#I tried to make this mutual pining and dared to kiss

[priincebutt]

💘

💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss -- send a heart for a kiss snippet!

“You’ve never played spin the bottle before???” Nora’s eyes are wide and saucers as she screams the question over the pulsating music of the frat party they are at. She looks from Henry to Percy to Alex, then back to Henry again as if one of them are going to tell her she’s being punked, and when Henry simply shrugs and opens his palms, a physical apology for his lack of culture, Nora makes a pfft sound and grabs his hand, heading from the living room where they’d been dancing only moments before and leading him into the kitchen. This produces a small train following them, because after Henry comes Percy, and after Percy their Alex follows closely, and their caboose is June, whose hips still sway to the beat of the music coming from the massive sound system in the other room.

It’s Lambda Chi Alpha’s welcome back party, the first of the fall semester, and it’s June and Henry’s senior year, and Alex, Nora and Percy are Juniors. The only reason their little group is united at this party tonight is because June is determined to make up for three years of studying too much and not ‘embracing the college culture,’ so they’re starting the semester off with a bang – Alex’s frat’s biggest party.

The kitchen is less populated, though there are still a good amount of people milling around, mostly the stoner kids who are going in and out of the back door to hit joints, and a few younger girls who are mixing drinks at the kitchen island. They must be freshmen, Alex notes, because as Nora marches over to the assortment of bottles they scatter, tittering as they go, eyeing the little group with interest and standing far enough back to still observe but not seem too obvious.

Nora grabs a mostly empty vodka bottle, and sets it on its side on the island. “Okay, everyone gather around,” She gestures and slurs her words only slightly. They all cram in around the island, everyone taking an edge, and Alex looks over at Henry as subtly as he can. He hadn’t known June was going to be inviting her British bestie tonight, and he honestly feels some kind of way about it. As a poli sci major who plays lacrosse and is an active member of a fraternity, Alex hasn’t had much time to think about dating over the past two years of his life. But damn, if Henry doesn’t make him want to change that.

Ever since June had invited Henry to their family’s Christmas when he couldn’t make it home to England two years ago, Alex has hidden a massive, enormous, absolutely debilitating crush on the blond. He hides it with teasing comments and lasting jabs, because he’s not out and he doesn’t really know how to handle the way he’s feeling about Henry, but damn, the whiskey he’s drinking has gone straight to his head and he wishes for nothing more than this bottle to land on him so he can finally show Henry just how he feels.

That would just be too good to be true, though, and fate never quite works that way for Alex.

“So, you spin the bottle –” Nora demonstrates, sending the vodka bottle reeling, and when it lands on Percy she trills with delight. “Then, you have to kiss whoever it lands on!” She scoots over to her left and Percy leans in, and they share a chaste peck because Nora and June have been together forever and everyone knows it. June only laughs and claps, and a few people, drawn by the excitement of their little game, have joined them in the circle.

Percy spins next and it lands on a petite brunette who looks nervous but graciously accepts a kiss on the cheek from Percy, and when she spins the bottle lands on one of Alex’s frat brothers who joined them. The girl giggles through a very uncomfortable looking kiss, and then the guy spins and it lands – 

On Henry.

Alex feels a surge of jealousy ricochet through him, and he tries to laugh it off. His frat brother is much less kind. He makes a noise at the back of his throat and walks away, murmuring something about not wanting to kiss any dudes.

“What an ass. Your spin, Henry!” June calls out, trying to bring the attention back from the homophobe and onto their little party. Henry looks nervous now, and spins the bottle aggressively. It tilts to the side and everyone cries out as it looks like it’s about to fly off of the island, but it stops right as it reaches the edge, pointing directly at Alex.

He tries not to look or feel smug. He tries to keep his features schooled into a neutral indifference. Henry looks at him with hope in his eyes, lips parted as if to say something. Alex doesn’t let him. He grabs a hold of Henry’s collar and tugs him in close, the smell of Henry’s expensive cologne washing over him in a way that leaves him reeling, and they haven’t even kissed yet. Before he can regret this, before he can decide better of it and blame the alcohol, Alex presses in, his lips meeting Henry’s which causes the world to melt away around them. So much for subtlety, his mind hisses at him, and he bats it away when one of Henry’s hands cup his cheek and the other threads through his hair.

Alex presses into him, crowding up into Henry’s space and parting his lips on a small gasp, and when Henry’s tongue brushes against his he just about goes feral. He’s only vaguely aware of June and Nora whooping and Percy snapping a picture on his phone, but he doesn’t give a fuck. All that matters is Henry.

Henry pulls back first. He’s breathless and his cheeks are flushed pink, and while his smile is shy there’s a hint of triumph there as well. Alex presses their foreheads together as they catch their breath, and Henry bites his lower lip, his hands on either side of Alex’s neck as he thinks for a moment and finally leans in to whisper into Alex’s ear.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a very. Long. Time.”

[bluewxrld07]

Been Like This - (Lando Norris)

Lando Norris X F!Reader

Summary: Lando and Y/N are besties. Someone in the friendgroup admits Y/N is a virgin. Little did Lando know this little secret she has been hiding. She ends up getting all embarrassed, and gives Lando the silent treatment after he jokes about it. He soon realizes that maybe it wasn't something she wanted to have joked about. In which he finally corners her on a night out and gives her a taste of what she’s missing, only for her to turn the tables.

Warning(s): makeout, mutual pining, dirty talk

A/N: lemme know if we want part two!!!

It was more of a laid-back night in Italy for the crew, some of the select friend group had gotten together in the suite that Lando and Oscar shared. The balcony doors were wide open to let in the cool oceanside breeze, the sun nearing to sit at the edge of the horizon with nothing but clear skies above.

Y/N had been sitting on the floor by the foot of the couch, inside the large living room with an almost empty glass of whiskey in hand, as she tried to hold in a laugh at something Max was saying in the group. 

She adjusted the papaya-colored sundress she wore, taking another light sip of the drink in her hand. 

"Okay, but that's not fair to say! I had no idea she was going to be coming back with me in the first place, let alone trying to steal shit from my place. Spare me please!" Max groans as he rubs a hand over his face. 

"Yeah, but dude you totally saw it coming with how she kept hinting at her feet hurting, stating she wanted to go somewhere else much calmer with you," Lando argues, the man sitting at the end of the couch as his hand comfortably sits on Y/N's shoulder. 

"She was practically pleading to go home, Max. Come on now." Y/N chuckles.

"Next time I'm doing a full background check before taking someone home. Damn near died from that encounter alone."

"That'll stop from junior down there for sure." Oscar laughs, nodding down towards his groin, earning a look from Max. 

"Laugh all you want, you were ready to kiss the concrete that night," Max mutters while sipping on his drink. Y/N had to hold a snort back as she sipped her drink, wiping away the drop that spilled from her mouth. 

She felt a small squeeze on her shoulder which caused her to look up at Lando nodding towards her glass. "More?" he asks and she nods while handing him her glass as he stands.

"Don't make me miss anything else while I go get more refreshments. This is too good, I need more on Maxie poo." Lando snickers while walking over towards the kitchen. 

"Like you haven't had your fair share of hook-up nightmares!" Oscar yells out, earning a groan from Lando. 

Y/N lets out a loud snort at that, knowing exactly how bad most had been. 

"Yeah, you've got that right. He keeps a list in his notes app on his phone." Y/N admits, earning howls from the group.

"No way, really? Oh, I've gotta see these." Charles claims, leaning his head back as he lets out a laugh. 

"You little snitch!" Lando giggles as he comes back while pointing at her, she puts her hands up in defense. "You never said I couldn't share between the group. Not my fault there were regulations!" she snorts, giving him a thankful smile while he hands her the new glass of whiskey.

"That's insane you hold that so close to you," Oscar cackles. "Lando's Hall of Fame for worst hookups." 

Lando throws an ice cube at him before leaning back on the couch. 

"Hey easy there Oscar, I hear you're not too far behind either with hookups." Y/N points out, earning a playful eyeroll.

"Yeah yeah okay whatever. I won't say you're wrong on that," he admits, adjusting his position in the recliner before pointing at her with a frown. 

"You wanna play dirty? You want to talk about your body count?" Oscar taunts playfully, making her look up from her glass and give him a pointed look. 

"Don't you dare!"

Oscar puts his hands up in defense. "Hey fine if you don't want to talk about your body count of zero that's fine by me," he says, making her mouth drop.

Everyone immediately looks at her with both shock and amusement on their faces. 

"No way! Dear old Y/N, is this true?" Charles asks.

Y/N facepalms. "Since when did we not know this?" Max laughs out, earning a nonchalant shrug from her.

"Y/N you're kidding!" Lando's voice perks up, earning a flinch from her as she slowly turns behind her to see nothing but shock and confusion on his face. 

To say he was shocked was an understatement. He had been friends with her since before they both could remember, seeing how boys would fall at her feet regardless of how she acted. Especially when high school and college came, she had the biggest glow-up. 

Bloody hell he would have been at his knees if she asked. So hearing this statement not only made something in him ignite, but it also made him feel disappointed at the fact she never told him about it.

"What?" she asks. 

Lando tilts his head lightly at her. "You're a virgin?" he questions.

"Yeah?" she says nonchalantly, trying to keep her embarrassment at bay and hiding how she wanted to shrink away. 

"How did I not know this?"

"It just never came up," she says, taking a sip of her drink. 

Lando leans back against the couch with a lazy smirk as he raises his drink to his lips. "Sweetheart I would've gladly helped if I had known."

Y/N shoots him a frown, making his smirk drop when he notices she is not in the mood for jokes like those. "I mean I would not have judged you for something like that," he says quickly. 

"Lando of all people I feel like would've known. You two have been inseparable for years." Max states, that Y/N justshrugs once more before downing her whiskey in one gulp.

"Didn't really find someone I wanted to lose it to, and then I kind of just didn't care for it," she admits with a dry laugh, standing up from her spot and using Lando's knee as support while she stood. 

"I'm in shock right now. Have you seen what you look like Y/N? How? Literally how?" Charles' girlfriend chimes in, and Y/N blows a playful kiss her way as she walks over to where her shoes are.

"I had bigger priorities is all. Not a big deal." Y/N chuckles. "But speaking of, duty calls. I've gotta be up way before any of you lots in the morning," she says, trying to hide the embarrassment in her voice. 

Her eyes land on Lando's, who have many emotions going through them as he looks at her. 

She bids them all goodnight before heading out and back to her room, immediately feeling the weight on her chest begin to cave in. She wraps her arms around herself as she stalks to her room, ready to call it a night. 

As she was doing her nightly bathroom routine she saw her phone buzz and turn on, showing that Lando had texted her. 

Lando 🧡: Sorry for making that joke, I didn't mean any harm by it

Lando 🧡: Girls like you just usually have history. I was caught off guard

Lando 🧡: Shit that sounded really bad that's not what I meant

Lando 🧡: Can we talk, please?

Y/N rolled her eyes at his text, placing her phone back down while she spit her toothpaste out. It wasn't that she didn't want to experience it, she just never had the full chance to.

When she went on dates or was talking to a guy, it just never really got to that point she just never felt the need for intimacy. 

At first, she thought she was crazy or maybe didn't like boys, but it truly just was never that. She had been one of the girls in school that was so much more focused on her studies and getting her degree than worrying about who was dating who. 

But now she just had a busy work life. Working for Formula One did have many pros of course, but it also had cons where she was traveling and working every single day.

She also had come to realize that she only wanted one person to make her feel that way. To make her feel how the men in the books she read made her insides feel when reading, and it made her realize that all the men she rejected were simple because her body had already chosen its person. 

But she knew better than anyone that Lando didn't go for virgins. She's heard him talk about how afraid he is of them getting attached, or hurting them and he didn't want that on his conscience. 

So she stopped pestering herself about it. 

She turned off the bathroom light as she walked back towards her bed, setting her phone on her charger. She saw another couple of messages come in from Lando, not bothering to read them. 

She sighed before sliding underneath the fresh covers, turning the light off, and looking out the balcony glass doors as the moonlight made its presence known through the windows.

Her eyes slowly shut not shortly after.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lando was losing his mind. 

Not only because it was race day, but also because Y/N had been ignoring him all morning. 

Or so that is what he thinks she's doing. He's known her long enough to know when she's ignoring someone, she does everything in her power to avoid wherever they'll be to avoid confrontation. 

She had already set up his room and pre-race plans before he arrived, the man always catching her leaving right as he was entering, but her figure was turned away from him before she could notice he was coming. 

Little notes had been left on his stuff with her handwriting on it, and they were things she would usually say and instruct him before races. He caught her a few times across the lot talking and laughing with Oscar or any of the other workers. As soon as he would make his way over, she would soon begin to walk off and slyly end her conversation with whoever it was.

It was driving him mad.

Although there was one time he knew he'd get to talk to her before the race, and that was right now. 

She had to make sure the car was all set as he got settled in, then made sure his gear was all in place as he got in. When she came into view, she was bent over the side of the car and checking his coms, RPM amongst other controls. 

"Sweetheart, really?" he asks underneath the helmet, watching as she is mumbling to herself and checking off each thing. 

"Do your radio check in your helmet." she instructs, now leaning behind him. He looks back at her and shakes his head before doing as he is told, rather than testing her patience which he can tell is very thin.

"Y/N," he says, not getting an answer while she makes sure his straps are good while he straps in. Her hand comes across his chest to tighten the top, his hand gripping her wrist which causes her to snap a look at him.

"You know better than to ignore me, sweet girl," he says lowly to her, watching as her facial expression doesn't change and she snags her hand from his grip before straightening back to her position and looking up.

"Everything is good. He's ready." she signals out before walking off.

Lando was about ready to risk everything in that moment, unstrap himself, and go after her, maybe even have his way. Show her what it was like to feel that form of ecstasy he so badly wished she would let him give her. He should have known better after the things he said the night before, but he was just so caught off guard by it. 

But if there was anything he knew, it was to not push her if she didn't want to be pushed. 

Besides, he knew she would seem his ass out if he was so much as a millimeter out of line for a race. 

So he decided that this would have to happen after. 

It has to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It ended up being a great night that night, as Lando was placed on the podium. 

They decided since it was their last night in Italy, that what kind of night would it be if they didn't go out and celebrate the beautiful nightlife that it had? 

So here the entire friend group was, the music booming loudly at the Formula One roofless club/party event as the stars and moon lined the sky above. 

Y/N had still kept her distance the rest of the day after the win, only keeping it professional as she didn't want to hash things out during work. She was not a fan of having to avoid Lando, but she just could not bring herself to look or talk to him after he found that out yesterday. 

Not that she was mad anymore at him, she was more so just embarrassed because Lando was this playboy. He had no trouble with girls, and she knew he would never judge her of all people. 

It just made her think things would be different, especially with how she sees him. Not that he knew that. 

So now here she stood wearing a snug black satin maxi skirt and a matching tup top, a pair of nude heels adorning her feet. She was in a conversation with Max and one of her coworkers, a drink in hand.

Y/N jumped lightly when she felt a pair of hands slither around the skin that was showing between her top and skirt, the hands warm and soft while they stopped at her front. She turned her head around to see Lando already looking down at her with a straight face, giving her a light squeeze. 

She says nothing before turning back to finish the story she was telling, Max not hesitating to catch the look Lando gave him as a hint, giving him a sly nod as they let her finish the conversation. 

"We're gonna go find Charles and Oscar and do some photos. I'll come grab you after?" Max offers her before squeezing her arm as they pass by her and she nods with a warm smile. 

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" she jokes, earning a playful grin from Max, 

"That's a short list!" he shoots back before disappearing into the crowd. 

She turns around in Lando's grasp, looking up at his face and trying to read his expression. 

"You gonna acknowledge me now?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes. 

"Try again," she says with her arms crossed. 

"Why are you mad at me?" he asks her in a softer tone but still demanding. She frowns at him. 

"I'm not mad at you."

"Then why? Why ignore me?"

"I'm not-"

"You've been avoiding me all damn day," he interrupts, his hands leaving her sides as they fall to his. "I couldn't even get a look from you. So don't say you weren't avoiding me."

Y/N knew he was the last person to lie to, knowing he always sees right through her. She purses her lips and huffs. 

"I wasn't avoiding you because I was mad," she admits. 

"Then why were you?" he pesters more, and he sees her looking back and forth between his own eyes, but not missing the split second they flicked down to his lips. 

"Because," she answers shortly.

"Because why?" 

Y/N rolls her eyes and looks away from him, running her tongue over her teeth. Lando takes matters into his own hands, using one hand to grab her face and turn her gaze back to him. 

Not knowing the fire was igniting not only in her, but in him as well.

He always loved her feisty side. The way she was always able to dish it back when she wanted to.

When he got her gaze back on him, he crossed his arms over his chest waiting for an answer. "Why, Y/N?" he asks again. 

"I was embarrassed." she sputters out, her own arms coming to wrap around herself. Lando lets his brows furrow. 

"Why were you embarrassed?" he pushes. 

"I really don't-"

"Y/N."

"You won't look at me the same, Lan," she admits.

He leans closer to her. "Try me, sweet girl." he pushes, making her insides begin to spin in more good ways than one at their closeness.

"Because you're you, Lan," she starts. "I also just couldn't get anyone to make me feel a way I want to feel."

"And how is that?"

She gives him a look. "No." she says before turning away, Lando not far behind her as he grabs her hip to turn her back into him. 

"Y/N," he starts. "I'm not going to judge you. I'd never do that to you."

"You said yesterday-"

"Yeah and I was a wanker for saying that shit, I was just shocked. But I promise you, I won't judge you."

She looks at him with a softer serious look. "You promise?" she asks sternly and he nods. She huffs.

"Nobody could make my body, or my senses and all that, react how it reacts to you." 

Lando swears his heart stops beating for a second, and his stomach begins to churn with a whole other feeling. Lust. Want. Need. 

Y/N watches as his pupils slightly dilate, their closeness still making her heart pump fast as he stares down at her. 

"And how does it react to me? What happens?" he asks in a low voice, making her thighs automatically clench. She lets out a breath. 

Instead of letting her answer, Lando lets one of his hands travel up to push a strand of her hair away before gripping her chin and playing with her lower lip. 

Y/N lets out a deep sigh at the feeling of his thumb grazing over the skin, feeling his other hand drift down to play with the hem of her skirt. His hand every so often caressed below the hem where her lace panties were. 

"What do you feel?" he asks her lowly, a sly smirk on his face. 

She says nothing, only holding their eye contact with such fire and need in her eyes. Instead of her saying something this time, she decides to act. 

Y/N's bottom lip falls open wider, letting her teeth graze his thumb before taking it in her mouth. 

To say Lando was frozen for a second is an understatement. The way her tongue flicked against his thumb made his pants tighten, not missing the way one of her hands trailed up to his toned chest and pushed him lightly back onto the chair behind him. 

She stood between his legs and let his thumb fall from her mouth as it trailed down her chin, to her throat, down the valley of her breasts and her stomach, and joined his other hand at her hips. He kept one hand squeezing at her hip as the other began squeezing at her thigh as he held eye contact with her fiery ones. 

"You asked me what my body feels," she says, trailing her hand that was on his chest up towards his hair. She was softly running her fingers through it as she watched him bite his lip to hide a not-so-slick groan. 

Before he can decipher what was happening, her grip on his hair tightens and she pulls his head back so he is fully looking up at her. She watched his lips part in a soft moan, a sly smirk going to her lips. 

She has him right where she wants him. 

Her other hand finds home on his jawline. She slowly bends down and lets her face hover over his, their lips barely grazing. Lando tries to reach and close the distance but is stopped by the tighter grip she has on his hair. 

"What's wrong, sweet boy?" she taunts, earning a smirk from the boy below against her lips. 

"I want to finally feel how those lips are against mine instead of it being in my dreams, baby," he says back, making her chuckle lowly. 

She obeys his command, placing her lips fully on his. She doesn't miss the noises coming from him as their lips move in sync, or how his hands want to move but stay respectfully where they are.

Y/N pulls away far too shortly after for Lando's liking, smirking against his lips before looking into his eyes. 

"How you're feeling right now," she mutters. "Is exactly how you make me feel. All the time," she admits, making his breathing become rapid. 

She lets go of his hair before standing up straight turning away from Lando and taking a sip of her drink while going to find the rest of their friends. 

Lando didn't fail to watch as her hips swayed side to side when she walked away, having to adjust his pants. 

The fact that she had all this fire in her, the way she was able to make him so close to begging in the span of a minute made him realize how down bad he was for her.

He knew that when he finally got her, he was never letting her go. She was his and he would make sure every man knew that.

This was definitely far from over, and he knew she knew that too.

[kamospeach]

Hey girl, just read your Eren one shot and I was loving ittt. Could I ask for a one shot of Eren x black female bestfriends who have a flirty relationship but Eren finally makes a move when she gets asked out by someone else? #smutty please ☺️

we might share the same brain cell :P

plot: bestfriend!eren is tired of only being best friends.

content warning: pining, mutual pining, jealous eren, oblivious reader, slut shaming (barely), titty sucking, oral f!recieving, fingering, cowgirl

peachy's yap: wc 4k.ᐟ i've literally thought about this so many times i love best friend eren in every way !

“her? nah she's my best friend."

"girlfriend... i don't have a girlfriend. oh y/n? that's my best friend."

"yeah we live together but we're strictly best friends."

those were just three of the many different statements eren replied to strangers. strangers being people your friends brought the two of you around. your friends themselves couldn't even tell others what you both had going on.

"y/n and eren? well, they're best friends, and uh... they hug a lot."

"yeah they do that often, she always sits on his lap."

"when did he start holding her waist in public? that's new."

"truthfully i've seen them kiss. on the lips!"

all of it was true you and eren did hug a lot even cuddle when it was cold. you sat on his lap proudly in public, especially at the club you wouldn't dare let some stripper twerk on your best friend. he held your waist when you and your friends walked around the mall looking for things to buy.

you did kiss twice though once at a dinner party on accident when you turned to talk to eren and the same when he tried to kiss your cheek. another time when you both were crossfaded in your room you looked over at your best friend. his eyes were low and his pink lips shiny from chapstick and he looked very fuckable.

but even after that your friendship stayed the same and you didn't falter. you were best friends and even promised to be in the next life. and today was just like every other day.

"ren!" you yelled and eren walked to you from your shared kitchen. you laid on the couch wrapped in a blanket watching a scary movie. he stood at the end of the couch looking at you with a raised brow.

"yeah ma," he asked and you pointed at the tv his eyes followed your finger. you could barely hear the tv from where you sat. "what you scared?" he laughed at you and you frowned.

"no i ain't scared!" you defended although you were truthfully scared that wasn't what you wanted. "remember how your fat ass stepped on the remote and it broke yesterday?" you said and he looked around trying to act like he didn't hear you.

"what about it?" he asked still looking at the TV.

"i can't hear it and we haven't got a new remote. so can you turn it up pleaseeee?" you asked and he scoffed turning up the TV and looking at you to see if you were satisfied. you nodded in approval happy now that you could hear the TV. "thank you, hun."

"mhm you're welcome," he mumbled walking over to you and kissing your forehead. things like that were everyday interactions for you and eren. it was friendly and you never thought of it any other way. you watched the movie until eren came into the living room with two plates.

he handed you one and sat directly next to you in the corner of the couch. you lifted the blanket placing it over eren's legs. he grabbed your legs placed them over his lap and looked down at you.

"what movie is this again?" he asked and you scoffed rolling your eyes.

"i don't know it's on a random channel, no remote remember." you playfully remind him to which he scoffs. he promised he would go out today and buy a new remote after work.

since you took today off you sat in your room all day waiting for eren to return. just for eren to come back with two bottles of Don Julio, a family box of Cheez-Its, and a value pack of sour gummy worms. everything but a damn remote.

"you don't gotta remind me every time." he laughed and you shook your head.

"i'll go get it tomorrow." you laugh as a comfortable silence settles between the two as you both enjoy the meal. after you both finished he left to clean the dishes and returned minutes later. he sat down in his previous spot except this time he pulled you in between his legs. you leaned your against his chest looking up at him.

"hm?" he hummed in a questioning tone and for a second you weren't exactly sure what you wanted to say. lost in his green eyes that you swore swirled hypnotizing you into becoming a mute. his fingers rubbed small circles on the bare skin of your thigh. his other hand under your oversized teachers resting on your stomach.

"you work tomorrow?" you asked and he nodded looking at the time seeing it was getting close to his bedtime. he was trying to stay up later so you wouldn't call him an old man but he was exhausted. "can i ride with you?"

"yea, you can." he cleared his throat standing you up and standing up behind you. "finna go to bed," he mumbled stretching as your eyes never left his happy trail until it was hidden by his shirt again.

"can you sleep in my room? i got scared." you now admit to being scared by the low-budget horror film. he obliged as you both went to your room.

the next day was how you expected stressful, tiring, and overall draining. it was going on 3 pm and you only had one client left. you had two appointments and even did three walk-ins you were beat.

you looked across the tattoo shop at your best friend who looked even more exhausted than you. he was finishing up his last client it was his second large back piece of the day along with 3 smaller tattoos.

eren was always the busiest it was his shop and everyone loved his work. although you, connie, annie, and mikasa were good at what you did, it wasn't beating eren's talent by a long shot. you stood up walking over to his station sitting next to him watching him work.

after another 20 minutes, your client arrived, he was a regular client for you. if you were being honest you gave him discounts here and there because he was fine as hell. whenever he called and needed you to squeeze him in you never told him no.

"wassup y/n." he smiled his white teeth nearly blinding you with its reflection of the sun. you returned his smile patting the back of the seat.

"heyyy come take a seat," you said and got started with the process. you were first sitting in silence until he asked about your day. taking the opportunity to rant about your stressful day.

"man if i known that i would've waited until tomorrow or when you ain't have as many people," he said and you shook your head.

"i'll never tell you no, you know that." you send him a bright smile and he returns the gesture.

"i must be your favorite?" he laughed and you nodded slowly still keeping your main focus on his tattoo.

"you might be..." you say and he sends you a smirk. he was getting cocky and you fed into it.

"then let your favorite client take you out?" he looked at you and as much as your body wanted to freeze up from shock. you stayed calm lightly nodding your head. "not for no free tattoos or nothin'. i been liking you for a while and i've known you for three years now and..." you cut him off as he started to ramble.

"i'll go out with you." you laughed trying to lighten the mood. he was obviously a little anxious but you admired him for asking.

"oh ok cool, bet." he nodded to himself and you smiled the whole time you finished his tattoo. you were just happy someone you found attractive thought the same about you.

after that, you both said your goodbyes and you walked over to eren who sat in his chair waiting for you to finish. he grabbed your bag from you and you both made sure everything was good to be locked up. you switched the lights off following eren to his bike.

"what were you and that guy gigglin' bout?" eren asked handing you your helmet and you shrugged.

"nothin', much he asked me out and that was about it," you tell eren and he freezes turning to look at you. you weren't sure why he looked so shocked at that statement so you chuckled.

"what?" you asked getting on the back of the bike and he shook his head. not bothering to say anything to you he just wanted to get home. he sped home going a little faster than you liked your arms wrapping tightly around him.

once you both made it back home eren wasted no time jumping off the bike. he didn't even look back at you and rushed into the apartment. you followed behind him oblivious to his anger.

"what you want for dinner i'll cook," you say and he shrugs his shoulders walking to his room and slamming his door shut. you stood in front of the door in shock, you and eren never stayed mad at each other.

you shook your head going to your room and deciding on taking a shower. you sat your phone on the counter in the kitchen along with your keys and bag. you went and did your regular shower routine before going to cook. when you came out eren was sitting at the island eating food.

"you doordashed?" you asked and he nodded. looking down at your phone and then back at his food. you frowned seeing your phone had lit up meaning you had gotten a notification. you walked over grabbing your phone seeing it was a text from the client who had asked you out.

6:23 pm

it was good to see your pretty face today how does friday at 7 pm sound?

you smiled at the message about to text back until eren snatched your phone. you looked up at him with your eyebrows furrowed in anger. "eat your food." he nodded in the direction of the bag and you squinted your eyes at him.

"fuck we forgot the remote again." you groaned. eren watched your every move you felt him watching. but you ignored it not wanting him to know that you were nervous from his intense gaze. "what's your problem today?" you asked getting it over with.

"you gonna go out with him?" he asked and you turned to look at him like he had lost his mind.

"why would i not?" you say grabbing your food and sitting next to him. he hummed nodding his head almost like you were irritating him. you both ate your food in silence just as you were about to swallow your last bite eren spoke.

"you ever thought about how it'd make me feel?" he asked and you choked on your food not sure what he meant.

"what?" you asked and he sighed looking away from you.

"i'm just sayin' like we best friends and stuff..." you cut him off assuming he thought you both had to sit down and contemplate whether or not you would date this guy or not.

"you expect me to run to you like you're my father and ask if it's okay that i date him?" you said now getting angry that eren was acting this way.

"that's not what i'm getting at bruh. i'm sayin' like one guy comes and asks you on a date and you just said yes?" he said and you squinted your eyes at him.

"you callin' me easy?" you asked grabbing your empty plate and throwing it away. not only were you fed up with his attitude his words hurt you.

"no ma that's not..."

"don't 'ma' me. you sittin' here callin' me easy and getting mad that someone showed interest in me. i've never had a boyfriend because they're always scared of you. let me have this one please." you practically beg eren. and then there it was again. that swirling in his eyes that was saying everything and nothing at all. you began to storm off to your room but eren asked a question that made your stomach churn.

"have you ever... thought about me? in that way?" he asked you and you blinked in shock.

"in what way?" you asked, you needed him to be straight up and tell you what he really wanted to know.

"have you ever thought about dating me and uh... being with me?" he asked and you cleared your throat. you never thought you and your best friend would be having this conversation.

"yes i have... maybe a year ago," you admitted and he grabbed your wrist pulling you back to him.

"when we kissed? in your bed?" he asked and you nodded slowly.

"i thought about you for days, months really. i hid the way i felt, i didn't want you to know," you admitted to him.

"i've always felt that way about you," he admitted and you looked at him your eyes running over his face. his eyes, nose, lips, everything that made you feel the way you did a year ago. "don't go out with him... go out with me."

you didn't know what to say but you knew you wanted to kiss him. it had been a year since you felt those lips against yours and you needed him. you were standing between his legs as he sat on the barstool in your kitchen. his hands gripped the exposed skin of your waist as you both stared at each other

you couldn't wait another minute to press your lips against his. the softness of his lips and the urgency in his movements made it all the more sensual. your hands ran along his shoulders finding their way in his hair. you took out his bun letting his hair fall as you ran your fingers through his hair.

"have you ever thought of me like this?" you asked referring to the intimate moment you were both about to have.

"so so so many times," he said breathlessly lifting you like you weighed nothing. he sat you on the counter gripping your thighs and spreading them apart. he stood between your legs and went back to kissing you. his hands found their way to your ass and massage the flesh. your hands rubbed the back of his neck playing with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

he pushed his tongue in your mouth his tongue roaming around your mouth. the kiss was sloppy spit sloshing and swapping between your mouths. he pulled back as a line of spit followed, both of your chests raising and falling at a fast pace.

he grabbed your jaw pushing your head backward and attacking your neck. you whine at the feeling of his teeth grazing the muscles of your neck. he kissed down your neck and behind your ear, you could hear his rigid breathing. his hands reached under your shirt noticing you don't have a bra on.

"no bra?" he asked smirking and you sighed as he pulled your shirt over your head.

"i just g...got out the shower." you stuttered as he rolled his nipples between his pointer finger and thumb. he pulled at them watching your eyes flutter close at the feeling. he roughly grips your breasts fondling them and looking at you.

"put em' in my mouth," he instructed looking up at you through his lashes. your eyes widened at the thought and he nodded letting you know he was serious. he stuck his tongue out as you grabbed your boob placing it on his tongue.

his mouth latched around your breast sucking and lightly biting at your nipple. his hand grabbed your right boob fondling and playing with your nipple until he switched. he sucked so hard that you felt your need cunt clench around nothing wanting him in you so bad. your hands played in his hair pulling him away from your chest.

"why'd you do that?" he frowned looking up at you. his eyes were 3 shades darker.

"i need you..." you whined and he smirked at your neediness. he lifted you off the counter kiss you as he walked over to the couch placing you on your back.

"can i take off your shorts?" he asked and you nodded. he took off your shorts looking at your skimpy panties that were soaked. your juices creating a wet spot on your pretty pink panties. eren spread your legs his nose nudging the spot sniffing your scent.

eren let out a guttural groan and the smell and pulled off his shirt. his body was nothing new to you but seeing him hover above you with his shirt off made it so much more sensual. he unbuttoned his pants taking them off followed by his boxers. he was huge not as big as you imagined but to be fair you imagined him to be 13 inches.

although he wasn't as long as he was in your wet dreams, 8 1/2 inches was bigger than most. he was bigger than most of the guys you followed on twitter. you reached up grabbing his dick and your hand couldn't even wrap all the way around it. you stroked him slowly and he threw his head back his cock already twitching from the feeling.

"let me taste you," he mumbled and you looked up at him with a smile. you wanted to tease him, he was a naturally dominant man. even one second to be a tease was enough to make you feel superior.

"what was that rennie?" you asked in a seductive tone rubbing your thumb across the slit of his tip playing with the stickiness of his precum.

"i said let me taste you," he said louder this time and you nodded. spreading your legs. eren gripped your panties easily ripping them down the middle. your lips and swollen clit on full display your entrance dripping your wetness. "such a pretty pussy... so wet for me." he hummed leaning down to lick a long stripe down your folds.

he sucked on your clit and now and then teased your entrance with his tongue. he groaned into your pussy while he eat you out your body squirming under the feeling. your legs tried to squeeze together trapping his head between them, the feeling so overwhelming.

eren pushed your legs open letting up from your clit. his thumb swirled over your clit and you moaned loudly from the feeling. without warning he pushed his middle finger in fingering you roughly.

"you like that baby?" he asked with a raised brow and your head was thrown back as you moaned loudly at the feeling. he didn't get an answer from you so he pushed in a second finger. you whined at the pressure of a second finger. "you keep ignoring me i'll add a third." he said deeply and you pushed your limits thinking there was no way he would.

he fingered you vigorously so fast that you could hear your juices sloshing. your cunt tightened around his fingers. loving the feeling of his fingers pumping in and out of you. since you didn't answer eren did as he said he would add another finger in. you squealed he was stretching you so good and the feeling was overwhelming.

"m'close ren." you moaned feeling that feeling in your stomach.

"tell me how much you love it then i'll let you cum." he said and your voice was giving out from your moaning and screaming. "c'mon ma just three words." he taunted you while he fingered your wet, needy pussy. he ground his hips into the couch getting harder by the minute watching you leak all over the couch just from his fingers.

"i love it ren fuck!" you yelled and he smirked as your body gyrated from the orgasm begging to be released.

"cum for me baby, cum for your best friend rennie." he said as you let go cumming hard, your cream coating his fingers as your body shivered from the pleasure. "gooood girl," he said pulling his cream-coated fingers out of your cunt. he pushed them into your mouth as you sucked and slurped your cream off his fingers.

he pushed them down your throat making you gag on all three of his thick digits. you smiled at him as he leaned down kissing you. his tongue dancing with yours as he tasted you on your tongue. you sat up pushing him down on the couch. he leaned against the back of the couch as you straddled his waist.

"you sure?" he asked and you nodded wanting to show him what you could do. although you never had a boyfriend didn't mean you never had sex. you wanted to show eren what he had been missing.

you planted your feet on the ground lowering yourself onto him. he moaned in your ear and you whimpered at the way his cock stretched you. he was way thicker than those three fingers he used earlier. you lowered yourself fully onto him until your ass met his thighs.

your eyes were closed and your body ground into his, enjoying the feeling. after you adjusted to the size you began to ride him. your arms wrapped around his neck and his hands gripping your waist.

"fuck baby you feel so good, so wet, fuck." he groaned as you fastened your pace bouncing on his cock. you couldn't slow down you couldn't take it slow, not with the way you felt every inch of his cock stroking your insides.

"mmm ren." you moaned leaning your chest against his kissing him biting on his bottom lip. your pace slowed a little until eren moved his grip to your ass helping you ride him. still kissing you roughly while he moved you to keep the same fast pace.

his big hands almost covering most of your ass, he slapped one encouraging you to ride him faster. he watched the way your beautiful brown ass rippled from the force.

"you're doing so good ma. make us cum." he tells you as your knees got tired and he grabbed you. "you tired baby?" he asked whispering in your ear.

"mmm mhm." you whimpered out and he nodded. eren turned around so you both were lying the length of the couch. he planted his feet fucking up into you. "ren!" you yelled feeling him roughly fuck into you. it was extremely loud the sound of your bodies colliding and your yelling out from eren's rough thrust was enough for the two of you to get noise complaints.

"you close baby? i'm close." he rambled loving the feeling of your walls clenching and unclenching around him. "play with your clit." he demanded. you listened not in the mood to defy him. you rubbed your clit vigorously watching eren bite his lips as sweat ran down his forehead. his hair stuck to his forehead and his broad shoulders tensed as he fucked up into you with immense force.

"m'cumming ren." you moaned loudly and he grunted.

"me too cum with me ma." he said as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you whimpered out in pleasure. "fuck i love you shit," he said and your eyes widened as his warm cum filled you up. his dick twitching and pulsing as his seed painted your insides white.

"y... you love me?" you asked still sitting on his cock as your mixed fluids dripped down his dick and his balls. your body automatically grinding into his at the feeling of being full.

"of course i do i've told you that so many times," he said giving you a confused look and you shook your head.

"no that was as friends i mean do you love me like a lover?" you asked and he smiled at your explanation.

"i never meant it as a friend," he said and you pouted at his statement and you nodded in satisfaction.

"then i love you too rennie."

[yawnderu]

Mine — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Art by @ave661!

Synopsis: knowing he couldn't provide you with the life you wanted, Simon breaks things off with you. Two years later, you come back to base with a baby that isn't his.

Content: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, mutual pining, established relationships, breeding, erotic lactation, romantic love making, praising. No beta we die like Roach.

Ghost always knew his lifestyle would forever be considered out of the norm. A soldier who risks his life every single mission, a man who has built an entire plethora of enemies in multiple countries should never even bother settling down, yet why does it hurt to bad to see you come back to base with a baby that isn't his? It was his idea to break up— not wanting to destroy your dreams of wanting a family in a gated community, even when you reassured him living together as soldiers wouldn't be an issue at all.

"Say 'hi, Simon'." You tell the baby you're carrying, the tiny thing wearing a bear onesie is looking up at Simon, pure curiosity in her eyes. She simply babbles, short arms reaching out to touch his skull mask. To your surprise and to his heart break, he leans down so your daughter can play with the hard plate of the mask, not worried at all about her breaking it.

"She looks like you." He said with a choked voice, trying his best to sound calm. He doesn't even dare look at you, his gaze focused on the tiny girl you're holding.

"Dada!" She babbles out while touching his mask and Simon's eyes immediately go towards you, soul almost leaving his body in fear of seeing disgust on your face, yet all he sees is a bashful smile adorning your pretty features. He holds in his breath, eyebrows furrowed under the balaclava as he waits for your response.

"Astrid, that's—" You begin and she interrupts, one of her tiny hands barely being able to hold one of his big skull gloved fingers. "Dada!" She insists, louder this time. There's only 3 words the little girl can say including 'Dada', so you're not all that concerned about her seeing him that way.

"Sorry, she—" You get interrupted once again, this time by Simon.

"It's okay." If being delusional and pretending this tiny thing is his daughter helps him deal with the heartbreak making his chest hurt, he doesn't mind. The girl clings to Simon's neck and you lean closer, giving her a questioning look. She never liked being held by anyone but you, often crying whenever friends tried to hold her.

"This might sound strange, but..." His gaze shifted from you to the child, heart melting at the little girl holding onto the neck of his jacket for dear life.

"Can I hold her?" His voice was hoarse, hands almost shaking from all the emotions that hit him at once.

"Of course." Your warm smile reassured him, gently passing him the baby. He supported the back of her head with his hand, easily dwarfing her entire skull, yet being so delicate with his touch you could swear he thinks your daughter is made of glass.

Simon felt light headed as the little girl was slipped into his arms, fitting perfectly in his hands. His eyes lit up when he looked down and saw her soft, chubby fingers wrap around the chain of his dog tags, a small smile forming under the balaclava. He brought her close and cradled her, heart thundering in his chest at holding this lovely girl you created.

"Dada." She pointed at him with her finger, looking back at you as she squeezed his chain with her free hand. You could swear you saw one of his eyebrows lifting in amusement under the mask, the same cocky look you know too well.

"Maybe she wants me to be her daddy." He teased you, cradling the baby delicately in his strong arms, shielding her from any danger. He was instantly smitten the second he saw her, content to have your permission to hold her even after all you both went through.

"Don't be so smug about it, bastard." You playfully roll your eyes, leaning your head on his shoulder to give your little girl a kiss on the forehead, her hand holding onto your hair softly the same way you managed to teach her after one too many times of having your hair pulled by the tiny creature.

"Mama." She attempted to pet your hair the same you taught her how to pet a cat, albeit her tiny limbs moved much sloppier and with surprising strength.

"I think it's sweet." He said with a cheeky smirk, the pain in his chest going away more and more the longer he held your daughter. He was secretly hoping to get a reaction out of you after almost two years of not being able to tease you.

"You can tell her no all you want, but if she wants a dada, she's got one." As if to prove his point, he pointed with his eyes to the girl in his arms, the child reaching out towards Ghost with a giggle. His fingers tickled the baby gently, making her laugh even more. You look between Simon and the baby, a fond smile on your lips when you see just how easily they get along, the pupils in his brown eyes fully dilated as he looks down at her.

"Look at her." Ghost spoke softly, one of his skull gloved fingers running down the length of her short hair.

"She looks like an angel." He looked down at the child with nothing short of raw adoration, gaze drifting back to you, taking in the sweet moment of your body leaning against his while you both fawn over the infant. You hesitantly move away from his shoulder after a few seconds and he gives you a questioning side eye.

"I've got a meeting with Price, let me—" You reach out for your baby and he looks down at you, gaze softening.

"I can babysit for you." He offers with a hopeful look in his eyes. How can you deny anything to this man when he's holding your little girl as if he would die for her no questions asked? When those big brown eyes are looking down at you, the moisture in them clear as day? You nod your head, offering a warm smile as you give your baby one last kiss in the cheek, accidentally tickling her and making her giggle even more.

"There's a few baby bottles in the fridge, just run them over hot water for a few seconds until it's warm— but not too warm." He nods his head as you give him instructions on how to take care of the baby, listening intently. He doesn't have the heart to tell you he knows how to take care of a child— he babysat his former nephew many, many times before. He doesn't even realize he dissociated until you gently pat his shoulder, walking to Price's office.

"You and me, yeah?" He asks your baby who simply giggles in return, tiny hands going back to play with the hard plate of his skull mask.

The meeting took much longer than expected, catching up with Price and talking about your possible return to the 141. It isn't until three hours later that you go back to your quarters, heart in your throat when you turn on the lights.

Ghost is laying on your bed, civilian clothes on with a hoodie covering half of his upper face, your baby safely secured on his chest. You don't have the heart to wake them up, instead grabbing your phone and snapping a quick picture, making sure not a single feature of his face is seen for his own safety and privacy.

The change of lighting slowly wakes him up, offering you a tired smile before his eyes close again once he realizes it's just you. You take off your boots and turn off the light, sneaking into bed with your lovely baby and... your ex.

It feels too natural to even think much about it, one of his arms instantly wrapping around your shoulders to bring you closer, head resting on his chest along with the tiny offspring. He drifts off to sleep soundly with his two girls and for the first time in a long time, he's able to get a full night's sleep, not being woken up by his violent nightmares.

Weeks pass as Simon spends more and more time with you, your new contract signed the same day you had a meeting with Price, though he's not putting you on any missions yet until they figure out who will take care of your daughter while you're away. Today Gaz and Soap asked to take her out, claiming they wanted to buy some new clothes for her since she's growing up fast.

"Hey, big guy." You greet Simon, who seems to have relocated to your quarters for whatever reason— the man literally spends his whole time there and you don't even question it anymore, simply assuming he wanted to spend more time with your daughter. You know details here and there about his family, though he was never clear about the full story. You sit down next to him and he nods his head in acknowledgment, too busy looking at his phone.

"Can I buy her this?" He points his phone at you, showing you a website selling pajama pants for babies, the ones he's showing you are grey and have a skull pattern all over. You playfully roll your eyes, nodding your head before laying down next to him, head laying on his chest while you look at his phone, browsing the website together.

"You don't have to buy her things, you know?" You take a few seconds to admire his unmasked features iluminated by his phone—the soft jawline, thin pink lips, high nose and skin around his eyes that always seemed to be tainted with eye black no matter how well he washed it off.

"Telling me what to do, Sargeant?" He teased, raising an eyebrow at you and being an asshole jokingly just to make you laugh. It only earns him a slap on the arm, phone dropping right on his face. He turns his head slowly to look at you and you can recognize the look in his eyes— you try to run away but he holds you down, fingers already tickling your ribs as you laugh and struggle, trying your best to get out of his grasp to no avail.

"Pause." You kick and scream, laughter escaping your lips due to the tickles. As soon as you speak he stops, looking down at you with a tender look in his face. You gasp for air and he takes the chance to look down at your lips, so close, so inviting...

"I saw that." You tease and he jokingly pushes your head into the pillow, laying down next to you with an arm wrapped around your waist. You giggle at the remaining feeling of the tickles before laying back down on your side, hand absent-mindedly tracing patters on his defined, clothed stomach. You don't know when you both started becoming so close again, yet the comfort is always welcome in the turbulent life of a soldier.

"When's that lot coming back?" He looks down at you, longing mixed with curiosity. Truth to be told, he knows the boys will keep your baby safe, but he wants to have her right back where she belongs— in his arms.

"Like... two hours, I think. If they don't find anything too distracting. Don't worry, I made them take a jacket for her in case it gets cold." He would never tell you he was the one to put the baby jacket in the car because they all forgot.

"Good, good." He sighs, looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought. It's quiet for a few minutes, both of you finding comfort in the silence before he speaks again.

"Are you planning on having another one?" He asks curiously, gaze drifting down towards you, doing his best to hide the longing and hope in his tone.

"Maybe." You keep in simple, eyes staying closed as you trace patterns on the muscles of his stomach, feeling them flex involuntarily at your touch.

"Why? Interested on having a family with me now, Simon?" You tease, an eyebrow raised at him as you finally open your eyes. He seems to be thinking about it for a few seconds before hesitantly nodding.

"Bullshit." You sit up, looking down at him with a mix of confusion and hope.

"S' the truth." He plays it off casually as if he didn't confess being ready to do the same thing that broke both of you off two years ago. He pulls you back down to his chest, fingers gently massaging your scalp. You can hear his heart beat fast, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows the knot in his throat.

You stay quiet, unsure of what to say. It's too much all at once— knowing Simon actually wanted to settle down with you bringing a mix of anxiety and fear to both of you equally. He never had a normal family, and though deep down he was scared of being like his father, he already proved to himself he can be gentle and tender, the same way he is with your daughter.

His hand slowly drifted down from your waist to the curve of your ass, softly squeezing it while looking at you for any signs of hesitation. He finds none, and instead sees you leaning closer and closer until your lips crash, the passion of two lovers who never got over one another present in the kiss.

Clothes are discharged all over the room with no care at all, the quarter walls bouncing off with a mix of your moans and his low groans, a pillow under your hips while he fucked into your cunt, slow and deep thrusts making the tip of his fat cock slam into your willing cervix.

"Gonna look so fucking pretty with my kid." He whispers into your ear, breathy groans leaving his lips as his thrusts slow down, making love to you rather than just fucking you for a quick nut. One of his hands cups your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

"Tell me. Tell me how pretty you'll be all swollen with my baby." You hesitate and he kisses your lips gently, gaze tender while he looks down at you, thrusts hitting deeper and deeper each time as he waits for you to speak.

"I'll look... so pretty—fuck— with your child." You manage to speak out between whiny moans, the way he's looking at you with pure love and adoration is all you need to confirm he does find you attractive. Truth to be told, it's difficult being confident after glint through something that permanently alters your body, yet he's looking at you like you're even more beautiful than before. In his eyes, you are.

"That's a good girl." He praises, hips rutting faster against yours as he drove himself deeper and deeper into your cunt, the nasty squelching sound every time he goes hits it hard making this even more exciting. He holds himself up with his elbows, large hands cupping your tits while he pops one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking on it like a starved man finding shelter.

"These tits are gonna be so big too." He murmurs, swallowing the milk coming out of your tits with no hesitation. His hand gets busy with your other nipple, gently pulling and squeezing the sensitive bud, not minding the milk squirting all over. It's too good to be true— your body changing so much to keep your baby healthy and soon enough, it'll change for his baby too.

"So fuckin' perfect, baby." He praises, eyes closing as he focuses on how good your wet walls are wrapping around his unprotected cock, tongue swirling around your nipple before he latches onto it again, drinking the sweet milk coming out.

"This cock's all yours." He lets go of your nipple, face seeking shelter on the crook of your neck as his thrusts get sloppier by the second, embarrassingly nasty words coming out of his lips like prayer. You're the only one allowed to ever see him like this, to have him in any possibly way. He doesn't even care how he's promising you the world, offering all of himself to you without having any doubts.

"Everyone's gonna know you're mine, love." He whispers into your ear, voice hoarse and full emotion, hips stuttering before he buries himself all the way into your cunt, cum splurging out directly into your willing, fertile womb. He keeps himself inside, caging you in with his strong arms into a protective embrace, wanting to make sure not a single drop of cum is wasted.

"All mine."

[jaitunapie]

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

//Kang Haerin x Reader//univ!AU//short oneshot//

ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇx ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴ. ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ.

SYPNOSIS ! You’ve never missed a party. But when Kang Haerin—your best friend/fake girlfriend, and a total loser—cups your face and asks you to stay, how could you possibly say no????

WORD COUNT ! 2k TAGS ! Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Fluff & Tension, Light Angst, Nerd/Loser (idfk)!Haerin, Popular!reader, Subtle Jealousy. friends with benefits???, univ!au, fem!reader ofc, CUDDLESSS WARNINGS ! Mild suggestiveness, gay ahhahahah, idk how to write kissing stuff, kinda rushed but idc, Mentions of alcohol/partying,

AUTHOR'S NOTE ! ohmygoff guys i tried a different header style and i don’t like it but i’m too lazy to fix it 😭 anyway i got this idea from a tt i saw like a year ago lol

You’re sitting cross-legged in front of your vanity, lip gloss uncapped in one hand and your phone in the other. A stream of notifications rolls across the screen—texts from your friends about tonight’s party, someone asking if you’re bringing Haerin, and a single message from your ex that you’ve been ignoring all day.  

The girl behind you shifts on the bed, the soft glow from your LED lights casting faint shadows across her face. She’s still in her oversized sweater, the sleeves bunched over her hands, and her glasses are slipping down the bridge of her nose. Loose strands of hair frame her face as she watches you apply your makeup.  

“You’re really going?” Haerin’s voice is soft, almost hesitant. 

You meet her gaze through the mirror, “Yeah. Why, you gonna miss me?”  you joked

Haerin’s eyes drop to her lap, fingers tugging at the frayed hem of her sweater. “No.”  

You roll your eyes. “Liar.”  

She doesn’t answer, but you catch the way her lips press together.

Most people wouldn’t dare accuse Haerin of lying. Half the school is either intimidated by her or obsessed with her—the whole mysterious, nonchalant dreadhead vibe only adds to the appeal. She’s smart, always at the top of her class, but not in a try-hard way. It’s effortless for her.

At least, that’s what everyone else thinks.

You know better.

“awhh, you’re really not gonna miss me?” you tease, tilting your head.

Haerin’s mouth twitches, almost like she’s fighting a smile. She pushes her glasses up her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “Obviously not.”

Yeah. Sure.

The thing about Haerin is that she’s impossible to read—cold and quiet to most, yet with you, she’s something else entirely. A complete loser, really.

She’s obsessed with frogs. Like, weirdly obsessed. She has a whole album of frog pictures on her phone and once made you sit through a 20-minute Ted Talk about how they absorb water through their skin. And don’t even get started on the fish facts—Haerin has this habit of dropping random, useless knowledge on you at the worst times. (“Did you know some fish can change genders?” she once whispered during a math test.)  

And honestly—You find it kind of cute.

You twist around in your seat, setting your lip gloss down and leaning back on your hands. Haerin’s still looking down, her glasses sliding lower on her nose as she worries the edge of her sweater between her fingers.  

“You could come with me, you know.”  

Haerin scoffs, adjusting her glasses. “Why would I do that?”  

“Because,” you shrug, “it would make sense for my girlfriend to be there.”  

Haerin’s head snaps up, eyes rolling behind her lenses. “You’re really still going through with that?”  

You grin. “We already agreed, didn’t we?”  

“You agreed.”  

“Hey! You agreed too,” you remind her. “You were the one who said it’d be a good idea.”  

Haerin huffs, standing up and heading toward your closet.

The whole fake dating thing had been your idea. After your ex moved on a little too fast, you figured making her jealous was the obvious solution. And who better to rope into your ridiculous plan than your own best friend?

It worked maybe a little too well. Your ex definitely noticed, and Haerin played the part better than you expected. Too good, even. The way she held your hand, the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room—it felt real.

Then your ex texted you she said she wanted to talk, maybe even try again. But you turned her down without hesitation and never mentioned it to Haerin.

And somehow, instead of ending the whole thing right there… you just kept going.

“Great.” You hum to yourself, picking up your brush again.

You hear Haerin rummaging through your closet, followed by the shuffle of fabric. When you glance back, you see her pulling on a blue flannel—and then… a baseball cap.

She adjusts the brim low over her face as she sits back down on the bed.

“You are not wearing a baseball cap to the party,” you arch a brow, grabbing your phone and a handful of makeup products as you walk toward her.

The girl on your bed leans back, tipping the brim upward slightly. “What’s wrong with baseball caps?”

“At a party? Everything.”

You toss the cap behind you and slide into her lap without thinking—an easy, familiar motion, like slipping into your favourite seat. Her hands instinctively hover at your waist, hesitating just for a moment before resting there, light but sure, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Let me do your makeup,” you say, grinning as you hold her chin between your fingers.

“What?” Haerin blinks, pushing her glasses up with her knuckle.

“You’ll look cute.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Silence. Which is basically a yes to her.

“Yay”

Her breath hitches when you push her glasses up onto her head. Her hands tighten on your waist—just slightly, just enough for you to notice.

You pretend not to.

She watches as you put blush onto her cheeks, her lashes fluttering when you swipe a soft stroke across her nose. When you lean in to do her eyeliner, your thumb resting lightly beneath her jaw, you feel it—the faintest tremor beneath your fingers.

“Sit still,” you murmur, leaning in to draw her eyeliner. Your left hand steadies her head, thumb resting just beneath her jaw.

Her gaze flickers up—not toward the mirror, but directly at you.

And now you’re close enough to see the gold flecks in her irises, the way her breath subtly hitches in her throat.

How is she supposed to stay still when you’re this close?

“There.” You smile, brushing your thumb lightly over the curve of her cheek. “Pretty.”

Though, you could’ve sworn you didn’t put that much blush on her…

Haerin avoids your gaze instead flicking toward the corner of the room

“Hm…wait.” You squint, studying her face. “You’re missing something.”

“Ah!...lipstick.”

Her gaze drops immediately to your lips.

You hum to yourself, twisting slightly as you glance toward the side of the couch, brushing your hand along the cushion in search of the tube. “Damn… I forgot to bring it over.”

You start to push yourself up — but before you can move, Haerin’s hands shift at your sides, her fingers brushing lightly over your waist like she’s steadying you.

You blink. “Haerin?”

Her cheeks are bright pink, her breath shaky. For a moment, it feels like time slows. The warmth of her hands bleeds through your shirt, and you’re close enough to see the quick rise and fall of her chest.

And then her hands slide up, cupping your face, her thumbs skimming over your skin.

Your breath stutters.

She hesitates, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up—like she’s waiting for you to stop her.

You don’t.

And then, softly (almost shyly) Haerin kisses you.

Your breath stutters as her mouth moves hesitantly at first—like she’s bracing for you to pull away. But you don’t. Your hands curl into the fabric of her flannel as she leans in deeper, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Problem solved,” she whispers.

-

You’ve always gone to the parties.

Seriously—always. If there’s a party happening, your name is on the guest. People expect you to be there. You have a reputation for it, being the life of the party, the one who knows exactly where the good drinks are, who’s sneaking into the pool after midnight, and which couple is probably going to break up by the end of the night.

Skipping a party? That’s not really your thing.

So when Haerin asks, “You’re really going?” it’s not a weird question. Of course you’re going.

Or… you were.

Your lips are still tingling when Haerin pulls back, just barely, her face hovering so close that you can feel her breath against your skin. Her glasses have slipped down her nose again, and her hands are still cradling your face like she’s afraid to let go.

Your heart is pounding. Actually, pounding might be an understatement —it’s doing backflips and somersaults and possibly breaking Olympic records right now.

“Now, Stay,” Haerin whispers.

Your eyes widen. “Wha—”

She leans in again, a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth this time. So soft you barely feel it, but it sends a hot spark shooting down your spine.

“Stay,” she says again.

You’re starting to feel dizzy. “Haerin—”

Another kiss—this time against your jaw. Her lips linger there for a second longer than they should, and you swear you feel her breath hitch against your skin.

In Haerin’s head, everything’s loud and quiet at the same time.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t real. Just a dumb plan to make your ex jealous. That’s what Haerin had told herself, over and over, every time you held her hand in public, every time you leaned into her side, every time someone called her your girlfriend. It was supposed to be harmless.

But somewhere between the ice cream dates and the way you smiled at her, it stopped feeling fake.

She should pull away. She should stop.

But she can’t.

Because the truth is, Haerin doesn’t want it to be fake anymore.

“Stay.”

Your brain is short-circuiting. Haerin’s hands slide from your cheeks to the back of your neck, her fingertips pressing lightly into your skin.

What the hell is happening right now??

Her lips brush the tip of your nose next —so soft it almost makes you laugh if you weren’t so busy trying not to combust.

“Stay.”

Her voice is steadier this time — more sure of itself.

You can’t breathe. Your hands are gripping the front of her flannel now, your knuckles white from how hard you’re holding on.

Her lips press lightly to the side of your neck next, just below your ear. Warm. Careful. She pulls away slowly, like she’s testing the reaction—and oh god, if your face gets any hotter you’re going to actually catch fire.

You can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except sit there, wide-eyed and very much on the verge of collapse.

Haerin tilts her head, brushing her lips over yours one more time—so soft and slow that it feels almost dreamlike. And when she pulls back, her eyes are dark behind her glasses, her cheeks flushed.

“Stay,” she whispers.

And then-

“...Please?”

Your whole body jolts like someone just hit you with a defibrillator. Haerin’s hands are still cupping the back of your neck, her forehead pressed against yours. Her lips are parted, her breath coming out as shaky.

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out. Your heart is beating so loud you can’t even hear yourself think.

“Uh—”

Haerin’s eyes flick to your lips again— and for a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again 

“Okay,” you breathe.

You don’t even know if you said it out loud or just thought it, but Haerin’s face relaxes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

And just like that

This was the first time you didn’t attend a party.

_______________

Your phone buzzes from where it’s balanced on the edge of the couch. You reach for it, trying not to disturb Haerin—who is currently asleep on top of you, her face buried in the crook of your neck, her arms lazily draped around your waist.

You squint at the screen. Hanni.

You sigh and swipe to answer the call, careful to keep your voice low.

“Hello?” you whisper.

“DUDE, WHERE ARE YOU?” Hanni’s voice is practically vibrating through the phone, loud enough to make you wince. You can barely hear her over the sound of music thumping in the background.

“I’m… not coming,” you murmur.

“What?!” Hanni’s voice sharpens. “What do you mean you’re not coming? Are you sick???”

You open your mouth to respond, but then Haerin shifts, her arms tightening slightly around your waist as she nuzzles closer. A soft hum escapes her lips.

And suddenly, you can't think of a single reason to leave.

“…I just don’t feel like it,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

“You don’t feel like it?” Hanni scoffs. “Girl, Since when?”

You hesitate, shifting your phone to your other hand. Haerin shifts too, her breath warm against your neck. You don’t dare move, the same way you’d stay still if a cat had settled in your lap.

That’s when Hanni’s gaze sharpens. Her eyes narrow as she squints at the screen.

“Wait… why are you whispering?”

“I—”

Her gaze drops. Her eyes widen.

“Wait.” Hanni leans closer to the camera, her brows furrowing. “Are those—”

You frown. “What?”

“Y/N.”

“What??” you panic.

“Are those lipstick marks?”

Hanni’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “IS THAT HAE—”

You hang up.

______________________________

hey guys...i may have a dani version of this if anyone’s interested😈😈

taglist: @arihiu @fruityg0rl @keiji-jin @hazel-tanthamore22 @yjiminswallet @idkwhatim-doinghere101 @gtfoiydlyj @loliue @Mj.Db @jkwsel @saysirhc @peranoo @syronns @angiisss @hwonnrinji @nnewjeansstuff @popasi @greenniee @imsogay504 @wintersgff @kki1ooo @sh1ba100 @tashasmywife

[mandoalorian]

reflections of doom [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: when valentina pairs you and bucky together on a solo mission to find intel on the doomsday protocol, you both are faced with tension, desire, unspoken feelings, and to top it all off, the safehouse only has one bed.

word count: 10500

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mutual pining, sexual themes and tension, touch starvation, there's only one bed trope, vivid descriptions of injury, canon typical language, bucky has implied ptsd, a long chapter to make up for the two weeks without an update! i hope you enjoy<3

masterlist

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The apartment had grown quiet, the tension of the day slowly bleeding away like smoke through a cracked window. Most of the New Avengers had begun stirring, waking up, some nursing bruises and others retreating to lick invisible wounds. You and Bucky hadn’t spoken much after it all — not since the void, not since the kiss.

But now, in the stillness of Shane’s ruined apartment, you pushed yourself up and looked at the Super Soldier — his bruised face, the dried blood across his temple and the gash just above his hip, crimson red leaking out and staining his t-shirt.

“You’re hurt,” you whispered, your voice hushed as you mustered your remaining strength to help him sit upright. Bucky groaned, his face scrunching as pain surged through his torso.

“I’m okay,” he said through a wince, and you frowned.

“Let me help you.” You said softly, rising to your feet and extending your arm to pull Bucky up.

You walked into Shane’s bathroom, Bucky quietly following. As you raked through his cabinets, not caring about the mess you left behind you, you glanced back at Bucky. Colour was draining from his face. He was losing blood dangerously fast. “Take your shirt off, I’m looking for a medkit.”

“Okay.” Bucky replied, his voice barely above a croak. You found an old box — a red cross painted on it, and unclipped it open. Inside was gauze, plasters, bandaids, everything that was needed for an emergency situation like this one.

You turned around, but Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the tub, shirt on.

“Can you lift your shirt?” you questioned, rephrasing your previous ask.

He tried. You watched as his arm faltered halfway, muscles trembling. His jaw clenched tight, not in stubbornness, but in pain.

“…Shit,” he hissed, lowering his arm.

You didn’t wait for him to ask. You reached for the hem of his shirt, your fingertips brushing the edge where the blood had soaked through. It clung to his skin in places, sticky and warm. You swallowed.

“I’ll be careful,” you murmured.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop you.

You lifted the fabric slowly, inch by inch. His abdomen came into view—cut and bruised, yes—but also solid. Toned. The shape of him was nothing short of sculpted, like a body forged through war and pain, beautiful in a way that was deeply human and painfully tragic.

You tried not to stare. You tried.

But your eyes caught on the way his muscles shifted beneath your touch, the deep scars that curved over his ribs, and the faint, silvery marks from years of healing. His body told a story long before his mouth ever had. You wondered how many had ever truly seen him—really seen him—like this. Unarmed. Hurt. Human.

Bucky, on the other hand, could hardly breathe.

Your fingers were barely grazing him, but every brush of your knuckles set fire to his skin. He’d been touched before—doctors, handlers, weapons techs—but this was different. You weren’t just touching him to fix him. You were touching him because you cared. Because it hurt you to see him like this.

And it unraveled something in him.

The heat rose up from his chest to his ears. His throat tightened. He kept his gaze low, fixed on the floor as you lifted the shirt past his ribs, careful not to disturb the deep gash along his side.

He didn’t dare look at you.

Because if he did, he’d see the soft parting of your lips in concentration, the furrow of your brow, the way your gaze lingered just a second too long on his stomach. And that might undo him entirely.

You noticed the tension in his jaw.

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded once, curt. “Yeah.”

Liar.

Your hand slipped behind his back, steadying him as you worked the shirt over his shoulder. The intimacy of the moment hit both of you at once—the way your palm rested against the warm skin of his lower back, the closeness of your faces, the quiet. The heaviness of silence filled with things unsaid.

You finally pulled the shirt off and tossed it aside.

“Jesus,” you breathed, looking at the cut again now that it was fully visible. You pressed your lips into a thin line. “This needs stitches.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “No, I’ll be fine, really.”

“No Bucky, stop. Let me help you.”

There was no venom in your tone. Only care.

The bathroom light buzzed gently above, casting a dim yellow hue over the chipped tiles and cracked mirror. You kneeled before him with the first aid kit open between you both, cotton swabs, alcohol, thread, and a curved needle laid out like instruments in a quiet ritual.

Bucky winced as you dabbed at the wound with a soaked cotton pad, your fingers careful, precise.

“Sorry,” you murmured, barely above a whisper, eyes focused on the gash. “This might sting.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said with a half-smile, voice rough, but soft. “But your hands are a hell of a lot gentler than the medics Hydra had.”

Your brows furrowed, lips parting as if to say something, but you didn’t. Instead, you blew gently across the skin once the alcohol settled in. Bucky flinched — not from pain, but from the warmth of your breath and the sudden awareness of your proximity.

He watched you, trying not to, but failing. The way your lashes dipped downward with concentration. The slope of your neck, exposed where your hoodie hung slightly off your shoulder. The way your bottom lip caught gently between your teeth as you cut up bandages. He could feel your breath when you leaned close, feel the ghost of your fingers when they steadied his skin.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, quieter now. “I’m fine.”

God, he really didn't want you to think he was weak. He suddenly realised just how much he cared about what you thought of him.

“I want to.” you replied gently, eyes flicking up to meet his.

That silenced him. Something shifted in his chest — not the kind of shift caused by impact, but the kind that happened slowly, like tectonic plates moving beneath a surface. You began putting pressure on the wound, an attempt to stop the bleeding at least enough to start stitching.

Bucky sucked in a breath through his nose, not from pain — but from the way your hands moved over him like you meant it. Like you were pouring something into him he didn’t quite know what to do with.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly, not looking up.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “Not really. Just…”

You raised an eyebrow, pausing with the needle half through the skin. “Just?”

He exhaled through his nose, a dry little laugh. “You’re very distracting.”

You couldn’t help the slight smile that ghosted over your lips. “You’re literally bleeding.”

“And still…” His voice dropped. “It’s you I’m noticing.”

Finally, you reached for the antiseptic and needle, and as you began to clean the wound, his eyes finally lifted—just slightly. Watching you.

The way you concentrated, tongue peeking between your lips. The way your brows knit together. Your hands were so gentle, and your touch—God, your touch—burned hotter than any flame he’d known. Not from pain.

From need.

Need he didn’t know what to do with.

You met his eyes briefly, sensing it. Both of you held the gaze too long.

You looked away first. “I’ll be quick.”

“I don’t mind if you take your time,” he murmured. Quiet. Low. A slip of honesty that caught you off guard.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t know what to say to that. But your fingers slowed, just slightly. And he noticed. Your heart stumbled in your chest, hands pausing just slightly. Then, softly, you began threading the stitching through the wound. 

You finished the final stitch, tied it neatly, and began to gently wipe the last of the blood away. Your fingers slowed, becoming more of a caress than a clinical motion. When your thumb brushed lightly beneath the curve of his ribcage, Bucky's breath hitched.

You looked up at him.

His blue eyes were already on you, softened now, storm clouds thinning at the edges. He looked at you like he was trying to memorise your face — as if committing the moment to memory was the only way to believe it was real.

“You remind me of him,” you said softly, after a moment. “My brother. Just with how much you loved Rebecca. You would’ve done anything to protect her.”

Bucky blinked, and something unreadable passed across his face. Maybe grief. Maybe gratitude. Maybe both.

“I tried,” he said hoarsely. “I really tried.”

You reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from his temple. “You were a good brother.”

The words hit harder than you expected — for him, and for you. He reached out, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to flinch, and touched your wrist with his metal fingers. Cold against warm. Steady against shaky.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You stayed like that for a while — two broken pieces stitched together by more than just a needle and thread.

You and Bucky went back into the dingy living space, where the New Avengers were still scattered about the floor. The air still felt heavy, charged, as if your aura had left behind a storm cloud no one knew how to dispel. You sat beside Bucky on the cold hardwood floor, your fingers brushing against the edge of the gauze you’d wrapped around his ribs. He hadn’t said much since you stitched him up—only watched you in a way that made your skin burn and your breath catch. But neither of you brought up the kiss. It hung in the space between you like a blade unsheathed.

Groans began echoing across the room.

Ava was the first to wake up, sitting up and blinking into the dim early-morning light. “What the hell happened?”

Alexei followed, grumbling as he rubbed his temples. “Feels like a hangover, but worse. Like my bones went to war without me.”

Yelena groaned and rolled over, her eyes locking on the shattered door and the cracked drywall. “Shit,” she muttered, sitting up, her voice dry with disbelief. “Please tell me that wasn’t all us.”

Before you could answer, the door banged open—this time deliberately—and Valentina strode in, flanked by a very silent Sam Wilson.

She wore a long black coat that fanned behind her like a cape, and sunglasses despite the dimness. Her heels echoed across the floor as she took in the disarray—splintered wood, broken glass, Shane’s blood trail leading nowhere, and a visibly shaken team.

He was gone.

“Well,” she said with venomous cheer, removing her sunglasses slowly. “Looks like I missed one hell of a party.”

Nobody moved. Sam’s gaze flicked between each of you, but it lingered on you and Bucky—specifically the closeness between your bodies. The proximity. His jaw twitched, but he said nothing.

Valentina continued, “Can someone explain why seven of my assets are scattered around a wrecked apartment like passed-out frat boys?”

Bucky stood first, his hand brushing your shoulder as he did—a quiet check-in. You nodded once. He turned to Valentina, his expression cool.

“Shane took her. I found her. Things escalated.”

“Shane?” Sam narrowed his eyes, unable to hold his concern back.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” John muttered under his breath, helping Ava to her feet.

Valentina’s stare shifted to you. “You alright, sweetheart?”

Your throat was dry. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Valentina’s tone grew sharp. “You blew out the entire team’s aura receptors. You practically launched them across the room.”

Yelena piped in, “Don’t blame her. That asshole Shane showed up—”

“—and we handled it,” Bucky cut in, his voice low and firm. “It’s over.”

But Valentina wasn’t finished. “It’s not over. Not even close.”

She turned to Sam, handing him a sleek silver tablet from inside her coat. Sam tapped it and frowned, his eyes flicking rapidly over the contents.

Valentina addressed the room. “Our contacts just intercepted an encrypted transmission underground, tied to what we believe is the next phase of the alien incursion. We’ve found traces of what could be the first stage of a Doomsday Protocol—something buried, something ancient.”

“Where?” Ava asked, still clutching a heating pad to her side.

Valentina smirked. “Up in Toronto. We’re sending two agents in to investigate—quiet, stealthy, off the grid.”

Your stomach twisted even before she turned to you and Bucky.

“You two,” she said, with a nod. “Suit up. You’re leaving tonight.”

Sam’s head snapped up. “Wait—no. That’s not a good idea.”

“They work well together,” Valentina said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Sam’s voice lowered, tight with unease. “They nearly died together.”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “Which means they know how to survive.”

Your head jerked slightly at that, but you said nothing. Bucky was unreadable beside you—shoulders square, jaw locked.

Sam stepped toward her. “I should be with her—”

“No,” Valentina cut in coldly. “You’ve got your own assignment. West Coast leak. Classified. You leave at dawn.”

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Finally, he looked at you, something unspoken flashing in his expression—concern, frustration, maybe even heartbreak.

But he didn’t argue.

Valentina clapped her hands once. “Everyone else—rest up. Briefing packets will be on your devices by noon. You’re all dismissed.”

As she strode out, Sam followed silently, but not before giving you one final glance.

The door shut behind them, and the room exhaled.

Yelena groaned. “You guys get all the cool missions.”

John scoffed. “Cool? Sounds like a death trap.”

Ava elbowed him. “You’re just mad you’ll miss their bonding time.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, standing slowly.

You turned to Bucky, your eyes meeting. There was still something unsaid. Something big. But it stayed unsaid, like everything between you.

He gave a small nod.

You nodded back.

The mission loomed.

But so did something else.

────✪────

The zipper whispered closed as Bucky fastened the last seam of his tactical suit — matte black with reinforced plating, sleek but utilitarian. His reflection in the mirror didn’t quite match the image in his head. He looked like a soldier again. A leader. But under all that armour was still the fraying thread of a man clinging to something unspoken. You.

A knock.

He didn’t move at first. Then, “Yeah.”

The door cracked open and Bob stepped in. His curls were messier than usual, his face tired, like the aftermath of a storm had settled behind his eyes.

“I, uh…” Bob rubbed the back of his neck. “Wanted to say sorry.”

Bucky turned from the mirror slowly, brow raised.

“For the void room,” Bob clarified. “Dragging you back into that without warning. I didn’t realise how much it would take out of you. Or her.”

There was a long pause.

Bucky pulled on his gloves with deliberate care, fingers flexing. “Yeah, well, lesson learned.”

“I’m just really sorry,” Bob insisted, stepping further in. “That room—the things you’ve survived—it isn’t something anyone should have to relive.”

Bucky finally looked at him. Really looked. “I’ve relived it a thousand times,” he said. “The difference is—this time, she saw it too.” He swallowed hard. “Now she knows.”

Bob nodded, sensing the weight under those few words. There was something else, unspoken, but he didn’t press. Instead, he hesitated. “She sees you differently now?”

Bucky’s gaze shifted slightly. His jaw clenched. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bob didn’t believe that for a second, but he didn’t push. “Still. I won’t use the void again unless it’s absolutely necessary. What happened in that apartment…” He glanced down at his own hands. They still tingled sometimes, a strange energy humming beneath his skin. “It changed something. In me.”

Bucky tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Bob admitted, uneasy. “It’s like the void didn’t just show me things. It… left something behind. I feel—charged. Like… the Sentry. Remember?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Of course I remember,” Bucky said finally, voice low. “But be careful. Bob, it’s not worth going back there.”

Bob nodded slowly, the weight of the warning sinking in. Then he stepped back toward the door.

“Good luck on the mission,” he offered.

Bucky turned back toward the mirror as Bob left. His eyes were colder now, steadier. He grabbed the comm device and slid it into his ear, the familiar beep grounding him.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Bucky was alone again—with his reflection, his thoughts, and the ghost of her fingers stitching him back together just hours ago.

Meanwhile, the light overhead was sterile and cold as it hummed quietly, reflecting off the metal finishes of the Avengers Tower training room. You stood in front of the floor-length mirror, adjusting the sleeves of your new suit with a furrow in your brow. The material clung to your frame like second skin — black with faint, shimmering threads of iridescent colour that pulsed with faint glow near your chest, forearms, and down the spine. It was sleek, tactical, built for agility and durability, but clearly designed around your aura.

Too designed.

You tugged at the high collar, then shifted uncomfortably in the boots. "I look like I stepped out of a damn comic book," you muttered, flattening your palm against your stomach where the fabric sparkled faintly with residual warmth.

Valentina had commissioned it — something about aura conductivity, weaponized emotion, kinetic distribution. It translated into sharp lines and combat-ready mesh, with faint circuit-like designs that flared with your emotional state. You hated how much it revealed. Not physically — though it was snug — but emotionally. It was like wearing your soul on your sleeve… literally.

The door opened behind you with a soft hiss.

You turned slightly, expecting maybe Yelena or Ava. But it was Sam.

He lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze dropping momentarily to the suit before he lifted his brows, giving a low, playful whistle. “Damn. You look like you could be an action figure.”

You gave him a dry look, but your lips twitched into a smile. “Shut up.”

He came inside anyway, closing the door behind him with a soft click, then leaned against the table like he’d done this a thousand times before. He looked more rested now, though something remained behind his eyes — worry maybe. Or exhaustion he hadn’t yet voiced.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

You took a long breath. “No.”

There was a silence — the kind that wasn’t heavy, just… honest.

“I kissed him,” you blurted out. “Bucky. After I saw his void rooms.”

Sam didn’t flinch. He blinked, once, and then looked down at the floor with a slow exhale. “Huh.”

You watched him carefully. “Say something.”

He took a beat, then met your eyes. “I figured something had happened. You were different when you came back. He was too.”

You turned away again, to the mirror. “It didn’t fix everything. I’m still hurt. Still confused. But… seeing what I saw, it broke something in me. Or maybe it fixed something.”

Sam nodded slowly, his voice low. “Those rooms mess you up. And you saw his.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “All of them. And still, I’m not sure I’m ready to forgive him. But… I want to.”

There was a quiet kindness in Sam’s voice when he asked, “Do you love him?”

You hesitated, lips parting — but the words didn’t come. Instead, you said, “I don’t know. I just… I don’t hate him anymore. And that’s not nothing.”

Sam stepped closer now, placing a hand gently on your shoulder. “That’s everything.”

You looked at him, really looked. “Do you hate him?”

Sam's face grew still — not cold, but careful. He was always careful with his words when it came to Bucky. “It’s complicated,” he said finally. “But no, I don’t hate Bucky. He’s… like a brother to me.”

“And sometimes brother’s fight.” You huffed in quiet understanding.

“Exactly.”

You nodded slowly, heart heavy. “I just… I don’t want this to make things worse. For the team. For us.”

Sam offered a faint smile, something sad but real. “We’ve been through worse. We’ll get through this too.”

Then, because it was Sam, and because you needed it — he pulled you into a hug.

You leaned into his chest, grounding yourself against the strength of someone who had always stood firm, even when the rest of the world crumbled. Sam didn’t hold you like you were fragile — he held you like you were trusted.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured. “Both of you. Just… don’t lose yourself in trying to fix him.”

You pulled back, nodding.

“I won’t,” you said quietly. “I think… I think I’m starting to fix myself.”

Sam gave you one more reassuring look before stepping away and heading for the door.

“You got this,” he said, then gave a faint grin over his shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, you really look like an Avenger.”

That made you smile.

As the door slid closed behind him, you turned back to the mirror. The suit still didn’t feel like you. Not yet. But maybe it didn’t have to — maybe this version of you was still becoming.

And maybe, for once, you were okay with that.

────✪────

The hum of the car was steady and low, the kind of sound that blurred into the background until it became part of your bones. Night had fallen fully now, the sky painted in ink, broken only by the occasional glare of headlights bouncing off highway signs and patches of fog drifting like ghosts across the road.

You sat slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted back against the rest, eyelids half-shuttered. The car wasn’t built for comfort — the leather was cold and rigid, the ride too smooth to lull you into sleep, but not rough enough to keep you alert. Your legs ached. Your stomach growled. Every muscle in your body was one twitch away from giving up completely.

“How much longer?” you mumbled, barely opening your eyes.

“Thirty minutes, give or take,” Bucky replied from behind the wheel, voice low and even.

You groaned. “Feels like we’ve been in this car for days.”

“You say that like it’s my fault.”

“Well, you’re the one who refuses to stop,” you muttered.

“I’m not tired.”

You turned your head, cracking an eye open. “Not tired? You’re not even a little tired?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t really happen anymore.”

You blinked, a beat of quiet passing. “You don’t sleep?”

“I can. I just… don’t need it as much. Not like you.”

You stared at him for a moment, and even in the dark, you could see the shadows under his eyes. The quiet way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly — not fatigue, not strain… something older.

“That sounds awful,” you said.

Bucky shrugged. “It has its perks.”

“You mean like staying up all night and spiraling in your own head? Sounds amazing.”

He glanced at you with a faint smirk. “I wasn’t gonna phrase it quite like that.”

You exhaled a dry laugh, then went quiet for a long while. The only sound was the road beneath you, the occasional tick of the turn signal as Bucky changed lanes.

“What do you even do when you can’t sleep?” you asked finally.

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted.

“Read. Train. Sit in the dark.”

You turned your gaze back to the window. “Do you dream?”

“Sometimes.”

“Nightmares?”

Another pause. Then: “Yeah.”

You nodded, letting that sit.

You didn’t tell him about yours. About the void. About the sound of your own screaming echoing through dream after dream.

Your stomach growled again, louder this time. You winced.

Bucky glanced at you. “Hungry?”

“I could eat a small country.”

“There’ll be food at the safe house.”

“Please let it be pizza,” you said, eyes closing as you slumped lower into the seat. “And chocolate. Like, an indecent amount of chocolate.”

“Can’t promise gourmet,” he said. “Valentina stocks for efficiency, not cravings.”

“She’s evil.”

“She’s pragmatic.”

“Same thing.”

He huffed something like a laugh and went quiet again. You let yourself drift in and out — not fully asleep, not fully awake, your body hovering in that strange liminal space between exhaustion and adrenaline. Bucky’s presence was solid beside you, annoyingly steady, like he hadn’t flinched once since you got in the car.

“You really never get tired?” you asked again, voice sleep-thick now.

“Not in the same way.”

You cracked one eye open and mumbled, “That explains the attitude.”

He didn’t look away from the road, but his mouth twitched. “You’re real sweet when you’re sleep-deprived.”

“And you’re less charming than a brick.”

Another quiet beat. The bickering was softer now. Familiar. Like slipping into a rhythm that neither of you quite meant to fall into, but couldn’t help anyway.

The road stretched on ahead, endless and dark. The safe house wasn’t far now.

You sank deeper into the seat, breath slowing, limbs heavy.

And beside you, Bucky kept driving, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel — but his thoughts weren’t on the mission. Not really.

They were on you.

And the silence between you, still holding all the things neither of you were ready to say.

The car rolled to a slow, gravel-crunching stop in front of a nondescript cabin nestled in the woods. Tucked back from the main road and dimly lit by a single porch light, the place looked like the kind of hideout someone might use when they needed to disappear.

Bucky turned off the engine, killing the hum of the car, and was met with immediate silence — save for the quiet rhythm of your breathing from the passenger seat. You were curled slightly toward the window, arms crossed over your chest, knees tucked up like you were trying to make yourself smaller. Your mouth was parted slightly, a soft puff of breath fogging the glass beside you.

He turned to look at you fully. You looked… peaceful. For the first time since he’d met you, your face wasn’t twisted in anger or sharp with sarcasm. You just looked like someone who was exhausted — deeply, utterly spent.

He hated waking you.

But he had to.

He leaned across the centre console and gently nudged your arm. “Hey.”

No response.

He tapped again, a little firmer. “We’re here. Time to get up.”

Nothing.

“Come on,” he said under his breath, glancing toward the cabin like the silence might echo. He reached out and poked your shoulder with one finger. “You’re not dead, right?”

Still nothing. So he kept poking at you.

Now he was squinting suspiciously.

He gave your upper arm a little shake. “Don’t make me carry you.”

You stayed limp, your breathing suspiciously steady.

“Seriously?” he muttered, eyes narrowing. He poked you again. Then again. He even pushed a lock of hair from your face to get a better look. “You are way too still.”

Then, just as he leaned in closer — frowning, genuinely concerned now — your eyes flew open.

“BOO!”

He flinched so hard he hit the steering wheel with his knee. “Jesus!”

You burst into laughter, gasping for air and folding in on yourself as your entire body shook. “Oh my god — you jumped!”

“You were awake?” he asked, eyes wide, half a scowl tugging at his face.

“I was asleep!” you managed between breathless laughs. “But then you kept prodding me — with your stupid finger — and I woke up like ten seconds ago.”

He rubbed his face, muttering something about payback, but the corner of his mouth was twitching — he was trying not to smile.

You laughed harder. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“I thought you passed out,” he grumbled. “Or went into some coma from lack of sugar.”

“I’m fine. Just tired. And hungry.” You unbuckled your seatbelt and stretched, arms above your head, shirt riding up just slightly as you yawned. “Also, scaring you? Highlight of my night.”

Bucky got out of the car and walked around to your side, opening the door for you without saying anything. You stepped out, still grinning like an idiot, while he pretended to ignore it.

“I hate you,” he said flatly.

“No you don’t.”

“Right now, I do.”

You bumped your shoulder into his as the two of you made your way up the steps of the cabin. “You’ll get over it.”

He didn’t respond, but his expression had softened. Just slightly. Enough for you to notice.

You paused in front of the door, arms crossed. “Place better have food.”

You pushed open the creaky wooden door of the safe house and immediately frowned. The interior was darker than expected, lit only by a single overhead bulb that flickered as if deciding whether it wanted to stay on. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and metal. And the size — well, “safe house” was generous. “Storage shack with plumbing” might’ve been more accurate.

Bucky stepped in behind you, eyes already sweeping the room with that silent, calculating precision. You didn’t even need to look at him to know he was cataloguing every exit, every window, every potential threat — like he always did. You, meanwhile, were cataloguing the lack of everything.

There was one bed. A small bed. A very small double bed pushed up against the wall with creaky wooden slats and one thin blanket folded at the foot.

A mini-fridge sat on the floor in the corner, humming quietly. You crossed the room in two annoyed steps and yanked it open. The soft orange light inside revealed nothing but a few ration packets and a single bottle of water.

Your stomach sank. Then growled.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, pulling out one of the packets and turning it over in your hand. “Is this—? This is like—wartime food.”

“Actually,” Bucky said, still scanning the perimeter, “wartime food was worse. I would’ve killed for these.”

You shot him a look. “Of course you would say that.”

He shrugged. “Just saying. This stuff has flavour at least.”

You opened one of the packets, gave it a sniff, and recoiled. “Flavour of regret, maybe.”

Bucky smirked — a brief, crooked thing — and walked past you to open the bathroom door. “There’s a shower. Toilet. Two towels. No soap.”

“Oh, fantastic,” you deadpanned. “Let me guess. We’re gonna take turns pretending this place isn’t disgusting?”

“Yup.”

You sighed and tossed the ration pack back in the fridge like it had personally offended you. Then you turned back toward the bed. “Okay, now the real crisis.”

Bucky’s gaze followed yours to the bed. The too-small, too-narrow bed.

He scratched at the back of his neck. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Yeah, no,” you said immediately. “You’re still stitched up. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ve slept in worse conditions.”

“Not with half your side torn open, you haven’t.”

“Uh— actually—“ Bucky started, but you cut him off.

“Why am I not surprised.” You huffed.

He gave you a stubborn look. You returned it with one of your own.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” you offered instead.

He actually scoffed. “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been falling asleep mid-sentence for the last hour.”

You folded your arms. “I’m not letting you lie on cold floorboards with bruised ribs and stitches. Just shut up and let me—”

“We’ll share the bed,” Bucky said suddenly, like the words had been wrenched out of him.

You blinked.

“…What?”

“I’m not arguing about this all night. You’re not sleeping on the floor, I’m not either. The bed’s big enough. We’ll just—” he gestured vaguely, then grabbed a pillow and held it up like a peace offering “—put a wall between us.”

“A pillow wall?” you repeated dryly.

He nodded once, entirely serious. “Pillow wall.”

You hesitated. The bed didn’t look any bigger now. If anything, it looked smaller.

“…Fine,” you muttered, snatching the other pillow from the top of the bed and throwing it down the center. “But if you snore—”

“I don’t.”

“If you kick—”

“I won’t.”

“If you roll over and smother me—”

“I’ll try to resist the urge.”

You stood from the edge of the bed with a groan, your limbs heavy and sore from the long ride and the aftermath of the fight. The muscles in your lower back ached, and your head pounded with the residual throb of adrenaline fading too slowly.

“I’m gonna shower,” you muttered, grabbing your pack and already making your way toward the bathroom.

Behind you, Bucky glanced up from where he sat unlacing his boots, his expression neutral but tracking your every movement like his eyes didn’t know how to stop.

“Leave me some hot water,” he said, almost casually.

You stopped in the doorway, turned slightly. “You’re not showering.”

He blinked. “Why not?”

You gestured toward his bandaged torso. “Because your ribs are stitched together like a damn patchwork quilt. You get those wet and it’s an infection waiting to happen.”

“I’ll be careful,” he argued, his brow furrowing.

“No.” You narrowed your eyes. “You shower when I say it’s safe, Barnes.”

He gave you a slow look, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You giving orders now?”

“I’ve always given orders. You just like pretending you don’t listen.”

He exhaled a soft, low scoff, but didn’t argue. Still, his gaze lingered on you as you stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, and you swore you could feel it — that low burn of attention, even through the wall.

Inside, the bathroom was barely the size of a closet. The light overhead buzzed faintly, and steam from the old pipes hissed before the water even turned warm. You peeled off your clothes slowly, each piece clinging to your skin, weighted with dried sweat and dirt and everything you hadn’t had time to feel until now.

When you finally stepped under the stream, the hot water hit you like a flood. You inhaled sharply and let it pour over your shoulders, your back, your neck. You tipped your head forward and braced your arms against the wall, letting the heat melt everything off your bones.

Except him.

You couldn't stop thinking about him.

Not the soldier, not the killer — but the man. Quiet. Watchful. The way his body had pressed into yours the night before. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching — like he wanted to touch you but didn’t think he was allowed to.

You thought about the tension that never quite faded. The way your mouths had found each other in that raw, breathless moment, the ache of it still burning somewhere under your ribs.

You thought about his voice when it went soft. You thought about his hands.

Your stomach tightened. Heat pooled low and heavy between your thighs. You hated that the steam wasn’t the only thing making your skin feel flushed.

You cursed under your breath and forced yourself to finish up quickly, wrapping one of the scratchy towels around your body. It barely covered you, hugging your damp skin and clinging to the slope of your hips.

You cracked the door open. The air outside was colder, dry and sharp against your shower-warmed skin, and your footsteps were light across the floor as you stepped into the dim main room.

Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, his metal arm resting across his lap. He’d changed into sweatpants, and was in the middle of pulling a fresh shirt over his head.

He froze.

His eyes landed on you — and stayed.

His gaze dragged down, slow and deliberate, following the exposed line of your collarbones, your wet shoulders, the towel that dipped low across your chest and barely met mid-thigh.

His breath caught audibly.

You paused just inside the doorway.

His pupils were blown wide, lips slightly parted. For a moment, it was like he forgot how to breathe.

“I—” he tried, his voice hoarse. He turned his head away too late, jaw clenched like he was fighting something primal. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to—shit.”

You said nothing for a second. Heat curled in your belly. There was a thrum in your chest, loud and fluttering. “Don’t look,” you told him softly, a breath away from a laugh — but it came out too warm, too affected.

“I’m not,” he said quickly, facing the opposite wall now. “Anymore. I mean. I was, but—fuck.”

You almost smiled. Your pulse thundered. The towel suddenly felt scandalously small.

You stepped around him carefully, avoiding his eyes, the scent of him sharp and warm and overwhelming this close. You could feel his body heat radiating off him. He was so solid, so still. Like a lion trying not to pounce.

You pulled a fresh set of clothes from your pack — cotton shorts and an old, threadbare baby tee. The towel slipped a little as you moved and you heard the subtle intake of breath behind you.

“I can hear you looking,” you said without turning.

“I’m not looking.” A beat. “I’m…listening.”

You huffed out a short laugh and peeled off the towel, slipping the tee down over your still-damp body. The fabric clung to you in all the wrong places, thin and a little sheer. You didn’t care. Not really.

When you finally turned, Bucky was staring straight ahead, jaw set like a man on the edge of a cliff. His fists were clenched.

You could feel it — the pull between you. The air thick with it. Your skin prickled.

Neither of you said anything.

But both of you felt everything.

You sat on the edge of the bed beside him in silence, your shoulder brushing his.

Your pulse didn’t settle.

And you could feel the tension curling tighter, waiting for something to snap.

────✪────

The silence that filled the safe house was deep and familiar. A kind of stillness that felt too practiced, like the walls themselves were used to hosting soldiers between battles. The buzzing fridge in the corner was the only real sound, besides the occasional hum of traffic in the distance.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, a ration packet in your lap and an expression of pure betrayal written across your face.

“This is actual garbage,” you muttered, poking at the contents with your spork. The texture was wrong. The smell was wrong. The consistency — questionable at best.

Bucky sat a few feet away, legs stretched out in front of him, his own ration already halfway gone. He popped a piece of dried meat into his mouth and chewed like it was a five-star meal. You stared at him, disgusted.

“You’re enjoying this?” you asked incredulously.

He looked up with raised brows, still chewing. “Yeah. It’s not bad.”

“You’re a monster.”

He snorted. “You’re just spoiled.”

You made a face and dramatically dropped your spork. “This tastes like dog food that was left in a desert bunker for seventy years.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, in World War II.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” He pointed his spork at you. “This is gourmet compared to some of the rations we had in the 40s. We used to trade powdered eggs like currency.”

You stared at him. “That is horrifying.”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug and reached for your untouched packet. “You gonna finish this?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“You’re not gonna eat it. Don’t let it go to waste.”

You watched, incredulous, as he started digging into your rations like it was nothing. “You really are enjoying this.”

He offered you a smirk, faint and a little smug. “Told you.”

You leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. “I was imagining pizza and chocolate. This was not the mission food I had in mind.”

Bucky paused mid-bite. “I’ll get you pizza after this,” he said, voice low but sincere. “Real pizza. With actual cheese. You can pick the toppings.”

You looked at him then, really looked — the way his jaw ticked when he was trying to mean something without getting too sentimental, the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly when he made a promise. You could feel the sincerity in the air between you. And despite everything — your past, his past, the chaos still waiting for you — that small, quiet gesture felt bigger than it should.

“Extra cheese,” you said softly. “And garlic crust.”

“Deal,” he murmured.

A beat of quiet passed.

You pulled your knees up to your chest and hugged them loosely, your gaze on the floor. “You ever just… want it all to stop? The missions, the danger. The weight of all of it. I know I’m new to this but it’s harder than I was expecting.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Every day.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No dramatic pause. Just the truth.

You looked at him again, this man who carried centuries of pain in the lines around his mouth and the silence in his eyes. He always seemed half-tense, like he was waiting for something to go wrong — even now, in the soft, warm glow of your quiet meal.

“Do you think we ever really get peace?” you asked.

He was quiet for a long time. Long enough you almost thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then, softly: “I think we get moments. And if we’re lucky, we get someone to share them with.”

You felt something twist in your chest — slow, aching, and warm.

You swallowed. “You’re a lot more poetic than I expected.”

He looked at you with a faint, lopsided smile. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my whole reputation.”

You let out a soft laugh, and for a moment, the tension between you both eased. The world outside could wait. The mission, the questions, the nightmares — all of it could wait. Here, in this crumbling safe house with nothing but ration packs and half-hearted sarcasm between you, you let yourself feel something gentler. Something tender.

“I’m still mad about the food,” you muttered, nudging his arm lightly.

He looked at you sideways, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll make it up to you.”

You nodded. “You better.”

He didn’t say anything after that. But when he looked at you — really looked at you — the silence between you was loud with things neither of you were brave enough to say.

Not yet.

By the time you both finished the rations — or rather, Bucky finished yours and his — the hum of the safe house had settled into a lull. It was quiet in a way you didn’t trust, as if even the walls were holding their breath. The warm light from the single bulb overhead flickered now and then, casting long shadows against the peeling plaster. You sat at the edge of the bed, poking half-heartedly at the seams of your pajama shorts and trying to ignore the ache in your limbs and the low rumble in your stomach that Bucky’s post-ration “I’ll get you pizza” promise hadn't quite cured.

Across from you, Bucky knelt slowly on the floor, brushing a hand along a scratch in his arm. He rolled his shoulder, testing the range of motion. You watched the muscle of his back flex beneath his T-shirt, the lines of his body shifting with the ease of someone trained for battle — and yet, the tension in his neck hadn’t eased since you’d stepped into the room.

He stood, and you watched him eye the bed like it was a damn landmine.

“So,” he said finally, nodding toward it. “We should probably get some sleep.”

You yawned, exasperated, and sank onto the mattress. “Sleep sounds amazing.”

Bucky stepped toward the bed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to recon with it. 

“Yeah—uh—“ he stalked and circled around it. Around you.

“Barnes, what are you doing?” You narrowed your eyes. 

“Trying to find an entry point.” He muttered.

“What?” You couldn’t hide the confusion on your face.

“Well, the bed looks smaller from here and I don’t wanna touch you. Can you move along a little?”

You groaned and rolled over.

“A little more?” Bucky requested politely, almost nervously.

“If I give you any more space then I’ll be on the floor. Just get in.” you groaned.

Bucky scratched the back of his neck hesitantly. “Okay.”

The super soldier sunk into the mattress beside you, half his body nudging on top of yours. “Fucking hell Bucky,” you cursed, pushing him off you. “Your coordination is terrible.”

“Now who’s complaining,” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, we’re both adults. We’ve shared worse spaces. It’s one night.”

“Yeah, except you take up, like, 90% of the mattress.”

“I do not.”

You looked him up and down — all broad shoulders and towering height and thigh muscles that could probably crush steel. Then you looked at the small, sad excuse for a double bed that you were sitting on.

“Okay,” you said flatly. “Let’s do the math. You, plus me, plus your oversized ego…”

“That’s not how math works,” he muttered.

“…equals no room,” you finished.

Bucky gave you a long-suffering look, clearly weighing whether arguing further was worth it. He eventually let out a low sigh and kicked off his boots.

“We’ll split it down the middle. No touching, no snoring, no stealing blankets,” he said, like he was setting terms for a treaty.

You narrowed your eyes. “What if you’re the one who snores?”

“I don’t snore.”

“How do you know? You’re asleep.”

He shot you a dry look. “I just know.”

You grumbled something under your breath and grabbed the pillows from the bed, arranging them in a long line down the middle. “Fine. But this,” you gestured to the fluffy barricade, “is the neutral zone.”

He nodded solemnly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Switzerland.”

“Exactly.”

You both slid under the covers, the awkward shuffle of movement accompanied by the creak of the mattress and the thud of Bucky’s elbow smacking into your side.

“Jesus—” you groaned, curling away from him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly, shifting toward the wall. “I didn’t realise you were that close.”

“There’s no space!” you snapped, fluffing your pillow aggressively. “You’re literally all shoulders and thighs.”

“Well, excuse me for existing,” he muttered.

You flopped onto your side, facing away from him, trying to create some kind of buffer with your back. “You know what? I hope you do snore.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve had a long day.”

“So have I!”

There was a beat of silence, both of you breathing heavily, adrenaline still buzzing faintly under your skin despite the exhaustion setting in. After a moment, you felt the bed shift as Bucky adjusted, his weight causing the mattress to dip slightly toward him — which, in turn, made your body roll half an inch closer to his.

“Great,” you muttered. “Now it’s sloping.”

“I’m literally lying as still as I can.”

“Well, your stillness is gravitational.”

He huffed a laugh at that, the sound low and unintentional.

A few more minutes passed in silence. The room felt hot now, your skin prickling with awareness at how close he was. You could sense the warmth radiating off his body, the tension in his shoulders, the way he was trying not to move — like he didn’t trust himself to stay on his side of the bed.

And maybe… maybe you didn’t trust yourself either.

Your mind betrayed you, tracing back to the feel of his body pressed against yours in that closet. Your pulse quickened. You scolded yourself silently, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

Then—

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. “Tired,” you said. It wasn’t quite a lie.

He didn’t respond right away. You sensed him shifting again, a quiet exhale through his nose.

You looked back at the ceiling. “I fall asleep the second I sit down for more than five minutes. I could probably pass out standing up.”

“You already did. In the car.”

“Oh yeah, when you poked me in the face.”

“You weren’t waking up,”

“I was already awake.” You smirked, reminding him of the scare.

“You were drooling.” Bucky said pointedly and you felt a warmth creep upon your cheeks. 

“Liar.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Just a little.”

You smiled despite yourself, though you didn’t let him see it.

Silence settled again — but this time, it felt heavier. Thicker. Like the air was laced with something unsaid.

You could still feel the tension in the mattress, the shared heat of the covers, the magnetic pull of proximity and yearning.

The safe house was silent.

Outside, wind scraped against the decaying panels of the old bunker walls, and inside, the only sound was the occasional creak of the bedframe and the steady rhythm of your breathing.

At first, you were curled tightly on your side, wrapped in your blanket, the line of pillows still serving as a clear boundary between you and Bucky. You’d fallen asleep that way — determined, maybe even a little defiant, and clinging to the final shred of control you had in a day that had stripped so much away.

But sometime past midnight, things shifted.

Literally.

One of the pillows had fallen to the floor, the makeshift border now broken — a quiet, innocent betrayal of the line you’d drawn in the sand. Another had slipped halfway off the bed, dangling like a bridge between two countries no longer at war.

You didn’t notice at first.

Neither did Bucky.

Not until he rolled over in his sleep and brushed his knee against yours.

The contact jolted you awake instantly — not because it startled you, but because of how warm he was. Solid. Real. A reminder of everything you were trying to pretend wasn’t still simmering beneath your skin.

You blinked slowly, adjusting to the dark, and turned your head just enough to see him.

Bucky was lying on his side, facing you, eyes still closed. The scarred line of his jaw was softened in sleep, and for a moment you were struck by how peaceful he looked. How young. He had one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other draped loosely across his midsection, as if even unconscious, he was trying to protect that healing wound.

Your knee bumped his again.

This time he stirred.

His eyes fluttered open, slow and heavy with the haze of sleep. It took him a second to register where he was — and how close you were.

Then his gaze dropped to the space between you. Or, rather, the lack of it.

“Pillow line’s gone,�� he rasped, voice gravel-deep.

“Traitorous bastards,” you muttered.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Thought you were a heavy sleeper.”

“I was until someone decided to play footsie with me in their sleep.”

“I wasn’t—” He paused. “Okay, maybe a little. But it was subconscious.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I could put the pillows back,” he offered, though he made no move to do it.

You looked at him for a beat, your voice softer now. “Do you want to?”

His eyes searched yours in the dim light. “No.”

The air between you thickened. You could feel his breath on your skin now, warm and steady, and something inside you coiled tight — not fear, not anger… just want. Pure, unfiltered, unspoken want.

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

Still, neither of you moved.

Instead, you both lay there in that silence, in the inches that remained between your bodies, and you realized that this might be more intimate than anything else — this quiet, electric almost-touch.

And then he did move. Just a little.

His fingers brushed yours beneath the blanket — a barely-there graze. Testing. Waiting.

You didn’t pull away.

You let his hand rest there, just touching yours, your fingers still, your breath held.

And then your hand turned, palm up, a silent invitation.

Bucky hesitated… and took it.

He slid his hand into yours, his thumb grazing the curve of your knuckles, and the world tilted slightly on its axis.

You didn’t speak.

You just lay there, tangled in the dark, his hand wrapped around yours, your bodies finally still — not because the tension was gone, but because you’d both stopped running from it.

For now.

────✪────

You didn’t know what time it was — only that the weak gray light of morning was leaking through the slats in the boarded-up windows, casting thin shadows over the room. The air was still. Cool. Dust hung in the silence.

And you were warm.

Not just from the threadbare blanket tangled around your legs — but from him.

Bucky.

His arm was draped around your waist, heavy and sure, the smooth inner metal of his vibranium forearm resting cool against your stomach. His chest pressed along your back in a quiet, unspoken embrace, every steady rise and fall of his breathing lining up with yours, syncing like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t move.

You were still.

Eyes barely open, limbs gently curled, you stayed perfectly still because... you weren’t alone. Not just physically — but in your mind, in that quiet, aching place behind your ribs that had been empty for so long. There was someone there now.

Bucky had been awake for a while.

An hour, maybe two. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

The moment he’d opened his eyes and realised he’d somehow — unconsciously — drawn you into him during the night, he’d frozen. Not in panic. Not in shame. But in reverence.

Because it felt good. Because you were soft in his arms, your breathing gentle and even, your body fitting perfectly against his like the universe had planned it that way. He could smell your deodorant, feel the flutter of your pulse against the underside of his wrist, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t bracing for a nightmare.

He was just here.

And he didn’t want to move. Not because of your rest, like he told himself.

But because of you.

Still, he knew the moment would have to end. You’d wake up. You’d shift. You’d pull away. Maybe even retreat into whatever space you were trying to preserve between you both.

But then—your fingers twitched against his.

And you made a small, breathy sound — not quite a yawn, more like a sleepy sigh — before your body curled just slightly deeper into his.

You were awake.

You didn’t speak. Not yet.

Neither did he.

You were both pretending — for just a few extra heartbeats — that maybe this was normal. That maybe this happened every morning. That you weren’t enemies-turned-allies-turned... whatever this was.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and rough near your ear.

“I didn’t wanna move,” he said quietly. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

Your voice, barely a whisper, came after a long pause. “That the only reason?”

You felt his chest rise behind you, a sharp inhale held in place. Then—

“No,” he admitted. “Not really.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. The truth of it settled between you like warmth — no panic, no awkward fumbling, just a shared understanding neither of you were quite ready to unpack.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face in the morning light — his eyes already on you, tired but soft, as if you were something fragile and precious he didn’t dare look away from.

Your voice came out quieter this time. “I liked it. Waking up like this.”

His jaw clenched, like your words struck something deep. You felt his fingers twitch where they were curled around your waist.

“I don’t get this,” he murmured. “Not usually. Not ever, really.”

You shifted slightly to press your back more into his chest, and his breath hitched.

“Me neither.”

And that was it. No declarations. No explanations.

Just silence again — not the heavy kind from before, but something easier. Something that sat between your ribs and said, maybe this could be something.

Bucky closed his eyes.

Held you tighter.

And for a little while longer, neither of you moved.

────✪────

The early morning air outside the safe house was crisp — biting in that post-rain kind of way, where the ground still smelled damp and the sky hadn't quite decided whether it wanted to stay gray or brighten.

You stood by the car, tugging your tactical gloves tighter over your fingers as Bucky locked the door behind you. Neither of you said much. There was a quiet heaviness in the air, not from tension, but from something... unspoken. The way your body had fit into his last night. The way his breath had stuttered when he realized you were awake in his arms. The way your fingers had brushed his chest before you slipped out of bed that morning like nothing had happened.

You were pretending it hadn’t shaken you.

And he was pretending he didn’t notice.

But now — it was time to focus.

You slid into the passenger seat, boots crunching against gravel. Bucky joined you in the driver’s seat, key turning over in the ignition with a mechanical click. The old safe house vehicle — matte black, clearly off-the-books — rumbled to life beneath you both.

The drive was short. Thirty minutes at most.

You were headed to a decommissioned HYDRA weapons facility that Valentina claimed had ties to alien tech. It sat beneath the edge of a crumbling subway tunnel, long buried under rerouted lines and construction lies. According to her intel, something down there had been reactivated — and might hold clues about what “Doomsday” really was.

You reached into your side pouch, pulling out the small mission tablet Valentina had given you. With a tap, the blueprints of the underground complex lit up the screen.

"According to this, there’s a direct access point two blocks from here. We'll go in through a collapsed service door. No cameras. No signals. And probably not a warm welcome," you muttered, scrolling.

“Like old times,” Bucky said flatly, scanning the road.

“You say that like it’s supposed to be comforting,” you said.

He glanced at you — just briefly — and you caught the smirk at the corner of his mouth before he looked back to the road. “Didn’t know you were the sentimental type.”

You snorted. “I’m not. I’m the don’t-die-on-this-stupid-mission type.”

There was a long pause. Then Bucky’s voice came again, lower this time.

“We won’t die.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stared out the window, watching the city shift into decay — old buildings, abandoned trains, trash rustling in corners the world had forgotten. You were moving away from the bright noise of your reality and toward something deeper. Quieter. The shadows where danger grew roots.

The car slowed.

“We’re here,” Bucky said, parking along the curb.

You stepped out first. The morning light was grayer here, like it didn’t want to touch the concrete. A metal grate, half-covered in rust and ivy, sat in the alley ahead of you. The map said this was it. You crouched beside it, tugging it loose with your powers until it scraped open with a low groan.

A narrow, dark tunnel yawned open beneath it.

“Great,” you muttered. “Claustrophobia and potential death. Love it.”

Bucky grabbed a flashlight from the back of the car and handed you one. “After you?”

“Wow. Chivalry’s not dead.”

“No, but I might be if I go first and trip a pressure mine.”

You shot him a look. “Way to ruin the moment.”

He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched again.

Still bickering. Still sniping.

But it wasn’t sharp anymore. Not really.

You dropped down into the tunnel first, boots splashing into standing water below. Bucky followed silently. The tunnel was cold and tight, your shoulders nearly brushing the damp concrete as you moved. Every footstep echoed in the dark.

As you walked, the sound of water dripping grew louder. Metal pipes overhead groaned with age. You kept your flashlight steady, sweeping ahead.

The corridor widened. A steel door loomed ahead, sealed with rusted locking bolts.

You both stopped.

Bucky stepped in front of you, inspecting the door. “We’re here.”

“Lead the way, Barnes,” you said softly, watching him roll his shoulders.

He placed a hand on the metal, silent for a moment, like he was listening for movement. Then he looked back at you.

“Let’s find out what Doomsday really is.”

The moment you stepped through the steel door, everything changed.

It was colder down here. Not just in temperature — though the air was sharp with dust and decay — but in presence. Like something had been waiting. Watching. The walls were concrete, thick with wires and unfamiliar machinery jutting from the surface like tumors. Flickering lights embedded in the ceiling hummed with unstable energy.

"HYDRA really had a thing for secret labs," you muttered, sweeping your flashlight over a long, narrow hallway.

“No… this isn’t just HYDRA, in fact, it looks like they were using HYDRA as a front” Bucky said quietly, brow furrowing. “Something’s… off.”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

The deeper you went, the more unnatural everything felt. The air was too still. The silence too dense. You passed glass panels covered in frost, strange tubes coiled like serpents inside them, and remnants of foreign tech that pulsed with residual light.

At the end of the hallway, a reinforced door stood ajar.

Bucky glanced back at you. He nodded once.

You slipped through first.

The room opened up into what looked like a control center — or at least it used to be. Metal tables were overturned. Screens were shattered. A single terminal in the corner buzzed with low power, its screen blinking faint green.

You crossed to it while Bucky scanned the rest of the room.

The interface was ancient. But after a few quick taps, you managed to pull something up — a feed of recovered files. One by one, fragmented images and notes loaded onto the screen: blueprints, research logs, images of cities marked with alien glyphs. Each filename was stamped with the same phrase: Doomsday Project.

“This is it,” you breathed. “This is where they were developing it.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

You turned — and saw him standing completely still across the room, his body rigid.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t move.

Slowly, you approached. His gloved hand was hovering over a dusty file folder — the only one on a metal table that hadn't been disturbed. The folder was thick, stamped with HYDRA’s insignia and labeled in faded ink: PROJECT VON DOOM.

Bucky opened it.

Inside were black-and-white photographs — lab images, schematics, and at the center, a profile shot. It was faded, time-worn… but the face was unmistakable.

Short, dark beard. Intelligent eyes.

Your heart skipped.

“Wait—” you stepped closer. “Is that…?”

Bucky stared, eyes wide, colour draining from his face.

“No,” he murmured. “It can’t be.”

He held the photo tighter. Like if he gripped it hard enough, it would change.

But it didn’t.

The name beneath the image was printed clearly in block letters: VICTOR VON DOOM.

And the face staring back at you?

It looked exactly like Tony Stark.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

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[astrakim]

The Space Between Us

[Part 1] [Part 2]

> enemies to lovers | slow burn | bed-sharing | fluff, angst, emotional smut

>genre: childhood rivals to lovers,

friends-forced-to-share-a-bed, emotional tension,

slow burn

>word count: 17.9k [combined]

>summary: They started as neighbors. Then came a stupid night - and suddenly, Heeseung and Y/N were enemies. Years of rivalry, endless tension, and a thousand unspoken feelings between them.

When a group trip forces them to share a bed, everything changes. Jealousy flares. Secrets unravel. And the line between hate and desire blurs in ways neither of them expected.

What if the enemy was never really the enemy?

>series warnings: suggestive tension, mutual pining, soft vulnerability, swearing, kissing, a lot of staring, protected sex (wrap it yall), oral (f.rec), fingering, heeseung is a flirt, misunderstanding, Sunoo lowkey OR highkey being a menace matchmaker, thats all ig let me know if I should add anything

>date: [3/6/25]

note: This is my first fic ever guyss, its not that good yet as I'm just starting out but its worth reading.

Reblogs and likes are really appreciated.

Enjoy your read!.

Heeseung was annoyingly pretty.

Not the kind of pretty that made you weak in the knees, but the kind that made you want to punch a wall out of pure spite. He had a face that could’ve been sculpted by artists who hated modesty — sharp jaw, smooth skin, eyes that looked like they always knew more than you did. And he walked like the world owed him something, like confidence was stitched into his spine.

I hated that he was tall. I hated that he smelled good even after gym.

I hated that no matter how much I tried, he always got under my skin.

I hated how his smile always made my heart flip.

And the worst part?

He grew up next door.

---

We weren’t always like this.

There was a time when Heeseung was the kid who’d sneak bugs into my backpack just to make me scream — and I’d chase him down the street with a plastic baseball bat. Summer evenings meant chalk drawings on the sidewalk, dripping ice cream cones, and lazy dares on the swingset.

How we were always joined by hip, going anywhere and everywhere together.

Until...until the day we weren't.

“Why Do You Hate Heeseung So Much?”

People ask me that all the time.

Usually when we’re out — surrounded by too many snacks and too few brain cells — someone always turns to me with a grin and says,

“Come on, Y/N. Be honest. Why do you hate Heeseung so much?”

And I always have a list ready.

“He’s insufferable.”

“He thinks being tall makes him superior.”

“He flirts with waitresses then tips like a grandpa.”

It’s become a bit. A running joke.

But the truth?

The truth is I don’t actually hate Heeseung.

I just never forgave him.

Not really.

Because back when we were fifteen, there was this one night — the kind you don’t really forget.

The kind you carry with you even when you’re trying hard not to.

It was warm out. Sticky, quiet. One of those summer nights where everything feels a little more honest.

We ended up in the treehouse behind my backyard — the one we used to play in when we were kids. It wasn’t planned. Just one of those things where I looked out the window and saw him pacing his driveway, and he looked up like he was waiting for me to.

So I went.

And we talked.

About things we didn’t talk about with anyone else.

His parents. My insecurities. Feeling stuck. Feeling… seen.

For a second — maybe longer — it felt like something changed.

Like maybe we weren’t just neighbors. Or childhood friends. Or that weird undefined space in between.

There was a pause.

A moment.

I swore he was going to kiss me.

He didn’t.

And that was fine, a little disappointing because I always wanted him to be my first kiss… but it was fine.

But the next day?

He ghosted.

No texts. No calls. No “you up?” late-night window knocks like usual. Just… nothing.

Avoided me at school. Like I had made everything up in my head.

So when my friend asked about it, I said it was nothing. Just a “weird night.”

I laughed it off. Pretended I didn’t care but I did.

Pretended it didn't hurt but it did.

I waited. I gave it a day. Then another. Then another.

And eventually, I got tired of waiting.

I kept thinking: Was I wrong? Did I imagine it?

Maybe it hadn’t meant anything to him. Maybe I’d read it all wrong.

So I got angry. At him. At myself. At all of it.

Until one day….

“…Y/N, what do you think?

I blink out of my thoughts, realizing Professor Kim is looking directly at me — marker in hand, pausing mid-diagram.

Crap.

I glance at the board. Cellular respiration. ATP. Glycolysis. Okay, not too bad.

“It produces a net gain of two ATP molecules,” I answer, trying to sound confident.

Professor Kim smiles. “Exactly.”

And then from across the room — like clockwork — a voice I’ve been trying to ignore for the past three months speaks up, slow and smug:

“That’s… technically wrong.”

My head snaps to the right.

Heeseung.

Of course.

I clench my jaw. “No, it’s not.”

He leans back in his seat, arms folded, looking so pleased with himself.

“Pretty sure it’s four ATP, not two. You might want to actually read the textbook instead of skimming the summary.”

The class collectively exhales — that quiet, anticipatory hush that means oh, they’re fighting again.

I don’t even hesitate. “It produces four, but the net gain is two. Because you invest two in the energy investment phase.” I say it slowly, like I’m talking to a toddler. “Try to keep up.”

Someone near us snorts.

Heeseung’s smile twitches — the fake one he does when he’s losing. “Wow, look at you. One correct answer and suddenly you’re Bill Nye.”

“And yet, still doing better than you.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”

“No, I use the thought of beating you in literally everything.”

“Dream big, Y/N.”

“Oh, I do. And you losing is a recurring theme.”

Professor Kim clears her throat sharply.

“That’s… enough. This is a biology class, not a debate club.”

The room awkwardly shuffles back to silence. But the damage is done. The tension — electric and unmissable — simmers between us.

That was the day we stopped just not talking.

And somehow, we turned into rivals.

Every answer. Every grade. Every seat in the library.

We competed. We snarked. We fought over who got the front seat and who picked the movie.

And it stuck.

It wasn’t just silence anymore.

It was a war.

Now we’re that pair. The two people in the group chat who always have beef.

So when people ask, “Why do you hate Heeseung so much?”

I shrug and give them a new fake reason.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

By high school, we were fluent in mutual loathing.

Group projects? Nightmare.

Game nights? Constant sabotage.

Truth or Dare? Always dare — always dangerous.

Still, somehow, we had the same group of friends.

Which is how we both ended up in a shared cabin during a seven-day mountain trip planned entirely and suspiciously by Sunoo.

Day One:

It’s already golden hour by the time we pull up to the cabin.

The car ride was long, filled with stupid games, backseat arguments, and the occasional off-key group karaoke moment — but stepping out into the pine-scented air makes it all worth it. The place is beautiful: tucked into a clearing with string lights stretched across the porch, wooden stairs leading to a wraparound deck, and big windows reflecting the soft amber sky.

The cabin was charming, in a murder-in-the-woods kind of way.

“This is so cute,” Sunoo says, hopping out with his phone already out to record. “Everyone say ‘cabin core’!”

“Cabin core,” the group repeats in half-hearted unison, dragging their bags toward the porch.

I grab my duffel and start toward the stairs, only to hear the trunk slam behind me — and him right on my heels.

Heeseung brushes past like I’m not there, earphones still in, hoodie hood up despite the warm breeze. I resist the urge to trip him. Barely.

“Wow, look at the view,” Jake says from the porch, gazing out at the lake shimmering through the trees.

“I can’t wait to not move from this place for the entire week,” says Jay, stretching like he just completed a marathon.

The inside of the cabin is even prettier. Wood paneling, cozy furniture, a fireplace that Jake immediately tries to light (and is immediately banned from touching again), and the smell of cinnamon-scented something already in the air thanks to Sunoo’s overprepared weekend grocery bag.

Heeseung and I don’t say a word to each other.

We never really do anymore — not unless it’s sarcastic, competitive, or accidentally laced with heat we both pretend isn’t there.

It’s been like that for years.

Still, when I catch him looking at the bookshelf in the corner — the same exact way he used to look at my bookshelf when we were ten — I look away before I feel something stupid.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The fire crackles.

Sunoo’s managed to light a proper bonfire outside, and we’ve all dragged blankets and folding chairs around it like a cliché summer movie. Someone’s speaker plays soft lo-fi beats, and the marshmallows are already melting unevenly on sticks over the flame.

It’s peaceful. Easy.

Well, mostly.

Heeseung’s sitting two spots away from me — too close to ignore, too far to fight with. He’s wearing that gray zip-up I hate because it makes his stupid collarbones more noticeable. The firelight dances across his face, and he’s chewing on a marshmallow like he owns the place.

I pretend to scroll through my phone. But I hear it — his laugh, low and lazy — when Jake says something dumb. The kind of laugh that used to be directed at me.

Now it just pisses me off.

“Alright!” Sunoo suddenly claps his hands together distracting me from my thoughts. He was oddly too excited for someone assigning sleeping arrangements.I know that look on Sunoo’s face. That scheming glint behind his sparkly eyes “So, for the rooms…”

“I already claimed the bed near the big window,” says Jay.

“Sunghoon and I are bunking,” Jake adds, poking his marshmallow. “I sleepwalk. He’s scared of ghosts. It balances out.”

“Then…” Sunoo smirks like this is the highlight of his night. “Room two… Heeseung and Y/N.”

And just like that—

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

We speak at the exact same time.

Heeseung throws a hand out toward Sunoo, like he can reverse time. “I’m not rooming with her.”

“Yeah, same,” I say, arms crossed. “Put me with literally anyone else. Anyone who doesn’t roll their eyes every time I breathe.”

Heeseung scoffs. “You’re one to talk. You hum like a microwave at 2AM.”

Room with him for an entire week??

God~ I won't survive.

Sunghoon, lounging on a log nearby, sips his hot chocolate and shrugs. “Too bad. All the other rooms are full. Unless you want to sleep outside with the bugs.”

I narrow my eyes. “What about the couch?”

“The couch is LAYLA’s bed,” Jake says sweetly, referring to their golden retriever who’s currently curled up like royalty on a throw blanket inside. “Sorry.”

Heeseung turns to me with a blank look. “This is your fault.”

I blink. “My fault?”

“You pissed off the universe somehow. And now I have to suffer.”

“Oh my god,” I mutter, grabbing my bag and stomping toward the house.

“Don’t snore,” he calls behind me.

“Don’t exist,” I shout back.

≻─── ⋆✩⋆ ───≺

The room is nice. Cozy. Wooden cabin aesthetic, warm lighting, one queen-sized bed in the center.

We both stop at the door and stare at it.

“Nope,” I say first. “You’re taking the floor.”

Heeseung tosses his bag onto the dresser and raises a brow. “Excuse me? You’re the one who talks in your sleep. I’m not risking my life.”

“I do not talk in my sleep.”

“Sunghoon has videos.”

I glare at him. “Well then good. The floor will hide you from the sound of my ‘threatening’ sleep murmurs.”

He drops his bag to the floor with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.

“Fine. I’ll take the bed.”

“No, I’m taking the bed.”

He turns. “You just said I should take the floor.”

“Yeah, but I remembered you’re insufferable, and I’ve suffered enough.”

He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge slowly, locking eyes with me like it’s a silent dare. “Call dibs.”

I scoff. “Seriously?”

“Dibs.”

I fold my arms. “I will smother you with that pillow.”

“I bet you dream about doing that every night.”

The stare-off lasts too long. His knees are still touching the edge of the bed. I’m still gripping my hoodie like it’s a weapon. The silence stretches thin — until we both huff at the same time and speak in unison:

“We’re not sharing.”

Another beat passes.

“Fine!”

“You’re not touching me,” I say flatly.

“Like I’d want to.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

We both exhale.

Then, reluctantly — like it physically pains us — we mutter, almost at the same time:

“We’ll build a pillow wall.”

The cabin is silent except for the soft whisper of wind outside.

I’m barely asleep, the pillow wall between Heeseung and me standing like a fragile fortress.

Then—thud.

The pillows tumble.

I freeze, heart racing.

A soft curse escapes from the other side of the bed.

Heeseung’s voice, low and barely a whisper, breaks the quiet.

“Dammit.”

I swallow, eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering through the window.

He shifts closer than expected.

I hold my breath.

“I’m not moving,” he says, voice rough but quiet. “You can move.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I inch closer too — just enough so our shoulders brush.

It’s accidental. It’s terrifying. It’s... comforting.

The warmth of his skin seeps through the thin blanket.

For the first time in years, the space between us feels less like a battlefield and more like home.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

Day 2:

Sunlight seeps through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the cabin. The group stirs awake, groaning and stretching, dragging themselves toward the kitchen for breakfast. I’m still half-asleep, but the looming day ahead is impossible to ignore.

Sunoo’s voice cuts through the sleepy haze. “Alright, everyone! Zipline park today! Get ready to fly!”

Heeseung shoots me a look as if daring me to back out. I glare right back. “Chicken,” I say before anyone else can.

His smirk is all the answer I need. “You’re going down.”

The car ride is loud with music and chatter, but between Heeseung and me? Nothing but cold shoulders and barely concealed glares. I catch him stealing quick looks at me, and I pretend not to notice. The air between us is taut, like a wire stretched to snapping.

Arriving at the zipline park, the thrill buzzes through the group. Harnesses click on, helmets are tightened, and the guide’s instructions fill the air. I stand beside Heeseung on the platform, my heart pounding.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low, almost a challenge.

“Yeah. You?”

He jumps first, smooth and confident, and I grit my teeth before leaping after him. The wind roars past, and I land clumsily, trying not to look like a mess.

“Not terrible,” Heeseung says, barely hiding the teasing edge in his voice.

“Thanks for the compliment” I snap, brushing past him.

–

Later, in line for the next zipline, Jake and Sunghoon joke nearby, and I laugh at one of Jake’s dumb jokes. I don’t notice Heeseung’s gaze tightening on me.

“What’s so funny?” he says, voice casual but sharp.

“Jake told a joke. It’s funny.”

He snorts, but there’s something almost possessive in the way he looks at me — maybe jealousy? — before he masks it with a shrug. I roll my eyes, but it stings more than I want to admit.

---

The hike back is tense. Heeseung falls in step beside me, but there’s an uncomfortable silence between us.

“You’re annoying,” I mutter, bumping his shoulder.

He scoffs. “Right back at you.”

We bicker over who’s walking too slow, who’s taking the wrong path, and who’s responsible for ruining the snacks. The others laugh and tease us relentlessly.

Jay winks and calls out, “You two should just kiss already and save us the drama!”

The group bursts out laughing, and my face heats up instantly. Heeseung’s jaw tightens, and he looks like he’s trying not to laugh — or maybe not trying hard enough.

“Shut up, Jay,” I say, but my voice is shaky.

Heeseung smirks, shaking his head. “Yeah, shut up.”

The teasing continues, and every time someone drops a “Maybe you’re secretly in love” comment, we both look away, cheeks burning, pretending not to hear.

By the time we reach the cabin, the tension hasn’t eased, but something under the surface has shifted — a quiet, uneasy awareness neither of us wants to admit out loud.

≻─── ⋆✩⋆ ───≺

The sun dips low as the group settles outside by a crackling bonfire. The air smells of smoke and pine, the sky painted with streaks of orange and purple. Everyone’s chatting, roasting marshmallows (which Sunoo managed to convince everyone should be a night thing of this trip), and joking around—but between Heeseung and me, the silence is almost deafening.

Sunoo nudges Jake, nodding toward us. “Hey, you two look like you’re about to start a fight or make out. What’s it gonna be?”

Jake laughs, “Honestly, just kiss already. We’re tired of this back-and-forth.”

I glare at both of them, cheeks heating up, while Heeseung shoots a warning glance my way.

“Shut up, you idiots,” Heeseung mutters, but the slight smile tugging at his lips betrays his embarrassment.

Later, as the group heads inside, the reality hits: We are still sharing that bed.

Sighing, I get ready to sleep.

The cabin is quiet except for the occasional crackle from the fireplace. The pillow wall between us still stands—though now a little worse for wear, more lopsided than before. We’re both lying on our sides, backs turned, eyes fixed on opposite corners of the room.

For the first time since we started sharing this bed, Heeseung’s foot nudges mine—a brief, accidental touch.

I don’t pull away.

Minutes stretch on.

His voice, low and hesitant, breaks the silence.

“Your jacket�� it’s cold.”

Without looking, I shrug it off and toss it toward him.

He doesn’t move it back, just lets it lie there—on his side of the pillow wall.

Later, as I reach for my water bottle, my hand brushes against his. We freeze.

Neither of us says anything, but the awkwardness is different this time—less like a challenge, more like a question.

The pillow wall shifts again, wobbling precariously, and I laugh softly.

“Guess this thing isn’t very strong.”

Heeseung snorts, the sound almost like a smile.

“Yeah, neither are we.”

My heart skipped a beat. What does he mean by this? Did I hear it right?

We don’t say more, but the tension feels... lighter. The fights still come, but somehow, sharing this small space makes the distance between us just a little less unbearable.

As sleep pulls us in, the quiet between us feels less like a wall and more like a fragile bridge.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Day 3:

By morning, something is different. Not drastically, not in a way anyone could really name — but it’s there.

Heeseung doesn’t rush to the bathroom before me like it’s a competition. He even holds the door open. And when I come out, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes with a calm I don’t quite recognize.

“You snore,” he says flatly.

I scoff. “I do not.”

“You do. Tiny snores. Like a cartoon chipmunk.”

My pillow hits his back. He throws it right back at me, and for a second, we’re laughing — real, genuine laughter. It's strange. Light. I almost forget I’m supposed to hate him.

---

The group decides on the amusement park today. I should’ve known it’d be chaos — Sunoo bouncing with excitement, Jake challenging everyone to ride the tallest coaster, and the teasing? Nonstop.

“Oh, you two again,” Jay drawls as we climb out of the car. “Still alive after sharing a bed?”

“Barely,” I mutter.

“She kicked me in her sleep,” Heeseung says with mock betrayal.

“You deserved it.”

But it’s... gentler now. Even our bickering feels like a game we’re both playing, testing the boundaries of how far we’ve come since that first bitter night.

---

At the entrance, we split into smaller groups. I end up next to Heeseung in line for the haunted house. Typical.

He smirks. “Scared?”

“Of some fake zombies and fog machines? Please.”

“Should I hold your hand?”

His voice is casual, too casual — like he’s joking, but the heat crawling up my neck says otherwise.

“I’d rather hold a chainsaw,” I shoot back.

But he doesn’t stop smiling. Not the usual cocky kind, either. It’s softer. Like he’s not laughing at me — just enjoying watching me squirm.

Inside the haunted house, something grabs my ankle — one of those dumb animatronics. I shriek.

Heeseung’s arm wraps around my shoulder instinctively. It’s solid, warm, a little too comforting. I stiffen. So does he.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling away like I burned him.

“No... it’s fine,” I say, almost whispering. I think we’re both too aware of how easy it felt. How natural.

---

By afternoon, we’re drifting in a carousel of games, rides, and too much cotton candy. I notice the way Heeseung lingers when I walk ahead, subtly slowing to match my pace. When I can’t finish my soda, he grabs it and without hesitation drink it from the every straw I drank from.

Is it a indirect kiss?

I slap myself out of that thought

Control y/n he’s your enemy. But he’s so handsome.

“Y/n…” Heeseung’s voice pulls me back to reality

“What?” I snap unintentionally

“You were staring” he teases

Before I could say anything my heart skips a beat again.

When he wordlessly pulls a strand away from my eyes when my hair gets tangled in the wind.

None of it feels forced.

But the moment that really hits me?

It’s a small thing. A game booth. One of those dumb ring toss games. I try three times — and miss every single one.

Jake jeers. “Y/N, do you have depth perception issues?”

“Watch and learn,” Heeseung says as he steps up.

He nails it on his second try.

The prize? A silly plush fox.

He turns and hands it to me without a word. Doesn’t even look at me.

I take it, trying not to blush. “I didn’t ask for this.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t say you did.”

But I don’t let go of it all day.

—

Later, the group settles in a food court, swapping stories and photos. Sunghoon and Sunoo scroll through pictures on Jake’s phone — most of them candid. I see one of Heeseung and me standing near the carousel. We're not touching. Not even close. But we’re looking at each other in a way I don’t remember doing.

“God,” Sunoo says with a dramatic sigh. “You guys are ridiculous. Just kiss already.”

“Not this again,” I groan.

Heeseung leans back in his seat, all casual confidence. “Maybe she should just ask.”

I blink. “Ask what?”

He shrugs. “Whatever’s been sitting on the tip of her tongue since that cabin night.”

My heart stutters. I hate how smug he sounds. I hate even more that he might not be wrong.

Jake raises a brow. “Wait, is this... flirting? Is Heeseung Lee actually being obvious for once?”

I nearly choke on my drink.

“I am not—he is not—ugh,” I stammer.

Heeseung just grins, eyes meeting mine across the table. There’s something in his expression — not teasing, not taunting. Just... open.

It shuts me up faster than anything else.

—

We leave the park in the golden hour, when everything glows a little too soft and a little too slow. I trail behind the group, lagging with Heeseung without meaning to.

“I forgot how fun this could be,” I say after a long pause.

He doesn’t answer right away, then quietly: “Yeah. Same.”

I glance up at him. The light hits his profile, and for a second, I see the boy I used to be best friends with. The one who used to sneak me his last grape candy because I liked it more. The one who used to race me home from school.

“Do you ever think maybe we...” I hesitate. “Misunderstood each other?”

His hand brushes mine. Just once. Barely.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But you were still insufferable.”

I scoff. “And you were still a smug little—”

“You liked it,” he cuts in, grinning.

Maybe I did.

Maybe I still do.

---

Back at the cabin that night, the pillow wall is still there. But smaller. Just two cushions now.

I lie in bed facing him, our shoulders almost touching.

“Heeseung?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For today.”

He doesn't speak. Just shifts a little closer. I feel the edge of the bed dip beneath him.

Then his voice, soft and almost sleepy:

“I’d win you another one. The fox.”

I blink.

Maybe we’re not enemies anymore.

Maybe we never really were.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

[Part 2]

Comment to get added to the tag list🦋

taglist:

@chadiyuu @kittympirty @elairah @m3wkledreamy

[periprose]

May i request a Logan x angel!reader fic where the reader had to get medical treatment after a mission because her angel wings (that are apart of her mutation) were burned and partially damaged after battle, and Logan comes in to check up on her?

anon I loved this ask ahhhh thank you. I'm like half considering making this a series if people want it (so send more angel requests if you're into it!) <3 I may have made it more angsty but there is fluff at the end :) also reader goes by Angel in this fic.

When Flight Comes to Fire (or, Logan Gains a Guardian Angel)

Word count: 4.5k

Genre: Best friends to lovers, mutual pining, X-Men stuff, idiots in love, angst, hurt no comfort, fluff, kissing

LGGA Masterlist

The first time your mutation made it’s appearance– sharp shoulder blades growing into thick appendages, soft, buttery white feathers extending from them in that unhuman way, your wingspan making it clear you would never be normal– your mother retched and said she would have done anything to chop them off of you. Would’ve done anything to have a normal kid.

In fact, she tried, multiple times, to do so. You were only twelve when she came at you for the first time, in your sleep, feeling falsely secure in your father’s platitudes about how she would never really do anything. You woke up to her reaching inside your blanket, grasping one of your wings as she brandished a knife in her other hand. Luckily, your wings were strong enough to shove her off, but you remember how you screamed at her.

Why, mom? It’s me! It’s me–

She didn’t listen, coming at you again, promising in delirious anger that everything would be okay soon if you would just let her fix it, and she had to be held back by your father, as he called the police. 

Because you were her kid, she got let off with a warning, and you were stuck. So you would often fly to the tallest treetops and take your rest there, trying your best to ignore your mother’s other attempts on your life. She didn’t seem to ever get it. You would never be normal.

The final attempt was probably the worst, and the one that caused you to fly away in the end to Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.

You were twenty years old, just old enough to legally leave home– you only stayed because your father insisted. 

She set your favourite tree on fire. You had no idea your mom had been in enough anguish to essentially murder you for daring to be different.

You awoke to the deep smell of smoke, of tree bark charring, and then you heard the cracking and sparks. The tree quickly caught fire, and you shrieked in pure terror as the heat of the flames approached you. The immense light emitting from the fire blinded you, and suddenly there was a sharp pain from your wings and back– you were getting scorched.

So you flew upwards, high enough that the fire dissipated off your back instantly in the cool night sky’s air, and you were fine. Nothing to show other than a little scar, and the sounds of mutiny coming from your mother below. 

You chose to forget her– no point in repairing a relationship with a woman who didn’t want you as you were.

But you’ve never forgotten the pain of being burned alive.

/

“Angel. You ready?” Logan is to your right in the foyer of the mansion. “Everyone else is waiting in the helicarrier.”

He’s your best friend, has been ever since you came to the X-Mansion as a runaway. It’s not an uncommon story among mutants, but Logan always felt you were like him. Rough, not the easiest to speak to, having a tendency to keep to yourself.

The major difference to him is that you’re a lot easier on the eyes. 

Seriously, it was almost like the universe was playing a joke on him. Here was a beautiful girl with literal angel wings, just missing a halo as she arrived at the door for the School for the first time, and he just happened to be the first ugly motherfucker to open the door.

Logan’s never quite sure why you keep up with him, why you stay friends with him, if he was just lucky enough to be the first person you saw and liked. It drives him nuts, the way in which you rely on him, trust him more than he thinks he deserves, you come to him at every moment just to talk over everyone else, when surely you could have anyone else’s attention.

Especially any stupid guy, like him. He’s not sure how you haven’t noticed– even now on the staircase, he can’t tear his gaze away from you. Logan feels bad to be so in love with you, too– he wonders if he’s reading into things too much, if he’s pushing for something that isn’t really there.

And he’ll never know, because you’re so damn flighty. Logan can barely keep up with your whims, and he only knows as much as you’ll tell him about yourself (he hardly knows where you came from that fateful first day), so he just lets you come and go as you please. He’ll keep his feelings deep inside, where you can’t possibly find out about it.

“Yup, I’m fine.” You have a brief smile for him, which gives him that familiar twist of the stomach. “Oh. You’re not wearing your uniform?”

“It’s better to be incognito for this one, according to Scott.” Logan says, adjusting his flannel, mildly enjoying how you check him out. 

You’re wearing the typical X-Men uniform– bright yellow, blue stripes down your sides, room for wings with a removable panel in the back. You let them loose, now, telling Logan you’ll be right back.

When you return, with quite a flourish, flapping wings in a true superhero-landing– Logan sees that you’re wearing a tank-top, and some jeans that really, really highlight your ass– but he tries not to focus on that.

“Hey. Tank’s inside out, Angel.” Logan says, waiting for you to fly off again, but you simply take off the tank top, and pull it back on the right way, exposing your bra-covered chest and lithe waist for the briefest of moments, while Logan loses whatever he was about to say. “I…”

“Don’t be a perv, Logan.” You jokingly side-eye him, never suspecting that that could actually be true as you tease him. “You’ve seen me change tons of times.”

“Yeah, but out in the open?” Logan stares at you. “You’re gonna have a shit-ton of admirers if you keep that up.”

“It’s just me, please.” You start up this whole I’m-not-pretty schtick that Logan is pretty sick of hearing, and he shakes his head. “Let’s go. They’re waiting.”

Yeah, Logan thinks, they are waiting, but he’s not sure you needed to be all quick and nonchalant about changing, just to get there faster.

That’s what he means by you being flighty– who knows what’s really in your heart, when you act so quickly?

/

“Listen up, X-Men. We’re gonna do our best to avoid damages today, right?” Scott speaks with the air of a leader who’s very fed up with his team members. 

There’s a resounding yes from everyone, including you, Logan, Jean, Storm, Bobby, Rogue, Jubilee, and Kitty.

“What’s our mission?” Scott says, and you answer first.

“Find the new mutant.” You state, and Scott nods, while Logan hides a smile at how adept you’ve gotten at these missions.

“Make sure he doesn’t defect to the Brotherhood.” Jean adds, looking at you and Logan, seeing how close you two sit to each other. She’s kept it to herself– but Jean thinks if you and Logan really do have something going on, that would be nice. For the both of you.

“No damages.” Logan chimes in, and Scott visibly loses a little composure.

“I already said that.” Scott points out, and Logan shrugs. 

“Well, it’s part of the plan, isn’t it?” Logan leans back in his seat on the helicarrier, nestling his head next to your shoulder, not noticing the way your eyebrows raise at the sudden contact. “Better than me not listening at all.”

“Sure, Logan. Fine.” Scott lets it go, knowing better than to ask more from the most “chill” (read: laziest) member of the team.

You laugh a little as Logan smiles a cocky grin.

/

The new mutant is kind of old– you’re looking for a 19 year old with severe singing around his clothes, pale skin, and black hair. You suppose he’d be extremely frightened.

Most mutants don’t deal well with becoming different all so suddenly, let alone at the very late age of 19, when you could assume that you’re pretty much normal. So you and Jean are hoping to find him first– you figure you’re the two that could calm him down.

Unfortunately, you find Jubilee talking to him first. She’s okay, but she has a tendency to be a little too bombastic, as Jean says quite often.

“And there she goes.” Jean grimaces as Jubilee taps the new mutant’s shoulder, and you pick up her saying that “she’s just like him,” which you’re not sure is a delicate way to deal with the topic.

There are crowds of people walking through the streets, too, and a lot of them are glancing at this yellow-jacketed girl talking to a boy with burnt clothes.

If you had found him, you would have brought him to the side, away from people, and–

“His face turned white. He’s freaking out.” You tell Jean, and her eyes narrow.

Bobby, Rogue, and Kitty are nowhere in sight, so this is just one weird young adult speaking to another one, and you really, really wish the rest were here. You, Jean, Logan and Scott are a bit older– perhaps comforting in your age– but you feel like the boy would’ve done well with more peers.

Jubilee raises her hand as you and Jean approach her. “Guys, I got it under control. See, Kyle, these are more people like us. More mutants.”

“...” Kyle looks on in disbelief.

“Kyle?” You try, and he looks at you– there’s something in his eyes that tells you he wants to trust you, but he’s scared– it reminds you of yourself. “We’re here for you if you want us to be. Take your time. Don’t worry.”

You smile, Jean smiles, Jubilee grins, and Kyle seems okay.

It lasts for about two seconds.

Someone drops what sounds like a glass bottle in the distance, and the shattering sound is enough for Jubilee to gasp, a little spark of fireworks launching from her fingertips, towards Kyle, who watches on in trepidation, and his body starts shaking, moving of it’s own accord, clearly reacting to being so close to another form of heat– and you and Jean move, as you yell out “Wait!–”

Kyle shrieks in fear as his body becomes overtaken with flames, combusting with such intensity that the flames roar at least 100 feet over, and Jean– Phoenix that she is– is able to withstand the heat, but you find yourself being pushed back by hot gusts of wind.

It hurts, it feels as if your skin is melting with every passing second. You grit your teeth, trying to breathe as Kyle loses control of his body, and you open your wings, deciding that flying off into the cool air would be a better alternative.

That was a mistake on your part.

The moment you open your wings, Kyle’s fire pushes you backwards, and up, into the hot air, and your wings catch fire as you come too close–

You scream, but it’s unheard through the roar of the flames, and you barely have time to catch yourself as you fall towards the ground, smoking, fiery tendrils engulfing you.

The last thing you remember is your mother’s face.

/

Logan sees it happen from a distance.

Scott wanted him to be as close as possible, something about keeping watch on him– and Logan gets it, he’s not always the most responsible, but later on, in hindsight, he wishes he was, because then he wouldn’t have missed what happened to you– and they both turn as a fire overtakes a block of the city.

“Shit, that must be him!” Scott starts running, Logan not far behind.

It’s only when he sees a pair of white wings, a woman flying up, up, up, the fire approaching dangerously close to her– to you– he starts speeding up, overtaking Scott, pushing people out of the way.

Logan wonders what he could do, anyways. He’s invincible, practically, incapable of taking on much damage as his regenerative abilities heal him– perhaps he could run to the kid and knock him out, sustaining burns in the process, but better him than you.

Never you.

Any second now– Logan sees the boy, and he’s got an open fist ready to lightly tap the back of his neck.

He’s not fast enough. Scott yells out, and Logan looks up to see you engulfed in flames, as you scream, and it’s awful to hear– usually you seemed so speedy, so ready to fly at a moment’s notice, that Logan forgot you could be hurt.

He calls out your name. It’s unheard by you as you crash on the ground, still burning– Bobby, Kitty, and Rogue have caught up to you from the other side of the street, and Bobby quickly makes an icy mist that subdues the flames on you, and Kyle’s roaring fire back into him.  

You’re unconscious as the X-Men approach you. 

Logan touches your face as he kneels next to you, the only one willing to come close right now. “Hey, Angel…”

There’s that unspoken fondness between you two, yet again. Everyone knows, even when Logan has tried to act cool about it. Even now, when Logan attempts to act like he isn’t totally hanging on to your potential words, searching for a breath, a little movement of your head. 

Jean, Scott, Jubilee, and the rest look on in trepidation.

You don’t respond, and he feels his heart plummet. You’re covered in burns, mostly across your stomach and back, and he inhales sharply as he turns you over– there’s fresh, scalded skin, crispy-red to the touch.

Your back, your wings– they’re damaged so badly, with feathers singed straight off, the muscular appendages more visible and wounded, and Logan doesn’t know if you’re alive. He almost removes his hands from you, the very thought seeming to scald him from the inside, and he glares at the kid– the one who looks terribly guilty, now, as he runs away.

“Get back here!” Kitty shouts at him, anger in her eyes, and Scott pulls her aside, explaining that it was clearly an accident of sorts– something that Jean confirms for him with a nod of her head.

Right, Jean. Logan knows that if anyone could confirm if you’re alive, it would be her.  

As Scott, Kitty, Bobby, and Jubilee go hunting for the kid– Rogue stays behind because she’s always felt close to you and Logan– Logan looks up at Jean in a solemn, teary-eyed look that has her understanding immediately.

“C’mon, Angel… stay with us.” She mutters, as she presses her fingers to your head, and she smiles comfortingly at Logan.

“She’s still here. Just barely, but still here.” Jean says, and Logan sighs, an angry, long sigh that tells Jean and Rogue that he’s going to be insufferably feeling at-fault here, even though no one is.

“Let’s go.” He picks you up, feeling the burnt skin through that damn tank-top, now barely being held together as tatters– for modesty’s sake, he takes off his flannel and wraps it around you.

Rogue lets Logan and you walk forward a bit, not wanting him to hear what she’s about to say, and then looks towards Jean. “He really loves her, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Jean exhales. “Let’s hope for his sake that she’ll be okay.”

/

Stupid bitch! You’ve been nothing but a curse on this family– fuck you, I hope your future daughter is just as fucked up as you are–

You awake suddenly, with a loud gasp and yell, your mother’s last words to you flashing on your mind– you attempt to pull yourself forward restrained back by tubing in your arm. You’re stuck in a bed. In a hospital bed of sorts.

Not just any hospital bed, one in the hospital wing of the X-Mansion.

You’re calm, at first, until there’s a sudden ache echoing from your back, through your body, through your wings.

“Ah–!” You groan in pain. Trying to move suddenly has hurt you.

There’s a knock at your door. It’s Beast– or, Dr. Hank McCoy, as he’s better known around the hospital wing.

“You’re awake.” Hank says in relief. “It’s been a few days since your accident.”

“It has?” You widen your eyes in shock. “How, w-what… am I okay?”

The last thing you remember is Kyle exploding in flames, causing you to catch fire– then you blacked out, and– you’re having terrible memories of your mother.

“Hank?” You mutter, and he’s quick to come to your side, blue paw-hand holding your own.

“My mother didn’t…”

“No, she’s not here. She’s never come close to you. You’re safe.” Hank states, as Charles has told him to, remembering the few times you’ve had to come to the hospital wing for comfort before. 

So many mutants have troubled backstories, and he doesn’t quite understand why you don’t try to connect with others about it. Hank feels it could really help, but you’ve always changed the subject away from you.

You’re hurt, mentally, in a way that no one can really fix, and Hank is a big believer in letting people progress when they need to– but he’s so glad that you’ve bonded with Logan. 

“Am I going to be okay?” You tap the side of the bed, fears present in your eyes. “Last thing I remember is Kyle going crazy, and I– I got all burnt–”

“Yes, you’re going to be okay. We’ve administered lots of injections, topical ointments, everything that boosts your healing. You might have some scarring after this is all over, but no injuries. You’re very lucky, Angel.” Hank comforts you, and encourages you to lie back.  

“Lucky. Is that what you’d call a girl with a fucked up state of mind?” You murmur, and Hank shakes his head.

“We’re all fucked up.” Hank gets back up, leaving you in your room. “It’s a prerogative to being in the X-Men.”

You smile softly at that. He’s not wrong, but you wish, you really wish you could’ve just been that normal girl that your parents would’ve loved.

You look down at yourself. You’re wearing hospital scrubs, but there’s an unfamiliar fabric underneath the blanket.

Logan’s flannel is splayed across your stomach, a comforting, soft feeling that has you missing him almost instantly. Had he visited you, when you were unconscious, and decided to leave you this as a token, to help you feel at home? 

You lift it up, taking a deep smell of Logan’s signature scent– pinewood, smoke, and something kind of sweet, like… marshmallows? 

It makes you blush, but almost immediately after, you place the flannel back under the blanket. Logan doesn’t need your silly crush, your overt attachment, and you’re smart enough to keep that to yourself.

/

Logan hears from Hank that you’re awake, and although he wonders why Hank told him first, rather than Charles, or Jean, he’s glad to be the first one to see you.

“Hey.” He knocks on your door. To Logan’s surprise, he lets go of a breath he was holding– you don’t look horrific, you have some colour in your face, and there’s a soft smile on your lips when you see him.

You look just like Angel. His best friend. And he comes in real close, ruffling your hair as he often does, maybe more gentle because he doesn’t want to add any more pain.

“Hey, Logan.” You grab his hand, squeezing it with warmth, grateful to see him, before letting go suddenly and looking away bashfully, and he pauses, reminding himself not to think too highly of it.

“Angel. You’re feeling better?” He asks, and you motion for him to sit down on the edge of your bed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel okay.” You stare at him. It’s only been a few days, but Logan looks kind of awful– he’s got some serious dark under-eye bags going on, and stubble that is slowly turning into a beard, and there’s an apparent worry on his face that makes you just want to comfort him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Logan tries to ward off your answer with a stern, one word reply, but you’re not having it.

“Really? You don’t look so great.” You say, not without tact. “I hope you weren’t all cooped up in your room, worrying about me.”

Logan makes a sound that’s half way between a sigh, and a laugh at how close you always seem to get to the truth.

“Alright, yeah. Yeah, I was worried to hell about you. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He jokes, but your face falls.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m good now, I don’t…” There’s an air of seriousness coming from you, that Logan doesn’t typically see, something you usually don’t let yourself do. 

“Are you good? Let me see your back, Angel–” Before Logan can even move you to the side, you turn in defiance, letting him see that you are healing. There are still parts of your flesh, red and angry, but for the most part it seems okay, already far better than it was a couple days ago.

Logan breathes a sigh of relief, touching your wings with a tenderness that has you leaning into his touch, and he gently skims over a scar of yours, glad to see that you’re genuinely not as hurt as he thought– but you pull away quite quickly.

“See? You don’t need to care so much, I’m fine.” You sound accidentally very accusatory, but Logan is just as much of a stubborn asshole as you are sometimes, and he narrows his eyes.

“What the fuck does that mean?” He stares at you. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends care about each other. Jesus, you’re the one who always– you’re always checking up on me, sneaking into my room, touching my face and arms and– how else am I supposed to take that?”

It sounds romantic, Logan realizes, after he’s spit all that out– and it does sound like he’s putting the blame of your dynamic on you. And, even worse, it’s all just out there in the open.

“Really. I’m not the only one who cares, Logan, you…” You shake your head, and instead pull his flannel out from under the blanket. “You left this for me. Why do you make it sound like it’s all just me?”

“Okay, fine, it isn’t. Leave it alone, Angel.” Logan pleads a little, his face turning red.

“You’re always acting like I’m gorgeous, you constantly hug me and lean into me, there was that time you let me sleep on top of you–” You continue, feeling more and more confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you sound like an asshole.”

Logan blinks, feeling the argument dissipate, as it often does, whenever you get close to confronting each other about feelings– you always manage to fly away.

He won’t let you, not this time.

“You didn’t. I am an asshole– I’ve never bothered to tell you how I feel.” Logan mutters, and the way your face blanches in fear, shyness, tells him to keep going, to push the boundaries. “I let my own stupid ego get in the way of actually caring about you, and I’m not going to make that mistake again. I’ve always– I really love you, Angel. And I’m sorry I never made you feel like that was true, I’m sorry that it’s taken until you got hurt for it to be real.”

You have an incredulous look on your face, one Logan wishes he could take a picture of and frame somewhere, because it’s genuinely funny, but then your lip quivers, and he feels like an asshole again.

You feel like an idiot. You think, all this time, what’s bothered you is that you’ve been avoiding the fire– the real ones, sure, but more the things your mother fostered in you. Your trust issues, the way how you hold people dearly in your heart but you can’t let them get close because you worry you’ll never be enough, it’s all been burning for years inside you, and you’ve never had to confront it until Logan decided to stoke the flames.

“It’s always been real for me, too.” You whisper, trying not to cry. “I just… I don’t always believe if people care about me, I never feel good enough to be something for anyone. It’s not you, Logan, it’s my mom, my upbringing, really.”

You give him a short, brief explanation of what your mom did– something you’ll surely expand on later, when it’s not so fresh, when you haven’t been literally burned recently, and the memories pain you more than ever– and Logan’s face turns sharp, his brows furrow, he’s clearly deeply angry by whatever you’ve just told him. 

“I’m stupid. I just assumed– it was me putting too much pressure on you. You shouldn’t have been on this mission, that’s fucking awful.” He finally says, and then scowls. “I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but fuck that lady.”

You snort at that. “Yeah. Yeah, it was never you– I’ve always loved you too, Logan, more than you know. I’m sorry I’m always running from you.”

“Oh, so you’re consciously doing that?” He teases, trying not to react too much to your proclamation of love for him, although his brain feels as if it’s short-circuited. He squeezes your hand, and you laugh.

“Yup. I’m almost glad I got hurt, if it makes us more serious.” You comment, but Logan turns glum at that.

“Don’t say that, Angel. I still feel bad about it.” Logan holds your face, caressing your cheeks, staring into your eyes, glad now that you’re not going to shove him away. “Next time, I’ll try to take the hits. I’ll live.”

“You don’t have to–” Before you can start rejecting Logan’s offer, he leans in really close, almost kissing you but not quite, his breath hot on your own mouth.

“I want you to live.” He murmurs, and you feel yourself turn warm at that. 

When he presses his lips to yours, it’s almost chaste, because Logan still isn’t sure how many of your walls he can break down in one day– but for once you’re quick to act in the opposite direction now, lifting tubes out of your arm (irresponsible as hell, Logan would say later on) so you can better reach his face, and you run your fingers through his hair as you kiss him, again, and again. 

It’s soft, pliant, and warm, and Logan doesn’t quite know what to say when you come back up for air, breathing deeply, body sweaty from both recovery and how intense this is– he feels around you, around your waist as he leans in again, and you giggle, pulling away for just a moment before kissing him again.

His hands are gentle, skimming over your body without trying to hurt the burns on your back– but Logan feels you clamber onto him, onto his lap, and then he feels the soft feathers of your wings as they pull themselves outward, into the open.

He opens his eyes, and grins in a wolfish manner. Maybe you’ve been changed by what happened, maybe you aren’t the same, but you’re his Angel now, and he prefers that.

He kisses you again.

[killerpancakeburger]

PULL ME CLOSER

SUMMARY: After a mission gone wrong, Soap narrowly cheats death. When visiting him in his hospital bed, overwhelming relief emboldens you, making you do something you regret. So you flee, resolved to avoid Sergeant MacTavish until the end of your days. 

But Johnny is done letting you slip through his fingers.

Part 1. Part 2.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (reader has boobs, that's it)

TAGS: A pinch of angst, then tooth rotting fluff, Civilian!Reader, Anxious!Reader, Depressed!Reader, inexperienced!Reader, Desperate!Soap, Soft!Soap, mutual pining, first kiss, confessions, dirty talk, making out. Bit of a chase, but it's fluffy. Protective!Ghost bordering on controlling but he works on it. Swears, blood mention, injuries, miilitary inaccuracies, suggestive content.

WORDS COUNT: 5.6k

A/N: aaaAAAH F I N A L L Y! ITS KISSING TIME BABEYYY 💋 For @glitterypirateduck COD Vacation Mode challenge, prompts 32 with Ghost and 58 with Soap.

"Hey author, this is Soap x Reader, why is Ghost there...?" Because he just! Won't! Leave! 🙃 *you can now picture me trying to push him out of the room with all my meager strength but he doesn't budge an inch* 

As you pace around the office for the umpteenth time, you can tell from the glint in Ghost's eyes that he's seconds away from telling you to take a seat and stop writhing uselessly. 

When did you become so accustomed to the taciturn Lieutenant's expressions - or more accurately, lack of -, that you could figure out what was going on behind the mask? You couldn’t remember.

He's been keeping his gaze on you since you've sat down after learning the harrowing news; or, more exactly, since he's sat down and you've been fidgeting relentlessly.

You're feeling like a shark - to stop moving won't kill you, but it will cause the whole world to come crashing down. It will allow reality to become clearer, sharper, inescapable.

The arrival of Price in the room captures his lieutenant's attention before he can scold you. Gaz follows close behind. He offers you a reassuring smile before his captain addresses you.

“He's going to make it.”

Relief overwhelms you with just those five words; a colossal wave close to sending you tumbling down. Ghost's mask fails to hide his own calming.

Price sets his hands on his hips. His voice is gruffed but composed.

“All he needs now is rest… and some blood.”

“I'll do it,” you blurt out resolutely, taking a step towards your boss.

“No,” snarls Ghost, tone adamant.

You snap around to stare at him in shock and disbelief. He never raised his voice at you before. And, most importantly, he never tried to dictate your behavior. 

“Who do you think you are?! I'm not one of your fucking recruits-”

Price loudly coughs in his fist.

“Easy there.” 

He raises both hands in appeasement. “We don’t even know if you're compatible.”

“I'm a universal donor,” you counter immediately, determination unaltered.

“Course ya are,” scoffs Ghost derisively.

You glare at him with open animosity. What the fuck is wrong with him!?

“What is that even supposed to mean!?”

You throw your arms up in irritation.

“Enough! Both of you.”

John's tone extinguishes your shout with redoubtable efficiency. He's already not someone you would dare cross on casual days, but hearing him raise his voice makes you sheepish.

Nonetheless, you turn towards him, outraged and betrayed. "Both"!? Why both!? I'm not the one being an asshole for no reason!

“You've done this before?” the captain asks, looking at you.

You nod vigorously.

He indicates the door with his chin.

“Fine, then. Go see the nurses to set you up.”

You bolt out of the room without further ado, determined to not let Ghost get another word in. But you can still hear one last sentence as you hasten.

“As for you, Simon…It is none of your business.”

Giving blood has never been a walk in the park. Every time, you have to actively handle your nerves; resort to trusty relaxation methods, such as focusing on your breathing, or counting the tiles on the ceiling.

The stab of the needle is unpleasant, to say the least, but the wait between the jab and the removal is almost as challenging.

Nonetheless, you've done this before, you succeeded, and for Johnny, you'd be willing to do it for hours.

Power of will doesn't compensate blood loss however, and when you get up from the bed, you feel dizzy, your bandaged arm sore and stiff. The idea of meeting with Soap shortly helps you power through, and soon enough you’re sitting at a table in the canteen, empty at this hour of the day, stuffing your face with whatever snacks and drinks have been put aside to aid your recovery.

With nothing but concern for Johnny busying your mind, you end up eavesdropping on a couple of nearby cafeteria employees.

“You think that's really him?”

“Ain't that many guys going around with a skull mask.”

“I heard he killed a man with only a pen…”

Your eyes widen at the mention of a mask, and you groan in annoyance before turning around to see where the staff is looking.

Near the entrance, casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Ghost is watching over you like an overzealous bodyguard. He finally swapped his mission outfit for his trademark black hoodie and grey sweatpants. 

Exasperation flashes through you and you proceed to fling at him a cake wrapped in plastic. Your aim's never been anything to be proud of, but he's large enough that you manage to brush his shoulder.

“Get away from me, you creep!” you yell loud enough to be heard by him.

He gives you an inscrutable gaze before leaving the room, probably settling right on the other side of the door, not one to admit defeat so easily.

Minutes later, you leave the room to visit Soap, and observe with spiteful satisfaction that you were right - Ghost adopted the same position as before, against the corridor's wall. You glower at him as you pass by, and of course he remains unfazed.

You scoff with irritation before deciding to ignore him and focus on Johnny, accelerating the pace.

“Wait.”

You halt with a vexed sigh.

“If you intend to berate me again, I'm not gonna stand there and take it.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

You pivot to face him, exasperated by his sibylline remarks. He moved away from the wall and approached you while you had your back on him.

“Once again, what is that even supposed to mean?”

His cryptic attitude makes your blood boil with anger, one that could almost mask the feelings of hurt and betrayal he begets inside you. At some point, you've genuinely started to believe that you two became some kind of friends. Turns out that you've been naively imagining things this whole time.

“The whole self-sacrificing bullshit.”

You stare in incomprehension, searching his concealed features vainly for a clue, wishing you could rip that stupid mask off his face.

“I'm not sacrificing myself. It's just a bit of blood.”

He crosses his arms.

“We have stocks for that. And it's not just that. When he got into trouble with Price for making you skip work, you tried to take all the blame.”

“He did it to cheer me up-”

He keeps talking like you didn’t intervene.

“And when he pummeled that officer, you pretended it was all your fault.”

“I-”

“Luckily for you, Price's no sucker.”

You wince with distress.

“I just wanted to help. I hate being… feeling useless.”

“That's my problem. I swear it feels like you’d slash your own wrists if you thought it would ‘help’.”

You grimace but do not contradict him. It's actually kind of scary how much he figured you out.

“Let him take responsibility for his actions. He may look impulsive most of the time, but he knows what he's doing.”

Arms folded, you gaze fixedly at the floor in silence, not knowing what to add.

“I’m sorry.”

He talked loud enough to be understood, but the content of his sentence makes you doubt what he said as much as if he whispered. You stare at him with wide eyes, speechless. It's not that you categorically believe Ghost incapable of self-reflection, but at the same time, he's always striked you more as the type to never admit any weakness - except maybe in front of a trusted superior and longtime friend like Price.

“Shouldn't have tried to boss you around. Only made things worse. What happened with Johnny… made me…”

He acts like articulating an apology out loud has on him the effect of enthusiastically biting into a lemon - an irresistible temptation to annoy him emerges inside you. No harm in a little well-deserved payback.

“On edge? Touchy? Cranky? Irrita-”

“That'll do. Go, now.”

You turn away with an amused smile on your lips.

Witnessing the wounded sergeant in a hospital's bed is like a punch to the stomach. Maybe an actual punch would be more merciful.

Inside you, gratitude for his miraculous survival battles against sorrow caused by his pitiful state. An impressive bandage is wrapped around his head, one arm secured in a cast, the other bearing a couple of compresses. His face is littered with scratches and contusions.

When he notices you, frozen on the threshold, he beams.

“How's my little firecracker doing?”

That nickname. That damn nickname. He started using it after he caught you red-handed giving the middle finger to a rude officer who was leaving your office just as Soap was entering it. You tolerated it until you realized it was a reference to his love of explosions and all things blow-able, which made you ridiculously pleased, yet self-conscious all at once.

Your legs were already unsteady, so the complimentary alias almost finished you off. 

“That's my line, you Scottish bastard.” you retort, voice devoid of hostility despite the insult.

Closing the gap between you two with a few strides, you stop at what you consider a respectable distance.

“Why, I'm alive and kicking. No need fer ye to look so dejected.”

You scoff, both annoyed and moved by the attempt to console you. It's unbearable to see him so shattered and yet so upbeat, while you don't have a scratch but came so close to breaking down.

“I hate you,” you mumble.

“Ye love me.”

If you only knew… you wouldn’t dare to joke like that.

You smile ruefully, despite yourself.

“I'm serious. For a moment I…I really thought you… you weren't going to… shit.”

You furiously blink to get rid of the rising tears stinging your eyes, looking away shamefully.

“Hey, hey, hey, c'mere.”

He pats one side of the bed with his free hand invitingly. You obey, positioning yourself near the mattress close enough to touch. He grabs one of your hands and gently squeezes it.

“M sorry.” 

His tone is gruff, maybe a bit abashed. A pang of culpability pierces your heart. 

“What could you be sorry for? You were doing your job. I need to get over it.”

You’re not mine to lose.

“Fer makin’ ye cry. I hate it.”

Why does he have to be so kind?

You persist in trying to prove that you’re the one in the wrong here, not him.

“I shouldn't be crying. You’re the one who went through hell.”

He snorts.

“What's so funny?”

“Not funny, just… Ye didn’t even shed a tear when that bastard jumped ye the other day. Yet here ye are, crying over my sorry arse. Yer somethin’ else.”

The compliment takes you aback, and as his eyes sparkle with nothing but honesty, you fiddle with the bandage you received from the blood donation in a desperate effort to collect yourself.

“What’s that? Ye hurt?”

The concern in his voice warms your heart, even if it is unnecessary.

Soap rises from his pillow to some extent, pain obvious in his restricted movements. You react immediately, clicking your tongue in disapproval. Before you can think twice about it, you set your hand between his pecs and push him back, careful to not harm him, but firm.

“I didn't give you my blood just so you could spill it right away!”

He shouldn't be so easy to put back into his place, even with his wounds. Yet he goes down smoothly, docile under your imperious touch as if he was the unassuming civilian and you the imposing soldier.

His eyes linger on your hand before setting on you, the intensity and the heat of his gaze taking your breath away. His expression is one of surprise, but not of annoyance or revulsion, or at least that's what you hope from what you can read on his face.

Sinking into the lagoons of his eyes, you stare back in a daze. You can feel the rhythmic motions of his well-defined chest under your palm, rising and lowering as he breathes. Suddenly the contact becomes intolerable as your cheeks catch fire. You begin to withdraw but he grabs you just in time.

“Ye gave me yer blood?”

The urgency in his tone takes you by surprise, and so does his expression, one that's contemplating you like you've just announced that you've run in front of a truck for him.

“Price said you needed it-”

“Yer. Blood. We have a stock fer that!”

“I know, I just- I was there and I wanted to do something.”

“And they just let ye?”

“I asked real nicely.”

“Would have liked to see that.”

There's a challenging spark in his eye that you choose to ignore.

“It's just blood,” you mumble, shying away from his gaze, embarrassed by his reaction. You didn’t do this in the hopes that he would express eternal gratitude, nor that he'd be admiring of you.

“It will reconstitute on its own.”

He scoffs, unconvinced. Yet he doesn't sound too mad. There's a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and he's looking at you like you hung the moon.

“Let's talk less about me, and more about you, ok? How are you feeling?”

“Parched,” he retorts while reaching for the water bottle on the nearby tray table.

Of course he's not expanding further. Johnny's the kind to dramatically whine over a paper cut for fun but somehow when it comes to serious, life-threatening injuries, he becomes stoically reserved, almost stingy with words.

You almost throw yourself at the bottle when you notice the slight wince of pain in the line of his mouth - despite his efforts to conceal it - and hand it over to him.

“Just ask me if you need something.”

“Oh bonnie, ye dunnae know what yer getting yerself into with promises like that.”

You openly roll your eyes. If he can make that sort of comment, surely he's not in that much pain after all.

“Let me guess: you’re gonna ask me to kiss your boo boos better.”

You regret your jibe the second you finish talking. You were supposed to only think those words, not pronounce them. He's the gorgeous individual who can take the liberty of flirting with anyone, but you… you’re not.

His only reaction is a chuckle.

“Hmm, what if ah did? Ask fer a kiss?”

His tone is provocative, his pout sultry and his eyes pleading.

You stare at him in thoughtful silence, cogitating your answer. 

He misinterprets your lack of response, and backpedals, stuttering while doing so. He starts to apologize, plainly, apparently convinced he went too far, ashamed by his own conduct.

You let him stew in his embarrassment a bit, not out of sadism but curiosity, rarely being granted the opportunity to see him so insecure.

This could be the chance to put an end to his flirting for good. The chance you've been waiting for. It's what you should do.

But there's a part of you that is fed up. Fed up of this pretty man and his pretty words, of this blue-eyed casanova that must see you as another conquest and nothing more. You’re sick of passively enduring his quips, his seduction, his winks, his smirks. So yes, you could ask him to stop.

Or you could give him a test of his own medicine.

Lifting his hand towards your face, you lock eyes with him to be certain he's watching, then tenderly press your lips to each of his scarred knuckles.

The ensuing quiet is deafening.

He half-opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. You never saw him so flustered. Is he… is he blushing?

Somehow, seeing his flush sets your own face on fire. The reality of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Panic surging inside you, you deal with the situation the way you know best when no other solution comes to mind - you flee. Pretending you don't hear Soap calling after you, you scramble out of the bedroom like the devil's on your heels. Ghost, settled on a chair in the hallway, throws you the closest thing he must have to a bewildered gaze in his repertoire as you storm off by him, gaze that you ignore vehemently.

The following weeks are spent visiting Soap only when he's asleep. Kyle is nice enough to let you know when that's the case. You can tell by the interrogative way he looks at you that a bunch of questions rush on the tip of his tongue: what happened, why are you not simply seeing his teammate when he's awake with the rest of them. But he's either kind or polite enough to not formulate his concerns out loud. Or maybe he thinks it's a private matter between the two of you.

Either way, you’re grateful, and you repay the favor any time you can, filling the break room with his favorite snacks, making him tea or ensuring his gear gets maintained first.

At some point Ghost half complains to you, half reprimands you - since Soap is one part of his current problem and you another.

“Fuckin’ hell, never been easy keepin’ Johnny in medical, but since ya visited him he's worse than ever. Care to explain?”

“I fucked up,” you confess, without adding anything else.

“Fucked up how?”

“I can’t tell you.”

He curses loudly, dragging a gloved hand over his face, appalled by your demeanor.

“Why the fuck not?”

“I'm taking my secret to the grave. All I can tell is that I made an absolute fool of myself, and therefore I can never appear in front of Johnny again.”

He half sighs, half groans, and rolls his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You dramatic little…”

Soap eventually gets released from medical.

You spend a couple of weeks avoiding him to the best of your abilities, even though you can tell that Ghost is frankly sick of your antics, Price is five minutes away from berating you, and even Gaz starts to look at you with something that resembles disappointment. 

You actively despise yourself for ruining a perfectly good friendship. Especially because of a five seconds long action decided on a whim and carried out out of spite. You find yourself on the edge of tears a couple of times, yet unable to cry. Familiar rooms and corridors feel empty and awkwardly silent with his absence.

There are a bunch of close calls, and the base, or at least the part of it that you’re accustomed to, suddenly feels cramped.

But you hold on. 

Until you don't.

You're caught completely unaware, entering the break room as usual to get some coffee.

Only to freeze on the doorstep. Johnny's right there. Barely two meters away. It's the first time you lay eyes on him in what feels like forever. You can’t help but drink in the view.

He's sitting at a table, elbow leaning on it, cheek resting on his closed fist. Your eyes linger over the blue cobalt shirt he's wearing, your favorite of his, and his black fingerless gloves, which you've always had a weakness for. The corner of his lips are down, his eyebrows lightly frowned. Staring into space, he seems sullen.

Your heart tightens at the sight.

However you barely get the opportunity to indulge into your guilt, because next thing you know, your gazes meet. He perks up, eyes widening in surprise. You tense like a deer in the headlights, holding your breath. Dread swells inside you. You’re no braver than last time.

You turn around and decamp.

It's fine, you can come back later. You just need to unearth a hiding spot for now. The object of your affliction - on top of your affection - will probably be vexed enough by your reaction that he won't seek to confront you.

Yes, everything is just fine, you assure yourself - for no more than a handful of seconds.

Without warning, brawny, familiar arms close around your shoulders from behind, pinning your back against a muscular torso.

“Gotcha.”

The word is barely above a whisper, more a growl than anything else, enunciated right into your ear, sending shivers all over your body. You don’t find anything to do but clutch with both hands one of the tanned forearms pressed beneath your collarbone.

Fighting him off doesn't even cross your mind. It's not that you think you'd fail - you trust him to let you go at the first stern summon. You just don't want to forgo his embrace. He hasn’t hugged you since that time you've been mugged and one moment was enough to make you realize how much you’ve missed it.

“Dunnae whether to be upset ye ran away again, or to find it cute that ye thought ye could actually outrun me.”

You gulp, heart pounding and cheeks heating up.

“Johnny…”

A host of pitiful excuses accumulates behind your lips, but somehow none manage to make its way out.

He briefly tightens his hold, but the gesture feels more like a hug than a restraint. Did he… did he just squish you? Like some kind of… cuddle toy?

“Got nothin’ to tell me?”

The question is a taunt as much as a hint at reconciliation.

You try to pace yourself, and think logically about this predicament of your own making. You need to devise a strategy to come out - more or less - unscathed of this.

Soap sounds more smug than mad, but still, passably angry. Maybe there's a way to fix this. Be friends again like nothing happened. Maybe he can forgive you.

First, do not worsen things.

Two, apologize. Properly.

Three, keep your fingers crossed …?

“I'm… sorry?”

He chuckles darkly.

“Gonnae take more than that.”

You try to resist the effects this sentence, his husky voice, his proximity, his laugh have on you, the way they make your stomach twist in apprehension and… indisputable arousal. Resist the temptation to close your eyes so you could focus on his voice alone, on the warm breath brushing your skin, on the lips so close to your ear; to let go in his arms, lean with your whole weight on his body.

Focus, damn it, you admonish and beg yourself all at once. On something else. Anything else.

You’re about to argue that he cannot possibly expect you to succeed in making amends when you’re in this compromising position, but you don't get the time.

Johnny hauls you away inside the nearest room. In a split second, he flicked the lightswitch on and nearly slammed the door behind you.

Cleaning products and exiguity surround you, illuminated by a cheap light bulb.

A closet, helpfully supplies your mind. 

You barely have time to digest this information that Soap cages you against the wall, resting his forearms over your head. He contemplates you with a mix of melancholy and longing that renders your knees weak and sends a pang in your chest.

“Been going bloody mad with thoughts of ye.”

His voice is smooth like silk, tone sweet like honey, caressing your ears, warmth dripping inside your chest, making your head spin; or maybe it's a result of his closeness; or a consequence of his cerulean eyes boring into you.

“Ye got any idea how it felt to see ye leave without being able to do a bloody thing ‘bout it? Wanted nothing more than to rip off the tubes, get up, grab ye and lay back in bed with ye in my arms.”

He's intoxicating. He has to be, with how high, euphoric you're feeling, all your problems swept away, insignificant.

“Tell me to fuck off.”

You blink in incomprehension. Drunk on him, you may have lost track a little.

“I'll back off fer good.” 

Bliss makes way to horror.

“Look me in the eye and tell me ye hate me. Tell me I disgust ye. Tell me ye wish ye never met m-”

“No!”

Your shout has the merit to make him stop, even if you didn’t mean to yell. Your scream disconcerts him for a second before an exultant grin stretches his lips. His smugness is back with a vengeance.

“So ye do like me.”

“How could I not,” you mutter, capitulating, but avoiding his gaze.

He refuses to let you, and cups one side of your face to make you look at him. As you meet his eyes again, his thumb tenderly strokes your cheekbone. You feel your insides melt at the gesture.

“I like ye. A lot.”

He licks his lips, as if to grant himself some time to mull over his next words, and you automatically follow the motion.

“And I want to kiss ye. A lot.”

His hand slides from your cheek to your chin, slightly tilting your head back.

“Can I?”

It takes a moment for you to regain your voice. When you woke up this morning, you most definitely didn’t expect to receive a confession from John Mactavish. Your brain goes into overdrive.

Is this real? Am I dreaming?

“Johnny, listen…”

The gaze he's aiming at you glows with hope.

“You don’t want to be with me. I'm…” 

What? A shell of a human being? Broken?

“…a mess.”

Expectation is replaced by resolve in his turquoise pupils.

“I know exactly what I want. And it's ye. Wouldn't be here otherwise.”

His patience seems to unravel with each passing second, as he stares at you with something akin to desperation written on his face.

“Want me to beg? S’that it?”

“What? No-”

“Cause I can. Beg real pretty. Bet ye'd like that. Saw how ye looked at me the other day when I got on my knees for ye-”

He keeps babbling sweet and filthy nothings that set your face ablaze. He saw how you looked at him? Mortification briefly flares up inside you before you notice the amusement in the corner of his lips, the playful glimmer in his glance, tangled with the neediness - he's joking around. You adopt a stern expression to chasten him but quickly realize he's way too busy staring at your lips to get the message. So you grab both sides of his face to get his attention - two can play this game.

The sheepish, sad puppy face he gives you in return barely makes a notch in your firmness. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, right before diving into the unknown.

“Yes,” you profess - and before he can tease you for clarification - “You can kiss me.”

But as he leans forward to obey, an incriminating detail surfaces in your mind.

“Wait, wait…”

You cover his mouth with one hand. Then immediately regret it, with how his eyes devour you the way his mouth can’t, not helping your flustered state at all.

He gently grabs your wrist and removes your hand, before pressing a kiss into your palm, your wrist.

“Now, better say something, or I'm gonna kiss my way up.”

He hums pensively.

“Scratch that, I'm gonna kiss ye everywhere.”

Pleasant tingles travel your whole body at that. He looks up from your hand to stare at you, and there's a devious glint in his eyes that tells you he caught sight of it.

“I have never.. done this… before.”

This confession means a lot to you. It's a well-kept secret, as long as people don't already deduce it from your lack of social skills. You’d rather it stays this way, but you don't see how you can start a relationship while withholding this truth.

All you can hope now is that Soap will react in a manner you consider appropriate. If he judges you, if that fact makes you go down in his estimation, or if he starts seeing you as some sort of innocent, naive individual that he could get off on corrupting, you’re not sure you'll be able to recover from it.

All playfulness deserts his face. He observes you with a mix of solemnity and compassion.

“Oh, bonnie… I don't give a shite ‘bout that. We'll go as slow or as fast as ye want, aye?”

Stirred beyond words, you nod your assent.

Not wasting any more time, he presses his lips to yours. They're soft and warm. You expected a surge of unbridled desire, but he takes his sweet time with you, to become acquainted with your mouth. 

It only lasts a moment though; as he seems to gain in confidence and deepens the kiss, his motions fill with fervor, turn frantic. Hunger rivals devotion.

They say the greatest pleasure possible a human being can experience isn’t, well, pleasure; it's the end of pain - and he's kissing you like he's been aching for it, for so long, and he's finally getting relief. He's clinging onto you like the separation of those past weeks put him in severe withdrawal.

You probably would have let him continue if you weren't compelled by the imperative need to breathe. You turn away, panting.

Not interrupted in the slightest, he simply latches onto your neck instead.

Floating in a daze, you absently close one hand on the back of his shirt, and fondle his mohawk with the other.

“Hold on to me.”

The instruction takes a ridiculously long time to reach you. Thankfully, Soap picks up on that and grasps your hands to place them on the back of his neck. You only understand his goal when his fingers slide behind your thighs and he lifts you up effortlessly, wedging you between the wall and himself.

Once he gets his fill of your throat, he sneaks one forearm under your rear and lets go of one of your thigh, somehow managing to keep you in the air one-armed, to tug at the opening of your top.

Seeing him struggle to open your blouse one-handed, you reach down to assist; but just as you do that, he grabs one side of the clothing between his teeth, and pulling the other with his free hand, he rips off the first three snap fasteners in one go. Your eyes go wide, your mind torn between finding the gesture arousing or risible. 

You settle for a fond scoff.

“You animal.”

The name feels all the more appropriate because when he looks up at you, releasing the cloth, the hunger in his eyes is striking, and the wolfish grin he grants you is the one of a ravenous predator.

“You could have just asked-”

“S'faster,” he shrugs, at least as much as possible in his current position.

You barely notice the staple of your bra opening; he hauls you slightly higher, bringing your chest to mouth level, and dives between your breasts like a man starved. The contact makes you tilt your head back against the wall, sighing in pleasure. The sensation of his lips and tongue against your sensitive skin makes you coil: your fingers grasp the back of his shirt and his hair, pressing his head impossibly closer, your thighs clench around his torso, your toes curl.

“Fuck, Johnny.”

He moans your name in response, albeit a bit muffled. He sounds as afflicted as you are, if not more. The idea turns you on terribly.

You look down to see him, and the vision of his face feverishly pressed to your skin is almost unbearable.

Suddenly he recoils, eyes meeting yours, and opens his mouth to stick his tongue out, right in front of your nipple, holding still in silent question. Your crotch throbs with arousal and you bitterly regret your earlier assessment - this view is much harder to endure, by far. The deep, honest eagerness in his gaze, coupled with the absolute submission to your will he demonstrates…

That doesn't stop you from frenetically nodding your head in agreement. His lips close around your nipple and the flick of his tongue against it draws a whine out of you. His free hand softly squeeze your other breast.

If he wasn’t holding you, your legs probably would have given out.

A faraway ringtone painfully pierces through the torpor you’re deliciously lost in. Your ringtone.

Johnny swears under his breath and blindly gropes your ass to silence your phone lodged in your back pocket.

Your eyes snap open in horror as you abruptly emerge into reality.

“Shit, shit, SHIT! Put me down!”

You repeatly hit Soap's shoulders to get his attention and convey urgency, without putting real force behind it. He complies immediately.

Your soles barely reached the ground that you’re already whiping out the device from your pants. Your coworker's name is displayed on the screen. Turning your back on Johnny, you pick up the call in a panic.

“Hey… yes. Yes, I'll be there in a minute. …They're not here yet? Thank fuck.” 

As you sheepishly reassure your colleague that you’ll be there soon for the meeting that should have already started, you feel fingers fiddling with your blouse. Your first instinct is to bat Johnny's hands away, before grasping that he's actually putting your snaps back in place.

“Hm? Oh no, nothing bad. … I, uh… I just got held back. Anyway, see you soon.”

You hang up with shaky hands and a weary but relieved sigh.

The Scotsman's arms wrap around your waist from behind and he lovingly nuzzles his face against yours. His stubble prickles your skin, but the gesture is too endearing for you to spurn him.

“No more running away, aye?”

He exudes peacefulness, every muscle in his body content and relaxed. Where did Ghost's vicious attack dog go and who's this teddy bear?

“No more running,” you acquiesce.

“Good lass,” he purrs.

Normally, you would have gotten back at him for that patronizing comment, but you still feel bad for the way you treated him, so you just grunt.

“We'll pick up where we left off, hmm?”

Your cheeks burn furiously as you realize what he's referring to - his kisses wandering lower, to fulfill the “everywhere” part of the pledge he made earlier.

What the hell did you get yourself into?

[lay-z]

🕊 Day 10 – Santa Soap and his most dangerous mission

A continuation to 🌨 Day 2 – Quaint, which means it’s set in the same universe!

Synopsis: At the annual Christmas party on base, you’re torn between making a quick escape and holding out to get a glimpse of someone special.

Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: No smut. | military!Reader; cussing; nicotine addiction; friendship; mutual pining; medical inaccuracies; humour; fluff; friends/teammates to lovers

Word count: 2.5k

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

You’ve made the internal decision that you’ll clock the next bloody bastard who dares to approach you only to comment on your appearance tonight. The fact that you’re wearing a dress and heels and some makeup for a rare change, has definitely gained too much attention from the wrong crowd. 

Standing in a corner of the adapted and decorated event location, close to the ceiling-to-floor windows that lead to the equally decorated large balcony, you pick at the sleeve of your dress with one hand while holding an empty wine glass in the other, feeling yourself getting terribly antsy as the night progresses. 

Hell, it has already slipped your mind at this point in the evening, why you even decided to get all dolled up. You hate the attention from male soldiers here on base, especially superiors who might take it the wrong way, though you could care less about the rookies. You stand above their opinions and the rumours about you. 

You’re at a point where you’d kill for a ciggy right about now, but you’re trying to quit the dirty habit to start the New Year a better person than last. So, cold turkey, because you’re that determined and petty to quit after both Gaz and Soap taunted you about never being able to do it. On top of that, more alcohol is also not an option, because it would only worsen the need for a beloved cancer stick. 

Glancing at the watch on the wall, you see that it’s been barely an hour since you showed up here, and you’re already mentally debating if it’s appropriate to make an early escape back to your quarters. Perhaps you can dodge Captain Price on your way out, the man who’d secretly ordered you to socialize and mingle.  

However, in the back of your mind, there’s also that nagging voice that keeps making your stomach twist and knot with questionable words and thoughts, and desires, about your Lieutenant. 

You haven’t seen him yet… and most importantly, he hasn’t seen you!  

No, you didn’t dress up for Ghost, of course not. That would be so silly and frankly, also pathetic. 

“Oh, look at ye!” 

Once Soap’s voice reaches your ears over the noise of the surrounding crowd, you fear your eyes might roll back so far into your skull that they might get stuck this time.

You cross your arms over your chest awkwardly, still holding the empty wine glass, “Will you leave me alone already? No, I don’t wanna kiss under your fucking mistletoe and I’m not gonna call you ‘Santa Soap’, either.” 

Gaz practically spawns next to Soap, wearing a matching Santa hat like the goofy Scotsman, a drink in his hand, pearly whites gleaming in the dim light as he grins mischievously, “Now, why would you be such a grump on this fine evening, Sergeant? Our Santa here’s simply trying his best to spread the Christmas spirit.” 

Meanwhile, Soap nods enthusiastically while fetching another mistletoe from the inside pocket of his dark grey lumber jacket, just like the one you’d previously thrown away when he tried to make you kiss him earlier. 

“Did you seriously bring more than one?” 

Soap nods innocently, bright blue eyes shining with mirth and liquor, “Aye, ‘course. Cannae show up unprepared, my wee she-elf.” 

Gaz snorts, “Always pack enough ammo.” He nods approvingly and takes a sip of his drink. 

You roll your eyes again, “Ugh, shut up you two.” 

“Aw, are we a bit narky, eh? Need a ciggy that bad already, lassie?” Soap coos tauntingly, grinning boyishly when you scoff and turn your back to them dismissively, a clear pout on your red-painted lips. 

“I think she’s just vexed, because our Lt. didn’t show up yet.” Gaz mumbles into his glass, peeking over the rim as he gauges your reaction. 

That makes your breath falter momentarily, because have you been that obvious lately? 

After you spent that night on guard duty with Ghost a few weeks ago, you felt like you’d made progress with him. He’d opened up a bit about his childhood and past, though he always kept things sort of vague, and in return, you were soaking up each tiny bit of intel you could gather about him, eager to solve the puzzle – or get a glance of the display picture of the puzzles' carton, at least. 

The mystery about him didn’t stop your rapidly cementing crush on him, either. And it’s an odd feeling, falling in love, after so many years of successfully throwing yourself into your career instead of focusing on a possible romantic relationship. 

Who knew you’d find the latter at your bloody job of all places. 

You look down into your wine glass, swirling the last ruby droplet around as you bite your tongue, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Here you are, thinking you were being sneaky with your growing – and much forbidden – infatuation with your superior.  

Soap nudges Gaz’ side while you’re not looking, shaking his head at his friend and teammate with his thick brows furrowed chidingly, making Gaz shrug in return, his expression apologetic before he lifts his drink up to his lips again. 

“Think I saw him head out on the balcony, lassie,” Soap remarks, his voice surprisingly serious and soft for a change, “If ye’re stealthy enough ye might catch him.” 

“We both know that’d be impossible, Johnny,” you retort languidly as you lift up the wine glass to slurp up the tiny droplet, “No one can sneak up on Simon. Plus, he’s not here, so stop lying.” 

“Simon?!” The men bark in unison, eyebrows shooting up as if you’d just insulted their mothers. 

“Oooh, since when are you two on first name basis?” Gaz inquires curiously, his warm brown eyes getting that familiar spark whenever he smells potential new gossip – gossip you won’t provide this time. 

“We’re not,” you lie, smacking your lips as you crave another drink – and a cigarette along with it, “– and if we were, I wouldn’t tell you, Garrick.” 

Soap snickers, stepping around you and giving your shoulders a few squeezes. He rubs them obnoxiously until you shrug him off with an annoyed click of your tongue and a glare over your shoulder. 

“Could you stop? You’re so annoying.” 

Gaz laughs as he watches you and Soap act like cat and dog, his eyebrow quirking with a knowing smile when Soap pries the wine glass out of your hand next, giving your back a soft shove towards the balcony doors.  

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll keep bein’ annoyin’, so ye better take a breather now, sweetheart.” 

“Muppets,” you mutter under your breath, getting more agitated by their behaviour, “Both of you!” 

Gaz lifts his hands in surrender, chuckling as he takes a side step to let you walk past while you keep mumbling to yourself under your breath. 

“Risky,” Gaz remarks, flashing a grin at Soap once you’re out of ear shot, “This might be your best work so far… or a guaranteed arse kicking, MacTavish. You don’t think she’ll notice?” 

“Nah,” Soap sighs dreamily, looking in the direction you left in before he perks up again, “Let’s get another drink, eh?” 

As you step outside onto the balcony, you take a swift glance around before you immediately regret not bringing your jacket as the icy winds swirl about. 

Hugging your arms around yourself, you take a few sauntering steps farther out on the spacious balcony, admiring the fairy lights wrapped around the long railing and the clear night sky as you tip your head back to look at  the moon and stars. 

It’s still a wonder to you, how unique the sky looks in different countries; have you spent some of your time on deployments simply stargazing whenever you found yourself on guard duty and whenever you felt safe enough to do so. 

And suddenly, as the noises from inside, all the chatter and boisterous laughter and music, are simply muffled into the background, you feel utterly lonely and… strangely defeated. 

“What the hell am I even doing here?” You groan quietly and sigh deeply, warm breath puffing and fogging up in the cold. 

“That’s what ‘m askin’ myself.” 

Nearly jumping out of your skin with a gasp, you almost turn your ankle in your pumps as you flinch away from the dark corner to your right.  

You can only see the flickering flame of a lighter first, followd by the amber glow of a cigarette tip, blue smoke curling in the darkness and evaporating into nothingness, before the behemoth of a man steps out of the shadows towards you, like the grim reaper himself, living up to his name as Ghost. 

“Fucking hell, Simon,” you chide, still breathing heavily as you clutch your rapidly beating heart, though now it’s beating for a whole different reason, “You need to stop scaring people like that!” 

“Not my problem you’re jumpy like a little bunny.” He retorts gruffly, though you can clearly hear the smile in his voice before you can see it. 

His simple, black balaclava is rucked up over his nose again as he takes another lazy drag of his cigarette while his dark eyes give you an agonizingly slow once over, one that has your heart flutter and your cheeks burn. He keeps the smoke in his lungs as he speaks, “You look nice. Different.” He exhales.

Needless to say, you don’t clock him for that. 

“Different,” you repeat under your breath as you look at him; drinking in the exposed, pale skin of his neck, his cheeks, his mouth, as always. You notice that he shaved. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that clings to his muscular thighs nicely, a dark hoodie and black leather jacket along with boots. 

He looks nice. Hot, actually. God... he’s so hot... 

“Aye, different as in nice. Want me to tell ya that you’re beautiful?” He asks bluntly, taking another drag, “Would feel wrong to tell ya that now, lass. You were already beautiful without all –“ He makes a vague gesture to your face and dress, “– ‘o that.” 

“Okay, thanks.” You squeak; your throat now terribly dry. There is nothing you would love more than snatch the cigarette from his thick fingers to take a greedy drag and calm your jangled nerves. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, then and doesn’t stop staring; his onyx eyes flickering over your form as if he’s assessing you. 

“Why are you out here anyway?” He makes another gesture at your outfit, “Dressed like that. It’s too cold, ya dafty.” 

You could ask him the same, but you feel like you know the answer to that. He hates crowds and avoids social gatherings if he can help it, but Price has ordered him to attend just like he did you. 

“I just... needed some air,” you shrug and Ghost nods as he fetches a pack of smokes from his chest pocket, flicking the lid open with his thumb before holding it out to you. 

Your fingers twitch against your arms, nails clawing into the fabric of your dress while your nostrils flare as you get a whiff of sweet, sweet tobacco. But then, the nagging voices of Gaz and Soap echo in your mind, and if they would catch you smoking out here, you’d never hear the end of it – and frankly, that’s not worth your nerves. 

“Can’t,” you croak out, refusing reluctantly. Your eyes flit from his offer up to his eyes while he raises an eyebrow under his mask questioningly, “I quit.” 

Ghost snorts, flicking the lid closed again, “Why?” The small pack disappears back into his pocket. 

“Someone told me it’s unhealthy,” you jest with a small shrug, hugging your arms tighter around yourself as the cold starts seeping into your bones. 

“Hmpf,” he hums again and pauses before he takes another slow drag, “What an arsehole.” He exhales through his nose, smoke curling into the air as he smiles bemusedly. 

And then, there is a tense pause as you watch how the golden glow of the surrounding fairy lights reflect in his dark brown eyes, adding a sudden soft warmth to his lingering gaze. 

“Can you blow some smoke in my face?” You ask, biting your inner cheek before adding, “I read that’s what pregnant ladies do when they struggle to quit smoking at once.” 

“Bollocks.” He barks out a laugh, flashing his slightly crooked teeth you’ve come to adore so much. Teeth who’ve been broken violently and been fixed too many times. 

“It’s true!” You whine playfully, chuckling along with him, and then he gives you an odd look, his lips tighten into a line before he speaks, “Close yer eyes.” 

Your stomach does a flip at his soft-spoken command, your heart flutters violently as he takes a step closer, taking a long drag. And then, you do as he says and close your eyes, tilting your head back expectantly. 

A few seconds later, the warm caress of his breath and thick cigarette smoke brush over your cold skin, making your skin pebble underneath your dress. You inhale greedily, lips parting slightly as you try to catch the taste of it discreetly. 

“More?” He rasps and you nod slowly, keeping your eyes closed, “Yes, please.” You utter softly. 

Another few seconds later, you hear the crunch of boots on concrete, and then you suddenly feel the tentative press of chapped lips on yours. 

Your eyes squeeze together, and you nearly pull back in shock, but his hand is already cupping the back of your head gently, his other warm mammoth hand resting on your waist; his body heat seeping through your dress as he closes the distance between your bodies. The fabric of his balaclava brushes against your face as your noses nudge together before makes you tilt your head. 

He kisses you slowly, somewhat clumsily, as if he’s calculating and overthinking each move of his lips, but by God, it’s good. So good, and so much better than you always imagined, because it’s real.  

Your hands slip to the front of his broad, buff chest, fingers clutching his open leather jacket and holding on for dear life as your brain starts to shut off. The tip of his tongue brushes against the seam of your mouth and your lips part wider on instinct. His tongue dives in, seeking and rolling against yours almost timidly, and you can taste the nicotine, the whiskey, and the remnant minty taste of his toothpaste. 

When a soft moan is torn from your throat, his hand squeezes your hip and his fingers brush through your hair before he grips the nape of your neck, holding you in place when he pulls back, breaking the first kiss you shared.

Your breaths mingle, hot and panting, as you gaze at each other with half-lidded eyes. His heart is thudding harshly against his chest, feeling it clearly beneath your palm, though it matches your own rapid heartbeat. 

“...’m sorry, bunny,” Ghost says eventually, his voice rough and husky, his lips still brushing yours as he speaks, “I just... couldn’t keep ignoring that bloody mistletoe.” 

[bubbles-laughs-imagines]

“I never noticed your freckles before, theyre cute.”

With the both of you having lost a bet, you are now stuck together in a tight closet for 10 minutes.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader - fluff, really just fluff, getting together, mutual pining, forced proximity, first kiss, for the sake of the prompt you have freckles

『••✎••』

You hated your friends, you hated stupid bets and you hated how close you were to the guy you had a crush on. To say that the supply closet on the third floor of the school building was tiny, was an understatement. Or maybe he was just big, but for god's sake, you did not need to think about this anymore than you already were.

Kuroo and you were awkwardly standing chest to chest, though he really tried to press himself into the wall so that you would have more space. He also kept his hands to himself, clasped together at his front. It wasn't dark in the closet, but the lighting was yellowed and old and you might just feel a migraine forming because of it as well as the smell of cleaning products.

This is not what your friends have been giggling about to you. They were imagining dim and moody lighting and Kuroo making daring advances. You immediately tried to crush their hopes, saying that Kuroo isn't like how they wanted to imagine. He isn't some boundary breaking macho man, which was one of the many things you liked about him. He was soft spoken and nice to you, he did tease you sometimes,yeah, but he never stepped over any line you had drawn. At the same time you did also love how stupidly handsome he was and-

You were ripped from your thoughts when he said “Is this okay for you?”

“Hm? Well… there's not much more space you can offer.” You chuckled lightly. “I also don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

He hummed in response and took it as an invitation to back out of the wall just a little bit and shuffle closer towards you again. You locked gazes.

“And hey, I'm sure the ten minutes are almost over. ”You spoke with a slightly nervous tone, which he noticed. He smirked just a bit at you.

“Nervous?” His voice was deep, and you felt like you might combust. You didn't,say anything, only shook your head in a no as you hoped your cheeks were not heating up. He kept observing you and you just let it happen. He was warm against you, breathing calm and collected. Oh, you didn't know if you would make it out of the closet without your heart stopping. Goodbye world, it's been good, may this-

“I never noticed your freckles before, they're cute.”

Yep. You were dead, dying and leaving this plane. Sputtering wildly, you did your best to thank him for the compliment, your cheeks were adorned by a blush. He grinned and leaned forward a bit. “Even cuter with a blush.”

“O-Okay, thank you, yep! Cool! Haha…” He was really close to your face now, still grinning. You tried to breathe and calm down, it's just the school's volleyball team captain that you've had a long time crush on.

He chuckled at your reactions again and his large hand tried to fan air your way. “Earth to Y/N? You good there?”

“Trying to be…”

Kuroo hummed in response, a gentle glint flashed over his face.

“When you're back on this planet, can I kiss you?”

Your eyes widened and a giddy feeling arose in you. Fiddling with your hands, eyes meeting his again, you spoke. “I think I'm back right now.”

Chuckles filled the closet as he gently pressed his lips against yours. You immediately wrapped your hands around his shoulders and he took that as an invitation to pull you closer as well.

Suddenly the closet didnt feel that cramped anymore.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

HELLO HELLO FIRST EVER HAIKYUU IMAGINE POSTED, LETS GO

I hope this isnt trash lmao

This writing belongs to me, but the character and the franchise doesnt!!!

[bubbles2024]

[buddierecs]

angst buddie fics

all of these are general audience, teen and up or not rated (no smut) make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

a leaf falls on loneliness (highly recommend this fic!!) by: iimpossible_things "buck doesn’t think that if he were to say, “i’m in a bad place”, that anyone would turn him away. really, he doesn’t. the 118 has too many good, kind people for that. but every time he wants to open his mouth, to say something, to reach out to eddie or bobby or hen or chim, he hears eddie yelling, “you’re exhausting.” —you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting— so each day he does his job and he laughs and he jokes and he pretends he’s the care-free goofball he’s always been. And each day he packs away his bruises and his worries, takes them home to his empty loft with its quiet rooms, and licks his wounds in silence." word count: 11k important tags: hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending, original male character catharsis by: rogerzsteven "it only takes one minor inconvenience for buck to have his long overdue breakdown" word count: 5.3k important tags: emotional hurt/comfort, mental/emotional breakdown, bobby nash as evan buckley parent, multiple pov still by: brewsrosemilk "for the first time, buck longs for a bullet wound to treat. dirt to dig at. a door to break through. something. there’s nothing. “your guess was correct, diaz,” the bomb technician tells them, as he gestures to the orange circle. “you’re standing on a large sensor plate, wired to a detonator. It’s incredibly important that you don’t move. don’t shift. when you put your weight down, it was like cocking a gun - you take your weight off, this thing is powerful enough to take the entire house with it." word count: 9.3k important tags: near death experience, love confessions, happy ending, first kiss august by: daisies_and_briar "buck, eddie, natalia, and marisol go on a beach vacation in august of 2023. It gets angsty and gay." word count: 40k important tags: vacation, eddie/mariol, buck/natalia, mariol/natalia, coming out, feelings confession, sexuality, everyone is queer listen to you breathing (is where i wanna be) by: yavilee "the one where buck is presumed dead after a building collapse and eddie has to live through the reminder that tomorrow isn't promised to anyone" word count: 41k important tags: presumed dead, major character injury, mutual pining, grief, panic attacks, friends to lovers all that we intend is scrawled in sand (and slips right through our hands) by: withmeornotatall "buck and eddie get trapped together, time is running out, and eddie doesn't want to die alone" word count: 6.9k important tags: near death experiences, major character injury, whump, love confessions, getting together, first kiss

actually, truly by: milenadaniels "helena (and ramon) tries to find a way back into eddie's life and doesn't know what to make of finding buck around every corner she turns." word count: 14k important tags: multiple pov, season 4/shooting, homophobia, internalized homophobia, recovering from injury, pre-relationship, getting together, team as family, supportive!isabel diaz, coming out i know you're hurting (but so am i) by: justhockey "eddie understands better than maybe anyone else ever could, how it feels to have everything unravel in the palm of your hands. he knows frustration - he knows fury. he’s painfully familiar with that burning rage that crackles in the tips of your fingers, that makes your skin hot and chest tight, and makes you want to punch anyone that dares to even look at you. but that doesn’t give chim the right to lay a damn hand on buck" word count: 3.7k important tags: hurt/comfort, ptsd, feelings realisation, protective!eddie diaz, communication, 5x04 coda i want to reach out by: orphan_account "buck was a very emotional and physically clingy person, he knew this, once he had someone, he held on tight, scared they'd one day leave them. a drunk ana points out that maybe everyone is tired of it, and buck realises: maybe they are." word count: 5.7k important tags: insecure!evan buckley, ana flores bashing, hurt/comfort, touch starved, abandonment issues, love confessions

the aftermath of liberation and love confessions by: elvensorceress "in which eddie comes out, sexuality is complicated but coffee is not, buck makes an excessive salad and is also roasted, everyone has a love confession, and December is the most dramatic time of year." word count: 17k important tags: pining!eddie diaz, idiots to lovers, coming out, love confessions, demisexual!eddie diaz, post 5.09 and this is his life by: shyaudacity "in late june of nineteen ninety-one, mere hours after losing her son to cancer, margaret buckley takes a baby out of the hospital nursery and decides to bring him home" word count: 26k important tags: established relationship, kidnapping, emotional hurt, panic attacks, flashblacks, comforting!eddie diaz mirror, lie to me, tell me you can see by: anonymous "buck struggles with food and his body. it's not new." word count: 20k important tags: TW: eating disorder, established relationship, hurt/comfort, protective!maddie buckley, marriage proposal, sibling love, caring!eddie diaz without you, i'll never be home by: the_forgotten_nobody "after the tsunami, eddie invites buck to stay with him and christopher." word count: 45k important tags: hurt/comfort, post-tsunami/season 3, anxiety, separation anxiety, pining, sharing a bed

[thatlotuscookie]

could you do for Dabi x villain reader who he has a crush on and one day after a mission he feels like shit so he just goes to his room because he's body's burned and hurting and reader goes to his room and helps him, kisses his scars, treats his injuries, hugs him and stuff. FEEL FREE TO COME UP WITH SOMETHING MORE IF U'LL LIKE

✧･ﾟ: a/n : thank you so much for the request! I absolutely love the idea of Dabi letting his guard down with the reader after a rough mission and getting the comfort he doesn’t usually let himself ask for. enjoy<33

✧ Title: ✧ Hidden Flames ✧ ✧ Characters: Dabi x Reader (Gender Neutral) ✧ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Fluff ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: After a mission leaves Dabi battered and exhausted, he retreats to his room to nurse his wounds alone. When you show up, intent on caring for him, he’s reluctant at first. But as you treat his injuries, kissing his scars and reminding him that he doesn’t have to face everything alone, Dabi realizes just how much he values your presence. ✧ Content/Tags: Injuries, Vulnerability, Comfort, Mutual Pining, Scar Kisses, Established Crush, Soft Dabi, Hurt/Comfort WC: 1365 words // 7.4k

The hideout was cloaked in stillness, a hollow silence hanging over the building like a fog after the chaos of their latest mission. Dabi’s feet dragged as he approached his room, a wave of exhaustion nearly toppling him as he stumbled inside. His vision blurred slightly, and he let out a frustrated breath, every fiber of his being screaming in pain.

He shut the door with his shoulder, leaning on it briefly, letting the cool wood press against his back as he caught his breath. His mind was a mess of aches and exhaustion, a hazy reminder of all he’d taken on tonight. The burns littering his skin throbbed persistently, a reminder that he wasn't as invincible as he liked to think.

Finally, he sank onto his bed, shutting his eyes as he tried to will the pain into silence. He hated this feeling—weak, vulnerable. It wasn’t supposed to be him. He’d built his life on fire and fury, not…this. Not whatever this gnawing, hollow feeling was. He exhaled sharply, mentally daring himself to stay conscious, to fight through it. But just as he was sinking into that fog, he heard a gentle knock.

He bit back a curse, forcing himself up enough to glare at the door. “Go away,” he called out, his voice rough and almost pleading, hoping it’d scare off whoever it was.

But the door creaked open, and there you were, a small first-aid kit in hand and concern written all over your face. Dabi's heart gave an unwelcome thud, a mixture of annoyance and—dammit—relief swirling inside him. Of all people, why did it have to be you? It was too much; the last thing he needed was you seeing him like this, all messed up and hurting.

“Dabi,” you said, your voice soft, cutting through his haze like a breath of fresh air. “You look awful.”

He wanted to snap back, deflect, say something snarky to keep you at a distance. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he just let out a low huff, rolling his eyes as he mumbled, “Glad you’re as blunt as ever.” He tried to sound annoyed, but the truth was, he was a little relieved to have you here. That was the damn problem—he was starting to like it too much, having you around, and it was messing with his head.

You ignored his attempt to play it off and stepped closer, your eyes searching his face with that worry that he could never quite get used to. His chest tightened as he watched you, that soft look in your eyes making him feel exposed in a way he’d never felt before.

“You’re hurt,” you said quietly, kneeling beside him, so close he could feel your warmth against him. Your voice held a tenderness that made his throat tighten. “Let me take care of you.”

Dabi felt something inside him give way, the part of him that was tired of holding up walls and pretending he didn’t need anyone. He looked at you for a long moment, the vulnerability in his gaze unguarded, and he finally muttered, “Fine.”

You set to work, gently cleaning his burns and cuts, your touch careful and precise. As you dabbed at his wounds, he hissed, the antiseptic stinging like hell. “Shit, that hurts,” he grumbled, half expecting you to laugh or roll your eyes.

“Sorry,” you said, glancing up at him, your expression apologetic but unwavering. “But it’ll help, trust me.”

Dabi tried to look away, to focus on anything else, but his eyes kept drifting back to you. The way you were so damn focused on him, so damn tender… it made him feel something warm and dangerous, something he’d been fighting down for too long. He wasn’t supposed to get attached, wasn’t supposed to let anyone this close. But you were different. You made him feel human in a way he hadn’t felt in years, and it scared him how much he liked it.

Once you finished cleaning his burns, you leaned down, pressing gentle kisses along his scars, your lips soft against his raw skin. Dabi’s heart skipped, a rush of heat flooding his chest that he couldn’t ignore. “You…you don’t have to do that,” he stammered, trying to sound unaffected, but his voice was shaky, a little breathless.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “I want to,” you whispered, your gaze steady and sincere. “You need to know that you’re not alone, Dabi.”

Those words struck something deep within him, a part of him he’d buried long ago. He looked at you, his walls crumbling with every second, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of hope. It was terrifying and exhilarating, a pull he couldn’t resist. His chest tightened with feelings he wasn’t ready to name, but he knew one thing: he didn’t want you to go.

He let out a shaky breath, meeting your gaze. “Why…why do you even bother with me?” he asked, his voice softer than he intended. “I’m nothing but trouble.”

You paused, looking at him with a tenderness that left him speechless. “Because I care about you,” you said simply, your voice gentle but unwavering. “And no matter how hard you try to push me away, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dabi’s heart raced, a blush creeping up his neck as he took in your words. This wasn’t just some passing crush; it was more than that, something deeper that scared him more than any wound ever could. He reached out, hesitantly wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into an embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the comforting scent of you as he let himself relax, for once, in your warmth.

The hug was clumsy, awkward, but he didn’t care. He wanted this, wanted you, and that realization hit him with a force that left him breathless. He didn’t want to lose you, not now, not when you were the one person who made him feel like he was worth something.

“You know I’m… I’m not good at this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible against your shoulder. “I’m not good at letting people in.”

“I know,” you murmured, your hand running gently over his back, soothing him in a way that felt like home. “But I’m here. And I’m staying.”

He pulled back slightly, looking into your eyes, the depth of his feelings clear in his gaze. “You’re…too good for me, you know that?” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady, but there was a tremor in it that gave him away.

You chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “Maybe,” you teased, your eyes warm with affection. “But you’re stuck with me now.”

Dabi’s heart swelled at your words, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He didn’t want to admit it out loud, but you were the light in his dark world, the one thing that made him feel like he could be more than just fire and destruction. He reached out, intertwining his fingers with yours, holding on as if letting go meant losing the only good thing in his life.

“Just…don’t leave, okay?” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Not going anywhere,” you promised, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. You stayed there, holding him as the silence settled around you both, a comforting weight that wrapped around them like a warm blanket.

As sleep began to creep in, Dabi felt a strange peace settle over him, a feeling he hadn’t known in years. For the first time, he felt like he could finally let go, to trust that someone cared enough to stay. With you beside him, he could finally breathe, letting himself fall into a sleep that, for once, wasn’t haunted by nightmares.

In that quiet moment, Dabi knew he’d do whatever it took to keep you close, to make sure that, somehow, he’d find a way to deserve you. Because with you, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could be more than what he’d been before.

[kyukyulhan]

Between daggers and promises| taeser

Pairing: Use of real names, Kim donghyun (Leehan) x Han donmgin (Taesan)

Genre: slow burn, angst, mutual pining, idol industry realism, sexual tension / intimacy (not explicit) , mental health themes.

Length: 15 chapters otw

Status: not started

Warnings: romance in hostile environments, emotional breakdowns, internalized homophobia, industry manipulation, public baklash, heavy angst, healing arcs, found family

Synopsis

No one joins a K-pop group expecting to fall in love with their bandmate, but Donghyun never followed the script, and Donmgin was never just another idol. They were fire and restraint, silence and tension. Months of rivalry masked something neither of them dared name. Until a mistake, or maybe a miracle, exposed what had always burned beneath the surface. One kiss, one camera flash, and suddenly the group is on hiatus, their careers hanging by a thread.

Now, under the harsh lights of fame and the even harsher glare of public opinion, Donghyun and Donmgin must decide:

-Was it a fleeting weakness, or the start of something real?

"You think i wanted this?" Donmgin whispers.

"I tried to hate you. God, i tried." Donghyun breathes out, eyes glistening.

"So did i."

And yet, here they are. No script, no safety net, only the truth they can no longer run from.

Notes: Hii so this is my first first first ever fic and I don't know how to use Tumblr and less AO3. Any recommendations are welcome, and i hope you like the story. I don't even have a presentation blog🫠. Will be making it latter

Let's goo with introduction chapter to this serie.

Song recommendation: Love in the dark - Adele

Chapter 0 | Before We Knew the Weight of It.

-From the story: Between Daggers and Promises

It didn’t start with love.

It started with silence.

Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that fills a room like smoke, invisible, choking, laced with everything unsaid. It lived in their shared spaces: rehearsal rooms, studio booths, passenger vans at 2 a.m. with fogged-up windows and the low hum of exhaustion.

Donghyun and Donmgin were not meant to orbit each other the way they did. There was no grand design, no cosmic alignment. Just two boys with sharp edges, forced into proximity by fate and contracts and the cruel genius of talent scouts.

Donghyun was ice, cold precision, eyes like storm glass and hands that moved like choreography had been sewn into his bones.

Taesan was fire, brash laughter, stubborn jaw, the kind of presence that commanded a room without meaning to.

From the beginning, they clashed, loudly, often, and with the kind of intensity that left the other members quiet and watching, pretending not to listen.

“You think everything’s about you.”

“No. I just think I know what I’m doing.”

“Right. That’s why you missed the step again.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always breathing down my neck..”

It should have been just that. Tension, drama, the kind of friction that producers could edit into spicy behind the scenes clips for fans to obsess over.

But the problem was: Donghyun saw through him.

And Donmgin? Donmgin wanted someone to see through him more than he wanted to be famous.

There were moments, small things, tiny cracks in the act.

The way Dongmin looked at Donghyun when he wasn’t supposed to, when Donghyun was fixing his in-ears, or lost in lyrics, or laughing at something someone else said. A look not of rivalry, but of something softer, something almost afraid.

The way Donghyun always seemed to know when Dongmin was lying, especially to himself. Especially when he smiled too brightly after a scolding from the choreographer or brushed off the fact that his voice cracked mid-high note again.

They weren't friends.

But they weren’t just groupmates either.

It was a limbo, a dangerous one.

The first time something shifted, truly shifted, was during tour rehearsals in Japan. A late-night run-through had left everyone dragging, and Dongmin had stayed back to practice a part he kept getting wrong. Donghyun hadn’t meant to stay. He didn’t "care", not really.

But he did.

"You’re off-beat by a half-count” Donghyun had said from the doorway, watching Dongmin’s reflection in the studio mirror.

Dongmin didn’t turn around. “Why are you still here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

A beat.

“Because i’m tired of being the reason we get extra drills,” Dongmin said finally. His voice was low, honest and exhausted. “Because if i screw this up on stage, it won’t be just me who gets burned.”

Donghyun stepped inside, slowly.

“That’s not how i see it.”

“Of course not. You’re perfect.”

“I’m not,” Donghyun said. And it surprised them both.

That was the night they stayed in the studio until 3:00 a.m.

That was the first time Donghyun saw Dongmin break.

It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t even comforting. But it was "real", and in their world, "real" was rare.

---

They didn’t kiss until months later.

The tension had built like storm pressure, silent, suffocating, waiting for the crack. Arguments turned into stares. Late-night conversations turned into shared silences. It became unbearable.

Then came the night backstage. The night of the encore show, Seoul.

“You’re avoiding me,” Dongmin hissed under his breath, cornering Donghyun behind the LED rig after soundcheck.

Donghyun crossed his arms. “You think too much.”

“And you don’t think at all. You just run.”

“From what?”

“From this.”

And suddenly they were too close, breathing each other in, chest to chest. Every unsaid thing between them like gasoline.

“You think i haven’t tried to stop?” Donghyun said, voice shaking. “You think i don’t lie awake thinking about what happens if someone finds out?”

Dongmin didn’t answer. His hand was on Donghyun’s jaw before either of them could stop it.

The kiss was desperate, messy, unpracticed and painful and "right". It felt like stepping off a ledge and hitting the air hard, with no guarantee the ground would ever come.

They didn’t talk about it. Not for days.

And when they did, it was with trembling hands and eyes that couldn’t meet.

“We can’t.” Donghyun had whispered.

“I know.” Dongmin said.

But neither of them walked away.

---

Then came the months of secrecy.

Stolen glances, brushed fingers in vans, half-written texts, the way they clung to each other after exhausting schedules like they were the only safe thing left in the world.

It wasn’t sustainable, but it was theirs.

Until the photos leaked.

One grainy picture. A hand on a waist. Lips too close to be just talking.

It set everything on fire.

Fans turned, the company panicked, the group was pulled. Statements drafted, apologies rehearsed.

Donghyun was told to deny everything.

Dongmin was told to delete his socials.

But in the middle of the chaos, Donghyun looked across the conference table, into Dongmin eyes and knew.

This isn’t just about us anymore

Because fans were choosing sides. Because kids were sending messages saying "thank you". Because for the first time, someone wasn’t hiding.

---

That night, on the dorm rooftop, where wind cut through their clothes and Seoul lights blinked below, Donghyun whispered:

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

Taesan touched his hand.

“Then let’s fight.”

This is not a story of easy love.

This is a story of fear, defiance, and the price of being seen. Of wanting something so much it terrifies you, and choosing it anyway. Because in the end, they weren’t just idols. They were people. And they were in love.

No matter what the world said.

[purplemountain]

UNSPOKEN Special Chapter 2

genre: romance, slow-burn, sexual tension, mutual pining, suggestive

Special Chapter: An Intimate Moment (Sneak Peek)

In the quiet aftermath of a company party, Chaewoon and Haein find themselves wrapped in an intimate moment that turns from tender to charged with unspoken desire.

Unspoken will take a little longer to update again, so here's a little sneak peek of a future chapter I'm currently working on (this is when they've already established their relationship, maybe around chapter 18). Decided to use a scene where it's a little bit sensual hihi I hope you guys like it. (By the way it's actually my first time writing something this....idk sexy?? HAHAHA anyway pls forgive me if it's a bit cringe(?) tried my best to make it feel romantic ><)

taglist: @lvnat1c @strangerinthesecretforest <3

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

It was late at night, the moonlight casting a soft silver glow through the windows of Chaewoon’s cozy home. The warm amber hue of the living room lamp bathed the space in gentle light. On the sofa, Chaewoon sat comfortably, Haein curled up on his lap, her head resting against the crook of his neck, arms loosely draped around his shoulders. His right hand moved in slow, soothing circles along her back, while his left hand rested securely at her waist.

He was still in his suit from earlier, the tie slightly loosened; she wore a sleek black dress from the company party, the fabric hugging her like a second skin. They stayed like that for a long, unspoken moment—wrapped in quiet, in warmth, in the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. They just… fit.

Haein moved slightly and looked up. “Am I not heavy?” she asked with a faint smile.

Chaewoon chuckled softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You weigh like a feather.”

She grinned. “Good. Because I’m planning to stay like this for a while.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m not planning to let you go anyway.”

Chaewoon’s lips brushed gently against Haein’s cheek, then lingered a little longer on her forehead. A soft kiss followed on the tip of her nose, then her chin, her jawline… and finally, the curve of her neck. Each kiss was slow, deliberate, reverent—like he was memorizing her with his mouth.

He moved lower, his lips grazing the bare skin of her shoulder, trailing down to her arm, and finally, her hand. He kissed the back of it softly, lingering there before looking up at her—eyes warm, dark, and filled with something tender and unspoken.

“I always get surprised when I see this side of you,” Haein whispered, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Chaewoon chuckled softly, his voice low and rich. “I always try to control myself when I’m with you.”

“Oh really?” she teased, sliding her arms around his broad shoulders and gently running her fingers through his hair.

“You don’t have to, you know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a breath. “You don’t have to control yourself around me… or with me.”

His gaze sharpened, a flicker of heat dancing in his eyes. “I don’t think you know what you’re saying, Haein.”

She tilted her head, raising a brow. “Try me.”

In a heartbeat, the air shifted.

One second, she was playing with his hair. The next, she was gasping—his soft kisses deepening into slow, heated ones against the sensitive skin of her neck. His hands roamed gently, reverently, as if discovering her all over again. Every movement was careful but intense, driven by the quiet fire between them neither of them dared name.

Haein’s long black dress had ridden up her thighs, Chaewoon’s hand resting beneath the fabric, fingers grazing her skin as his lips traveled from her neck down to her chest, leaving a trail of marks on her skin.

Her grip tightened on his shoulders, the rising pleasure making her lightheaded.

Chaewoon paused, kissing her jawline as he whispered, voice low and rough, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Haein barely managed a breath, her lips brushing against his ear. “What if I don’t want you to?”

“Haein….” He let out a soft growl at her words, his hands tightening slightly around her thighs, the tension between them dangerously rising.

Slowly, Haein met his gaze. Her hands slid up to his loosened necktie, tugging it free with deliberate ease before letting it fall to the floor.

“Do whatever you want with me tonight,” she whispered.

Something shifted in Chaewoon’s eyes—his gaze darkened, a silent promise sparking behind it. In one fluid motion, he lifted her into his arms and started toward the bedroom.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

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----> Unspoken Chapter List

[berryispunk]

You Make Me Believe In God

pairing: Priest Frankie x OFC

Part 3 of "Nothing You Can Do Will Save Me"

Previous parts readable here

A huge thanks to my sibling aka the best beta reader in the world, without you all of this wouldn't see the light of day so please give them some applause <3 and also big thanks TO YOU. This fic got an incredible amount of feedback & I just wanted to thank you all for this <3

summary: They meet again, and it’s a brief but fierce encounter. Switched pov for this one.

tags/warnings: domestic violence, alcohol abuse, LONGING, YEARNING, mutual pining , slight power indifference, kissing, swearing, ANGST, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Guilt, Catholicism, small (?) age difference (Frankie is mid 30’s, Lucy beginning of 20’s), sexual tension, AU, Catholic Church Core, dirty thoughts, small town, inner turmoil, a hint of soft Frankie, Frankie being an ass

“For all that is in this world, the desires of the flesh, the desires of the eyes, the pride of life come not from the father but from this world.”

The night before the service you spent tossing and turning in your bed. 

The memory of the last encounter with Father Morales was still so vivid in your mind, it played behind your inner eyes like a damn movie every time you closed your eyes. 

You knew this was wrong, for a number of reasons.

First and foremost the fact that he was your local priest and you a regular church goer. You had been going often when the old priest, Father Thomas, was still there, but since Frankie had taken over the job you found yourself looking forward to every Sunday. Now you even called him Frankie in your head!

Each time you were wearing the prettiest dress your tiny wardrobe had to offer, even daring to put on some sheer lipgloss. Thankfully your father didn’t notice, not that he ever came with you. 

These days he was usually blackout drunk on the sofa as you silently closed the door behind you when you left. You were glad he wasn't around much during service so you could relax a bit while hanging on Frankie’s every word during the homily. 

When Father Thomas introduced him one Sunday there was a lot of whispering, especially from the old housewives who were - understandably - very tired of their husbands. The same men who didn’t have a nice word to say to them even if they spent three hours in the kitchen early in the morning before church to cook some spectacular Sunday lunch. A casserole, some potatoes and vegetables they lovingly raised in their own gardens. Their husbands didn’t care. If some of their spouses tagged along during service, they fell asleep snoring like a tractor. 

However, the wives did not. Their gazes were on Frankie from start to finish, watching his every step and soaking up every word. 

You couldn’t blame them at all. Father Morales was awfully attractive with his dark brown, unruly curls and matching warm brown eyes. When he smiled his whole face lit up, creating small wrinkles around his eyes which were absolutely adorable. 

His cassock did little to hide his broad shoulders and muscular arms that seemed to go on for miles. When his sleeves were rolled up it revealed equally strong forearms. 

The ladies of the parish started to bring along fans to regulate the heat that spread over their flushed cheeks during service. Plus, it made it easier to whisper to their pew neighbor.

Frankie didn’t seem to care much about the lustrous gazes. He was polite to every one of them, his eyes only fixed on their eyes whenever he chit-chatted with some of them after mass. He listened carefully, nodded and gave them his undivided attention like they deserved, unlike their dickheads of husbands. 

They all felt drawn to him just as you did. Although in the beginning you had tried to keep your respectful distance, telling yourself that the gazes you caught during service weren’t meant for you. But as the weeks passed by, you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore. 

He did look at you and you mirrored his longing gaze perfectly. Bit your lip whenever his gaze locked with yours and sometimes it seemed like he was struggling to continue his sermon nonchalantly afterwards.

Each time you walked towards him for the sacrament of the communion you didn’t lower your gaze anymore, instead you smiled up to him, opened your mouth willingly so he could put the wafer on your tongue and it made his hands slightly tremble. Maybe there was even a tiny hint of a blush on his cheeks before he cleared his throat to serve the other people in line. 

It was a game. It was fun and a good distraction from the shit you had to deal with back at home. 

Your drunk father who only knew you existed when he was starving, the alcohol not enough sustenance. His hateful gaze on you whenever he was halfway sober. He made you feel so small, useless and made it unbearable for you in your own home. In the beginning it hurt, especially when you thought back at the times your sister was still living at home. 

The whole Davis family used to go to Sunday service and afterwards your mom would’ve made lunch and you and your sister Grace helped. It was so peaceful and loving back then, so different to the coldness you felt now. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

All that kept reminding you of the good times now was church, so you kept up the tradition, even if it was by yourself and you didn’t even believe that much in God anymore. Because if he’d been real why would he have let someone suffer so much without reason? 

Seeing the hot priest every Sunday was just a bonus. 

When time passed on and especially after you had told him that you were thinking of him whenever you masturbated something changed drastically between the two of you and you didn’t know whether you liked it or not. The tension you had felt back in the confessional only intensified in his office when you poured your heart out in terms of your problems at home. His eyes on you were so warm and full of worry. It was exactly what you needed at the time, but still you found yourself not worthy of the attention. 

Maybe, you thought, if you were a better daughter your dad wouldn’t feel the need to drink himself to death. 

Maybe, if your mother hadn’t left, things would’ve been different too, but you couldn’t be mad at her. She had fallen victim to your dad’s anger and frustration long before you had even been aware of it. 

Seen rationally you knew thinking about that was no use, but you couldn’t stop your thoughts drifting off. They were quickly replaced by something else entirely: longing. You longed for his lips to finally meet yours, something you dreamed about since you got to know he thought about you too. 

So this Sunday you were finally able to attend service again, because the bruise on your cheek had faded enough for nobody to notice, and found yourself walking determinedly towards his office after the church had emptied. Knocking twice and waiting for an answer. As you get none, you quietly said,

“Father Morales, it’s me, Lucy…” But it was still eerily quiet on the other side so you decided to leave again. 

As you were about to leave the church as well you saw him with one of the women of your parish entering the confessional. His hand guided her into it before he took a seat at the opposite side and closed the door. 

For a moment you contemplated whether or not to leave, you even took  one more reluctant step towards the exit but at the last moment you decided to stay. You couldn’t, no, you didn’t want to waste another day not knowing what his lips felt like so you found a seat in a nearby pew and waited, iting your finger nervously as your leg bounced to an invisible melody.

Finally after what felt like an eternity and simultaneously no time at all, the woman exited the wooden box and you took your chance and slipped into the confessional without giving Frankie the chance to leave.

Hastily you murmured, “Forgive me father for I have sinned.” And you only heard a rustling noise at the other end of the screen separating you both. This felt more like a déjà-vu. 

“Lucy?” he asked, a hint of disbelief or maybe even panic in his voice. 

“Hey Frankie,” you said softly as your heart started beating faster. 

“What are you… No, wait. Is everything okay?” The worry in his voice was palpable.

“Yes,” you assured him. “It is now.” 

You had to bite your lip and hold your breath, afraid this little sentence had revealed too much about the whirlwind of emotions inside your chest. 

But as you heard a faint laugh on the other end you felt instant relief. 

“You know we’re in a confessional, right? So if you don’t have sins to confess…”

You couldn’t keep the grin out of your face as you said, “Sins, father? Plenty of them. How much time do you have?” 

His laugh on the other end of the screen was warm and created little butterflies in your stomach. 

“For you? All day.” And you found yourself giggling along with him.

“I really want to kiss you.” You took a quick breath before adding, “I can’t stop thinking about last week in your office. I—” You didn’t even know how to express what you were going to say, but you desperately wanted him to understand. 

His breath audibly hitched on the other end and a few seconds later his face was so close to the screen you could make out his shape clearly. Without thinking much you leaned in too, your right cheek pressed against the screen just to feel him close. 

“I really want to kiss you too. I, uh, I can’t stop thinking about it. But we can’t…” he whispered hoarsely. “No, no… We shouldn’t,” he added and you sighed. 

It’s nothing you hadn’t known before. But it didn’t lessen the ache at all. 

“I know, it’s just–,” you trailed off. 

“Yeah,” he answered without finishing the sentence but the way his voice sounded told you everything you needed to know. His voice mirrored your torment perfectly. 

You were sitting there for a long agonizing moment, your cheek still resting on the screen as the door on your side suddenly opened and he stepped in. His broad frame filled out the small of the confession al instantly and if you’d felt constricted before, it was even more now. His eyes on you were searching but you couldn’t quite place what for. 

“Frankie?” you croaked out and without even wasting a second he leaned down, pulling you up to him and his lips landed on  yours. It was rather gentle at first as his hand tangled in your hair, the other on your hip but it got heated quickly. He pressed your back against the cold, wooden wall of the confessional, his strong and hard frame holding you in place as his tongue sought entrance into your mouth. It all felt so different from anybody you had kissed before. You knew it would. You kissed him back just as eagerly as your hand fisted the fabric of his button-down and gasped into his mouth to which he answered with a soft groan. Your hands pulled slightly at the soft locks in the nape of his neck and you wanted to drown in this kiss. If this would be your last breath on this earth and you’d die right now it wouldn’t be the worst thing ever happening to you.

His hands started to wander over your body, gently exploring. Tracing every curve he could find, the soft of your hip, over your ass which he gave a soft squeeze through the fabric of your dress. He started to grind his front against you making you feel his erection clearly through his pants. It didn’t feel demanding at all but eager, just as much as you were. 

“We need to stop,” he finally panted breathlessly against your kiss-swollen lips. As his eyes opened again they were so much darker than before and it stirred something deep inside of you. 

“Frankie, please don’t stop,” you whimpered needily and he held your gaze, his pupils dilated as he found your lips again with such force you were pressed tightly against the wall with a dull noise. Something had seemed to snap inside of him as his lips latched onto your neck, biting and sucking everywhere he could reach as his knee pressed between your thighs, the fabric of your panties already wet from your arousal and he must have felt it, because he groaned against your neck.

“Fuuuck….” he bit out and no curse word had ever been so hot before. Are priests even allowed to curse?

 “Lucy, I–,” he was almost whimpering at this point, his breath hot against your neck and it made you shiver in the best way.

As abruptly as his lips had found yours he let go of you, taking a small step back in the narrow space and it left you discombobulated. 

“Almighty lord, forgive me,” he murmured, crossing himself and by no means you understood what God had to do with any of this because none of the things the two of you had just done were considered holy. 

“Frankie? What….” Although you were staring straight at him, he wouldn’t even look at you.

“I can’t do this, I am sorry,” he whispered, pained and your eyebrows furrowed, your chest painfully tight and it was getting hard to breathe.

“What?” You blinked, hoping you’d misunderstood.

“I can’t do this..” he repeated and the second time hurt even more than the first. 

“You’re kidding me, right?” you screeched in indignation, anger and disappointment creeping up and probably making you holler through the whole church, the skin on your chest burning hot.

“Please leave,” he said and he still didn’t dare to look at you. Was it shame? Regret? 

“No,” you said firmly, even if your voice was already choked up with all of the emotions brewing inside of you. 

He opened the door of the confessional without saying another word, the intention of making you leave more than obvious and you tried to reason with him. “Frankie, look. What happened, it’s…”

“It can’t happen again,” he cut through your words, like it was so easy for him. 

You felt hot angry tears pricking in the corners of your eyes, your vision blurring up.

Finally he lifted his head and looked at you. Not a single emotion behind his eyes’ brown hues and his face illuminated by the afternoon sun behind the stained glass. The whole scene made him almost glow. How ironic, you thought, making a devil look like an angel. 

You scoffed as your hands balled into fists. “I thought you felt it too…?” You pressed out between your lips with your chest heaving in barely contained anger, or perhaps hurt.

“I am your priest. You can come to me whenever you need guidance, an ear to listen or a prayer but that’s it, Lucy,” he used your name so nonchalantly. It sounded like an insult in combination with the other words in that sentence now.

“I had your tongue in my mouth just seconds ago and now you wanna go back to just being my priest?” You couldn’t contain your anger as your body started to quiver. 

“I am sorry.” He had the audacity to sound sincere. You stared at him for a long moment, his whole body language so much more guarded and indifferent than just a few moments ago and you struggled to interpret his contradictory behavior. 

“Did I do something wrong? I–”

He shook his head, his hands pleadingly lifted and eyebrows raised high but he didn’t say another word.

You straightened your dress, looking him up and down with contempt in your gaze before you left the church at a fast pace, your steps echoed loudly from the walls. Tears finally streamed down your face, making it hard to see, to breathe, to just be with every step that created distance between you and the one good thing that made you truly believe in God.

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