your forehead against his, trembling all over, letting your tears fall. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t say anything because there was no need for it. Just let him hold you like you were something he couldn’t lose. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

tags: @buzzingbey @maybankslover @rafeismyking @sendme829

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter One

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, welcome to the chaos! This one is going to be a whirlwind of emotions. Send me all of your thoughts on the fic and of course what you think of our new OFC, Harper!

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Harper had never meant to like it here.

The East dorms smelled like cheap PVA glue and the radiators hissed like they were always pissed-off, and the girls who lived in the room two doors down were always either screaming at eachother or crying; sometimes both.

The shower water was always lukewarm, the food was worse, and the uniform blazer made her shoulders itch.

Still, she stayed on for term after term. Because slowly — it'd become a safe haven. Better than being at home.

And that, she'd long ago decided, was its own twisted kind of victory.

She sat curled on the window ledge, bony knees pulled to her chest, one cheek pressed against the cold glass. Down below, the grassy stretch was all muddy edges and stone paths. There were a few boys dragging suitcases across it with frowns and hunched shoulders — like they'd rather be anywhere else.

"New intake," said Jane, her roommate, from behind a cloud of dry shampoo and Juicy Couture perfume.

Harper didn't turn around. She just scrunched up her nose and gave the boys another curious kind of look. "Bit late for January, innit?"

"A few brats who've just come back from spending the winter in the Alps. And some kid from Australia — sports scholarship. Karting prodigy or whatever. They've already decided he's going to be the next Hamilton."

Harper snorted. "Because nothing says motorsport champion like dragging your arse to this hellhole."

Jane laughed and rolled her eyes. "You're such a debbie-downer."

Harper didn't answer. She just stared at the last boy stepping out of a black car — tallish, quiet-looking, a duffle slung over one shoulder. He didn't glance up at the windows or anything like that.

Smart.

Most people stared at the building like it was Hogwarts, and were met with heckles for their trouble.

But not him.

Something in her stomach — something small and sudden, like a hiccup of curiosity.

She ignored it.

She moved out of the window and picked up her biology folder. "Come on, Janie. If we're late again, Mr Jones might spank you in the cleaning cupboard."

Jane shrieked. "Shut up, Harper! I told you already — that was just a stupid rumour!"

—

That night, Harper couldn't sleep.

She never slept well in winter. The wind scraped at the windows like it was trying to get in, and the heating clicked off at midnight like clockwork. Their bedroom was pitch black, quiet except for Jane’s breathing and the occasional fox scream from outside.

She slid her notebook out from under her pillow — soft cover, edges frayed, ink smudges all along the bottom corner where her hand dragged. The majority of the pages were full of doodles and fragments: half-written poems, to-do lists, thoughts that she would never say out loud.

Things I Am:     •    Hard Work     •    Sarcastic     •    Ungrateful

Things I Am Not:     •    Dumb     •    Ugly     •    My mother

She paused, pen hovering.

Then, she flipped the page and started sketching instead; a silly half-formed thing. A boy with a duffle bag and a face you could never forget.

⸻

The next morning, they crossed paths.

It wasn't dramatic. Just two kids reaching for the same packet of Weetabix in the dining hall, and then awkwardly backing off. He nodded. She didn't.

"You take it," he said, accent all weird and sunny like it hadn't registered the grey skies yet.

She shrugged and took the box without saying thank you.

Harper didn't do small talk before 9am. Or at all, really.

She wasn't mean. Or snobby. Or any of the other things that people liked to label her as.

She just didn't have the patience required to be the kind of girl with all soft edges.

⸻

Later, in English Literature, he was there again.

Mr. Callahan gestured toward the front of the room. Smiled with his sweetcorn coloured teeth. Gestured with his wrinkled, age-spotted hands. "Mr. Piastri, care to introduce yourself to your new classmates?"

There it was. The ritual humiliation. Worse than being the new kid — being the new kid asked to introduce yourself.

Harper didn't look up, didn't want to make it worse for him by adding another set of eyes. She just stared at the blank margin of her workbook, pen poised like she might be taking notes. She wasn't.

"I'm Oscar Piastri," he said. Accent clipped and his words a bit slanted — probably because he was embarrassed. "I'm from Melbourne. In Australia. I like maths. I, uh, moved to England to work on my career."

The class rippled with whispers. A few people snorted derivatively. Someone in the back muttered something about "wannabe Mark Webber," and a boy near the window pretended to rev a car engine.

Harper bit her lip.

I like maths.

Brave thing to say in front of Mr. Callahan, a man who had once declared long division "the enemy of poetic soul."

Still, it was honest. Or maybe just literal. Boys like him — boys who were not British — usually were.

Moved to England to work on my career.

Not many people her age had a single clue what they wanted to do with their lives — let alone any of them actually have the guts to travel halfway across the world and actually do something worthwhile for the sake of their futures.

She imagined what it might've looked like for him — saying goodbye to his mum at an airport gate, suitcase heavier than his bones, chasing speed across countries when most kids their age couldn't catch a bus on time.

Harper's pen shook. Just for a second.

Mr. Callahan cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mr. Piastri. Seat behind Harper, second row."

She felt, more than saw, the shift as he passed her. Quiet footsteps. A soft cough. And then the sensation of being watched — not in a creepy way, just... watched.

For the rest of the lesson, Harper didn't turn around. But she caught herself pressing harder into the page than usual, the letters carved into the page instead of written.

He smelled good.

Like soap and something else that she couldn't put her finger on.

It was a nice change from the boys who usually just stank of B.O and cheap beer.

—

That night, curled into a ball on her side in bed, she added something new to her notebook.

People to pay attention to:     •    Oscar Piastri

—

The next morning, the Weetabix basket was empty.

Harper stood in front of the cereal shelf, arms crossed and expression soured. Rows of sad Cornflakes and soggy-looking bran flakes mocked her.

Someone had left a single Shreddies square on the counter like a bad joke.

She didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Her pout said it for her — the subtle downturn of her mouth, the slight tightening around her eyes, the way her shoulder rose just a touch as she turned to walk away, resigned to jam on toast or something equally as boring.

"Hey."

She turned around.

Oscar Piastri was stood a few feet away, breakfast tray in hand, holding a fresh, unopened box of Weetabix. He offered it toward her without a word, just a faint shrug, like no big deal.

Harper blinked. "What, you just... found it?"

"Got it just now," he said, quiet and a bit sheepish. "Last one. Figured you might want it."

Harper stared at him for a second too long. Not in a swoony way; she'd never admit to that, but in a what-kind-of-person-actually-thinks-that-far-ahead kind of way.

"You were thinking about me?" She asked dryly, reaching for the box. Her tone was classic Harper: half-defensive, half-a-test.

Oscar didn't flinch. "Nah. Just noticed you looked kinda gutted yesterday when there was almost none left."

She stared at him.

Noticed.

Most people only noticed Harper when she said something sharp or raised her voice. Not when she was quiet. Not when her disappointment stayed on the inside of her mouth.

"Thanks," she mumbled, trying not to sound like it hurt to say. Then, a little louder, with a tilt of her head. "You're nice."

He smiled; barely. "Yeah. People say that a lot."

They stood in the middle of the cafeteria; two awkward kids who weren't quite sure what to do next. Harper shifted her tray from one hand to the other.

"You sitting with anyone?"

Oscar glanced around. "Nah."

"Cool. You can sit with me, but don't talk for the first ten minutes. It's a no-chat zone until I've eaten my cereal and drank my juice."

He nodded sagely, like she'd given him an important instruction and not a ridiculous one. "Understood."

They walked side by side toward the back table where Harper usually sat, their footsteps quiet, their trays clinking with spoons and silence.

And Harper didn't say it aloud, obviously. But that morning, for some weird and unnamable reason, her Weetabix tasted better than usual.

—

Three weeks later, breakfast had quietly become a thing.

Neither of them ever said it out loud, least of all Harper, but it was a foregone conclusion.

Oscar always got there early and saved her at least one box of Weetabix. She gave him half of her toast when the dining hall ran out of the nice raspberry jam. They sat at a table toward the back windows, never exactly chatting, but never not aware of each-other.

He'd wait for her before eating every single morning — even if she was running late. She'd roll her eyes like he was somehow annoying for doing it. Then she'd sit down next to him and they'd divvy out their trays like it was the most normal thing in the world.

This morning, she dropped her tray beside him and flopped into her usual seat with a tired mumble of 'Morning'.

He held out the box wordlessly.

She took it and gave his bed head an amused glance. "Nice hair," she said, poking the corner of the cereal box with her thumbnail.

Oscar shrugged, chewing on a bite of toast. "Grew it myself."

"Fuck off." She said. "Were all the pancakes gone?"

He swallowed. "Probably. You're later than usual."

She made a face. "Yeah. Sorry. I got stuck queuing for the bloody shower block. Jacqueline, you know her? The blonde one with the red lipstick? Yeah. She was hogging the third stall all morning, and everyone knows that the third stall is the only one that has warm water in the mornings."

He scratched at the back of his neck. "Boys showers are disgusting so I just... avoid them at all costs. Middle of the night is safest, right after the cleaners have been."

She hummed. "I peeked my head in there once. Wanted to see if you guys had more room than us — you know, sexism and all that. All I managed to actually see was three inches of disappointment and enough steam to know for a fact that you get way more hot water than us."

He gave her that awkward half-smile he did sometimes, like he wasn't totally sure if he was joking or being serious.

They ate in silence for a bit after that. Harper mashed her weetabix into her milk and then set it aside for a second to thicken up.

Oscar tilted his head toward her notebook, which was sat open on the table beside her tray.

"Is that the code for that website you're building?"

Harper tensed — just slightly. "You can read upside down now?"

He blinked. "Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy."

She stared at him, then exhaled. "Sorry. Got defensive. It's still early. But — yeah. It is."

He peered over at it again. "It all looks... really complicated."

"It's not." She shrugged.

"You say that like it doesn't look like the Matrix just threw up in your notebook."

She cracked a reluctant smile — God, he was so dry. So unfunny. "It's just logic, Osc."

Oscar squinted at the page. "But that's, like... maths."

"No," she said sharply. Then, after a beat, she softened and said. "Well — yeah. But no."

He frowned at her.

"I suck at maths," she added, quieter this time. "You know that already. It's why I'm in a lower bracket than you even though we're the same age. And it's not like... normal bad either. It's 'wired differently' bad."

Oscar's brow creased.

She sighed. "It's called dyscalculia. It's like dyslexia, but with numbers. Different for everyone, but I can't read clocks properly. I count on my fingers, even if it's just like seven plus two. I fail every single timed test they set. I swap digits in equations and don't even realise I've done it." She took a breath and gave her weetabix a poke with her spoon. "I used to think I was just stupid. Teachers thought I wasn't trying. My mum used to just call me lazy, which, in hindsight, is hilarious. Because I haven't been relaxed since I was eight."

Oscar's lips tugged up slightly — a bit wry.

"But coding," she continued, "that makes sense to me. It's all structure. No weird fractions or mental math traps. Just... clear instructions and consistent answers."

She expected him to nod absently, like he'd stopped listening a while ago. Or change the subject. Or say something vaguely patronising.

But Oscar just said, "That's kind of cool."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That I'm a functionally useless human being?"

"Well, no, you're not." He argued flatly. "But I meant that I think it's cool that your brain works differently and you still taught it to do that." He waved at her notebook.

Harper blinked. For a second, she forgot to be sarcastic. "You're so weird," she muttered, but there was no venom in it.

"Thanks," he said, smiling into his spoon like he didn't know what else to do with his mouth.

She looked back at her code. Then at him.

He was chewing on his toast and staring at his phone. He had the latest iPhone. It had a blue case.

His t-shirt was creased and his hair was still an absolute mess.

And still, she couldn't stop looking at him.

—

It was a Saturday, grey and windy, and Harper was buried under a school-issued fleece blanket in the common room, laptop on her knees, headphones on.

She wasn't working on anything important — just cleaning up a chatbot code, fiddling with syntax like it was a loose tooth. Her headphones were playing some lo-fi thing she didn't even like. She just needed the white noise to help her focus.

Across the room, the door creaked open. She didn't look up until someone said, "You'll get square eyes."

Oscar.

She paused her music and pushed her headphones off, raising an eyebrow at him. "Yeah? Fucking ace. I'll go on Britains Got Talent and become a niche celebrity."

He grinned sheepishly, his cheeks going a bit red, and then nodded behind him. "Didn't come alone."

Behind Oscar stood a man in a zipped-up jacket, casual slacks, and sneakers that were too clean to belong to a teenager. Same posture as Oscar. Same gentle eyes.

"This is my dad," Oscar said. "Chris."

Chris stepped forward and offered a hand to shake, like Harper was a grown-up and not a fourteen-year-old-girl who'd spent the last two nights using toothpaste on her forehead acne to try and get rid of it. "You must be Harper. Oscar's told me about you."

"Oh. Right. Cool," she said. Then she stumbled to her feet, abandoned her laptop and her headphones and the fleece, and hastily shook his hand before it become awkward. "I'm Harper."

Chris laughed, warm and unbothered. "I know. Oscar told me you've been helping him with his English work."

Oscar made a noise of protest. "Dad, come on."

"I'm yeah," Harper said. "He's awful at it. Can't string together a sentence to save his life." She gave Oscar a teasing glance.

Chris turned to his son. "One failed class and you're risking your scholarship. Don't let that happen."

Oscar stared at him. "I won't fail any of my classes." He said, without missing a beat.

She bit her lip and looked between them — the way Oscar didn't shrink even a little bit around his dad. The way he could be quiet and awkward and it was fine. Safe.

"Anyway," Chris continued, "just wanted to say hi before I head home. I fly out tomorrow."

Harper blinked. "Back to Australia?"

"Yeah. Stuck around to help Oscar settle in. Make sure his gear arrived in one piece, check out the karting circuits, learn how to pronounce Hertfordshire without offending the locals."

Oscar rolled his eyes. "He's still saying 'Hurt-Fard-Sheyre'"

Chris laughed. "Don't let the Brits fool you, son. They put vowels in weird places on purpose."

Harper smiled before she could stop herself.

Chris checked his watch. "Right. I'm going to have a word with the headmaster about Oscar's travel plans, but it was really nice meeting you, Harper."

"Yeah. You too." She said.

Oscar sat down next to her, picking at the corner of the couch cushion.

"Your dad's cool," she said, and meant it.

"Yeah," he replied, but his voice was smaller now. "He is."

"You okay?"

Oscar hesitated. Then nodded, but not very convincingly. "Just weird. Makes the whole staying here on my own thing feel more... real. Now that he's leaving too."

Harper looked at him carefully. "You can call him whenever, though, right?"

He snorted. "Yeah. And about seven backup methods. He's the type to send a courier pigeon if I don't answer a text within ten minutes."

She wanted to say 'you're lucky'. But that would make it sound like she was bitter. And she wasn't. Not exactly. So she just said, "That's... nice."

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Oscar added, a bit shyly, "He liked you."

Harper shot him a look. "I was terrible. I don't know how to socialise with adults who don't expect me to be, like, all stuck-up and perfect."

"Right." Oscar said, a bit awkwardly. "I mean, he just — I think he's glad I've made a friend, you know?"

Harper's chest clenched. She didn't know what to say to that — so she didn't. She nudged his knee with hers instead. "You're not bad," she said.

Oscar smiled at her.

And then Harper opened her laptop again, and when Oscar picked up her legs to drape them over his legs so he could sit back on the sofa, she didn't even blink.

—

The chill of the late Hertfordshire night nipped at Harper's cheeks as she and Jane sprinted across the empty quad, sneakers barely squeaking against the dew-slick paving stones. Their hushed giggles echoed in the dark. Jane, always the instigator, had convinced her to sneak out—"Just for five minutes! I swear!"—to the locked astroturf behind the science block.

They slipped through a gap in the fence, flashlights off, relying on moonlight and adrenaline. Harper dropped to the ground, fingers brushing the fake grass. "Feels like we're on another planet," she whispered. Jane flopped down beside her, smirking. "The planet of the incredibly bored."

Ten minutes later, just as Harper dared to close her eyes and breathe in the strange peace, floodlights blazed to life like a stadium mid-match. "Run!" Jane hissed.

They didn't get far.

Now, Harper sat in the back of a golf cart, arms crossed, heart racing, as one of the groundskeepers muttered something about "ridiculous girls" and "Headmaster's office come morning." Jane had managed to charm her way into walking.

Across the dormitory court, high up in the boys' wing, a window cracked open.

Oscar, hoodie drawn up, leaned on the sill. He squinted into the brightness—and there she was. Harper. Eyes wide, lip curled in protest, being hauled across the lawn like a criminal. The surreal procession made him chuckle despite himself.

She looked furious. Or maybe mortified.

Their eyes met, briefly.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Harper, red-faced, stuck her tongue out at him.

—

Harper sat on the edge of her narrow dorm bed, fingers frozen around her phone. The headmaster had promised one call home "just to inform," but of course her mother had demanded a personal conversation. She always did. Control disguised as concern.

The line clicked.

"Harper Grace," her mother's voice hissed like steam through a cracked teapot. "I knew leaving you at that school was a mistake. God forbid I get one term without a phone call from some smug administrator telling me my daughter is playing fugitive on school property!"

Harper clenched her jaw. "It wasn't like that."

"No? Then do explain it to me. You snuck out. You trespassed. You embarrassed yourself and—by extension—me. Again."

Harper swallowed the ache in her throat. "It was just the astroturf. Jane—"

"Oh. Jane. Of course. I knew that girl was trouble the minute I saw her on your Instagram. She's got you playing shadow to someone else's mess — just like you always do. No spine. No judgment."

There was a pause. Harper didn't speak. That was the trap—engage, and her mother won.

"You're wasting every opportunity I've broken my back to give you," her mother continued, voice tightening. "You are not some ordinary girl, Harper. Do you think your tuition fee grows on trees? Do you think I work hard every single day so you could roll around on fake grass like a delinquent?"

Harper stared at the ceiling, eyes hot. "No, Mum."

"Exactly. So you'll fix this. You'll write an apology letter to the headmaster. You'll stay away from that Jane girl. And you'll remember who you are. Because I will not have my daughter become another pathetic little scandal. Do I make myself clear?"

A long silence stretched between them.

"Yes," Harper said softly. "You're clear."

"Good," her mother snapped, already moving on. "Now go and do something useful, will you? Preferable something that won't ruin your life and discredit our family name."

The call ended.

Harper sat frozen, the low hum of the disconnected line ringing louder than the yelling ever had. She didn't cry. She hadn't because of her mum in years. But her chest felt splintered all the same—like something small and important had cracked.

From the hallway, she heard Jane's laugh—unapologetic, alive. For a moment, Harper wished she could step into her skin and exist in the peace for just one beautiful day.

Then she put her phone face down and stared out the window, toward the corner of the West building, where Oscar's light was still on.

—

Saturday breakfast at Haileybury was always quieter than weekdays—no teachers barking about uniforms, no ridiculous assemblies looming. Just a murmur of voices, the clink of spoons on bowls, and the comforting scent of burnt toast and cheap blackcurrant cordial.

Harper found Oscar already at their usual corner table, grey school hoodie half-zipped, one hand absently twirling a spoon through a rapidly dissolving Weetabix. She slid in across from him without asking.

He looked up. "Hello, criminal."

She rolled her eyes. "Very funny."

"Did they handcuff you?"

"I was in a golf cart. Not a police car."

"Same thing."

She tried to suppress a smile, then gave up and let it bloom. "Shut up."

Oscar nudged a plate of toast toward her without looking. She took a slice. Their fingers brushed but neither of them blinked.

The conversation, such as it was, drifted between silence and occasional muttered words. Harper hated explaining herself, and Oscar never asked too many questions. She liked that. He was content to just exist, solid and easy.

She reached for the plate of butter and jam packets; he slid it toward her before she could ask. A beat later, her socked foot bumped his under the table, and when she didn't move it, neither did he.

Oscar leaned his elbow on the table, close enough that their arms almost touched. His pinky brushed hers once, twice. Stayed.

"You're quiet," he said, not looking at her. "Did you get in actual trouble?"

Harper shrugged, chewing toast like it was a strategy. "No. Just a warning. I'm just... tired."

"Yeah." A pause. Then, "Your mum?"

She hesitated—long enough that Oscar glanced at her. She didn't meet his eyes, but her hand drifted over the table between them, her fingers brushing the cuff of his sleeve. Light, thoughtless. He didn't pull away.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "She was... her usual self."

He didn't say sorry. Didn't offer advice. Instead, his hand turned slightly under hers, letting their fingers rest together for a moment—awkward, warm, electric.

Harper blinked. Neither of them looked down.

Somewhere across the room, Jane shouted something about hashbrowns. Plates clattered. The world moved on.

But at their table, it seemed to pause. Just for a brief moment.

—

It wasn't a date.

That's what Harper told herself when Oscar muttered, barely above a mumble, "If you're not doing anything tomorrow... I've got a session. Karting. Local place. You could come, if you want."

She hadn't answered right away—just nodded and said, "Sure," like it wasn't the most exciting offer she'd received in months.

Now she stood behind a sagging wire fence at Rye House Kart Raceway, the tang of petrol thick in the air, her hands jammed into her coat pockets. The morning was all grey light and loud engines, but something about it felt oddly calm. Like a different frequency from school life. Like she'd somehow stepped into Oscar's world and it'd welcomed her with open arms.

He was already out there when she arrived—helmeted, gloved, tucked low into the kart like it'd been built around him. She might not know the first thing about apexes or tires, but she could tell that he was fast. Efficient. Focused.

The kart didn't fight him; it moved with him.

One of the mechanics, a guy with oil-stained hands and a thick Northern accent, noticed her hovering. "You Harper?"

She blinked. "Yeah?"

"Well, shit. He told us you might show up today. Nice to meet you. Kid doesn't stop talking about you."

Harper flushed. "Oh."

The man grinned and pointed toward the pit lane. "You can stand closer. He won't mind. Nobody will say anything — I'll make sure of it."

So she did.

She leaned against the low rail as Oscar pulled in, lifting his visor with one hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed red from the cold and the adrenaline.

"You came," he said when he saw her, his eyes slightly wide.

"You invited me." She said with a shrug.

"Didn't think you would actually come." He admitted.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do I seem that unreliable?"

He gave her a sarcastic once over. "A little bit."

She nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged back—more of a lean, really, casual and warm, his helmet tucked under his arm.

He glanced down at her hand, fiddling with the cuff of her coat. "You wanna sit in it?"

She froze. "What?"

"The kart. You'll fit. You're smaller than me. Won't make you drive it. You can just... sit. See what it's like."

Her heart kicked up—something small but definite. "Okay."

He guided her by the wrist, gently, like he didn't even realise he was doing it. The kart was lower than she expected, more cramped. When she settled in, Oscar crouched beside it, adjusting a loose strap around her shoulder like it mattered; even though she wasn't even moving.

"Suits you," he said, voice cracking. His cheeks flamed red as he cleared his throat.

She looked up at him, her knees scrunched and her spine stiff against the plastic shell of the seat. "I feel like I'm going to get a foot cramp."

Oscar snorted. "Yeah. You get used to that." He crouched beside her, the team-branded grease-stained hoodie pulled over his head, a smudge of oil near his temple he hadn't noticed—or didn't care to. He leaned on the side of the kart like it was his second skin, completely at home here.

Harper squinted up at him. "You don't look like you've ever had a cramp in your life."

"Permanent state of cramp, actually," he said. "But the adrenaline outweighs the pain."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. The sound seemed to catch the attention of the crew around them.

One of the younger mechanics, a guy maybe nineteen with bleached tips and a cheeky grin, sauntered over. "So this the infamous Harper, yeah?"

Oscar looked vaguely alarmed. "Don't call her that."

The guy stuck out his hand. "I'm Cal. Oscar's part-time therapist-slash-punching bag. You hungry? We usually get a delivery of sausage rolls around eleven."

She blinked. "I mean... yeah. I wouldn't say no to a sausage roll."

That was all it took.

Within half an hour, Harper had been half-dragged, half-adopted into the garage crew's rhythm. Someone threw her a hoodie—two sizes too big, slightly smelling of petrol.

Someone else tossed her a bottle of orange Lucozade. They didn't ask who she was or where she came from. No grilling. No polite smiles that felt like there razors hidden underneath.

They just let her be.

Oscar didn't hover. He just looked over now and then between runs on the track—when she laughed at Cal's bad imitation of an Aussie accent, when she actually tried the sausage roll and grumbled in bliss at the greasy goodness, when she leaned back against a stack of tires, hoodie sleeves rolled over her fingers like she belonged there.

He caught her eye once across the pit, and her smile was quieter. Less amused, more... settled.

After the second session, she walked the track with him, boots crunching on gravel, their shoulders brushing once, twice, until finally she just left hers pressed against his.

"You l like them," he said, not a question.

"They're..." She trailed off. Words felt clumsy again. "They're nice. Kind. Easy."

Oscar glanced at her sideways. "Not like the people you normally meet, then?"

She shook her head. "My mum would have a full meltdown if she saw this place. She's big on etiquette and thinks that men belong in office buildings."

He let out a bark of laughter. "What does that mean?"

Harper smiled, but it was the sad kind. "It means I grew up learning how to be a cold-hearted bitch instead of... a good person."

Oscar didn't say anything for a while. Just walked next to her, silent. Then, in a voice barely above the hum of tires cooling nearby, "I think you're a good person."

She blinked hard at the ground, heart tight in her chest.

And then she reached out, without thinking, and hooked her pinky through his.

He didn't look at her.

He didn't let go, either.

—

By the third weekend — no one blinked when Harper appeared trackside.

She knew where the best shade was. Knew which toolbox to sit on without getting yelled at. She'd learned to nod like she understood when Cal rattled off tire compound jargon, and even managed to not flinch when someone dropped a torque wrench three feet from her head.

Oscar never really invited her anymore; she just showed up. Like clockwork. Like she belonged.

And the weird part? She kind of felt like she did.

Today, the garage buzzed louder than usual. Something was off; not in a bad way, just... more charged.

Harper felt it before Oscar even pulled back into the garage from the track. A couple of the guys were cleaning things that didn't need cleaning. Cal was actually wearing a clean team polo. And it'd been ironed.

Harper raised an amused eyebrow. "Who died?"

"No one died, mate," Cal said. "It's who's coming."

Before she could even ask, a black SUV pulled up just beyond the gravel lot. Out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in dark jeans and aviators.

Oscar appeared seconds later, clambering out of the kart and instinctively holding out his hands for Harper to unstrap his gloves.

She did so without thinking, keeping her eyes on the guest of honour. "That's..." Harper frowned. "Is that Mark Webber?"

Oscar nodded. "Yeah. He's my manager. Mentor. Basically part-time third parent." He shrugged. "No big deal. Hey." He said to Mark as he approached.

Mark clapped Oscar on the shoulder, firm and familiar. "Hey, kid." Then his gaze drifted to Harper. "And this is?" His Aussie accent was smoother than expected.

Harper stood quickly, brushing dirt from her jeans. "I'm Harper. I, uh—I go to school with Oscar. I just, kind of... hang around here. Sometimes. Sir."

"Yeah. She's really good at it," Oscar teased, smirking.

Mark offered her his hand. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Harper."

She laughed, nervous but charmed. "Yeah. You too."

Later, after a test stint that had the crew whispering about sector times and potential upgrades, Oscar was called over to one of the race officials' tents. When he came back, his expression was unreadable.

Harper swung her legs over the tire stack she'd claimed and watched him approach.

"What did they say?" She asked.

He didn't tell her anything right away. Just stood there, squinting against the sun. "They offered me a spot in WSK. Full calendar."

Her mouth parted slightly. "Oscar... that's—oh my god."

He nodded. "Yeah." He exhaled.

There was a long pause. People moved around them, laughing, working, shouting. But in the middle of it, everything else blurred.

"You're gonna take it, right?" She asked, trying to sound excited, not scared.

He didn't answer at first. Just looked at her for a long time. Like he was memorizing her.

"I think I have to," he laughed dryly.

She nodded, heart thudding too hard. "Yeah. You do."

Oscar took a step closer. Close enough that she could see the flecks of black in his eyes. "You'll still come to watch me practice, yeah?"

"If I'm allowed." She bit her lip.

"You're always allowed." He said; like he was daring anyone to say something different.

She smiled. And without thinking, she reached up and fixed the strap of his race suit, the way she'd seen him do a hundred times.

It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't even a hug. 

But when their fingers touched, briefly and completely, it felt like something.

NEXT CHAPTER

[lexalith]

SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush, it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it—the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your art history class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is… you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, an empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, genuinely wanting to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you reply. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second, trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some sweetness in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that... but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.” girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our art history class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn’t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. “what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

[starstruckchilli]

Billy Batson Fic Idea:

Billy has been in the Justice League for just over a year, as an eleven-year-old parading in an adult’s body.

Unfortunately, in an especially difficult battle he’s forced to reveal his identity to his teammates, and they don’t take it well.

With a little digging from Batman, his foster history and eventually drop from the systems are exposed. Now the entire JLA view him as a pathetic child in need of saving by them.

Superman orders Martian Manhunter to remove all of Billy memories of Captain Marvel so that they can protect him from the “dangers of hero work.” Subsequently, Billy is fostered by Bruce and placed in the Wayne household.

The batfam keep their ‘bat’ secrets from him, and after six months acclimating to the manor, Billy starts keeping his secrets from them.

Clearly, he’s some sort of meta.

Lightening has been arching off his body in, powerful, sporadic bursts whenever his emotions are particularly heightened. As a citizen of Gotham, he’s well aware of the “no meta” rule and fears what Batman (a cool, cryptid vigilante that he’s never seen before no matter how much it feels like he knows him on a personal level) will do to him.

So he tells no one, especially not his foster siblings.

Furthermore, his mind has been messing with him, inserting fragments of memories that he can’t quite place.

He gets especially dizzy around news stations. He swears he can envision Captain Marvel in detail, despite his certainty that he’d never met the hero. The feeling is so powerful though, to the point that he compulsively starts collecting news articles about “the hero that went missing.” He begins unconsciously seeking connects to his former life.

When Billy works out that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the Batfam work out Billy has magic, it’s already too late.

Cap’s god-like powers have already returned all of his memories.

Billy is overcome with unadulterated fury at the revelation.

Marvel’s powers have been suppressed within Billy for far too long and they excitably respond to these emotions.

Billy confronts Batman, screaming about how they invaded his mind and stripped him of his autonomy. All the while, thunder and lightening rains down upon Gotham, menacingly striking the manor.

He yells at Batman for coercing him into their family in order to fulfil some sort of guilt complex. They basically kidnapped him and kept him as a pet.

They stripped him of his home, his life goals, his morals, and worse of all, his identity.

Every few words, Billy pauses to yell Shazam. The lightening tears apart the manor, setting the south wing aflame.

Nobody can get close to him without being struck by a particularly vengeful beam of light.

“Shazam. You ripped me from my home. Shazam. You kept me like a pet. Shazam. You stripped me of everything I believed in. Shazam.” He booms, voice thunderous and hateful.

The Mightest mortal looks intimidating as he switches forms. His hair whips in the wind and his eyes glow white with electrical rage.

As he turns of fly back to Gotham, Billy swears that he will never stop heroing for Fawcett, and if the JLA tries to interrupt him, he will have no choice but to treat them as enemies.

Bruce is left to rot in his regret and dread as he watches his foster son that he’d come to love fly away. He puts on his cowl and heads up to the Watchtower with a new resolve; to convince the superheroes that Captain Marvel needs to come back to the league.

In the end, more stuff goes down. Dick and Steph and some other family members go to Fawcett to convince Billy to come home. He ignores them. Bruce is wallowing in the Batcave while presenting weekly PowerPoints to the JLA about Captain Marvel’s essentialness.

Eventually they are all united by a big bad. Bruce saves Billy’s life then Captain Marvel saves the day. He accepts his invitation back into the league and starts living with the Wayne’s again. Everyone is happy. Yay.

Lemme know if u think I should write this lol

[oldiesstationlover11607]

Pretty please literally anything basement Gerard related I love my stinky greasy smelly wife

Dating Basement Gerard Way - Headcannons

Warnings: Some angst

A/N: hello anon! I'd love to write a fic about basement gerard bc that is one of my favorite eras but if you're wanting a fic you're gonna need to be specific about what you're wanting hehe. in the meantime... headcannons bc i've got so many for basement gerard it's insane.

Dating Basement Era Gerard Way :)

Basement Gerard is quiet and shy. Like the name, he basically only ever hangs out in his basement bedroom which is covered in star wars postered, board games, comics, and other nerd shit. It's just who he is (and you love him for it)

You guys probably met through Mikey or a mutual friend because Gerard never leaves his room. Maybe you were playing D&D with Mikey and he popped his head out from behind a door.

He definitely wasn't the one who asked you to be his SO but he definitely fell for you first.

You guys have a lot of sleep overs together it's insane. And they're definitely at your house because Gee feels a bit insecure about the mess of his room (and you have a bigger bed to cuddle in)

Lots of make out sessions and physical touching in the privacy of your bedrooms but outside and in public it's like you're brother and sister (nothing happens at all)

Board game nights with MCR! Frank and Ray on one team, Mikey is always forced to be on his own team, and you and Gee are in another team.

Comic book store dates - going to the local store and then picking out comics for each other and reading them together in bed.

Way too many late nights 😭 Gerard is such a night person – especially since he draws and writes songs late at night. He'll 100% rant to you about the Umbrella Academy

He’s the kind of boyfriend who makes you mix CDs with obscure punk, post-hardcore, and goth songs. Each mix has a meticulously hand-drawn cover.

He writes heartfelt notes and occasionally slips fragments of lyrics into your texts. You catch glimpses of yourself in his songs, often described in poetic, melancholic ways.

Watching old-school horror movies is a regular activity. He pauses mid-film to tell you trivia or point out iconic shots, getting animated and excited :)

//

Hope you liked this!!

REQUESTS OPEN

[thistlecatfics]

Snape Fic Recs for the Sneptical & Snurious

I mostly run in marauders-centric circles where Snape is largely ignored or treated like an incel, and eventually it gets boring. Boring! The worst sin in fandom! He's an interesting guy and there are SO many amazing fics featuring him.

(That said, I do think that Snape, James, and Sirius would all be thrilled that their beef has continued onto the internet in 2025 and that thought delights me even as the discourse grows tedious.)

These are just a few I've enjoyed in the past couple months as someone who doesn't generally read a lot of Snape-centric fics and who has zero tolerance for Lily bashing. (Sorry this basically became a @saintsenara rec list because I've been binging)

i hope this comes back to haunt you by humanveil (29k, M)

Severus Snape, from first curse to first kill. Or: The making of a Death Eater.

The first Snape-centric fic I read in years, and it's such a good starting point for my fellow Snurious Sneptics. Snape's voice shines through -- resentful, angry, hungry, curious, brilliant -- and his relationships with so many other characters (Lily, Narcissa, his parents) are just brilliantly portrayed.

Scylla and Charybdis by Asenora (64k WIP, E, Severus/Voldemort)

Severus Snape is looking for somewhere - anywhere - to belong. He makes the wrong choice.

The political worldbuilding! The politics! The humanity! The snarky, darkly hilarious Snape voice! This is a fic where the first war really feels like a war with complex politics -- while also completely avoiding that boring trope of 'what if the DEs were right actually??' Everyone is a human, politics is about material reality, and Voldemort is awful. Snape's desire to belong is so physically palpable as you read that it's almost painful.

The War of the Roses by Asenora (51k WIP, E, Sirius/Severus)

Sirius Black does not die. But this does not mean that it is easy for him to live. Or: a butterfly flaps its wings and Sirius does not go to the Department of Mysteries. What follows from that twist of fate is a story about the long, destructive shadow of a schoolboy rivalry; a story about surviving, and how surviving is sometimes more difficult than dying; a story about the fragility of beauty, the gentleness of hope, and the value of choice. It is also a love story.

The fic that made me start binging all of Asenora's work. It's Sirius POV so perhaps a good place to start for my fellow Sirius-obsessives, and the way his experience in Azkaban both haunts him and has deep, real physical ramifications is so painful and compelling to read. Plus because he lives he gets to have a more complex relationship with Harry! Snape has very nice hands and Sirius's fantasies about him are definitely not sexual at all nope nope nope.

Two Boys Kissing by Writcraft (7k, M, Sirius/Severus)

Sirius goes to a gay bar and meets the last person he expects. Under cloudy skies, two boys kiss and that one moment comes to define generations of want, need and hope.

Bittersweet and darling.

A Yultide Tradition by kelly_chambliss (300 words, G, Severus & Minerva)

On Christmas night, Severus Snape relies on tradition.

A mournful bite of a triple drabble.

Plus: bonuses all the way from 2006 Livejournal!

Five Fragments of an Obsidian Heart (Severus/Regulus) & the entire 7Spells series

Reading these fics as a teenager genuinely saved me I think. Very dark and includes a lot of Blackcest and sexual violence and written pre-DH as a heads up. I remember being so invested in this particular version of Snape, and then DH came out and promptly lost all interest in him when his backstory wasn't as interesting as the ones I read on LJ. There's a real old school feel which I can't quite put my finger on, but I definitely recommend them if you like dark and if you like fandom history.

[fixated-cookies]

GAWD, YOUR WRITTING IS THE LAST FRAGMENT IS TOP TIER, i also wondering if you've gonna continue..with pure vanilla maybe?👀 No rush of course! Please take your time

I was wondering on reader opinions towards Pure vanilla and what backstory they had in this AU? The few things i noticed is that Reader is kind of trapped in a beautiful cage with no freedom, craves one but afraid they might not survive because the outside world wouldn't treat them like Pure vanilla does(i may be wrong but this is how i see them) and Pure vanilla presence is a discomfort but y/n can't figured where it was, as if it was covered by the gentle treatment he gave to us.

I felt like we also never know why the worker(maid/butler/guard etc) in vanilla castle is empty, something has to do with smc by their absence (idk if this was mention in the fic, i'm sorry if it does, i have a bad memory) it intrigued me by the opposite behaviour they gave to reader, it balanced well and fit them like yin and yang but smc is kind of the yin(in evil there kindness) and pv is yang (in kindness there evil) since pv gave me discomfort smc does, was it inteneded? Or maybe, i just got creep out by Pv behaviour

Though, a scenarios of reader running away from them keep repeating in my mind, would the necklace/souljam they wore tracked them down and smc and pv will easily find where they are? Though, thinking about it, i think it will caused a havoc when pv just realized were not in the castle and order guard to find us around the vanilla kingdom. Yeaa, if i was in that situation i know i'll be DEAD DEAD😦

And i apologized for making this really wrong and bomb you with many question, i swear i'm just a curious fella, nothing else. Have a good day, love your writting💕💖

oooh yeahh, worldbuilding, my favorite! Okokok so reader's opinion of them in this au may be something akin to Stockholm Syndrome. They know and are aware that the situation their in isn't exactly consensual but it could've been a lot more worse, especially towards shadow milk cookie given his past. Wwith pure vanilla its more like “He’s kind to me. He’s never raised his voice. He brings me tea every morning and brushes my hair when I’m tired. I should be grateful.” Reader wants to believe they love Pure Vanilla. They want to believe he’s safety. He’s calm. He’s nurturing. He gives them everything they could ever need. He tells them the world is cruel, and they’re safer in the palace. That they’re not ready for what’s out there. And… maybe he’s right? On the other hand with Shadow Milk cookie

Reader finds him terrifying. He’s loud, unpredictable, chaotic. He teases, corners, toys with them. But unlike Pure Vanilla, Shadow Milk doesn’t pretend. His obsession is clear. “You’re mine, and I’m going to make sure you know it.” is what he says.

But somehow that brutal honesty coming from a being that is known for their deceits feels oddly freeing. Their basically ying and yang; In kindness their is evil, and in evil their is kindness Shadow Milk Cookie is terrifying and unhinged, but never lies about what he is. His obsession is raw, but not hidden.

Pure Vanilla Cookie is tender and soft, but there’s something almost… divine and cold about him. As if he believes so wholly that what he’s doing is right that he can’t even see how cruel he’s become in the process. Also with the palace staff dissapearing was totally on shadow milks end, he may just have teleported them somewhere comedic like in the middle of the forest lol, or maybe into some other domain temporarily. In fact, when Pure vanilla came back, he was confused on why the palace guards didn't greet him and why servants were gone! heres a little drabble on his perspective

The palace was too quiet.

Pure Vanilla’s steps echoed faintly as he walked through the main corridor, the soft clink of his staff the only sound for miles. The usual laughter of maids, the gentle clatter of porcelain, the familiar greetings of the guards—all gone.

“...Strange,” he murmured, glancing around.

No one had come to greet him. Not a single guard stood post.

Even the garden doves weren’t singing tonight.

He paused by the entrance hall, fingers tightening slightly on his staff. “Where is everyone?”

A vague ripple of magic still hung in the air. Subtle. Slippery. A scent like milk and blueberries danced faintly on the wind, too faint for anyone else to notice.

Pure Vanilla exhaled slowly. “Shadow Milk…”

There was no anger in his voice. Only a soft sigh, and a gentle crease to his brow. The kind that comes not from wrath—but from resignation.

He turned toward the east wing. Your wing.

Perhaps you had answers. Perhaps you’d been frightened by the quiet, or were waiting for him to return.

The door creaked open.

He stepped inside.

And the world changed.

There you were—limbs tangled with Shadow Milk’s, flushed and marked and panting against his chest, half-slick with the proof of what had happened. Your Soul Jam fragment glowed wildly against your throat.

And Shadow Milk?

That demon smiled like a child who had painted a masterpiece in blood. -- Also I like to think pure vanilla isn't necessarily jealous or outraged at shadow milk hehehe, don't worry i'll continue to this little story very soon.

[thesonicpunk]

My favourite SNS fanfics (part 1)

Someone in the comments of my own fic asked for NaruSasu recs, so I thought I'd also make a post compiling my absolute favourites here! I've been so fortunate with the response to my work on AO3 so I hope this is a nice way to share the love around:

Inside this place is warm by magma. One shot, a cozy night in with Sasuke and hokage!Naruto where they figure out what they are to each other. It's short, so well written and the author really grasps the subtleness/complex nature of their relationship! (the author is @magmavox on tumblr!)

Swimming against the current by GODZILLA90095. Part 1 of the series with the same name. College AU. When I tell you I devoured this fanfic........ Lowkey-emo!Sasuke, hockey-player!Naruto. It's funny, it's got lots of pinning, it's got feels, it's got Naruto figuring out his sexuality in the most typically Naruto way, basically it's got IT ALL. And the writing is amazing. It was the fic that inspired me to get on the website and post my own work.

Tears don't fall by GODZILLA90095 (again bcs they rule). Part 1 of the series A different way but just as good. Modern AU. It's kind of a Naruto and Sasuke get a second chance in their 30s after a huge break-up. Naruto has kids with Hinata, but he's gay. It's heartbreaking, raw, real, beautiful.... fuckkkk read it!!!

The Symposium series by candlewix. Told from the perspective of ace!Kakashi. We see Naruto and Sasuke's love story across the years from his eyes. No one, I mean NO ONE, is as funny as this author. The way they write Kakashi's POV is hilarious, but so well balanced by the profound and beautiful descriptions the author writes about what Nart and Sake mean to each other. ugh.

We Deserved a Better Ending My Love by narutophobia. Reencarnation babyyy! Naruto and Sasuke in modern times, but everything that was in canon was real just reaaally long ago. Naruto remembers, searches for Sasuke (who doesnt remember!!). SHENANIGANS ensue. Beautiful love story and such an interesting take on things.

love like this is forever by moonplums.  Part 1 of the series forever. It's set in Boruto era/world - I am not usually into that tbh, it gives me anxiety to think about Sasuke and Naruto not getting together after the war BUT this series does it quite nicely, kind of like they have their awakening later in life and it's very cute how they have a family with the kids. Sarada's POV. Worth reading for sure!

when it all comes together, there's just you by kintou.  It's short fragments of both Naruto and Sasuke discovering their sexualities across the years, with and without each other. Super cute and interesting, and smutty! I love the concept. (author is @ao3-kintou on tumblr!)

I might one day make a part 2 to this, but so far these are the ones I've read that I really love! I hope it was ok to share these on here, if you are the author and would like me to remove (or tag you!) just message me.

If you read any of these and you like 'em, remember to leave a comment (any comment!). You can make the author's day with just a little emoji. <3

[saetiate]

BLUE LOCK - last updated 6/7/2025

tags for each chara go #fragments: bllk: [character] e.g.#fragments: bllk: sae | itoshi rin | oliver aiku | karasu tabito | mikage reo | nagi seishiro (also added to the tags on this post so you can just click there)

most popular forsaken by all the gods. - prince!kaiser x f!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage [15k words, has smut] jealous sae oral f!receiving - smut [2k words] sae x f!reader x kaiser - smut [260 words]

fics are categorized by me as over 1k words

kaiser forsaken by all the gods. - prince!kaiser x f!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage [15k words, has smut]

sae jealous sae oral f!receiving - smut [2k words] with you, a heart-known home - sae x f!reader fluffy domestic smut [3k words] sae x f!reader smut. portal sex - sigils drawn that mean the toy he fucks into = your pussy basically. p in v. [1.5k words] you and sae's daughter pranks you - family domestic fluff, featuring overprotective rin [1k words] call it what it is - sae x f!reader fluff, 5 times you and sae are "just friends" and one time you're definitely not [2.3k words] a shooting star in his hand - sae x reader cafe meet cute rin rin x f!reader, portal sex - smut, same premise as the sae versoin above, best frieds to lovers, oral f!receiving and p in v [1.75k words]

ficlets are categorized by me as under 1k words

sae you broke up with sae for work and see him again after a year - sfw [350 words] sae fucks the jealousy out of you - smut, reader's mad at him for the media reporting he's dating someone else and he fucks you like it's an apology [489 words] sae x amnesia reader - sfw [717 words] sae gets jealous + feels bad he hasn't been making time for you + reconciliation - sfw [766 words] sae hitting on you at an event - sfw university!sae - sfw sae x reader comfort, cw reader has been abused, selfship coded, sfw being sae's athletic trainer - sfw [275 words]

kaiser sae x f!reader x kaiser - smut (also above) kaiser x reader, supernatural elements au - suggestive omegaverse, alpha!kaiser x omega!reader, fluff, shy reader - sfw, 800 words kaiser x reader fluff, gingerbread house making - with poetic stuff about reader not being feminine kaiser x f!reader first meeting - sfw

kaiser x reader x sae sae x f!reader x kaiser - smut [260 words] kaiser x reader x sae - sfw, fluff [200 words] the dynamic between sae x reader x kaiser

bunny you're dating sae and bunny's interested in you [300ish words] part 2 of the above & bunny wanting you

nagireo x reader / nagi x reader x reo childhood best friends nagireo x reader - suggestive pillow forts - sfw

chigiri chigiri x reader - suggestive fae!chigiri x reader - suggestive

reo arranged marriage, fingering - smut, 600 words

rin rin x reader wound-tending - fluff

daydreams are categorized by me as around 100 words and under. this part got too long so it has a separate masterlist linked here!

others: gfx/webweaves kaiser, gfx: if you're raised with an angry man in your house kaiser webweave

back to main masterlist

[dinogoofymutated]

Hi! so far I've loved everything you've written about Kurt, Logan and Remy. 🧎🏻‍♀️

Could you write something about Kurt? where together with reader they are in the kitchen of the mansion because they can't sleep, and she finally tells him her concerns about the magnitude of her powers and Kurt with his heart of gold tells her beautiful things to calm her down and make her laugh, the rest to your imagination, I would appreciate it, you write great! Thanks 💙✨

SFW! Nightcrawler/Fem!Reader

Ok so I will admit that I made this a leeetle self indulgent. I was trying to think of a power someone could really struggle with and a fun one that I thought of was having necromancy, but having such respect for life and death that it feels wrong. I thought it would fit well with a Kurt fic because it's something that almost feels sacrilegious, and it's good to have a fuzzy blue elf assure you that you aren't a monster :) I know its def not power ambiguous, but I hope this is okay :)

Also, I know my writing style is a little different in this one, And thats because the first few paragraphs set the tone for my writing when I start and tbh I think this one just flowed from my soul to they keyboard.

TWs: nightmares, necromancy, gross descriptions of rotting flesh. Extreme self-doubt and self-consciousness. Basically angst with a happy ending.

You’ve been having nightmares again. They hardly seem to stop, but after a break in between the terror, you'd become too relaxed. Too comfortable. You felt defenseless when they started to begin again.

It’s always the same dream, different font. Bones cracking, flesh ripping as it’s forced into place, natural or not. Skin rotting off of once human bodies, sockets where eyes used to be. It was horrifying. You’d see your family, friends, acquaintances, everyone. Dead. Brought back to life by your power, the power you were still so afraid of. You were always afraid of zombie movies as a kid. Anything rising from the dead, anything breathed back to life in some sick and twisted fantasy. It was ironic that your very own strength was the thing you had always been the most afraid of.

Of course, as you aged and the professor took you in, the fear began to wear off. Mostly, it did. The professor not only taught you how to control your powers but also how to work around your fear. You can remember the confusion you felt when he had set a box of ancient bones in front of you. Fragments of titans, dinosaurs who had long since passed. Bones that would never be matched to an accurate set, parts of them being crushed to dust by the cruelty of time. Bones that only you could breathe to life, to bring them together as a whole again. It was convenient, the professor had told you, that you only needed a fragment to do so. He spoke as if it were a service to them. Most importantly, he brought you a box of bones that weren’t, and never had been, human.

He had taken the fear out of your power. Given you an option you had never considered before. Bones without flesh, without living family. Fossils that would serve you as you were serving them. You were… happy, with that. You were content. You could handle bones. You could revive these ancient skeletons without fear, and fight with them without worry. That didn’t change the horror of knowing the capacity your powers had.

    So the nightmares remained, and your sleep had become sparse.

    This particular night you were restless. Unable to sleep despite how tired you have been, but it’s hard to rest when there is only terror waiting behind your eyelids. After a while, you decide to give up trying.

The path to the kitchen is one you have memorized, even in the dark. You’ve always been told never to eat sugar before bed, but the only thing you want to comfort you at this moment is hot chocolate- so screw it.

    You try your best to be quiet while fishing out a pot out of the cabinets. The stove makes a click as you flick it on, filling the pot with milk before stirring it as it warms. The automatic task is comforting, falling into a routine you enjoy. You’ve just added the coco mix when the sound of a *Bamph* greets you.

    “Guten abend.” Kurt whispers, walking over to stand beside you. You give him a tired smile that he returns with a yawn.

    “I’m sorry if I woke you.” You say, face returning to a frown Kurt thinks you wear far too often. Maybe it’s good that he’s here because you realize you made far too much of the sweet drink than you had meant to. You get a mug for him, heart fluttering as his hand brushes your own when he takes it from you, thanking you quietly.

    “You did not wake me, Schatz. I promise.” Kurt says, pulling out a chair for you with his tail as he sits at the table. You nod silently, placing the pot in the sink and filling it with water before you join him, leaning against his shoulder.

    “Did you have another nightmare?” Kurt asks after a moment. His brows are furrowed in concern, and you fail to stop him before he takes a sip from the scalding coco, burning his tongue. He scrunches his nose as he sticks out his tongue, making you giggle for a moment. He thinks your laugh suits you much more than your frown, even if it happens to be at his expense. Your face falls slightly anyway, and he wonders if he could get you to laugh if he did it all over again.

    “...No. Not tonight.” The words come out as less than a whisper, and you doubt he might hear it if it weren’t the middle of the night. Little did you know he’d block the world out if he had to, just to hear you speak a little clearer. He hums in response, and you feel his tail slowly wrap snugly around your waist, the very tip idly stroking you in a comforting manner.

    “...Do you wish to speak about them?” Kurt asks after a moment. You huff slightly, feeling the hot steam from your mug warm your face as you do so. Still too hot, you think to yourself. Flashes of those horrid nightmares come to mind, and no matter how quickly you try to shake them off, they remain. You choose to think of Kurt instead. Sweet, kind, comforting Kurt. You want to bury yourself in his arms, sink into the feeling of his skin, and never let go, if only he would let you. He would without a second thought, if only you had known. You think carefully about your next words, and the visions of flesh and corpses hardly leave you.

    “Am I a monster, Kurt?” You hear a quiet, cut-off gasp from Kurt, and he turns to you. His face is pained, and he sets his mug down to place his hand around your own, still clasped around the hot cocoa. 

    “Of course not. Only a fool would think so.” His words, although comforting, only leave you with a worse sting in your heart. You can’t hold eye contact with him, staring at the reflection in your mug instead. Only a fool would think so. You halfway wonder if you count as a fool, then.

    “I, just… My powers, what I do. What I am capable of doing. It’s not right.” You take a shaky breath in, desperately trying not to break down here and now. “It’s disgusting. It’s horrible. Every time I find myself comfortable with myself I am reminded of what is possible and I spiral. I don’t want it. I don’t-”  

  “Liebling.” You let out a sob at the sound of his voice. Kurt is hunched over, pressing his forehead against your own as he desperately tries to catch your gaze- but you can’t. You can't bear it, and you close your eyes tightly. Kurt takes the mug from your hands. He cups your face as he wipes your tears, and you feel like even more of a monster as he does so. Sobbing as a man with a heart of gold wipes your tears away with love and care.

    “Please, look at me,” Kurt whispers. You try to stop the tears, embarrassed as you fall apart in front of the man you hold so dearly, but it’s hard. It’s so hard. Your chest stings, your throat is sore, you’re sure your nose is running, and yet he still holds you so gently. When your breathing evens out just a bit, you convince yourself to open your eyes again.

    Kurt’s gaze is simply concerned. There is no horror, no disgust, nothing but worry for you. Nothing but kindness. You wonder if you could be even half as good as he is. 

    “You are good. You are kind. You are strong enough to stand by your morals despite the nature of your powers telling you otherwise- and you have the strength to continue to use them and fight your fears anyway. You are one of the most incredible people I have ever met. Do not let your nightmares tell you otherwise.” Kurt’s hold is steady against your cheeks, and your own shaky hands reach up to hold onto his wrists. You sob again as he speaks. You know. You know this. Others have told you, but these words all felt like lies. All but the ones you’re hearing from his mouth. Your tears are slowing, and Kurt leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead, leaving the skin tingling. You whisper quiet apologies for crying, and he shushes each one, gently wiping your face with the soft sleeve of his pajama shirt.

  “I would not be here if I didn’t want to care for you, my love,” Kurt says softly. Your eyes widen, taken aback by his words. He called you many things. Liebling. Schatz. Love. But never my love. The words waken butterflies in your belly, and Kurt takes a moment to realize what he’s said. He swallows nervously, but he doesn’t pull away. You don’t either. The two of you are treading a line that you both desperately want to cross. 

    Kurt is the first to lean in. He does so slowly, toeing the line between you. His gaze remains on your own as he closes the space, nose nuzzling against your own as he gives you the time to back out if you wish. But you don’t. You want nothing more than to have what he is so freely giving. 

    Kurt kisses you softly, lovingly, and for once the horrors have quieted and are cleared from your mind. All there is now is Kurt, and his soft love. He kisses you a second time before he pulls away, still as close to you as he can be without falling out of his chair. You wonder how he can see beauty where all you see is terror. He wonders if you have any clue just how much of a good person you continue to be.

    He knows he would gladly spend the rest of his life showing you.

[madameisaacpereire]

Since Henry is obsessed with Ancient Greece and Homer… what if after Richard, Julian makes another addition in class? And she is intelligent, pretty much in par with him, and can get along with the class better than Richard. But what captured his attention the most is— she looks like she was ancient greek painting or sculpture that came to life, like Galathea.

How do you think that would go?

I need to feel something other than angst and sadness and pain🥹😭

Thank you!❤️

this is basically half your request but half not because i don't write anything painless. this time, it's a slightly OOC henry suffering instead of you, though! i wrote this with @mrs-dot-kennedy & without her, this fic truly wouldn't exist. i was going to just say no. all thanks and credit are really hers.

some faded attic dream (to kiss or to kill you.)

henry winter x fem!reader

  It’s an unseasonably warm morning in mid September when you start taking a lone class with Julian. He doesn’t like taking on students who won’t study with him only, but there’s something about you that strikes a mischievous twinkle into his eyes when you meet; something that has him breaking his rules once again.

  The air is sweet, as all across campus apples are beginning to fall and rot beneath their trees much faster than students or gardeners can collect them. It’s bright outside, everything tinged soft yellow by the sun, and the air still manages to hold a note of crispness; the promise of death to come.

   You show up just as Julian is about to begin speaking, just exactly on time. A cream cashmere shawl drapes lazily over your arms and shoulders like an afterthought, contrasting against the navy blue of your dress. Your hair is pulled up out of your face so that your cheeks, pink from your brisk walk, are in full view.

  “Good of you to join us, darling, I was beginning to worry you might not make it.” Julian says, his face crinkling up with pleasure. 

  You smile softly and slide into the nearest open seat, right between the redhead with a nervous mouth and an unnervingly stoic man built for football, features contrasting in a way that makes him look dead. Francis and Henry, you learn when Julian takes a moment to introduce you to everyone you don’t already know before launching into his lecture with gusto. 

You do not look at Henry when he speaks.  This alone would be almost unforgivable without your lateness; combined, it is an affront to both higher education and him. You do not seem to place value in his opinions right away. It’s agonizing. You recline in your chair as Julian speaks like a fragment of an antique statuary carelessly arranged by some indifferent hand, and the room— with its the smell of old books and tea, of faded carnations and fine dust— sinks in around you like mist. 

 Your voice, measured and low, responds not to any one person, but to the room itself— or perhaps to the text, as if your interlocutor might be Homer, or Plato, or Julian, or no one at all— and this is unbearable. 

  The others have noticed you, of course. Francis with a kind of awe, Richard with the open admiration of a dull boy who has never seen grace, Charles with a shy sort of softness. But none of them recognize the thing he sees at once: the uncanny resemblance not to any living woman, but to something conjured from myth and pigment, from wet clay hardened by fire and time. 

With the way your features slope in the bright lighting you look more like you belong on the walls of P. Fannius Synistor’s Boscoreale Villa, immortalized by oil; or perhaps even unearthed from stone, displayed in an echoing hall between the Three Graces and Kephisodotos’s statue of Eirene. You could easily have been dredged up from ruins and dusted off before walking into this room, and Henry wouldn’t be surprised. 

Henry watches you with the same rapt attention he has reserved all his life for hidden structures and formal systems, yet you confound all of it. There is nothing structured about your presence, no formality within your glances or speech. You smile at Bunny when he makes a joke in poor taste. You compliment Camilla on her earrings. 

One day, you tell Julian that you prefer The Odyssey to The Iliad. And he smiles as he responds, words fond and slow, almost grandfatherly as he says:

“Yes, many women do.”

But it is not The Odyssey that lives in your eyes, Henry thinks— it is The Iliad, crashing and blazing and violent, dipped in red and gold. When you walk out of the room he sits motionless, confounded and dumb, forgotten among teacups and Latin dictionaries, like a man in Apollo’s temple might sit and ponder once the Oracle has gone silent.

  The beauty you possess is understated by modern standards, of course, but in nature it is one many have captured in stone, oil, and tapestry. You look, to him, as if you’ve gotten lost in the threads of time itself, found yourself in Vermont by mistake.You ought not to be seated like this, close enough to touch as you absorb Julian’s lecture with quiet surety. You ought not to be in a lecture at all. You ought to be enshrined behind glass and gold somewhere, with a small white placard at your feet reading: Origin unknown. Circa 5th century B.C.

 He doesn’t know what the feeling knotting into his chest is when you come into his line of sight or his mind— Henry Winter is not a man who ever finds himself unnerved by beauty beyond that which is found in language; where letters and syllables are bent and re-arranged until they haunt. Whatever the feeling is, he despises the way it spears through and taunts him each day.

 You turn up once in a crimson velvet cloak. The hood is pulled over your hair, the buttons fastened neatly down the front to keep the harsh autumn winds from biting, and you look even more surreal this way; life breathed into a fairy tale illustration. You laugh when Charles steals the words straight from his mind, pointing out the resemblance. It’s a real laugh, unstudied and surprised, your head tilting slightly as you look out at him from beneath your lashes. 

It cuts through Henry like a dull blade. You have never laughed at anything he’s said, and he’s unsure why but this bothers him. When he speaks, you listen with the courteous detachment of a priestess attending to an uninteresting supplicant and answer only when required, as if your words are something to be earned. 

In discussing Thucydides one day, Julian declares that your class would have little trouble taking Hampden if they so wished. And while Francis laughs joyfully at the prospect of becoming a crew of seven Demigods, Henry wonders what you would look like with spoils of war heaped at your feet. Precious delights like rubies and gold, vases filled with olive oil and sweet wine.

 Later, when he sees you alone on the green, seated beneath a white ash tree with your shoes tucked neatly beside you, he does not approach. He simply watches, concealed behind the pages of Herodotus, and thinks— not for the first time—that it is not the gods who haunt this place, but something older, something gentler and more devastating. 

 He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, not really. You are just a girl. A student. Another fleeting constellation in the brief, bright sky of Hampden. But when you leave the room again, the scent of bergamot and old paper trailing behind you like the remnants of some ancient rite just completed, he feels emptiness prying open his chest; as though you’ve stolen something from him without ever touching him at all.

There is something set-apart hidden in your posture. Something profound in the way you bend your head over the table, soft lips parted open just so while you read. Something kind in the way you correct Richard’s translation of philotēs during a lull in class. You do so with your voice soft, words falling from your mouth with a honey that borders on apologetic. Henry already knows it’s wrong, of course— he notices before you manage to— but hearing you say as much aloud stirs something unexpected to life: not irritation, but an odd sense of relief, as if some hidden order had just been restored.

He has never once been good at identifying the feelings within himself or others; it’s more confusing to him than even the most complex conjugation or declension. Nuances in human emotion are far blurrier than those in languages, especially languages long buried. Languages have rules. Languages have order, and there is a maddening lack of it in the way you flip through pages, or the explosive, intoxicating way you laugh. You live by a set of rules, it seems, that he has seldom encountered; that he hasn’t paid any mind to when he has. 

You are just a girl, he reminds himself every time he catches himself looking too long, transfixed by the way your fingers wrap around your pen when you make notes in book margins; stunned once more by the way you swirl into the room, dusting snowflakes from the shoulders of your fawn colored overcoat.

He likes girls very much and always has, of course, but never has one distracted him from his studies. Never before has one reminded him so strikingly of the hand painted china teacups his mother collects and lines up along the parlor mantel back home, or the prisms in the windows of their library. Never has he felt so much like he desires one’s company, ‘nor has a woman ever struck him as a self sustaining piece of art. This is something he can’t understand.

He hates it. The way his whole body curves toward you without him physically moving; the way you’re a constantly present mimeograph in his mind, classical features immortalized in blue ink– and he knows it’s absurd. You will forget him— likely already are— and yet he will remember you in the sharp, electric way one remembers lighting long after it has disappeared back into the sky. He tells himself that he doesn’t care if you do forget him. 

You speak about kleos in class, softly yet without hesitation, explaining the terrible paradox of eternal glory: how it is won only through ruin, how even Lord Achilles had to die for his name to echo across centuries. Julian is enraptured and the others listen, nodding intermittently in the way people do when they don’t quite understand, but desperately want to be seen as clever. And Henry—he sits so still that it feels like something is breaking inside him. Not because of what you say, but because of the way you say it. 

You speak of glory like one who has seen it firsthand, as if you were there to watch Hector’s body get dragged through the dust from the safety of a painted amphora. And when you finish speaking, when your voice fades and the room returns from the battlefield, back to the ticking of the clock and the smell of bergamot, Henry cannot meet your eyes. He feels as if you’ve stripped him down to bone, as if you can see him better than anyone else could dream of. You terrify him in the same soft way the sacred does, in its quiet refusal to be understood.

There is a brief moment when your hand brushes against his as you pass him an open book. It’s irrelevant, really. A graze, a flicker of warmth and nothing more. Still, Henry finds he can no longer read the page your thumb rested against. It is as if the words had been scoured away and replaced with something ancient and wordless. 

He spends half an hour staring at a blank margin, trying to decide whether it’s madness or reverence that tightens like a garrote at the base of his throat. He tries to decide whether or not it is love. He doesn’t even believe in love, not really. It feels silly to entertain the thought— but he also no longer believes, not entirely, that you are real. So perhaps things are changing.

Of course, you are real: there’s tangible proof of this fact only days later, when you slice the delicate skin of your finger open on the corner of a page. You gasp softly and deathless ichor does not bead along your open skin as he half expects it to; instead the watery, warlike red of mortality blooms. It’s pretty, even as Charles offers you a handkerchief to wipe the blood away. You bleed like a painting and it stills Henry’s breath.

Your presence is even more agonizing as Christmas draws closer— as Hampden fills with deep drifts of wet, white snow, and peppermint and cinnamon cling to the air— because he knows that you’re real and still, he does not command your respect or adoration the way he commands that of the others; you do not gift him the same affectionate attention as Camilla.

You’re arranging your soft woolen mittens on the radiator to dry, soggy with the memory of snowballs scooped up by your hand when you respond wittily to something Bunny says. Conversation seems to crash around you at once, vying for your approval, and a shocking ache twists into his chest like ice cold ocean water, suffocating as it drowns him. 

He has begun to resent the way you speak. Not for any failure of insight— your translations are crisp, your references impeccable— but for the way you attract the room’s attention without trying; the way even Julian leans forward when you start to argue a point. You’ve become something of a fascination, even for the less astute among them. Richard looks at you like you are a miracle. Charles, predictably, lights up when you laugh. And Henry watches this unfold with the cold clarity of someone who has already calculated the theorem and is now forced to watch the rest of the class stumble toward it. 

They fawn because they are lesser. You bother him because you are not and therefore don’t. It should be gratifying, matching wits with someone at his level, but instead, it infuriates him. Henry assures himself that you are not smarter, not sharper, but merely a well-made echo of something else— some faded Attic dream come walking. And yet, when you interrupt him— gently, yes, calmly, yes, but because you disagree— he feels something thin and sharp splinter deep behind his eyes.

You’re clever. You know exactly what you’re doing to him. That’s what he decides as he watches you tease out a metaphor from Aeschylus with effortless grace, as if you’ve had the structure memorized since infancy. He starts correcting you, deliberately and precisely, in ways that are not quite wrong but not quite necessary either. And you only tilt your head, blinking once, twice, before responding without rancour. 

That is what makes him angriest. You never rise to meet him in the place where he wants you most: the realm of serious, unrelenting intellect, where brilliance burns like magnesium and leaves the unintelligent to fall behind. You will not even condescend. You only smile like you mean it— how kind of you to mention it, Henry, but I think the verb there actually is in the present tense— and go on speaking as if he doesn’t draw blood. 

 No man is above criticism, nor correction, and this is something he believes far more deeply than in any god or creation myth. But this is simply not something that happens to him; he finds himself the strongest intellect in each friendship that has wormed its way into his day to day. And that is, perhaps, the final insult: not that you wound him, but that you don’t even know you have done it. 

One person should never hold this much sway over his emotions, this much weight in his mind. The space you take up compares only to that of Julian’s, to Homer’s, and he doesn’t believe that you deserve it. He begins to understand, though he won’t admit it, why godlike Paris stole and defended Helen so ardently. He begins to understand, in a way that angers him further, why so many stanzas have immortalized women like you. You are even more of an equal to him than he initially realized, and he can’t tell if he wants to absorb or erase your existence– to kiss or to kill you

You start seeing Charles soon after. It happens all at once, as though some ridiculous Roman comedy has been enacted around him while he was too busy puzzling out how he feels. You wear Charles’s coat to class one morning. It’s too long for you and the sleeves fall over your wrists like a cheap children’s costume.

 You blush when he touches your arm. You tuck your hand beneath his elbow as you walk together across the quad, the way women used to do in oil paintings of the Georgian period: demure, practiced, possessive. And Henry says nothing. He only begins to escort Camilla to class, her perfume trailing behind like smoke, her soft smile fixed in place like a relic from a scene staged too carefully to abandon. He touches her shoulder. He tells her she looks lovely in French. She looks at him with something like love and he does not care. It is the symmetry that pleases him.

It should be easier to hate you now. But it isn’t. If anything, you have grown stronger in his imagination— more vivid, more mythic. Like Helen in Euripides, you’ve become more powerful in absence than you ever were in proximity. He sees you out the window once, your fingers tied up in Charles’s hair. It’s obscene. Not because of the intimacy, but because you don’t look divine anymore: you look human. Soft. Caring. And still, Henry cannot stop watching.

 There is something unspeakably degrading beneath all of it now: under how much space you occupy in his thoughts, mixed into the way his stomach tightens when your voice reaches out to him from the hallway. You have dethroned Gods without lifting a finger. And when Julian asks a question you cannot answer, when your face clouds over for just a moment, an ugly, gleeful satisfaction blooms in his chest like rot. 

   It is the first time he has been able to look at you and feel nothing like reverence. Only what he feels this time is hunger. You are not his, you are Charles’s, and yet he wants to claim each sigh and soft smile that graces your face for his own. He wants to trap and cage them between his teeth, to tear them apart until he can breathe again; until you look something worse than human, something grotesque enough that he might finally turn his thoughts elsewhere.

It’s not fair to sweet, soft, messy Camilla, who stares up at him the way he wishes you would— as a man freed from black darkness for the first time might marvel at the stars and who hung them— but you sullied the meaning of fair the moment your watercolor eyes skimmed over him with disinterest that first day. He cannot bring himself to mind.

Spring blooms up through the ice and slush slowly, then all at once. It brings with it cotton dresses and bare arms and ink stained hands holding wildflowers, which you present to Julian as you stumble in late with a bashful smile, declaring that they remind you of last week’s reading. It brings with it the smell of fresh cut grass floating from your hair when you walk past him; it brings visions of you in Dante’s sacred wood, singing in dulcet tones as you haunt Earthly Paradise. 

You’re still human, distinctly, but spring brings with it the echoes of the you he once saw: the sacred beauty brought to life from her painting or poem to torment him tirelessly. It’s shameful and obsessive, the way he continues to think of you still, yet it is also addictive that he cannot bring himself to stop. You persist in his mind both fully formed and in shadow as if you’ll never leave. You are heaven. You are a plague. You move through the world like you have never been wounded, and it offends him. How can you remain whole when he feels cleaved in two?

 He tells himself it’s a philosophical reaction, a natural response to order misaligned, but he dreams of you— not as you are now, but as something monstrous and cruel, a muse sharpened of firelight. He tastes you in the vowels of Homer. You are not divine, he tells himself. You are a symptom. A fever. A lapse in judgment. And still, he memorizes the way your script loops when you write. As if it’s hallowed, as if it’s blessed.

When you smile at him, one last time— briefly, absently, an afterthought—he feels a relief so profound that it borders on despair. You have seen and dismissed him and that is all. You will never worship what he has made of himself. You will not know the weight he bears. You are not Galatea after all, not a statue granted life but a girl simply walking off into the sunlight, toward a summer filled with sweet joys. He watches you go, white dress catching the breeze like a banner in retreat, and he does not follow. 

 And for the first time, Henry feels the breadth of his solitude. It is not tragic. It is merely true. 

[mullermilkshake]

Jujutsu Kaisen

polluted - heichoe Gojo, Geto, Choso, Sukuna x Reader (One shot)

bare with a blindfold - interlude_enternude Gojo, Sukuna x Reader (Ongoing)

you're the reason that I just can't concentrate - slutsenpai Hiromi x reader (Ongoing)

Those Who Would Bare False Witness -silentgods (One shot)

Rule of Gods - MorganMacCallum Sukuna x OC (Completed)

Helping Hands - silentgods Geto x Reader (One shot)

Making Sacrifices - Gojo, Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Mahito x Reader (Completed… and am I making a self rec? Definitely! This fic is my absolute baby)

How a powerpoint ruined my sex life - @nanamineedstherapy Nanami x Alien!reader

Hollow worship: it was never about him - @nanamineedstherapy (Gojo, Gojo, Gojo!)

love me not! - @indiewritesxoxo (Ongoing) (This got me kicking my feet and twirling my hair xD) Baby daddy!Geto x f!reader x coworker!Nanami

Prison love - @iamaslutfor3dman (Sukuna x reader) (Just read this and LOVE IT)

The man across the street - @lostfracturess (Gojo x reader SUPER CUTE)

a song of past romance - @fushitoru (LORD HELP ME THIS IS SO GOOD)

Caretaker - @lnightmrs (This is just amazing! Like changed my perspective on this type of Yandere! insane.)

Attack on titan

Out Of The Blue - silentgods Annie x Eren (Completed)

Fragments Of Memories - Ever_enthralled (Won't be completed but I love it so much) Erwin x Reader / Zeke x Reader

Death's Door - SongsOfApollo Levi x Reader (Ongoing, I think)

Nine Muses - Anastasianoelle All the wonderful Art men (One shot series)

Play With Us - Anastasianoelle Reiner, Porco x Reader (One shot)

Neighbour from hell - Levi x OC ( Completed… another self rec I know, sorry about this one)

You make loving fun - silentgods (NSFW - Everyone fucks everyone basically) AMAZING

[rkiveinmarvel]

vsego dva prizraka - james bucky barnes des. barnes never trusted you, not once. but upon a different life, he would. notes. angst/comfort, enemies-to-lovers, mention of violence, curse words, idiots-in-love, sharon carter is a meanie here, trauma, torturing and avengers! shenanigans

hello! it's my bucky fic! part ii of upon a different life is here! thank you for supporting it, means a lot! anyway, here's part ii, uh--sharon carter is higkey unlikeable here so, i'm sorry! enjoy loving bucky!

(part i) (part ii) | w.c: 7.8k (got carried away, mb)

As you trace the track of living the endless cycle of you and the White Wolf stumbling in this much different life, James Barnes slowly learns fragments and side of you that were covered during the time in HYDRA’s grasp, don’t get him wrong, part of him still navigating in living and breathing around you but somehow, he doesn’t mind learning more about you, he somehow find himself tangled in your webs: in which he rationalized that maybe the words of HYDRA never left his head or maybe, just maybe, he felt a sense of familiarity with you, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, that in the corners of the Avengers compound, someone understands him.

You, on the other hand, slowly make amends to the people you caused trouble when you were still HYDRA’s living leverage: some of them thanked you for apologizing while some did not take any apologies from you. Despite the hardship of earning people’s forgiveness, a part of you was grateful that the bed was even warmer than before, people actually smiled at you, talked to you, and you built the idea that the world isn’t always red and bruised. 

For another, you finally see the Sergeant that fell off the train in 1945, how his life is ultimately different to the one you previously known, how his attention is relatively closed-knitted with books rather than guns and knives, how his grumpy old gaze was just him being confused, and how his metal arm is for carrying Banner’s stuff rather than a weapon to be used. It is refreshing to see things in a different light, but there’s still a present guilt on how you stole these simple things from the Sergeant, a lingering disgust within you was still present. How you wish HYDRA didn’t use him; how you wished you didn’t use him–despite his given acknowledgement of forgiveness: a terrible little you burns the edge of your mind. Yet, as you meet his eyes while sparring, in missions, in the kitchen, and at night, it keeps you grounded that what you have now is a chance to prove yourself—that you’re more than just HYDRA’s stupid toy.

After a few months of the events of you and Bucky sharing a moment in Brooklyn, you two find each other’s presence more grounding, call it sharing a trauma or trauma-bonding but what is certain, the each of you became each other’s compass in wandering the softer edge of the world.

The mission was executed properly and Tony Stark, being the man he is, decided to throw a party at the compound: with close friends, workers, family, and the Avengers–as the people went through the party, you stayed at the bar and challenged drinks with Yelena and Sam.

Sam and Yelena are on their fifth drink as their visions start to betray them. It was a stupid challenge, really, but it was amusing to join. As you drank your fifth drink, you winced at the bitterness and warmth coursing through your throat. “You two okay…?” You asked, basically indicating that you are still in the right state of mind, body, and soul.

“Absolutely…” Yelena uttered but her words were shaky and unstable as Sam just nodded and tried to sit up straight. In another point of view, it seems like you poisoned the two, but in this challenge: pride was on the line. “You know, you two should take a rest…” 

The Falcon immediately protested his dislike at the idea of taking a rest, but before he could argue, he fell off his chair, causing Yelena to fall as well. “Told you…” You uttered under your breath. As Rhodes and Wanda helped the two go back to their room, you were left alone in the bar as a familiar metal arm tapped the table.

“You finally decided to show up.” Bucky nods and sits on the stool. “I heard that Sam fell flat on his face, so I had to see it.” You shook your head and nodded. “Anything I can get you?” Bucky decided whiskey on the rocks, as he was just taking a sip every now and then.

You asked the White Wolf why he wasn't joining Steve and Thor sharing drinks at the other side of the room, his eyes looking over the God of Thunder and Steve as he just looks back at his drink. “Just not feeling like talking to other people, everyone’s here is so different from the 40s.” You nodded as you sip your drink as well.

“Well, I’m not from the 40s, so, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you replied as you watched the people having fun. “But I guess, I do get where you’re coming from. I mean, people are actually…talking, not ordering me around.” You chuckled unsure, yet Bucky knew what you meant. 

As you sighed, you looked over at him. “How’s your trip with Peter? I heard the kid practically dragged you around Queens for his project.” A small sigh and smile left James’ lips. “Parker was talking a lot, he introduced me in the corners of Queens, it was nice. But I still choose—.” you continue his words.

“Brooklyn.” You both said in unison, as he nodded. After a while, you two just watch the party in the bar. In the scene of soft music and chattering noises, it was quiet on your side. As if there was another world being built there–a look of adoration of the people around the room is present in the eyes of two former people of HYDRA, call it a look of longing or even hoping; in the back of Bucky’s mind he remembered the days where he dance with girls in the 1940s while you wonder if being in a party means being happy in people’s company.

Bucky was about to say something when he saw people dancing on the dance floor. Despite the uplifting mood, some people swayed to the music, calmly, not out of rhythm but still a form of slow dancing. His eyes darted to you as he saw how intrigued and focused you are in the people dancing.

“First time seeing people dancing?” He asked, as you spared him a look and you nodded. “Would it be weird if I said yes?” Bucky shook his head a ‘no’. He knew what you went through as he took a sip and said: “It’s not weird. But, it’s surprising..”

“Why is it surprising?”

“Well, when you and Natasha went to the ball for an undercover mission, didn’t you two dance with people to blend in…?”

“Oh, the mission in Budapest.” You nodded. “I didn’t dance that night, not once in my life, I think…” He glanced at you, as you asked if he danced. The Sergeant had this nostalgic look in his eyes, as if he tried to remember the soft hands he held as he danced in the 40s. With a last sip of his drink, he had a smug look on his face. “1943. Her name was Connie.” You listened intently. 

He shared the Stark Expo, the memories he has as he danced with Connie before the war. As he grabbed a beer at a nearby table, to his surprise, you’re actually listening to him: He also told how he gave Steve a date that time, a double date, as he mentioned. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe the ambiance, but Bucky couldn’t stop talking to you—especially, when you’re looking at him as if he’s the only person in the world. Listening to him as if the music isn’t filling your ears.

He should not let the soft smile appear, yet he loves this. He loved being listened to. Despite, his demeanor and adjusting behavior around you; getting used with you, he let it slip—he hoped it was the alcohol, god, he hoped it was—he smiled at you, not an awkward one nor a smug one, it is a smile reserved for the times he felt at ease: the smile he had when he stayed at Sam’s hometown, the smile he had when he saw the flying car in Stark Expo, the smile he had when he was saved by Steve, and a smile that made his ears warm when he was dancing with Connie in 1943.

You smiled back, the Sergeant looked so handsome. A pretty man. In the moment, you two are like teenagers down the block or somewhat two strangers finally see each other eye-to-eye. As James ignored the warmth in his cheeks—pretending it was from the alcohol—he breaks the smile. As you question: “Was it nice…?”

Moments like this, James realized that you two are not far from each other; he got to experience becoming a human, before mess happened. While you lived in the mess, not knowing what it means to be a human—he pity you sometimes, he often wonders if you’re just making this up, waiting for a moment so, you can fuck him up but moments like this, he somehow recalls you had this look of ingenuity, as if you have no clue: how to live. 

And he knew, for he also had the same look in his eyes. So, he nods and looks at the people sharing a slow dance. “It felt nice..” As you sip your drink, the Sergeant wants to ask you something, yet a bitter voice in his head holds those words back. In that he settled with that answer, as he drank the beer while you watched the people dance. A simple breath left you: “I’ll figure it out how it feels..” 

If things were different, the bitter voice in his head would have not bothered him—but for now, he settled with whatever he had with you, as he left it at that.

You walked in the compound and smelled the spices in the kitchen, with a book in your hand—you saw Vision and Wanda cooking. Since the Redhead A.I has heightened senses, he welcomed and invited you. You felt like a trash third wheel, but as Wanda gave you a smile and offered what they cooked, it was more than welcoming. 

A look from the outside was watching the three of you, or perhaps, you. The blue eyes watched you, as if he was analyzing how different you look: you looked at ease, your shoulders aren’t tense; you looked so…calm. “Are you going to run or are we gonna be staring at them until it gets weird?” Sam eyed the Sergeant as he glared back.

“Shut up, I’m almost done with my lap.” He grunted, going back to the stupid running bet with Sam. As Sam catched up with the grumpy old-man, Sam snickered. “That cyborg brain of yours is functioning in a new gear.” The Falcon teased, to which Bucky ignored–but he couldn’t help but wonder why he felt different around you: it was wrong, at least, that’s what he tells himself—he firmly believes, it was nothing but a mere heat of the moment perhaps, a little assurance for the trauma that you two share.

It was a normal day, to say so at least, the rest were doing their own things—enjoying the uneventful day, when afternoon arrived, some found themselves seeking to shut-eye: but not the former secret service of HYDRA and White Wolf.

“How about George Owell’s books?” You asked the Sergeant who was reading a book as he sat on the library’s couch. He raised his head and looked up at you at the loft of the library. “Haven’t read it but Dr. Strange said it’s a good one.” you nodded as you continued to scan the books in the library of the compound.

After a few hours of Bucky reading, he realized you’re not back in the seat where you promised to sit after you find the right book for you—that was an hour ago. He placed the book, The Hobbit, on the table as he called out your name. Your lack of response was a little jitter in his head, it’s unusual, or maybe it is usual, but he couldn’t help but check on you. As he climbed on the loft, he found you, reading a book on the floor.

He was bewildered as he saw you, reading a book on the floor as he sighed and sat next to you. “You finished your book?” You asked as he just shook his head; he didn’t say anything, letting you read in silence. In that moment, maybe, he was reading it all wrong—not the book, but you: he longs to be near you, whether he admits it or not, he stole glances as you read the book.

He should still hate you, you stole everything from him. But, his heartbeat quickens when you two share a soft moment, his ears ring when he does something that makes you laugh, his hands shake when you don’t respond to his comms when you two are on a mission, he doesn’t get it. He should still hate you, but he can’t help it—maybe, he’ll get it, once you do too.

As you read thoroughly, you felt a head on your shoulder. Typically, you would push it away, but as you heard even breathing as a relaxed state, you let it be. You didn’t move an inch, as you let the Sergeant sleep on your shoulder. It’s not the first time you served as a pillow to your new home, it was mostly Wanda or Yelena; sometimes Thor, when he wants to annoy you—but this felt new and raw. Your heart pounds louder, god, you hoped that the White Wolf won’t hear it. 

It was scary to feel this, the loud banging on your chest, the tensed shoulder you had, yet as you looked over your shoulder, you saw his closed eyes and relaxed eyebrows—your memory drifted to the time you hear his screams when HYDRA removes his memory, you tensed as you remember how he bear the pain as you just watch across the room, and you remembered how the his furrowed eyebrows in the cryo-sleeping machine. The guilt was seething pain in your neck, it tasted bitter, but for once, you ignored the bitter taste in your lips, you found a better position, as you lean back, Barnes fell further in your shoulder as head touched the side of your neck.

You smiled softly—the one you gave Barnes at the party, the one you gave Barnes as you apologized; the smile you gave Bucky at the diner, a few months ago. With a heavy feeling, you leaned in his head as you rested your cheek.

You are damn sure, this will result into stiff neck, back pain, or even cramps—but just this once, you’ll bear it, just this once you’ll let your back and muscle scream, and just this once you let James Buchanan Barnes sleep, with a relaxed eyebrows in the warm presence of the library.

It wasn’t long when you feel sleepy too, it was an afternoon hit afterall, but a part of you wishes to stay awake, you want this to last, yet, you found yourself closing your eyes, relaxing in the library. You knew you’ll figure it out one day, whether it’s right or wrong to long for this, you’ll figure it out how to pour your heart to the person who has a broken heart because of you—you’ll figure it out, you know it—you just hope, Bucky will figure it out too.

Everything was doing fine with you and Bucky; the entire team felt it too—the sudden change, the loosen tension, and the given knowing look. You and Bucky did too but the trip to the destination wasn't an easy one, most of the time, Bucky steps on things he was not sure he can step on, other times you bit off things more than you can chew. Stark and Steve saw what was going on, the three steps forward yet four times back. 

But little things keep you on arms length with the Sergeant: it’s not easy to look past with what you’ve done to him after all; it’s not easy for James to just forget everything that was stolen from him—for another, a part of you was new to this, the unknown butterflies when the Sergeant would do something as he glance at you, the red ears but not from the cold but when you hear James laugh, and the fast-paced beat: it was new to you, you know this feeling, you’ve read it in books: one to many times already but feeling it was another level, one you cannot help yourself but deny.

A bitter taste fell out of your mouth as you listened to the comms as you sneak in inside a control system for a mission, you could hear it—in the comms how Stark, Barnes, Romanoff, and Carter were blending in naturally in the crowd: it was a common hideout, to be honest, a terrorist stealing vibranium and having the operation under a bar-party casino, what a common hideout, it wouldn’t bother you; in reality, it should not bother you—you were HYDRA’s weapon once, undercover and sneak in mission is nothing but a piece of cake.

That would be the case, if you don’t feel a conflicting emotion in your chest—god, you hear it, the little chuckles the fell out of Carter’s mouth as you heard Bucky’s line on the end, he sound so out of character, out of touch, way different as he interacts with you. Cursing under your breath, you entered the camera room.

Without warning to the team, you successfully put the camera in your control, protecting Wanda, Sam, and Rogers from the security’s grasp. In that, you heard Tony’s chuckle.

“There you go, Secret Service, everyone..” He compliments you as he continues his comms. “Told you, you’re fit for the role—I’m great at role assigning after all.” In some cases, you would thank him —but your mind brushes things as Romanoff’s response to the comms was blurry as you recall the planning earlier.

“It’s set in Europe.” Sharon Carter's voice informed the team, as you, Yelena, and Natasha were preparing the things for the mission. As the information was given by Stark and Carter, you waited for further instruction—thus, leading to assigning roles. It wouldn’t matter actually, you were a spy, this would be a piece of cake: but then again, you bit off on something you can’t chew.

“Carter and Barnes, you two will be the undercover Mr. and Mrs. Williams, when we get control of the camera systems, that’s when Rogers, Wilson, and Wanda can come in. That leads to Yelena for going in the vault as me and Ms. Romanoff along with Williams taking charge of what’s in the casino.” Stark looked at Natasha and Rogers for confirmation, they both nodded. 

But you scanned the fake invitations made by Stark for him and Natasha; for Barnes and Carter: The Williams—a new feeling burns within you, but you carry on—for all you see, was Barnes already talking to Carter after the planning—moments like that: you find another reason why you should deny the wanted warmth spreading in your cheek when you talk to Sergeant.

“Hey, secret service, talk to me–” Stark’s pull you out of your trance, you immediately replied. “Yeah? I’m here..” Stark chuckled, as he informed to prepare for a change in plans. 

“Copy that.” A sigh left your mouth and a familiar voice—a softer one than what you once heard in HYDRA’s—”Everything okay, сахарный тростник?” 

Everything okay, sugarcane? In different circumstances, that would have the cheesiest smile out of you, how a stupid toy turned into sugarcane. But things are different, way different—everything was out of touch, instead a monotone left your lips. “Everything’s fine, soldier.” 

“You were not responding for a minute, you sure?”

In his words, you knew Steve wasn’t joking when he shared that Barnes have girls lining up for him in the 40s, knowing damn well, if you existed that time—you would too but as you listen to him, you notice the subtle different tone he uses with Carter, way different when it comes to you, it stings but you already foreseen this: it’s never gonna work, you stole everything from him for fucks sake. It will never work out. Bucky will never figure it out.

Before you could respond, a security breach alarm was ringing the entire place, it was from Yelena’s position—the things happened too fast, you immediately went to Yelena for back-up, which you two gladly got out. Everything was a mess, as far as you can remember, you and Yelena took some enemies, it was an odd pairing as Stark teased in the comms but as you fight, a lingering and gnawing feeling broods in your chest, it wasn’t the fight nor the team’s safety.

It was you, you’re worried about you and the damn stupid butterflies in your stomach. Your mind drifts that even in this different life, you still can’t have what you want to have—unprofessional, sloppy, neglectful, and hideous: as you heard a gunshot and a seething pain in your abdomen, so much for HYDRA’s favored leverage. 

As you felt the pain, the adrenaline coursing to your body made you fight more of the enemies, but the ringing in your ear never left, maybe it was the anxiety or maybe it was the comms, or maybe it was Yelena begging the team to go back to quinjet because you’ve been shot—it would be tolerable, the pain would be tolerable until in the comms you heard a pleading, longing, a lost voice.

“Has anyone seen Carter?” It was Bucky, god, he sound so worried, so distress, that made you wince even the bullet’s pain was nothing, this was much worse, you stumbled your walk as you throw the comms away, luckily Yelena was with you, after a moment, the Falcon and Iron Man carried you and Yelena back to the quinjet, as a limping Sharon Carter and getting assisted by Bucky met your view as Sam made you sit.

Wanda immediately used her ability to heal you but you pushed her hand away. “I’m okay, Wanda. I can take it—look over Sharon and Yelena, yeah?” You smiled at her but as she was about to protest, Steve nudged her shoulder as Steve sat next to you. “My bad, Captain..” You gave Rogers a smile, a masked one—god, you’re in so much pain.

“...You okay?” Stark snickered as Steve sent him a glare. “Rogers, I am fine. You should see the other guy—” but before you can continue, Natasha cut you off.

“You were distracted out there. You were not responding for a minute; you got shot. Want to tell us, what happened?” There she is, the Black Widow, you play with air in your mouth as you look at Steve and glance at Barnes talking to Sharon as Wanda heals her injury. Normally, Natasha would tease you about it but as she notices the subtle glance. She waited for your answer.

“Was not used in that set-up, I guess.” Natasha gave a look to you, call it pity, sadness, but as you stood up, watching as the fabric that Yelena tied in your abdomen was pooling red, you used Steve's shoulders to lift yourself up. “Sorry, was distracted, it won't happen again.” 

Steve was about to guide you but you shrugged him off as you walked in the little bathroom in quinjet. Not-knowing an emotion filled eyes was longing behind your back—how a pair of cerulean colored eyes is watching behind you. The jet was quiet, not because of the tight tension, but a worried one. So, Yelena carried the mood: reminding everyone that the mission is a success, but it wasn’t for Bucky, you were bleeding; he wasn’t there—for him, the mission would rather fail than to see you wincing in every step you make.

You removed your clothes as you removed the cloth that Yelena used to stop the bleeding, you eyed the injury as you knew this was a bit worse than you expect it, with running water, you cleaned it—scrambling the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, applying gauze—-you can ask Banner or Maximoff to look on it, for now, this’ll do.

Few weeks back in the compound, it felt like the time didn’t move. You were pissing off at HYDRA wishing they inserted the serum at you too—so, the healing process would be much faster than you bed-rotting in your room—but you guess, that was better; with Yelena being the closest things you have in sister–she told you everything. Especially the blonde woman hanging out with the terminator. 

She tells stories about them as she sometimes passes out in your room—you love Yelena, there’s no doubt, you thanked her every time she and Natasha would look at you as if you live with them. In the middle of the night, you got out of your bed as you fixed Yelena’s blanket next to you—-your light footsteps left your room, as you went to the kitchen. 

You wanted to make tea, but the heating pain from your abdomen, your movements were slow—it would take—“Sam would’ve ran sixteen laps and your tea is not even close to done.” Of course, the Captain’s voice. He was in his night outfit as you chuckled and nodded. “A little hand, then?” you asked the old man. 

That night, Steve Rogers made you tea as you watched and sat on the counter. “I can feel you staring at me…” Rogers uttered as you shook your head. “I never got to thank you…” You added as he placed a fresh tea on the counter as he also has one too. 

As you sip, a smile left your face—you liked the tea he made. “Peggy taught me in the 40s.” You nodded as he told you how Peggy taught him—before you knew Steve, you thought he just got lucky being Captain America, but with him sitting and studying your look: he’s also a human being that falled in the wrong path of time. With that, you looked at him.

“Does it get easier?” You asked him, it was a broad question. But, somehow, all the speeches he made for the team had the same weight when said: “I lived on ice for 70 years, it’ll eventually get harder.” Not the answer you wanted, but somehow, you knew.

“....but you have us. Eventually, it’ll be okay, not easy, but okay.” He sip his tea as he pulls the picture of Peggy in the compass he carries. 

“You must’ve really liked her…” You added–as he nodded, acting shyly—as he tells his story, but not the one written in the museum, somehow, the longing feeling in your chest was bigger, how he talks about Bucky, is so different from the Bucky you know, it was painful—but at this point, you mirrored Rogers, not missing how his eyes shimmered when he thought of Peggy. With a cup of tea on your hand, you figured it out: you absolutely, without a doubt:

You love James Buchanan Barnes.

Your heart clenches as you settle with the realization—“I’ve seen how you look at Bucky..” Cases like this, you would wanna talk to Natasha first, but, knowing Steve would not let it go, you continued—it’s your way to thank him for the tea, afterall.

“I do, I felt that, months ago—realized it, now. I saw how you talk about Peggy yet I think about how I talked about him.” You chuckled. “Guess his 40s charm never left, but, who would take me—why would I bother with this? I hurt him, stole everything from him and now we're a bunch of agents and icons, there’s no room for that—especially ... .especially with me.” Steve listened intently.

“Pepper and Tony would say otherwise.” You raise your head and meet his gaze. “Barton and his wife would not agree too. Parker and MJ would argue with you about it. Wanda and Vision would explain themselves to you—” You laughed, as you get his point.

“It’s not the same, Rogers—I hurt him. A million times, stole who he is, used what he is—how would he take me?” A bitter chuckle left your lips as cleared your throat, you stood up not wanting to talk more. “Thanks for the tea…” As you closed the door in your room, Steve sighed as he looked at the man standing in the dark corner of the room. 

“You heard her…” Steve got the cups and placed them on the sink, as the man in the corner stepped out. “How would you take her..?” Steve quotes your question. The man lingered his blue eyes in the door of your room. 

“All of her.” 

 It’s true, Barnes should still hate you—but, all at once, next to you, he feels like a child. Like, all the things he felt was damaged within him, felt undamaged—felt like you seen him in his bullshit: the 40s one, the Sergeant one, the Winter Soldier one, the White Wolf one, the James—the Bucky: you take them all, so, he would be a fool not to take all of you too.

Maybe, in the height of it all, 40s Bucky would never forgive you but—in his heart, a growing hope—thanking the stars, the pain, the stitches, the loss—for all of that: he thanked that he was still alive in hope for this love.

Steve nodded and looked at his friend— “Talk to her, Buck.” Bucky nodded, not saying anything but feeling everything—with a soft look at Steve, he realized that he got it—he understood it, that in your shoulder at the library: everything felt right: you hurted him, that is true, god, he hated you.

But in the dreaded past, meeting you, knowing you was the tattooed dream etched in his mind, that inside of the Sergeant, White Wolf, grumpy old man: was his inner child, wishing to spend the rest of his days until the time lets—god, he loves you.

The next day, alarms were all over the compound, you walked out of your room—seeing Tony and Steve in their suits; a missing cerulean eyes. “Where’s Bucky?” Sam immediately went to you, as he tried to push your back into your room.

“You’re still injured, let them handle–this–” You pushed his arm. “Don’t bullshit me, Sam—I am fine, where’s Barnes?” you repeated but as Sam was about to say something, Stark was at your room’s door. “Power Broker got him—” Without a word, you grabbed your stuff and changed your clothes to the uniform Stark made for you.

“Hey, hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Sam’s voice was louder as Tony did his best to stop you too. “Secret Service, listen to me, you’re still injured—you have to stay–”

“Stay?! I will not stay here, Stark, Bucky is—he’s not here—I’m not gonna stand here and hope you guys get him back! What if Zola found him! What if—” Stark cut you off. “We’ll bring him back—your Barnes.” In that you calm down, as you nodded and sat on your bed. As Stark left your room, Sam looked over at you.

“Sam?” 

“Yeah?”

“...I’m gonna follow them..” With that you clutched your bed sheets and begged to all the heavens of the universe to bring him back. Your love back.

James Barnes was sitting in a familiar chair, a chair that reminded him of his past, reminded him of all the blood—it’s happening again, he’s gonna lose all his memories again, he wanted to fight the doctors surrounding him but the drugs in his system were blurring everything. 

His metal hand was strapped as well as his chest and feet—he felt helpless. “Ah, you’re awake.” A voice, Sharon—she visited Bucky’s room last night, for whatever reason, Bucky thought Sharon needed help but as he turned his back, all he felt was the cold floor and woke up with the doctors all over the place with him tied up on the chair.

“Sharon, what the hell is wrong with you?” His voice is bitter, in pain, god, it’s all coming back— “Wrong with me? I am this, солдат.” Soldier. It is different when you say it, that’s the first thing Bucky noticed. “And I am selling you to the market. You are a great deal, Winter Soldier.” 

Of course, Bucky would be used again—the machine starts to produce a sound—a distinct familiar sound, is it always gonna end up like this? But in his throat, he can only plead—he felt like a kid, not the same kid that wishes for you, the kid that was begging to be freed, it felt so weird, familiar, painful, to be back here.

As the machine covers his left eye as he grunts in pain—he thinks of you. He wished he memorized you, he wished he knew how to make your tea, he wished he would remember your words, he wished he was back in the shore again as you ask for forgiveness as he eats the sugarcane, how he wished he was eating at the diner with the jukebox again; how he wished he took you to a dance. 

Then, it was nothing. 

“Солдат?” Sharon called out a name—Soldier?

Against the dark room, a soldier spoke: “Я готов ответить.”  The Winter Soldier was ready to comply.

“Tell me, it’s not you on the comms, Secret Service.” As Stark and Rogers rush inside the building, which was supposed to be a duo-mission, they hear a crackling noise on their comms. “That would be so boring if it wasn’t, right, Stark?” You chuckled, before Rogers can even argue about it—Stark already did.

“You stubborn–You just had your stitches! We’ll handle this! Stay put in your location–you—” But you cut him off.

“Even if you have stitches, Stark! If Potts is there—you’ll do it too, so, let me help…” Stark and Steve sighed, they knew they couldn’t stop you. After Stark sorting you out, you get on the other side of the building while the other two lurk on the other side. It was a dark building, as you successfully sneak in: you immediately scan the area.

The dark room makes you think of HYDRA years ago: it was triggering, your skin feels cold—if you’re feeling like this, what more to Bucky. You need to find him fast, but the pulsing in your head, also doesn’t help, maybe it was the anxiety or maybe when Sam tried to stop you earlier.

“I told you, I won’t let you!” Sam groaned as he blocked your path, for a thousand times. “Sam, please, Cap and Stark need us! They need me, we have to help them!” You fought him, but you knew he was holding back because of your stitches. 

“Work with me, Sam, please..” You pleaded but he got you in a headlock, as you calmed down. He loosened when you tapped his hand. “Please….It’s James. I don’t want him to go through that again, it’s the only way—only thing I can do, Sam—” 

Sam cared about Bucky and you knew that, at this moment, Sam hates that he cares about you too. “Fine, but—” You smiled at him— “I won’t tell Steve.” In that Sam just nodded and let you go. 

Never in your life, thought you would let your feet touch the casket for a man—a man whose heart and past are all broken because of you. You never thought you would see the day why people fought lively in the war because they have someone to go home to, you never thought you would see the day where all can be damned—just not you and Barnes.

The other side of the building is thoroughly occupied by fights: Stark and Rogers are really pushing through—while you see a laboratory, you immediately sneak inside. As Stark updated their situation of being occupied in a fight, you entered the lab. You finally saw Bucky, in the same chair, the first time you saw him. You were angry, pissed, and everything is being in the last line of your moral defense. 

“Oh, Bucky..” you immediately went to the buttons and let the machine let James go, but he remained seated. “Barnes, we have to go—come on–” You checked his face if he was injured, or even concussed, but all you met was a familiar eye, an unwanted one, the one would burn in your guilt—In his dilated eyes, the Winter Soldier is back. It’s not Barnes, not Bucky—HYDRA’s favorite: the one that killed people without blinking. With such hope, you pulled him up but to no avail, Carter’s voice broke through.

“Soldier, attack.”

The Winter Soldier immediately slapped you away, causing you to hit the wall—if it wasn’t for Tony and Shuri’s invention in your suit—you would’ve died but you met the Winter Soldier’s eyes again, this time—you stood at the same spot of his victims before, you knew what they meant: for the first time, you were scared. As Stark had scanned the area from his location, he asked you to stand down and wait for them—but the comms he was giving was meeting the cold floor.

You look at the Winter Soldier. “You really wanna do this, Sharon?” Sharon snickered as she cockily revealed her plan selling the Winter Soldier to the underground. “You’re nothing like Peggy, not a bunch.” Sharon scrunched her nose.

“Because Peggy never stepped up—she could have all this and yet she stayed at the stupid camp. But me, after the government go up against me, I finally find the purpose—”

“What? Like a criminal dealer?” Despite you tensing up, to fight against the Winter Soldier up—you snarked up a reply to Sharon. “That’s lame, you know, if I were you, I would go bi—”

“Shut up! Like you know better, you better stop pretending to be one of them because…you are just like me.” You stared at her; back at the brooding Winter Soldier. “Or not. Soldier…kill.” In that The Winter Soldier immediately attacked you.

For a while, you were able to keep up with his fighting style, you were once a HYDRA after all but a lingering warm feeling scattered in your chest: you can keep up with him because you spar together, you catch up with his speed. Despite the Winter Soldier’s attacking skills, you didn’t fight back, you just put yourself in defense and you tried to whisper words that would trigger his memory. You hoped Steve would arrive and pull the Soldier out of trance, as the Soldier pinned you to the wall, you finally attacked back—you kicked him as he stepped away.

“Soldat, ты меня бесишь.” The soldier grunted, he knew what you meant—he was pissing you off. In that his attack became more aggressive; You tried to recall all the memories, even the one Steve told you but none of them reached the Soldier. He kept punching and kicking you, until his hand hit your stitches, you fell on the ground as you clutch yourself in pain—the soldier reached for the gun, with the last strength you kicked the gun away. 

It fell on the floor as you grabbed it and aimed it at the Soldier. “Stay back, Soldier.” Yet, for the first time, your hand shakes holding a gun. Without abandon, the Soldier still charged, pushing you down to the floor—with an intention to kill,he grabbed a knife but instead of you pulling the trigger, you felt the knife getting deeper in your shoulder, the Winter Soldier twisted the knife, but he flinched when he heard you:

“Full circles…” You winced. “I am really sorry, Bucky…” Suddenly, the Soldier heard the shore, the sweet taste was familiar on his lips, your swiss knife on his hand—Bucky. 

He pulled his hand away as he stared at you. “....Sugarcane..” In that a bitter chuckle left your mouth as you nod. “Barnes..” You felt yourself tear up as you reached his cheek and caressed it. “You’re back…finally, you’re back..” Bucky was tense, he knew what he did but the way you looked at him, melted his inside. He was about to say his apology but a loud explosion occurred. He used his body to shield you as he carried you to the side.

He saw the blood in your suit, as you slowly got dizzy. “Hey, hey, don’t you dare. Sweets, come on–”Bucky tapped your cheek as he saw in the explosion was Stark and Steve, Steve threw his shield to Bucky as Bucky catched it he warned: “Steve! We gotta go, she lost a lot of blood.” Even Tony felt Bucky’s panic. 

“The quinjet is up north the mountain.” Steve said as he and Stark went to catch Sharon Carter. Bucky’s hand was dipping in your shoulder and waist as he carried you back to the quinjet, he kept checking if you were still breathing—he prayed, he was shaking in fear: he can’t lose you, especially not like this. His breathing was ragged as he reached the jet. He was hoping Wanda was there but all there were the buttons of the jet. 

He placed you on a chair as he grabbed the medical kit in a cabinet, he immediately sat on the floor and remove the suit—your stitches thorn and a bleeding shoulder, he was mad at himself, how did he even let it happen, he should not have hurt you, he should—

“Calm down, James…” He felt your hands on his cheek again, grounding him in his panic. He immediately shook his head. “No, no, I did this, I was—”

“You didn’t have a choice…” you smiled. “Besides, I think we’re fair now.” You joked but the giggle didn’t leave Bucky’s lips—-is he going to lose you too? His hand reached for your head as he ran his hand in your hair. “I should’ve asked you to dance with me, that night….” He whispered slowly.

As you nodded, relaxing in his touch. “I guess you owe me…”

“I do, I definitely do, sweets.”

Bucky was reading George Owell’s 1984—despite being a great book: it seemed a tale of HYDRA, he read intently in the library. After a while, he looked over the loft, recalling the memory when he fell asleep next to you. 

“Hey, sweets?” His voice called out, noticing the afternoon turned into night, knowing they drifted in the loft, next to each other. “Yes, Barnes?”

“We’ll read 1984 tomorrow?” He asked but neither of them moved, the proximity within them is warm, it’s home. With a chuckle, a reply left you: “If you’re up for it…”

After a while, he left the library with a longing look on his face as he carried the book, adoring the shared memory, longing for it, wishing he can experience it again—

— Suddenly, he met you carrying new bandages and band-aids. “Didn’t Banner tell you to stay on the bed?” He asked, immediately rushing to you.

“....Did he?” you asked, as you looked like a kid that stole a candy bar. “Well, Banner and Stark went out and my bandages are getting itchy so—I kinda, need to change them.” 

“Couldn’t Natasha or Yelena help you?” You nodded. “I can’t find them and they’re really itchy, Barnes.” You walked away from him as he held your shoulder. “Let’s change it then, sweets.”

Barnes made you sit on the sink of the bathroom as he changed the bandages in your abdomen, as you winced lightly. “This okay, sweets?” You nodded as he purely focused on the bandage. Later, reached another batch of bandages, as you see the guilt look in his face: as he changed the one in your shoulder. “Barnes…” You knew he wasn’t listening, he’s probably blaming himself in his head again.

“Bucky?” you called out, this time, he looked at you. As you reached for his metal arm, he pulled away but then you pulled it as you felt the metal texture. “I’m sorry…I hurted you.” He sighed as you held the wrist of his metal arm. “Guess we’re even—” He shook his head, not liking your humor.

“There could’ve been worse! I could’ve killed you—I could’ve lost you and it’s gonna be my fault–” In his panic, his right hand lightly hit your shoulder—but as he was about to say sorry again, you grabbed both of his cheeks. “We’re alright, Bucky. We’re okay…” You muttered, as you rested your forehead into his. 

“We’re okay.” You both muttered, as he calmed down, he continued to change your bandage on your shoulder, as his body heat was radiating into you. As he wrapped and cut the last bandage—you both stared at each other. His eyes were blue like you remembered, as his eyes linger in your eyes yet longer in your lips. 

Suddenly, it’s just him and you—above anything else, he kissed you. 

To which you smiled as you kiss him back, in the soft edge of the compound, it’s just him and you, his hand rested in your waist as you hold him in his shoulder—you kissed him as if you were memorizing him and he kissed you like he would want to keep your lips on a bottle so, he can get addicted and taste you anytime he wants. 

He pushed further as you pulled away and you chuckled. “I thought the 40s were supposed to bring them on date first…” Bucky eyes glistened with joy— “My bad, sweets, you looked like you wanted to kiss me.” 

As he kissed you lightly again, lingering a little longer—as he pulled away he tucked your hair in your ear. “I suppose I owe you a dance, sweets?” You smiled as you nodded, as you opened your arms for embrace as he indulged in your warmth. “Only if you change my bandages, until I get better?”

He nodded as he kissed your forehead: “You don’t have to ask me, sweets, I got you, always.”

“....You always call me that, after I said sorry to you…sweets, I’m not sweet, I’m a spy like Natasha and Yelen—”

“The sugarcane, sweets. The sugarcane, I still remember that was the only thing we ate that time—yet, even when I was mad at you, you still got me sugarcane, it was really…sweet of you.” He whispered as you laughed. “Steve wasn’t lying when you got your words.” 

He lightly kissed your injured shoulder and muttered a sorry to it. As you two hugged again, you can’t help but hum the song from the diner—playing in the jukebox: I’ve never been in love before—but as you smiled and relaxed at the sink—it felt different, it felt more human—warmest than ever been. 

Upon in a different side of life, you never knew it will turn out like this, watching stars with Barnes, holding hands, dancing in the rhythm, planning what’s for dinner with him;—despite the guilt brooding in each of your chest about what could’ve been in the past the future remains uncertain, as the old man said it will eventually be okay; maybe there was hate or maybe regret: but for a man who woke up 75 years later, he was finally certain as he decided that in each time he will fall in love..

— it's always going to be you.

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